A Letter Never Sent 12

A Letter Never Sent 12

 

After my father passed away, I was the first to inform the on-duty nurse. The nurse checked my father's blood pressure, and although I don't remember the details, a few procedures were followed, and my father's death was officially confirmed. After waiting for a while, the nurse wrote down the time of death on a piece of paper and placed it on my father's body. They informed me that the official time of death was 5:40 AM. Then the nurse contacted the on-duty doctor.

In the meantime, I received a call from my wife. I stepped outside the hospital to take the call. My wife had just arrived at the airport after my father passed. Perhaps because my voice was so calm, she didn’t realize that my father had passed away. It seemed like she had rushed to catch a taxi and then called, possibly thinking that getting to the hospital quickly was the priority. She handed the phone to the taxi driver to confirm the hospital’s location. When she got the phone back, she finally asked me, “How is your father?”
“He passed away.”
Her voice cracked, and it seemed like she was overwhelmed with disbelief and sadness. There was no need for more words.
“Come quickly.”
I knew she couldn’t get here quickly, but I didn’t have anything else to say. Her sorrow, even greater and more profound than mine or my mother’s or my sibling’s, seemed to flow through the phone. It was as if I was witnessing the true meaning of being dazed and speechless.
“Call me when you’re near the hospital.”
After saying this, I hurriedly ended the call.

Around 6 AM, the on-duty doctor arrived and officially confirmed my father's death. It seemed that there was a formal process for informing the family of the death. The doctor stumbled a bit while reading the nurse’s notes before officially pronouncing my father dead. I couldn’t help but smile inside. The doctor was young and inexperienced. I wondered when I would get used to being called "Doctor," just as I once got used to being called “Squad Leader” during my military days, or how long it took before “Teacher” became comfortable when I first started teaching. There was a time when being called “Teacher” felt awkward and uncomfortable, and I always felt a bit sorry for it. It’s been over 20 years since I became a teacher, but I still recall that initial discomfort and shyness.

But when I reflect on it now, those awkward days were the most pure and passionate. I think that was when I was closest to truly being a "teacher." Over time, I became more accustomed to the title, and just as dust accumulates on things, it also began to accumulate on my life. Seeing the young doctor’s nervousness was amusing and even cute, and it made me realize that I had grown older too.

Now, when someone calls my name without any title, that feels the most natural. After running a laundry business for more than 20 years, when someone calls me “Mr. Kim,” I still feel a bit irritated. It’s as if there’s some self-deprecating bitterness in my heart, which is why I prefer when people just call me by my name. It’s the most comfortable for me, and it feels like quiet happiness flowing into me because I feel like I am truly myself. I like it when people call me by name, not as a title, as if I’m meeting someone as they truly are.

Then, my wife called again.
“I’m almost at the hospital.”
After a long time, my wife finally arrived. When my wife is near, I feel a sense of fulfillment. In times like this, her presence always fills the empty spaces. We hurriedly went to my father.

It seemed that seeing my father’s condition was a shock to my wife. It had been 3 or 4 years since she last saw him, and in that time, my father had changed drastically. Furthermore, after months of barely eating, regardless of the father-in-law and daughter-in-law relationship, my father’s appearance itself was filled with sorrow and suffering. More than anyone in the hospital, my wife was the most heartbroken and cried. After a while, I wrapped my arms around her.
“It’s enough now.”
She nodded without responding. My clever wife knew exactly how I wanted to send my father off.

The on-duty nurse came in and asked us to step outside while they washed and dressed the body. Two women in hospital uniforms came to perform the task, an older woman and a younger one whom I could call a girl. I wondered why the younger woman was doing such a task—perhaps because it was necessary for her livelihood, but it was not something I needed to know. Those hands that washed and dressed the body of the deceased, which no one wants to touch... surely those are the “most beautiful hands in the world.”

Time passed. After everything was done, we were allowed back into the room. Because those “most beautiful hands” had tended to my father’s body, it had changed. He was dressed in a light blue suit, and his face, as if painted, had a healthy color to it. After staying in the hospital for more than a month, it felt like my father was going out for an outing. The pain that had wrapped him in the hospital gown was gone. He was now on a journey. A light blue suit, lightened body and soul, ready for a heavenly journey.

Would he be lonely on this journey? Or would he be filled with excitement as if going on a picnic, leaving everything behind for heaven? Either way, my father had already crossed the boundary between this world and the next and left us behind.

The morning of National Foundation Day began to break.