A Letter Never Sent 11

A Letter Never Sent 11

 

As time passed, I distinctly felt that my father's death was irreversible. It seemed as though my father had reached the final point of a road that could no longer be turned back. Like a marathon runner nearing the last few laps of a race, there seemed to be no strength left in his body. My mind began to go blank. After receiving the news of my father's critical condition, I had barely slept. It had been two days, so it was understandable.

I stepped outside the hospital. There was a large plaza. I walked around it, breathing deeply, very deeply. I slowly exhaled. The outside air that entered my lungs drove away the sleep that had been settled in every corner of my body. The lights of the city, unable to sleep, swayed like they were weary. Most of the lights in the hospital were out, only a few remained on. I could feel the sadness of those who couldn’t sleep at night. It reminded me of my days in the army, guarding the barbed wire. It was sad to be awake in the darkness when everyone else was asleep. The loneliness of being awake at night.

Was my father sleeping, or was he awake, enduring painful solitude? I looked up at the night sky. Some stars were faintly blinking. "That star is my star, that star is your star." – After my father passed away, I wondered what it would feel like to look at the stars in the night sky. But now that I think about it, I had no memory of looking at the stars with my father. Would sorrow as deep as the dark background of the stars pour down instead of the starlight?

Once the funeral was over and I returned home, I thought I would look at the stars with my children. I would point out my favorite star among those I knew well, like the Big Dipper and the Cassiopeia, and tell them, "That star is Dad’s star." I wished that if any of my children were to wake up on a sleepless night, I could be the star that would be with them, offering comfort alongside the longing.

I hurried back to my father’s room. My sibling had woken up and was doing something. My father’s unconscious state seemed to bring pain to those who observed him. I remembered what my uncle had said the night before he left, "This unconscious state may last a while, so prepare yourself mentally to make a decision." He meant I should consider whether to remove the ventilator that was supporting my father’s breathing before his condition lingered any longer. The only thing controlling my father’s breath was the ventilator. Hearing that made me momentarily confused. "What should I do?" I couldn’t ask anyone. The stories of devoted sons who did everything they could to prolong their parents’ lives flashed through my mind. Sometimes, miraculous things happened, and there were stories of people who had been in a vegetative state for decades, only to regain consciousness. Articles about such patients lingered like cigarette smoke in my mind, then vanished.

But above all, the Catholic teachings I believed in struck me the hardest – that no artificial death was allowed because life belongs to God. Life is His domain, and humans cannot interfere with it. While my father’s suffering was the greatest, the suffering of those who looked on seemed just as painful. – I am not God – The collision between the Church’s perspective on life and my own human perspective. Above all, I couldn’t bear my father’s suffering. And the pain my mother, my siblings, and I were going through, having to cope with the limitations of my life’s patterns and the reality of hospital bills, started to creep into my heart.

"Lord, take away the breath You breathed into my father." That was all I could pray. If I were to be punished for crossing the boundary of life, I thought I would accept it. If my father’s condition continued like this, I had made up my mind to ask the doctor to remove the ventilator. It felt like I was defying God, who governs life, and I was terrified. I felt like I was committing an indirect murder. At the moment of decision, my heart sank into hell.

Then, I looked at the situation through my father’s eyes. I thought my father would never want anyone to suffer because of him. Looking into my father’s heart, I felt a sense of peace. But my own pain did not pass through that night. I wondered if my father had also prayed to God to take him, not because of his own suffering, but because of our suffering. Perhaps he had done so, with great earnestness.

Around 4:30 AM, the on-duty nurse entered the room again and took my father’s blood pressure. It had dropped into the 40s. The nurse called me and my sibling over. "His blood pressure is low, and you can see that he’s breathing through his chin, not his mouth. Please prepare yourselves," she said. I thought the nurse might have been one of God’s angels. She called my mother, who had been in the other room, and we all gathered around my father.

At that moment, I felt an intense longing for the Kingdom of God, for heaven to exist. If life ended in such suffering with no reward, wouldn’t living be too painful and lonely? Heaven had to exist. After all, even the people who finish the New York Marathon receive medals regardless of their time. My father, who had been running constantly for 82 years, surely deserved something from the other side.

Through my father’s death, I became a fervent believer in the doctrines of heaven and hell. I told my father to call on Jesus Christ. "Don’t worry about us. When He calls you, answer Him," I said. I didn’t want my father to miss His voice while worrying about us. It’s said that hearing remains until the last breath. And I told him I loved him. I had never said the words "I love you" to my father, but I had taken such a long road to say them. That first time became the last time.

My father’s breath grew weaker, and he took his final breath. His chin trembled lightly a few times, and then his breathing stopped. He was freed from the pain of breathing. His lifeline, like a spider’s web, was broken. It was a life that could never be continued. In this world, it was a permanent farewell. But more than the sadness of the farewell, a greater sense of relief washed over me, knowing that my father had shed all his burdens, including his body. I also breathed deeply, exhaled. – Just like my father’s personality, he left us in a clean, neat manner. –

On October 3, 2012, at 5:25 AM, on the day of the National Foundation Day, my father passed away, crossing a boundary that we could never follow. I wondered if, after shedding his worn-out body, his lightened soul passed through the open gates of heaven. "When we meet again someday, I will say ‘I love you’ without delay."