A tribute to James M. Stafford by his son, Richard D. Stafford, in Texas on the evening of April 26, 2011, Baylor Hospital of Garland, Texas. Our dad passed away two days later, April 28, 2011.
Isn’t holding hands great? As a child, we hold hands with our parents for safety and to feel secure. As teenagers, we hold hands when our hearts are pounding for someone who we think hung the moon, and in marriage we hold hands when we say, I do. Hand holding continues right up to old age when we take another’s hand in ours for comfort or joy. My father passed away four years ago, and I had the wonderful opportunity to hold his hand as he left this world, for another one. The following narrative was written the night before he left us, and indeed, it was a time for hand holding.
“Today’s events and all its challenges and responsibilities are on hold; the written agenda book closed, the classes which I was to teach ~ taken over by friends, and phone and text messages gone unanswered. For today, I am holding my father’s hand.
Odd it seems, to be reminded of those childhood days when he held mine: to keep me safe, to show me the way, to guide me. He had such large hands! Good hands. Strong hands.
As Dad lies sleeping in an ICU unit, his eyes closed, his pain erased by medication, and his physical needs provided in clock-work fashion by a team of well-trained care-givers, I look down at his 86 year old hands. When I arrived here in the dark, early-morning hours, his hands were blue, cold from blood needed elsewhere in his body. But now, with his hands in mine, they are warm and alive. Isn’t it curious how holding hands can awaken life? Bring back more youthful moments?
The machines beep and click and gurgle, all keeping his body functioning within acceptable margins, margins that keep away an army of RNs ready to descend over his bed; eager to dispatch a miracle. And of course, these soldiers, these medical angels, are kind and caring, trained to understand the split second needs of a sick or dying patient. They are miracle workers indeed, but sometimes, miracles are needed elsewhere, maybe down the hall or across the planet. But here in this room today, we just need to hold hands. That’s all.
And how do I let go? How do I slip his hand from mine when the hospital referees of life gently blow the whistle and whisper,” Game over!”
How do I pull our hands from one another, the heat between them cooling to that critical second when only one is warm, and one is cool?
How do I recognize when life has moved on, above, and now his own Heavenly Father holds his hand, that once held mine?
I can’t let go, yet. Not now. I must stay here, just as he would have when I was a child, a boy, persistently, patiently holding my own hand as I learned and discovered life each day. And so they remain, our hands together, clinging to each warm second of remaining life. Yes, today, I will hold my father’s hands.”
