I got my brother’s text just as we hit the driveway. He, Sam, was asking where I was and I was delighted to tell him, at exactly 3:36, that we were arriving at Dad’s house. You see, an hour before we left for our 280 mile trip I had told him that our ETA was 3:30. That was a non-google maps assisted call and I was impressed with myself.

He texted back that he would see me at the nursing home in a few. That’s Hunter talk for. “If you want to see Dad alive, get here soon.” We unloaded the dogs and headed to AutumnCare.

When we got to the room, we found Dad unresponsive except his restless breathing would ease a bit when we turned him or rubbed his back. Occasionally, when I bent down to look in his face, his eyes would look in my direction but the blue twinkle I’d known all my life wasn’t there.

I started trying to remember our last conversation. I know we talked about Jesus always being with us after I read the Upper Room devotional to him a few days before. And, of course he told me that he loved me and I said that I loved him too when I left. But, the last conversation may have been when I was feeding him lunch and I got him to eat one more cooked carrot from his beef stew.

“I’m tired. Now that I’ve eaten a carrot and can see again, I’m done.”

“Come on Dad, one more carrot?”

He took the second carrot from the fork, slowly chewed and swallowed. “Oh no! The lights are too bright! Turn them off!” An apparent overdose of eye health due to one carrot too many.

We sat and watched. After a couple of hours, Kathryn and Vikki, Sam’s wife, went back to the house to feed the dogs and let them out. It was just Sam, Dad, and me when Dad’s eyes rolled back and he tried to throw up. We rushed to the bed to get him off his back. After we rolled him, he settled into a soft, shallow breathing pattern, punctuated with an occasional long, sighing exhale. When his breathing slowed, Sam put his finger on his pulse. “It’s weakening.”

One last, long sigh and the breathing stopped. Sam pressed his wrist, “nothing.” I stared at my father’s still body and began to weep. Sam patted my back and offered a prayer of thanks. I gathered myself and started to offer a prayer as well. My father took a deep breath.

“What the hell?” That was me. Sam shook his head, chuckled and said, “I thought he was gone.” “I did too!”

A few minutes later Flo, who over the last four and a half years has become a family member, and April, another C.N.A., came in to change Dad’s gown. Leaving out the “what the hell” part, I told them what had happened.

“Is that what you call a ronafor?” asked April. I found it fascinating that such events actually have a name, ronafors. Sam later acknowledged that his thought was, “How should I know? You’re the one that went to nursing school.” But he asked, “What’s a ronafor?”

April looked puzzled and said, “Is that why you were in the hall looking for Rhonda?” Rhonda was the head nurse that night; Sam had gone to the desk to ask her if she could give Dad something for his restlessness. That’s what he called Rhonda for.

I snorted. Flo said, “I thought you said ronafor too.” Sam and I burst out laughing! I thought we were going to lose it right there but we gathered ourselves and acted semi-mature long enough for Flo and April to change Dad’s gown and fix his sheets. As soon as they left, we lost it and when Kathryn and Vikki came back they thought we had gone crazy. Who’s to argue?

We had a couple more ronafors that night. Each time he timed it perfectly. Just when we thought he was gone, he’d come back. Each time my brother and I were completely inappropriate. Our father was literally minutes away from dying and his two sons, both of whom qualify for the senior discount, were acting like fourth graders headed for a spanking as soon as church was over.

Death did come. The four of us were standing around his bed when Vikki silently leaned down and gave Dad a hug. As she held him, he passed through the veil.

When we were sure, Sam said he’d go get Rhonda so she could call it. It didn’t occur to me until I was planning to write this line but for some reason I let one last chance for a ronafor joke slip past me.

Sam and Vikki went to get the information for the funeral home and Kathryn stepped out to call our daughters. I was in the room alone with Dad when Flo and April came back to clean him up. I said, “We’d like for you put this East Carolina shirt and pants on him. We think he’d like purple and gold better than a hospital gown.” “Of course.”

They were gentle and respectful. They cleaned him, dressed him, then stood back to see how he looked. They weren’t satisfied so they adjusted him a little to get him just right. I thought about the women who had followed Jesus preparing him for the tomb.

When they left I told them thanks. Then I looked at Dad and a part of me wondered if he would say thanks as well or say one of the little things he used say to tease Flo. He didn’t.

A few hours later I stood at the door of my father’s house, watching the morning get stronger. There was a male cardinal on the other side of the driveway, bright red, and I remembered the legend that cardinals bring greetings from the other side. I thought it’d be nice to see a female too so I could believe Momma and Dad were together. There she was, on a limb above him, and just as a I spotted her she flew down next to her mate. Then I heard creation whisper, “They said to tell you, they’re fine.”