My college fraternity brother Ken Summers and I planned to ring in the 2017 New Year by traveling to experience two of the most significant Seven Wonders of the World: Egypt, where we planned to wear tuxedos and take pictures in front of the Sphinx, and the Pyramids of Giza while flashing our Alpha Phi Alpha Greek letter signs, and then fly to Petra in Jordan.
At the airport, just before we boarded the plane to head where destiny awaited, I received a call from my brother. Voice somber and shaking. “Daddy is in the hospital. I don’t think you should go.” My father had been progressively sick over the last couple of years. He had kidney failure, and while he received a donated kidney, my dad never made a full recovery.
Over the last year, he has lost a lot of weight, has little energy, and stopped working. While I was looking to expand to North Africa and the Middle East, my Dad’s world shrunk to the four walls of his bedroom.
It was difficult with my father’s illness. I expected him to make a comeback with his “new” kidney. I wanted him to snap out of it, thinking he was playing a long practical joke, and at any time, he would say, “Gotcha, son,” — but never did.
When my brother and I hung up, I still desired to fly to the “Land of the Pyramids” and the “Red Rock City.” I reasoned, “I’d be gone for a few days, and my father would be just fine.” Like a child, I believed my father would get better soon. My mantra was, “My father is going to be okay.”
NO, he’s not… My superhero Dad was losing power. So, I left the airport to be by his side.
The night before my father took his last breath, brother Mikal Ansari and I were in the hospital room with my dad. Sitting in a dimly lit room, my father became restless and wanted to get out of bed. He called me over to him. He sat on the edge of the bed and requested that I help him stand up. I was nervous because I didn’t want to hurt him. Every time he moved, the alarms from the machines connected to him kept going off, and the nurses would come in to respond to the sounds of the beeping machines. After a few times, the nurses decided to turn off the sensors and allow my father to move freely.
My father sat on the side of his bed in his hospital nightgown with the back open and those socks with the treads on the bottom. In a weakened voice, he said to me, “Help me up.” I approached his tiny, fragile body. Beyond his 6-foot 2-inch height, he was a giant among men in terms of character and stature in our community.
Cradling him like a newborn, I gently lifted him off the bed. We stood holding each other for a few moments. My dad had me as tight as he could and leaned on me. I was afraid I might break him.
As the night progressed, I helped him to a chair. His request was to stand and hug me. These short, temporary embraces felt purposeful, needed, and calming. It felt good to be close to my dad — to hug and hold him.
In my mind, I pleaded, “Dad, please get better!” Unsure if it was seconds or minutes that seemed like an eternity, but gravity in his fragile state would pull him back to the bed. I braced myself to ensure he returned to the bed in comfort.
Within moments, my father passed away.
Weeks after my father died, my final moments with my dad played in my mind repeatedly. Growing up, I remember one other time my father hugged me.
In 1991, when I moved into my dorm at film school, my dad hugged me and said, “I love you.”
Shocked, I didn’t know how to respond. I mustered up the words, “Me too.” I felt awkward saying this, but I’m sure he understood. I knew he loved me. However, the hug was priceless.
That last night of my father’s life, I knew he gave me all the hugs we missed throughout my life. Each hug was a way to say goodbye. Each embrace said, “I love you.”
I miss my dad. I wish he were here now so that we could hug.
Abdul-Rahmaan I. Muhammad is Executive Director and Founder of My People Clinical Services in Hartford.