Goodbye Daddy For The Last time

My mind still replays the message my brother, left on my answering machine, in the wee
hours of the morning, Columbus Day 1992. Stafford, daddy died last night.
I immediately thought about the last time I saw him, twelve hours or so earlier. As I entered the
lobby of one of the many buildings of Kings County Hospital, in Brooklyn, my mom and Natasha,
one of my nieces were just leaving. How is daddy doing? I asked.
He is just there mom responded, in a soft and solemn voice, with a distant look in her eyes,
attempting to conceal, yet revealing her fear.
Natasha though, always managed to wear her feelings on her sleeves. Her eyes, usually full
as the moon and bright as the sun, were moist and red and seemed smaller, as she said not
good.
I hurried to the elevator without saying goodbye. Mom later rebuked me You forgot your
manners.
The elevator took an eternity to reach the seventh floor. Or was it the ninth? At this point, I really
cant be sure. As I entered the door to what I thought was his room, I was greeted by an open
ward, and what seemed like twenty beds, ten lined up with the headboard against the eastern
wall and ten against the west.
Daddy was on the third bed from the north, along the eastern wall. He was unconscious but
calm. I stood and looked at him for about five minutes. Although in his eighty first year, I hoped
this was not his time. I remembered his work ethic he never took a sick day from work. I
remembered the times he would get on the floor and play with us as kids. I remembered when
he would take us to see carnival on the first Monday in August of each year back in Antigua.
I also remembered a conversation we had about five years earlier. It stood out in my mind
because Daddy was always very cerebral, but this was very visceral. When you were less than
a year old he began, I had a workplace injury, breaking one of my legs. I was hospitalized for
quite a while. In those days, in Antigua, children were not allowed visitation in hospitals. Mom
told me that daily you would still awake at the same time, to say goodbye to me every morning,
and you looked for me to come home every afternoon.
For about one month, mornings and evenings you cried yourself into frenzy. When I was
discharged from the hospital, I excited. As I got home I was so happy to see you, but you ran
away from me. That broke my heart.
That conversation taught me a lot about myself. It explained my inability to deal properly with
and process losses. It is amazing the amount of things that can cross your mind in five minutes.
Just as I was about to sit down on a chair adjacent to dads bed, a male nurse whom I had
never seen, said, Pastor Byers, is this patient your relative?
Yes I responded. He is my father.
Ignoring my answer, and insensitive to my feelings, he said, I want you to talk to a guy for a
minute. At the southwestern wall was a young man sitting up in his bed, who felt he had
nothing to live for and wanted to take his life. He was only in the hospital because he was
unsuccessful in doing so. I tried to talk him out of it. I gave him reasons why he should embrace
and even enjoy life. But given my raw nerves and emotional churnings, I wondered if I got
through to him.
Late that night, dad took his last breath. One week later, we had a funeral for dad in Brooklyn,
then prepared for the trip to Antigua for another funeral then to inter his body in St. Johns
Cemetery, where his mother and father are reposed. All nine of my siblings along with their
children made the pilgrimage to Antigua. Pastor Ives Roberts Eulogized dad at Brooklyn Temple
of Seventh day Adventists, in Brooklyn; and I had the privilege of eulogizing him at Tindall
Temple of Seventh day Adventists, in Antigua. We remained in Antigua for about a week after
the funeral, before returning to New York.
As I sat in the plane I felt guilty that we were leaving dad behind. As the plane taxied down the
runway, as the plane took off, as the plane was airborne revealing some of the pristine
beaches of Antigua, my mind was still on daddy. While many of my fellow travelers were
fascinated by the beauty of the Antiguan coast line; I though, was quiet, reflective, in a world of
my own. Then I remembered that I did not tell him goodbye. I didnt tell him goodbye the night
before his death in Kings County Hospital. I didnt tell him goodbye at the funeral in Brooklyn,
and I didnt tell him goodbye at the funeral in Antigua. As Antigua faded in the back ground,
becoming a silhouette then a shadow, it was at that time I said goodbye Daddy for the last
time.