Читать книгу We Are Never Alone - Anthony Quinata - Страница 11

On Thanksgiving Day 2009, my sisters Meridith and Nadine went to Saint John of God’s assisted living facility in Los Angeles, California, where both my mother Rosalia and my father Antonio were in the hospital unit on the grounds. My father was there having suffered a heart attack the week before. My mother was there because she had broken her ankle. Because she suffering from moderate Alzheimer’s, she couldn’t understand why she was in a cast and confined to a wheelchair. My sisters were there to bring them food that was typically cooked on the island of Guam to celebrate the holiday.

Nadine went to my father’s room to let him know that Meridith was getting my mother from her room so that they could enjoy a meal together. While she was talking to my father, she noticed that he wasn’t paying attention to her but looking off to the right at the ceiling. “What are you looking at, Dad?” she asked him.

Our father looked at her and said, “I’ve been there before, baby. I don’t know when . . . I don’t know how . . . but I’ve been there before.” He turned his attention back to the ceiling and something Nadine couldn’t see.

“Where have you been before, Dad? What do you see?” Nadine asked, worried that he was hallucinating. “Dad, what is my name? What day is today? How many children do you have?”

My father turned his attention back to her and said, “Deena, I’m okay.” With that he again looked away from her and up at the ceiling. Meridith wheeled my mother in, and they all ate dinner together. My father put aside his dessert, saying he would eat it later.

The next morning at 4 a.m. a nurse checked in on my father and saw that he was sound asleep.

At 6 a.m. when he was checked on again, he had passed away.

Nadine told me this story the day before his funeral. “What do you think he saw?” she asked me.

“Home.”