I once witnessed a death in a most unexpected place: a parade. The dear man, proudly carrying an American flag among a group of fellow veterans, stepped back ever so gently, laid down onto his back and died. The event happened with a suddenness that caught parade-goers off guard, causing a sudden hush and immediate stop to all activity, except for the few with CPR training who reacted swiftly and professionally, just as they were trained. Beyond what any of us could see, someone’s husband, father, brother and friend stepped beyond this life and onto the next.

There were no Hollywood dramatics to be observed that day and I wondered what would be in store for my dad as I hurried to his bedside last October. I understood that his death was near as the hospice nurse had suggested he had days to a short week to live. But she also cautioned that while every person’s body will offer clues to the nearness of death and many of those clues will be similarly experienced by many people, Dad’s final days would be unique to him. Therefore, our plan was to surround him with love and comfort as best we could provide. It was a reasonable goal as long as we built into it flexibility.

We also realized that we needed to set aside a host of assumptions we had unconsciously gathered throughout the years. Our final days with dad were filled with surprises.

We were surprised by the number of cards we received and how loved we felt each time we opened a new one and passed it around for everyone to see. I pictured each card being selected, personal thoughts carefully written inside, then addressed, stamped and mailed. Each card was significant and repeatedly read. Today, I occasionally look through my personal selection and pray for those who took the time to care for me in this manner.

The arrival of food was welcomed and celebrated. We never wanted to leave Dad alone, so shopping seemed impossible and menu planning required more energy than we could muster. Therefore, food was an enormous help and proved to be a momentary break from the stress and worry. One afternoon an enormous basket, filled with comfort items and foods donated by coworkers, was delivered to us. It proved to be such a treasured help I’ll give the gift myself in the future.

Keeping family and friends apprised of Dad’s condition, as well as ours, was an essential task but extremely exhausting for us. We used our cell phones, e-mail, and messaging, and at times it helped to talk about our experiences. But frequently it was the repetition and not the emotions that wore me out. In retrospect it would be helpful to assign a willing and trusted individual the role of communications director when general information needed to be dispensed.

After talking with family and friends during Dad’s final days I learned two important lessons. First, some conversations will be awkward because people manage the prospect of immediate death with various degrees of tact, wisdom, emotional stability, and maturity. Some people who phoned I did not know well as they were friends of Dad’s. Some I had not spoken with in years. I enlisted my best phone skills to be sensitive and available for these individuals.

Second, I learned that while many people phoned with the intention to console us, we ended up administering consolation to them, instead. While this surprised me at first, I realized that God blessed us with the opportunity to be near Dad and others who also loved him needed to feel they were a part of the experience as well. We were duty bound not only to share information vital to them, but to listen as they related previous experiences with medical intervention, family trauma, comfort care, and loss. With continual prayer God gave us the words and the energy to manage the task and the multitude of conversations we were privileged to have with others helped us to understand that Dad’s death was part of a much bigger scheme. It is comforting to know there is a greater purpose to our experiences with illness and loss.

My greatest lesson relates to conversations with Dad. During his final days Dad’s advanced illness left him unable to participate in extended conversations and I was thankful we had spent a lifetime talking deeply with him. Rarely, a hospice nurse revealed to me, are there deathbed revelations and moments of sudden clarity. People generally die the way they live and big issues as well as deep conversations need to take place before people are critically ill. There were no Hollywood moments for us and I do not feel cheated because I used the years I had with my Dad to do all the talking.