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SUMMONED TO WATCH MY FATHER DIE

THE SHRILL CLAMOR of the telephone fractured the serenity of my morning shower. The ringing went on and on. After the third set of unanswered rings, despite the soothing warmth of cascading water, my churning gut whispered to my still half-asleep brain, “Something’s wrong!” Thirty-two years of practicing medicine had taught that persistent callers rarely bring good news.

Towel trailing, I rushed to answer. Surprised that it was my brother on the line, I asked, “Charles, you don’t usually call so early on a Sunday morning. What’s up?”

When he hesitated, I sensed that he was about to tell me something he knew I did not want to hear. After a few seconds of silence, he blurted, “It’s dad. He’s on life support in the ICU at Crozer-Chester. He’s dying.”

“Why are you calling me? You know how I feel about him.”

Fumbling, Charles continued, “The family has accepted that it‘s time to disconnect his breathing machine. In a couple of hours, they’re planning to gather at the bedside for one last visit. I really would like to have you there.”

Still dripping from the shower, I stood silently clenching my jaw. With good reason, I despised my father and, over the years, had avoided him as much as possible. Why would I want to be with h