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Saying Goodbye
Friday, September 26, 2025 by Sarah Schwerin

Categories: Life Lessons

My heart raced as I climbed the steps. Only hours before, I’d booked a flight from Orlando, flung some essentials into a suitcase, drove to the airport, and barely made it onto the plane in time. Once I arrived at the small Kentucky airport, I drove an hour and a half, not sure what I’d find when I arrived.

Now, I stood outside my dad’s hospital room and tried to prepare myself. The monitors beeped as my sister greeted me. I returned the hug, then focused on my dad. He appeared older, swollen. He snored in his sleep as if he’d drifted off in the middle of MASH, his favorite TV program.

I rubbed his arm. “Dad, I’m here.”

My sister went to his other side. “He’s been unresponsive since yesterday evening.”

I thought I was at peace with his passing. He’d had many strokes and other health problems over the last few years. I’d said goodbye to him before, each time sure it would be his last, my last.

When my mom died four years ago, none of us thought he’d last much longer. But he recovered from his illness, dealt with his sadness, and clung to life. He continued going to church, seeing friends, and enjoying restaurant meals. Yet, now as he mumbled in his sleep, a finality clung to the air, and I wondered if I had made peace with my dad leaving this world. Sadness sat in my stomach.

“Dad.”

One eye opened fully, the other a fraction of an inch. Both focused on me.

“It’s me, Sarah. I love you.”

His tongue pushed out, thick, swollen, and he spoke in a raspy, garbled voice. “Love you.”

I prayed over my dad just as he had prayed over me many times before. “God, thank you for Dad. Comfort him. Please be in this room. Give us all peace and help him not be in pain.”

Dad seemed to hear and understand, though his words were unintelligible and his eyes began to lose focus. Soon, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Visitors arrived. We told stories, remembered good times and bad. Tears and laughter flowed. Dad was unresponsive, in and out of sleep. His breathing labored and uneven.

The visitors left. My sister and I settled in for a long night. His DNR had been activated, and we knew patients sometimes lingered for days or even weeks. Knowing our stubborn father, it would be awhile.

The night was a blur of him crying out and thrashing. Nurses came in and out to administer pain meds.

Then, around four AM, Dad groaned in pain. My sister and I sat up.

“Call the nurse.” Her voice was even and serious.

“What?” My head felt heavy, and I tried to shake off the grogginess.

“Call the nurse. He’s gone.”

Suddenly awake, I pushed the call button next to me. Then I moved toward the bed.

“He’s gone? Just like that?”

My sister stood next to me. “Just like that.”

I had expected the moment to be different, to feel different, strange. Yet everything was the same, except that my stubborn, loud father lay still. The flat line beeped on the screen. When I touched his arm, it felt warm, but life had already left him. He was no longer there.

Nurses came in. A supervisor followed. They didn’t need to rush. There was no need. They listened for a heartbeat.

The supervisor’s brow furrowed. “It’s still there, faint, but I hear something.”

My sister and I waited expectantly. We knew he was gone, but of course it wouldn’t be simple with our father. It was his last attempt to remind us he liked drama. He always lived life big and loud.

Yet after a moment, the nurses and supervisor confirmed what we already knew.

My dad was dead.

Throughout my life, I’ve felt many things about my dad—anger, sadness, fear, love. Our relationship had been difficult. My road to forgiveness and reconciliation, a long and complicated journey. In that moment, I felt only numb.

As the nurses prepared him for the funeral home, my sister and I called our other sisters, our children, my husband. We waited for the funeral home representative, and the numbness persisted. When the funeral home arrived, the accompanying security guard studied my dad’s face. “He looks like he’s at peace.

My sister and I nodded.

“Most of the ones I see have fear on their faces, but he looks at peace.”

In that moment, the numbness fled, and a joy tinged with sadness filled me.

My dad had died at peace. He’d had a rough life. A traumatic childhood. The loss of a child. Lots of bumps and bruises along the way. Yet he trusted in Jesus Christ, and he wasn’t afraid to tell others about him—no matter how uncomfortable I felt as a teen. My dad didn’t fear death. He knew he would be reunited with my mom, the love of his life, and, most importantly, meet his Lord face to face.

A few hours later, I unlocked the door to my parents’ house. The sadness and joy streamed down my cheeks. Now I no longer had any parents. Despite my traumatic childhood, God had blessed me with parents who did the best they could with what they had. Most importantly, they showed me what it is to trust in Jesus Christ. I don’t have to fear death because when I die, just like my dad, I get to spend eternity with God, my perfect Father.

I hope I can continue my dad’s legacy of telling others about Jesus, even when others around me might be embarrassed. And I look forward to seeing Jesus face to face. I know my parents will be right behind Him.

I want to carry the best of my dad, not the hurt and pain. May we all carry the best of those we love—not troubled relationships, pain, and regret.

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Comments

Mandy Tidwell From Louisville, KY At 10/3/2025 6:49:14 AM

Oh, how grateful I am to have had your parents in my life. They helped shape me in ways they never knew. I’m also thankful for you, sweet friend. Your writing has always been deep and powerful. I love you, always.

Reply by: Sarah Schwerin

Thanks for your encouragement and friendship. They mean a lot to me. Love you too!

Hope Daugherty From Pine Knot , KY At 9/27/2025 7:15:52 PM

My beautiful childhood friend, the writer , the empathetic one , and the genuine one. I treasure you so much, and how similar our lives were yet so different . I’m saddened over the grief you feel for your father, however I’m so thankful you and your father found peace. Beautifully written words.