A Final Goodbye

"I am going home to Denmark, Son, and I just wanted to tell you I love

you." In my dad's last telephone call to me, he repeated that line seven

times in a half hour. I wasn't listening at the right level. I heard the words,

but not the message, and certainly not their profound intent. I believed my

dad would live to be over 100 years old, as my great uncle lived to be 107

years old. I had not felt his remorse over Mom's death, understood his

intense loneliness as an "empty nester," or realized most of his pals had

long since light-beamed off the planet. He relentlessly requested my brothers

and I create Grandchildren so that he could be a devoted grandfather.

I was too busy "entrepreneuring" to really listen.

"Dad's dead," sighed my brother Brian on July 4, l982.

My little brother is a witty lawyer and has a humorous, quick mind.

I thought he was setting me up for a joke, and I awaited the punchline,

there wasn't one. "Dad died in the bed he was born in - in Rozkeldj,"

continued Brian. "The funeral directors are putting him in a coffin, and

shipping Dad and his belongings to us tomorrow. We need to prepare for

the funeral."

I was speechless. This isn't the way it's supposed to happen. If I knew

these were to be Dad's final days, I would have asked to go with Him to

denmark. I believe in the hospice movement, which ways: "No one should

die alone." A loved one should hold your hand and comfort you as you transition

from one plane of reality to another. I would have offered consolation during

his final hour, if I'd been really listening, thinking and in tune with the Infinite.

Dad announced his departure as best he could, and I had missed it.

I felt grief, pain and remorse, Why had I not been there for him?

He'd always been there for me.

In the mornings when I was nine years old, he would come home from

working 18 hours at his bakery and wake me up at 5:00 A.M. by scratching

my back with his strong powerful hands and whispering, "Time to get up, son."

By the time I was dressed and ready to roll, he had my newspapers

folded, banded and stuffed in my bicycle basket. Recalling his generosity

of spirit brings tears to my eyes. When I was racing bicycles, he drove me

50 miles each way to Kenosha, Wisconsin, every Tuesday night so I could

race and he could watch me. He was there to hold me if I lost and shared

the euphoria when I won.

Later, he accompanied me to all my local talks in Chicago when

I spoke to Century 21, Mary Kay, Equitable and various churches.

He always smiled, listened and proudly told whomever he was sitting with,

"That's my boy!"

After the fact, my heart was in pain because Dad was there for me and

I wasn't there for him. My humble advice is to always, always share your

love with your loved ones, and ask to be invited to that sacred transitional

period where physical life transforms into spiritual life. Experiencing the

process of death with one you love will take you into a bigger, more

expansive dimension of beingness.

By Mark Victor Hansen

Thank you, Mark for expressing this most important point, that we
need to share while among the living..to make and be lasting memories
for members of our next generation, and to make happy and worthwhile
the lives of the beloved people who are making memories for us!!