Two years ago on January 28, around this same time of the day, I was sitting on the bed in Room 39. It was the assisted living facility where Dad had been receiving weekly hospice services since his stage four metastatic lung cancer diagnosis on December 6. The sun was shining through the picture window, offering a pleasant view of trees and bird feeder. But that morning, the room was quiet. No nebulizer, gurgling and puffing away every few seconds. No one knocking on the door to bring lunch. And no Dad.

He had been moved to Randolph Hospice House the previous evening because a higher level of care was now needed. The “terminal agitation” stage of dying meant administering morphine to keep him calm and comfortable. It had always been his wish to “return home” to Asheboro – the town where he was born – to die. I had planned to go visit him early the next morning, but the phone call at 4am from the attending nurse changed those plans. He passed away at 3:46am, less than twelve hours after arriving “home”.

I started making peace with things by unplugging the nebulizer. It had been a constant source of conflict with Dad, as he hated the cannula that I constantly had to strap over his ears and place in his nose. He’d yank it out, say a few cuss words, and pull it up on top of his forehead. It made him look like a two-horned unicorn or a snail, and while the sight of that made me chuckle a bit, I also faced the sobering reality that I was fighting a losing battle. Actually, it wasn’t my battle to fight in the first place. I wound the miles of clear tubing into a circle and placed it in the corner of the room. Then, I removed the sheets and extra mattress padding from the bed, which would be picked up the next day by the hospice medical supply store. There were lots of unused supplies that I decided to donate to the facility – I couldn’t wait to see them gone. I rolled the portable toilet into the corner – Dad won that battle, too, and never used it. The same with the wheelchair.

It was time to focus on packing up Dad’s personal belongings. He had a closet of shirts, sweaters, and pants that my sister and I had brought from his home, but he never wore them – he wore his flannel pajama pants and an old ratty undershirt every day. I had finally convinced him to let us buy some nice new undershirts and a couple more pairs of pajama pants, and he agreed. But this morning, I wasn’t ready to touch them because it would make things feel too “real”. We had to have his belongings moved out within the next seven days. So, I sat quietly for a few more moments, trying to figure out what to do next. My mind was racing.

When he first moved into the assisted living facility, my sadness was eased a bit by the beautiful picture window that allowed sunlight to fill his room. It made the reality (and daughter’s guilt) of having to take him from his home and place him there a little more tolerable. Without him knowing, I had packed some of his watercolors, a stack of paintbrushes, and paper, planning to set up a table near that window so he could continue doing what he loved most (next to playing golf). When I casually noted how the lighting was perfect for painting, he quickly responded that he “just didn’t think he wanted to do it anymore.” It broke my heart. I made sure to fill the room with some of his most beautiful pieces – what I hoped would be a constant reminder of how amazing an artist he was and a possible catalyst for sparking creativity. And the painting supplies I had smuggled into the room without his knowledge were hidden away on the top shelf of the closet, out of reach and sight, with the hope that one day he’d say the lighting was at the perfect level.

I recalled a conversation we had about two weeks prior – openly and honestly talking about what the moments after death would be like. He said he wasn’t afraid of it – in fact, he was excited about what and who he would see again. I asked him if he believed in “signs” like I did. He said he did, so I asked him if he could leave me something as a way of letting me know he had made it to the Other Side and all was well – we both laughed and agreed that a golf tee or a paintbrush would be undeniable proof.

I pulled myself off the bed, took a deep breath, and headed toward the bathroom. It seemed like the easiest place to gain some momentum on packing. And there wasn’t much emotion tied to what I’d encounter there. The new towels I had purchased hadn’t been used, so I folded them gently, put them on the toilet seat, and opened the medicine cabinet. The two bottom shelves were filled with razors, a toothbrush and toothpaste, some baby shampoo, and a small hairbrush.

What I discovered on the top shelf caught me completely off-guard.

It was a beautiful Grumbacher fan watercolor brush, sitting alone on the top shelf, right above eye level. I took a few steps back, a bit shaken, and then went to get my phone to take a picture of the discovery.

Here’s the thing… I told NO ONE that I had hidden the paint supplies on the top shelf of his storage closet, out of sight and out of reach. I was there every day, so I would’ve noticed that brush in the cabinet. And here’s the REALLY interesting thing… This brush was NOT among the group of brushes I brought over that day.

It was one of the most beautiful brushes I’d ever seen – it almost looked like a feather… or wings… the kind an angel would have. I brushed it across my cheek and felt a sense of calm fill my whole body. “Thank you, Daddy,” I said as I closed the cabinet door.

As I sat in my car, getting ready to head home for a while, I did something that some folks might find a bit odd – I sent dad a text message:

That brush has been with me since that day two years ago. In fact, I took it off the fireplace mantel and have it beside me now as I write. On this day, two years later, I remember that experience, but in a different way. Lighter. Appreciative.

I have a picture window here in my little home, right beside the computer. There are a few trees and several bird feeders. The skies today are beautiful blue. Just like the Cerulean Blue skies Dad loved to paint. Here’s my favorite one – a small “sketch” he did one day at his kitchen table (where the lighting was best). I mentioned to him one time that it reminded me of what I imagined heaven – the Other Side – would look like. He agreed and said that’s exactly what he was thinking when it was created.

I believe he’s probably having a nice walk there right now.