All In Passing

I was probably 13 when my dad pulled out his book of dead people, photos tethered to the page with white, glued triangles. Although thin, there were photos of many of my family members at the last stages of their lives. If my dad was lucky he would’ve snapped the photo at the person’s last intake of breath, expelling a stream of life as it burned into the image of the camera.

“It’s a respectful thing to catch a person’s last breath on film. Very hard to do, but respectful nonetheless.”

“But they’re dead.”

“Yes, but the look on their face is quite something. To see life leave the eyes is evidence to me that they’ve moved on, to what, I don’t know, but unquestionably they’ve left their bodies.”

“But Dad, they’re dead. Aren’t you afraid they’ll haunt you because you did this? Who wants to look at these anyway?”

“You’d be surprised who looks. It’s an Irish thing. It’s a collection you look at when you have a Jameson in hand and are feeling contemplative.”

“Okay.”

Years later my mother slipped into a coma and remained that way for six weeks.  I was 34 at the time and burdened with the task of dealing with her doctors and helping my dad cope with her inability to wake up.

“Dad, Jesus, what are you doing?” I asked as I stood in the ICU room housing my mom.

“I’m taking a photo.”

“But she’s not dead yet. Don’t you need to wait until then? It’s creepy that you’re even thinking of this already. Hey…..is that a tripod?”

“It’s pretty neat, don’t you think? It’s a tabletop version and I got it when I signed up with AARP. I haven’t really had the chance to try it but it’ll help me catch that elusive photo when she takes her last breath.”

“Christ Dad. You better not let anyone hear you talking. Sounds like you want her to die.”

“Well, it’s not a matter of want, it’s just if she’s going to die I want to capture it. For you, to look back on. Later. In life.”

Much to my dad’s chagrin my mother awoke one week later screaming for a cup of coffee and a Salem 100. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Years passed and as he aged he lost friends and family members to cancer, alcohol, heart attacks and other illness. Slowly his collection grew but none of the photos he managed to snap were of “that moment.”

One night Dad came home, heavy head, carrying his Nikon.  “Frank is dead. I missed it. I missed the whole thing.”

I looked at dad and knew he meant he’d missed the actual passing of his best friend. I felt for him. He put his camera away after that and seldom rushed to people’s bedsides.

For the next 20 years no one of significance died within our family. I’d forgotten the ritual my dad had practiced and although my mom had found the photos of herself comatose in the ICU, I’d easily forgotten the strangeness of this hobby. My mom, of course, was quick to point out that although she looked dead in these photos she wasn’t, and all reminders of her coma should be destroyed. That evening I found one of the photos utilized as a coaster for the Jameson my father so enjoyed.

Ten weeks following the death of my mother my dad lay in his bed at the nursing home. I sat with him each day as he navigated the worlds of here and after. He spoke to his mom and his brother and then asked me where my dog would sleep. I knew from listening that my grandmother had come to him and was taking his hand to lead him across—I was running out of time. I turned up the light and stood poised above him with my phone. I watched him fight the intake of air and as though on cue, I saw his eyes flutter.  I leaned down and told him he could go now and that I was ready. I took a breath as he took his last, and I snapped as he told me goodbye.