As I dialed the phone number for the skilled nursing facility, I wondered what to say to my father…and what he would say to me.

I’d been afraid to call him because I was in a fragile emotional state  and knew my slowly improving confidence could be shaken by one, even slightly critical, comment. I hadn’t called him in several days, trying to feel stronger, just in case he made an off-hand remark that would trigger any variety of emotions, but especially guilt for not calling sooner.

The nursing home receptionist who answered agreed to have the phone held up to Dad’s ear, since he wasn’t answering himself lately.

Once Dad said hello, I shouted “Hi Dad, it’s Diane,” since he was hard of hearing and probably not wearing his hearing aid.

In his muffled, slurred response Dad said he was waiting for me to come visit and create a media campaign about the naval base he was on and the great work they were doing.

Since suffering a hemorrhagic stroke six weeks before, my dear father’s memory had vacillated between knowing he was in a nursing home and thinking he was on a naval base on Pearl Harbor Day. He’d become obsessed with me working with him to “alert the media” about the fine services of the people on the naval base, and constantly asked me to develop the media campaign.

This morning his first response was about this “project.” I explained to him that I was working with “another client” and couldn’t come for a few more weeks.

He didn’t respond and I began shouting “Dad, Dad, can you hear me?” After a few moments of silence and some shuffling sounds, I heard Dad snoring and realized he’d fallen asleep.

My first instinct was to hang up, but the sound of Dad steadily snoring felt comforting and reassuring. I thought, “this is just like visiting him in person.” In the intensive care unit I sat for hours while Dad slept, just watching him, talking to him, kissing his cheek, stroking his forehead, holding his hand.

I began talking to him now, telling him all the things in my heart I needed him to know, but couldn’t always say; that I love him, he’s the best father in the world, how he demonstrated  loving devotion to your family, no matter what; how he taught me about business; how my heart was connected to his and always would be; how I wanted him to be peaceful and happy and join my mom (who passed five years earlier) when he’s ready, and not struggle or feel bad about leaving us.

I apologized for ever hurting him, and forgave him for hurting me; I told him neither of us ever wanted to hurt the other, we always did the best we could in our own lives, on our own paths.

As Dad snored peacefully I poured out all the love in my heart, intertwined with the sadness of not having him in my life in the same way anymore.

After I finished telling Dad all this, I put the phone on speaker, sat it on the arm of my chair and began writing this story; I wanted to remember the feeling of “being” with him that day.

I heard Dad clear his throat, the way he’d done thousands of times during my life, which also was comforting; I could imagine the smell of his breath, fresh, and familiar, could “see” his thick, wavy gray hair and perfectly shaped nose. I could see the twinkle in his chocolate brown eyes as he made funny faces in restaurants, causing all six of us kids to burst into laughter while Mom “shushed” him; I could see his strong, large hands, freckled with sun spots, and round fingernails, the hands I’d seen hammer away at projects on his workbench in the garage, and make “spit curls” in our bangs when we were little.

Mom frequently asked Dad to help get the five of us girls ready for church or school or some special event. She once told him to make spit curls of our bangs, which meant take a section of our bangs, put water on it, then wrap it into a circle and secure it with a bobby pin until it dried.

Unfortunately, my father thought Mom meant to literally spit on our hair and then wrap it into a circle, which he was about to do; thankfully Mom intervened before he began spitting on our hair!

As I listened to Dad snore I reviewed my 59 year life with him; the guilt for not calling sooner and the fear of his criticism replaced by gratitude for the opportunity to open my heart to him, without worrying if he’d understand or like what I said.

Suddenly I heard someone talking to Dad, asking  if he wanted  occupational therapy. I yelled “hello” into the phone and the occupational therapist picked it up. I explained to her that Dad fell asleep while we were talking and she laughingly confirmed it. Embarrassed at being caught holding a one-sided conversation with my sleeping father, I quickly switched topics to discuss his next therapy session and hung up.

I felt an instant surge of loneliness and loss at the end of our conversation because I couldn’t reach out and physically touch my father, say good-bye or know  he heard what I said. But I also felt grateful to have more time with him, even just a long-distance phone call where he didn’t say anything.

Although I never told Dad about that conversation, I’m certain it wasn’t one-sided. My father’s heart and spirit heard everything I said, a reassurance I carry with me now that he’s passed away.

I know Dad heard me because when one heart touches another, spirits unite and can never be separated by time, space or physical passing.  And connecting to the love in our hearts reunites us with our loved ones so they’re never truly gone. This much I know.