u/TheQuillWhisper

In 2018, my dad was dying at home from liver cancer.

This is from the diary of experiences I had when my dad was on hospice.

His illness progressed quickly, and toward the end, my sisters and I took turns staying with him around the clock. By then, he could barely eat or drink. One of the only things he still wanted was chocolate milk, which he always called

“cocoa.”

One night, I was the one staying with him.

It was late when I heard his weak voice coming from his bedroom.

“Cocoa.”

I went into his room and told him I’d get him some. His bedroom was dimly lit by a single ceiling light in the middle of the room. I went to the kitchen, poured him a small cup of chocolate milk, and brought it back.

I sat beside his bed while he drank it.

We started talking. Nothing particularly important at first. I asked how he was feeling and talked about ordinary things.

At some point, I mentioned how cold it had been outside that day.

I had been encouraging him to get outside whenever he felt strong enough, even if it was only for a little fresh air.

But that day had been especially cold, so I said something like, “It was really cold outside today. I guess it’s probably a good thing you didn’t go outside.”

My dad was quiet for a moment.

Then, almost out of nowhere, he said:

“I guess Russell died in cold weather like this, too.”

Russell was my dad’s cousin, but they had also been very close friends growing up.

When they were children, there had been a terrible accident. Some kids were playing with a gun when it accidentally fired and shot Russell in the back. He survived, but the injury left him paralyzed for the rest of his life.

He spent his life in a wheelchair, and my dad continued visiting him as they got older. They had a bond that went all the way back to childhood.

Russell eventually died relatively young, sometime in his 40s.

So I knew immediately who my dad was talking about.

But the moment he mentioned Russell, something happened.

The light above us suddenly became incredibly bright.

It didn’t just flicker.

The entire room lit up!

The light became so intensely bright that it almost blinded me for a moment. Even my Dad's eyes grew huge at the moment. It only lasted a few seconds, and then, just as suddenly as it had happened, the room went dim again.

Exactly the way it had been before.

I sat there stunned.

Ghosts? I thought

I could feel chills running down my arms.

Of course, a light can malfunction. Electricity can surge. Bulbs can flicker.

But it was the timing that got to me.

We had been sitting there quietly for who knows how long with that same dim light above us.

Then my dying father suddenly mentioned his cousin who had been dead for years.

And the instant he did, the entire room filled with light.

I looked at my dad and asked him something I had never asked him before.

“Dad, do you think our loved ones come to visit us when we’re getting close to death?”

He thought about it for a moment.

Then he said, “Yeah. I guess that could be true.”

That was all.

There was no ghost standing in the corner. We didn’t hear a voice. Nothing moved across the room.

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had just happened.

My dad died not long afterward.

I know there could be a completely ordinary explanation for that light. I can’t prove that Russell was there, and I would never claim that I could.

But after watching my dad get closer and closer to death, I started wondering if maybe the boundary between this life and whatever comes after it isn’t as solid as we think.

Maybe the people we love sometimes come back when we’re nearing the end.

Not to scare us.

Maybe they come to let us know we won’t have to make that journey alone.

And all these years later, whenever I think about that dim bedroom and that sudden, blinding burst of light, I still wonder the same thing:

Was Russell already there, waiting for my dad?

Back in 2018, I was a single mom of four kids. My dad lived alone in Magna, Utah, in the house that had once belonged to my great-grandparents. After they passed away, he stayed there and became, in a way, the caretaker of the old family home.

I went down there often to visit him, mow his lawn, help with things around the house, and just spend time with him.

One afternoon, I noticed he didn't look well.

Then he asked me something that immediately worried me.

“Is it normal to have blood in your stool?”

I told him no, absolutely not, and that he needed to see a doctor. My dad was incredibly stubborn when it came to things like that, so I offered to help him make the appointment.

A few weeks later, he finally went in and had tests done.

He was very reluctant to tell us the results. Eventually, I helped him log into his medical account, and I saw for myself just how sick he was.

My dad had lived a hard life. He had been an alcoholic and a smoker for most of it. He'd also worked for a mining company for 39 years. In 2013, they laid him off, and after that, it seemed like something inside him changed. He had spent so much of his life working that being forced into retirement seemed to take a piece of him.

Now he was dying.

He refused cancer treatment. At first, he didn't want hospice either. But his health declined incredibly fast.

His stomach began filling with fluid and became severely swollen. Nurses came to the house and taught my sisters and me how to drain the fluid into a bag. We took turns caring for him—helping him to the bathroom, bathing him, making sure he ate, giving him medication when he would accept it, and simply sitting with him.

It was horrible watching someone you love deteriorate so quickly.

But there were beautiful moments mixed in with the awful ones.

Sometimes I would bring all four of my kids with me, and we'd stay overnight. The kids would sleep in the living room while I took care of Grandpa.

My son Tyler was just learning to play guitar, and he'd sit and play for my dad. The kids would tell him jokes and stories and try to make him laugh.

I could see how much it brightened his days.

My dad was only sick for about four months after his diagnosis.

And toward the end, something happened that I still can't explain.

It was sometime around October.

The kids and I were staying at Dad's house that night. They were asleep in the living room, but I couldn't sleep.

By then, my dad was barely eating or drinking anything.

About once an hour, I'd hear his weak voice call from his bedroom:

“Cocoa.”

That meant he wanted chocolate milk. At that point, it was practically the only thing he would consume.

So I'd get up, make him a small cup, take it to him, make sure he was comfortable, and try to rest again.

That night I was exhausted, but restless.

My kids were spread out in the living room, finally asleep. I laid down nearby, trying to force myself to rest. And then I felt it: a light tap on my shoulder. Soft, but clear, and right next to my ear, a small voice, 'Mom.' I jolted, turned over expecting one of the kids, but nobody was there. I lost a daughter at birth about 5 years prior and my mind directly thought about her at that moment. That was when the restlessness really set in. I got up, wandered to the kitchen with that nagging feeling under my skin, and eventually the hallway, where everything else happened

The house was almost completely dark. The only light on was the small kitchen light above the sink.

I remember getting up from my make shift bed and standing in the kitchen.

Just off the kitchen was a hallway. My dad's bedroom was down that hallway. Across from his room was the bathroom, with the TV room nearby.

Then I caught movement out of the corner of my eye.

I looked over.

It was my dad.

I watched him move quickly down the hallway toward the bathroom.

He was naked, which actually wasn't unusual by then. Near the end, clothing had become uncomfortable and difficult for him, so he usually stayed covered with a sheet or blanket.

But what scared me was that he was walking by himself.

He couldn't do that anymore.

I saw him grab the wall for support and hurry toward the bathroom.

My heart dropped.

“Dad! No! Let me help you!”

I rushed after him because I was terrified he was going to fall.

I reached the bathroom.

It was empty.

I stopped.

Then I turned and looked across the hallway into my dad's bedroom.

He was lying in bed.

Asleep.

I just stood there.

I looked back into the empty bathroom.

Then back at my dad.

He hadn't moved.

I couldn't understand what I was seeing.

I hadn't just seen a vague shadow. I hadn't heard a noise and assumed it was him.

I had seen a figure that looked exactly like my dad move across that hallway.

I saw his body.

I saw him grab the wall.

I was so certain it was him that I yelled at him and ran after him because I thought he was going to fall.

And yet there he was.

Still in bed.

For a while afterward, I kept asking myself the same question:

Who did I just see?

A few days later, one of the nurses came to the house.

I decided to tell her what had happened.

I expected her to say I was exhausted. Maybe that stress and lack of sleep had gotten to me.

Instead, she didn't seem surprised at all.

She told me that as people get closer to death, sometimes strange things begin happening around them—things their families can't always explain.

Then she said something that has stayed with me ever since.

She told me that some people believe that, near death, the veil between this world and whatever comes next begins to thin.

And she gently told me that my dad might be getting ready to leave.

I thought those words would scare me.

Instead, they brought me comfort.

My dad passed away not long afterward.

Years have passed, but I still think about that night.

I know I was exhausted. I know I was under tremendous stress. I was watching my father die, barely sleeping, and taking care of four kids at the same time.

Maybe there's a completely ordinary explanation for what happened.

But I also know what I saw.

For those few seconds, there wasn't a doubt in my mind.

I saw my dad walking down that hallway.

Sometimes I wonder whether what I witnessed wasn't a haunting at all.

Maybe some part of him was already beginning to leave.

Maybe the nurse was right.

Maybe, for just a moment that night, the veil really did become thin enough for me to see through it.

I still don't know what I saw that night. I know I was exhausted. I know stress and grief do strange things to your mind. But I also know that I saw my dad. Not a shadow, not a trick of light. I saw him move down that hallway, saw him grab the wall, saw him with my own eyes, and then he was still in bed. I can't say what it was. But sometimes I think maybe it wasn't a haunting or something creepy at all. Maybe it was just my dad, already halfway between here and whatever comes next.