Fourteen
years ago, my daughter Naomi died at the the age of nineteen. She
fought two hard years against cancer, and held to her hope and faith
until the end. Four days before she died, we flew home to Santa Fe,
New Mexico from San Francisco, California, on a private jet—an air
ambulance, because commercial travel was too risky. We wanted her
home to die.
Once
home, waiting for the inevitable, Naomi remained calm . . . even when
she looked up at me from where she sat on a couch reading and gazing
steadily into my eyes, said, “Dad, I am concerned.”
Naomi
had kept a diary since she was twelve years old, and continued
writing until the end. The morning of the day before she died she
scribbled down in weak handwriting on a crumpled piece of paper:
Dream
of a blissful cruise, I don't remember much of it. I just remember
glimpses of it. I am happy, and I can eat a lot.
Because the cancer had made her feel so sick, she had been forcing
herself to eat.
The
same afternoon, a friend came over, and while he massaged her back,
she managed to ask after him and his family, and then say, “I love
my body, it has been so good to me.”
The
next morning she was drifting in and out of consciousness and gasping
for air. A doctor arrived and said her heart was beating violently
because her lungs were collapsing with pneumonia and not giving
oxygen. “It will give out soon” he said.
Naomi
died in the afternoon, and a gentle breeze blew in, clouds came and a
light rain came to end a drought we had been experiencing. The sun
shone through the clouds and a rainbow formed over our house where
her body rested in her bedroom.
Since
her death, I have asked God that Naomi be my spiritual ally—a
guiding light. She has visited my body and taken away ills. I have
felt washed by her presence and since her death have only been sick a
couple of times. Her spirit always gives me encouragement, and when
times are tough, she whispers in my ear, It's
not so bad; keep smiling and remember the love.
