Today’s chapter is the second in this Father’s Day series from the closing pages of my memoir. Yesterday I shared how my father’s heartbeat first shaped my sense of safety in the night. Today the story comes full circle, as the rhythm he once gave me becomes the rhythm I return to him in his final season.
Chapter 30
Still Breathing Together
A Full Circle
In the confluence where all love flows, I discovered how the first rhythm my father gave me would become the last rhythm I could give him.
This was a lesson about the cyclical nature of love—
how what begins in infancy comes full circle in the sacred act of presence during life’s final season.
The sicker my father grew, his need for oxygen increased.
It comforted him not to be alone at night—especially then.
And our roles had shifted.
Now I was the one listening for his breathing in the dark.
The oxygen machine hummed—its rhythm both sustaining and haunting—a mechanical melody that both kept him alive and distanced him from the world around him.
He couldn’t hear as well with the machine on, couldn’t catch the soft sounds of conversation or the gentle murmur of nighttime that had always comforted him.
One evening, as he adjusted the tube with quiet frustration, he looked at me with those same eyes that once watched over my bassinet.
I knew what he was searching for.
But the machine drowned it out.
The constant whoosh and click made it
hard for him to hear my breath.
So I leaned closer and whispered,
“It’s okay, Dad. Now I get to hear your breath. And I love that you’re still breathing with me.”
His eyes softened.
That familiar smile—the one I’d known since infancy—spread across his face.
We had come full circle.
From him treasuring my infant breath on his chest to me treasuring each breath he took beside me.
From his heartbeat lulling me to sleep to the rhythm of his oxygen machine becoming my new lullaby.
The sound was different now—mechanical instead of natural—but the love underneath was exactly the same.
Our roles had shifted.
Now I was the one listening for his breathing in the dark.
I listen..still..
Reflection
The Rhythm That Remains
Love has its own breathing pattern.
In and out.
Give and receive.
Hold and be held.
What begins in infancy—that primal need for the sound of another’s life—never really leaves us.
It just changes form.
First, I needed his heartbeat to find my rhythm.
Then, he needed mine to remember his.
The machines may hum.
The breath may labor.
But underneath the mechanical sounds, the original song continues:
I am here.
You are here.
We are breathing together.
This is love.
Sometimes the greatest gift we can give is simply to remain present to the sound of someone’s existence—to let them know that their breathing, however it comes, is still music to us.
And sometimes, if we’re very lucky, we get to return the favor of being someone’s favorite sound in the dark.
Thank you for reading.
This chapter is part of the closing pages of my memoir, Seeds My Father Planted. If you’d like to read more, I’d be honored to share the rest with you.
©️ Gilda Wray. All rights reserved.
Thank you for this remembrance of your father and your relationship with him. I like the picture of love being like the give and take of breathing.