Last Good-bye

Last January, my sister-in-law, Mary Roberts, lay in a hospital in Ocala, Florida. She had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, which had spread to the bones and liver. The doctors had given her six weeks to live. My wife and I had called her on Sunday night to tell her we would come down to see her as soon as we could. We were both in Carrollton, Georgia, visiting our daughter Marti, and had both contracted the flu and pneumonia and definitely could not travel 50 miles-let alone the 500 miles to Ocala.

On Monday morning, I was sleeping on the couch in the living room as I could not breathe while lying in bed. I was awakened at 8:32 (according to Marti’s digital clock) by Mary’s voice calling my name twice. The voice seemed to come from the center of the empty living room. Afterwards, there was only silence. I told my wife about it when she woke up.

Around noon, after Marti took me to the doctor for perhaps a life-saving shot and a truckload of antibiotics, I returned to the house. My wife told me her other sister had called and said Mary had unexpectedly taken a turn for the worse, and had died at 8:30 that morning.

I think she stopped by on her way to the “other side” to say good-bye, as we were the only ones in the family who couldn’t be there with her.
-Charles Watkins, St. Augustine, Fla.