He hated hospitals.

Dad hated hospitals. I do not mean that he strongly disliked them. He really despised hospitals. He felt they were breeding grounds for infections. 

He wasn't born in a hospital. He didn't die in a hospital. To my knowledge, he was never even a patient in one.

And he didn't like for his family members to spend any more time that was absolutely necessary in a hospital. At all.

Unfortunately, I haven't been as lucky as Dad was in avoiding hospital stays. During the last few years, I've had a couple of stays lasting a few days each. The first time, I was pregnant. Dad drove down to check on me. He visited me in the hospital, then went to take care of the girls, and let my husband come sit with me.

But the most recent time I was hospitalized, Dad came and sat with me. For hours. He sat in a chair at my bedside and read while I napped. He didn't scare the staff. In fact, he only asked appropriate questions about the medications and treatments when a nurse came to administer them. I was really proud of Daddy for handling it all so well. I couldn't believe it.

I was so proud of him that I was telling one of his sister's about it just after he died. Turns out, Dad was pretty pleased with himself, too. In one of his last conversations with his sister, he told her how far he had come in tolerating hospitals. 

I still don't think he would ever have come so far as to have been a good patient. 

Before we even knew for certain that Daddy was dead, I remember saying to Mom that it would be ok if Dad had died while he was working on the farm. 

He still hated hospitals too much to have to die in one.