For the past year, I have backed off from posting anything simply because I felt I was getting a little too one sided. Everything was about the death of my Dad, but at the time, it was what I needed to help get me through. Well, it’s a year later and today, especially today, is a rough one. Today is the last day I heard my Dad speak or saw him upright, and I want to share the story. January 13, 2020. Yes, I’m getting ready to share the story. Continue if you like. If not, thanks for stopping by.
After weeks of going down to Mom and Dad’s at 4:00 to relieve their daytime caregiver and to help Mom, I made what was to be my final evening trip down to help before Hospice stepped in. Like any other night, I had had a long day with work and the last thing I wanted to do was follow Dad around the house for the next four hours until the overnight nurse arrived. Selfish, maybe, but everyone has those moments.
I arrived shortly after 4:00pm. Dad was on the couch in his normal spot, asleep. They told me he had been a little difficult that day and they were glad he finally calmed down. First thing I notice is he’s not wearing his signature sweatshirt and matching flannel pants. Instead, he opted for a t-shirt and his tighty whities. No big thing, right? His house, his rules. Besides, that’s what he slept in every night. It wasn’t until just yesterday that I started to put it all together. This was the day he knew was coming. The day when he would go to bed one last time, and being the creature of habit he was, he was dressed appropriately and ready.
He woke up around 5:00 and tried to eat some dinner, but it was just too hard for him. He was struggling to stay awake, and seemed more interested in getting off the couch and tooling around the house. This time was different, though. He tried and tried to push off the couch, even adding as much rocking motion as he could, but he couldn’t quite get enough momentum to stand up. “Do you want to get up, Dad?”, I asked. With a tired grumble, he mustered enough energy to say, “Yeah”. So I wrapped my arms around him and gently lifted him into a standing position. I moved behind him as Mom rolled up his walker to hold on to. Problem was, he kept wanting to fall backward. I stood behind him for a few minutes telling him to go when he was ready. Nothing. I was getting frustrated and frankly bored of standing there, so I let him lean against me while I checked email and social media. After fifteen minutes, I said, “Dad, are we going to walk or not? If not, let’s sit you back down.” No response at all because he had fallen asleep standing up. I worked my way back in front of him and gently put him back on the couch. In all honesty, I wasn’t sure he was breathing.
Another hour passed and he was in and out. Sometimes awake, but just barely. He’d tried to rock back and forth to get up again, but it wasn’t happening, and he was too tired to have me help him just stand again. It was the day before Mom and Dad’s fifty third wedding anniversary – the goal Dad had set for himself to reach. Mom did everything to bring ‘her Jack’ back for just an instant, rifling through the wedding album, pointing out people in pictures, reminding him of how happy he made her and how much she loved him and my brother. She tried so hard to pull him from the depths of Parkinson’s and age. I think he tried, I really do, but the past nine years of fighting getting older and having this horrible disease had taken it’s toll.
Around 8:00pm, the nurse showed up. We gave her the usual rundown of what he’s been like earlier in the day to prepare her for anything overnight. I told her he tried to get up and walk, but just didn’t have the strength. I told her I didn’t know if he’d move from the couch the rest of the night and to call me if anything came up.
I left.
From what Mom told me the next morning, Dad fought them when it came time to take him back to bed. They picked him up and put him in his walker and used it as a transport to move him. They got him to bed with him fighting back the entire time until he finally wore out. The next morning, I called to check in. Mom shared the story of the evening before and said she was concerned because he hasn’t even tried to get out of bed yet. Their anniversary.
I called in to work that day, knowing my place needed to be with Mom and Dad over everything else. I helped Mom clean him up, we tried to feed him, we tried to talk to him. He would occasionally open his eyes, give a slight smile, and go back to sleep. Hospice came, checked everything, and told us he was starting to transition. She asked if we wanted a hospital bed and equipment brought in to make it easier on us to care for him, and shared all of their services to make his final days more comfortable. We called Dad’s favorite priest to come out and administer the last rights. I have some of it on video, and am glad I captured the moment, even though it’s hard to watch. That priest just stood over Dad with his hand on his arm, prayed, and was just there, in the moment. I think it brought us all a sense of peace, especially Dad.
From there, Hospice was a daily thing, multiple times day and night, treating Dad with what I always wanted him to be able to keep, his dignity. My wife tells me she thinks that’s why he never fought me on anything. He knew I was trying to maintain a level of dignity through all of this. I appreciated hearing that.
Twelve days after their fifty third anniversary, I went to church with Mom. My brother was in town and stayed behind to help with Dad. We got home about the time the hospice nurse arrived. She checked his vitals and pointed out some of the signs that the end was near. It sounds morbid, but it was actually comforting being able to see the signs to help prepare ourselves, and seeing that he was still fighting as best he could. We called my parents’ close friends and told them the end was near. They went to church and picked up a dissolvable communion host, came to the house and went through the ritual that goes along with bringing someone communion. She broke off a small piece and put it in his mouth. Within two minutes, we asked the nurse to check his breathing. She first said he was still with us, then apologized and said he was gone.
To this day, Mom believes that’s what he was waiting for. Dad was a convert to Catholicism, and he truly embraced it. Maybe that’s what he was waiting for, who knows? But he passed with Mom, my brother, our friends, and the Hospice nurse, Lucy, at his side.
Random Thoughts of an Ordinary Average Guy 