Dad passed away on September 3rd.
After I’d visited previously, I went on a trip of my own (my annual Baseball tour) with plans to return for Labor Day weekend. I talked to my Mom on Tuesday (Aug 24), and she said he had a port installed to more easily drain the fluid from his abdomen. But otherwise he seemed to be doing OK.
On the morning of Saturday the 28th, I was in Lincoln, Nebraska, and my brother John called me to say Dad was beginning to go downhill fast. “I know you’re planning to be here Labor Day weekend,” he said, “but I don’t know if that will be too late or not.” My trip itinerary called for one more night in Davenport, Iowa, and then home on Sunday. I decided then to finish my trip, go to work on Monday, and talk to my boss to try to get down a couple of days sooner, maybe Wednesday. But John called again a few hours later to say that it was even worse; the hospice nurse said he may have 24-48 hours left.
So I scrapped Davenport, drove straight home, and got on a plane first thing Sunday morning. When I arrived, Dad could no longer speak beyond a few slurred syllables at a time, couldn’t walk, and couldn’t stand without assistance. But he was still conscious and aware of his surroundings. The entire extended family gathered that afternoon in his bedroom to share memories and tell Dad we loved him. There were lots of tears, but also lots of laughter, including from Dad. It was the last time his granddaughters saw him alive.
By Monday, we had to move him to a hospital bed provided by the hospice, as he could no longer move on his own. He was on various pain and anti-anxiety drugs, and needed something administered every two hours (every odd-numbered hour). My brothers and I rotated shifts, getting up throughout the night to give him meds, roll him to avoid bedsores, drain his fluid, and (when we could no longer physically get him to the bathroom) change his diapers.
It was exhausting, physically, but mostly emotionally. I was alternately cursing the fact that he was dying in the first place, and then wishing he would just let go already. He beat the “24 to 48 hours” estimate by 6 days!
On Thursday, the hospice nurse (who had been coming in for about an hour each day) and social worker finally convinced us to take a break. They arranged for 24-hour care beginning Friday morning at 9:00. I guess Dad din’t want strangers taking care of him. That night, I took the 1:00 am and 3:00 am med shifts. My brother Gene had the 5:00, and John (who lives locally), was due to come in for the 7:00.
At about 6:45, John knocked on my bedroom door, opened it and stuck his head in. He didn’t have to say anything. We all filed into Mom and Dad’s room to see him lying there, no longer breathing, at peace. He slipped out when nobody was looking.
I think I did most of my grieving before he died. He put us through hell that last week, but looking back, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. He’s been there for me my whole life, and this was the least I could do by way of giving something back. His death felt almost like a relief, and the wake was actually somewhat anti-climactic. He had requested to be cremated without a formal service. We respected his wishes, but did have an open-casket visitation beforehand.
I’m still at Mom’s house, and will fly home tomorrow. It’ll be good to get home; I’ve spent 3 of the last 28 nights in my own bed. I worry about leaving Mom here alone, but she’ll have to face it sometime, and John will be around to look in on her. Right now, it just feels… weird… to not have Dad around. I have to get used to the new reality, I suppose.