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I am planning to cry, so please bear with me if I need a
minute during this.
I’ve given eulogies before, but I’ve stuck with facts,
praise, and prose. Dad deserves that
kind of praise and prose, and he’ll get it from me and others. But I had the privilege of spending weeks
living with him in the hospital, switching nights with my mom, and helping him
as he did thing after thing for the very last time. It was hard to watch him suffer, but I am
grateful I was able to give him the gift of companionship, the gift of making
sure the hospital followed his wishes, and to enjoy the gift we gave each other
of leaving nothing unsaid between us. So
instead of talking about how great a dad he was – and he was, and you’ll hear
that over and over today – and instead
of offering a biography, I want to share his last moments with you.
I’m coming to grips with the fact my grandfather was the
patriarch of the family just five years ago, dad was the patriarch until Wednesday,
and that role now rests with me. But
that also means that dad isn’t 71 years old anymore. He isn’t old, or sick, or worried, or
battling cancer. I see him reflected, as
if he were still alive, in the things my daughters do day to day, in my brothers’
kindness, in my mother, and frankly in my drive to do the right thing no matter
the personal cost – particularly when the right thing involves keeping my
family happy and safe.
We die as we live, and his last day told the story of his
life.
He lived as a strong man, a man who knew what he
wanted. On his last day, he knew he was
going to die, and he didn’t want to suffer.
In the morning, he told mom he was in respiratory failure, and she
called for an ambulance. As he left his
home for the last time, even struggling to breathe, he was having a technical
discussion with the paramedics about his condition, he liked the details of
stuff and he loved medicine.
Mom and I drove to the hospital and after a long wait they
let her in to see him. Mom came out and
said they only would give one pass and asked if I wanted to use the pass to go
in. Mom was the love of his life and I
knew he needed her by his side. I told
her that and she just nodded. Of course,
she knew it too.
Mom is crafty, and eventually got the doctor to give me a
pass. When I got back there, I insisted
that the doctor talk with us about dad’s DNR wishes. Dad was a bit out of it, but immediately
engaged. “I do not want to be
resuscitated under any circumstances.”
The doctor said intubation would help him breathe. Dad said “I refuse to be intubated. Instead of intubating me, just shut me down
with morphine. I’ve just about had it. I’ve had enough.” This is a man who was wrote on his blog that
he was going to shoot the last chemo arrow in his quiver days before – but
today a man who had finally concluded he was beyond any reasonable chance for a
meaningful recovery. I leaned in and
promised him that we would take good care of mom no matter what happened. You could just see him relax.
Dad always knew what he wanted in life, and it was no
different in death. The greatest gift
mom and I were able to give dad was making sure his wishes were honored. It was also the most expensive gift I ever
gave, since I loved him so much and he was asking us to let the doctors let him
die. But he was a good man, a good
father, and he had long ago earned the right to have me fight to make sure he
would be able to exit in the way of his choice.
I gave him my word, and I made sure the doctors and nurses followed his.
We waited for a chest x-ray.
Dad was interactive, even smiled a bit.
Then the results, pneumonia confirmed.
The doctor offered a BiPAP mask, which is a non-invasive mask that
covers the mouth and nose and when you breathe, kicks up the pressure to force
air in. Dad was cogent and said he
wanted it. They fitted him with it, and
he couldn’t talk easily once it was on. Just as bad, he couldn’t wear his trifocals
over the mask’s seal. I knew he expected
this to be his last day when he refused intubation, but I saw impatience in his
eyes when he realized he couldn’t talk or even see properly.
They took him to the ICU, but didn’t let us in for a
while. By the time we got in, dad had
asked for Dilaudid painkiller. He was
still cogent, but his plan was in action.
He looked each of us in eye. He
responded when we held him. The details
from then on aren’t critical – he eventually lost consciousness. Dad would never wake up again, but this is
where the real story of dad’s life was told.
His left arm was covered with IVs, tape, and other medical
stuff. His right arm was clear. My mom was standing next to his left arm, and
I was holding onto his right. It didn’t
seem right, and I asked her if she would switch so she could touch his skin
more easily. She paused, then walked to
the end of the bed and said “no, he always loved when I rubbed his feet. I want him to feel me rubbing his feet.” She knew him so well, and loves him so much.
Eva had asked that I tell him she loved him, so I kissed him
and said “Eva wanted me to tell you she loves you, and I love you too.” Mom said “I love you” and kissed him.
I’d spent so much time at the hospital that I knew how to
read a lot of the machines, and I saw dad was about to go. The nurse said “it’s happening”. Mom rubbed his feet, held him. I held his arm and cried softly. He died the way he lived – with his family at
his side, respecting his wishes, and on his own terms.
I looked up and saw mom sitting in a chair at the foot of
the bed. I kissed dad once more on the
forehead – his heart had stopped but I hoped he could still feel my love – then
I walked to mom, hugged her, and asked
her what she needed. In a strong,
painful voice she said “I need them to take all of that stuff off of him so I
can hug him, so I can hold him one last time.”
I told the nurse and he complied in seconds.
Then I saw the most terrifying and beautiful thing I’ve ever
seen. Something that was simultaneously
the stuff of nightmares and the stuff of the endings of the most beautiful
Disney princess stories. My dad’s body,
his mouth slightly open, still, not breathing, and my mother holding him. She was holding him lightly in a physical
sense, but it was the strongest hug I’ve ever seen.
I know that in intense situations people see things that
aren’t real, but what I saw next I will believe to my grave to be real. Dad’s body looked full. It will still, he was dead, but even in death
it was full. And with every second mom
held him, dad’s body emptied and mom’s grew fuller. I could see him going into her. She held him until I saw that migration
finish, then, like she knew it was complete, she looked up, let go, and told me
that that was the last time she would ever be able to hold him.
Not true, mom. I’m
not a religious man. I do know that
nothing in the universe is ever destroyed; it can change form, but is never
gone. I don’t know how I saw what I saw,
I don’t know if it was really visible or just my realizing what it means to
spend 50 years madly in love. But what I
do know is that dad is with you, whatever spirit he has, however it manifests,
you carry him with you for the rest of your days.
I don’t expect you to suddenly follow the NCAA. I know it isn’t literally that there are two
people in your body, but the story of your lives was so intertwined with your
love that at the moment of his death your merger became complete. At the time I couldn’t figure out why you had
such an urgency to give him a full body hug, with all the medical stuff gone,
but when I saw what happened, I knew.
You hold in you all of the love you share. Everybody should be so lucky to draw that much
love, enough love to sustain you the rest of your days.
I love you dad. I’ll
honor you by being the best dad and the best man I can be.
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