If you get there before I do
My dad lost his fight on the second day of the new year.
It sounds cliché to say he “died peacefully surrounded by his loving family” — but that’s exactly what happened — eventually.
We had been hoping for a miracle but each new bit of information was grim. One day he had cancer, then he had chemotherapy. His kidneys failed. His kidneys recovered. Next an infection. His heart raced and wobbled. A respirator was considered.
This is how it went for two weeks. He thought he could stand and race out of the hospital. He saw numbers floating in the air. A mysterious “they” told him he would have a “whole new crew of animals.” Much later, his eyes closed and his breathing grew uneven.
Somehow, it was still a surprise. Dad had been so determined to fight, that as each day passed we were bewildered he did not make a dramatic recovery and win the lottery on the same day. For most of this time he was in the hospital. On each phone call he repeated his determination, but his voice grew more feeble.
At the end, our prayers were only that he would not die alone.
COVID kept us from visiting him in the hospital.
We didn’t wish him well on his birthday, because we hoped his days had blurred together and he had forgotten his birthday is one day after Christmas. He also spent Christmas alone.
I still feel we were fortunate. You hear heartbreaking stories of people who are alone at the end and the tireless nurses who hold their hands when family must be absent.
I don’t know if he ever gave up the fight, but we “sprung him” from the hospital and agreed to hospice.
New Year’s Eve we opened the curtains so he could watch just a glimmer of illegal neighborhood fireworks above the tree line. In the wee hours his pain was so miserable the doc soon doubled his morphine.
Jan. 2, each of us in our small group knew the inevitable had arrived, but no one said it out loud. I knew I would soon need to return to teaching and asked if I could sit with him alone.
I sang “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” in my sweetest voice. This was among our signature songs. We had perfected the harmony beginning in my childhood, usually during road trips. As a child, I needed to cover my ears so his strong voice did keep me from singing my separate but parallel notes.
Long ago, in my 30s, we had practiced “Amazing Grace” over and over and over again until we were confident we could sing the harmonies for the rest of our lives. We were warbling around the campfire and there was wine involved. We stopped only after neighboring campers requested, none-too-kindly, that we shut up and go to bed.
Jan. 2 at the side of the rented hospital bed, I sang “Amazing
Grace,” one more time.
I held his hands, those hands that always helped me feel protected and still seemed huge even now that my own hands have grown.
I would have lingered longer, but several times his breathing slowed and I was scared he might pass before others had their own quiet moment.
I had said everything I needed to say, for now.
After each family member in our “Fab Five” held his hand for a few more heartbeats, we sat, not talking, and listened to the thrum of the oxygen machine.
Two hours later the hospice nurse knew from experience that Dad’s breathing had changed. We each held an arm or a leg as his lungs slowed to a stop.
I could say so much more about all the thoughts I’ve had since then, but I’m tired.
Birth and death are big events. Both are traumatic. Energy is expended, love embraced. People gather around. We are scared. We are hopeful. We ponder the meaning of it all. When it’s over, we pause, we rest, we ponder some more and we prepare for the
next steps.
Of note: Please don’t send me flowers. Our family is asking folks to send a donation in his name to https://yosemite.org.
Garden enthusiast Heather Hacking loves when you share what’s growing on. Reach out at sowtheregardencolumn@ gmail.com, and snail mail, P.O. Box 5166, Chico CA 95927.