My Pop
My dad died on December 12, 2005.
His health had been declining slowly for a few years, but that summer he started going fast. He got weaker, shakier. By October, he would have these weird moments where he just wasn't dad. They became more frequent, and many nights after visiting my parents, I went home and cried. This was not my father.
On Thanksgiving, my very frail dad sat at a chair in the living room and was served on a tv tray. His appetite had been very poor but he ate well that night. Someone had made a chocolate cream pie, which got eaten up pretty quickly. He saw someone walk by with a piece and said, like a five-year-old would, "I didn't get a piece of that!" I still feel bad about that.
He had a mild heart attack before Thanksgiving. Shortly after Thanksgiving, he went into the hospital again but no one was quite sure what was wrong. The moments of him as "not-dad" became more frequent. The hospital staff wanted someone with him at all times so he would not either fall out of bed or wander off and get hurt, so on a Tuesday night after work I volunteered. I stopped off on the way to the hospital to pick up some Chinese food for dinner; dad thought it smelled very good, although he still had very little appetite. He was supposed to be on a special diet, but he wanted a taste so I fed him some, daring the nurse to say anything. She didn't. This, I remember. I remember. I am so glad I gave my dad that taste. Still, now, it means the world to me.
That evening was so very hard. My dad was not my dad. He never watched sports, but that night he told me how much he enjoyed baseball and the games he had gone to. I'm still not sure if he ever actually went to any. He would ask, childlike, to watch a favorite show on the tv. A nurse came in to check on him and when she left he looked at me, giggled and said "She was shaking her booty!" So NOT something my dad would ever ever do.
Later, another nurse came in to give him some meds. She wanted to give him a shot in his stomach, which my mom had said was very painful. He refused. She tried gently to talk him into it but he was the recalcitrant child and would not, he absolutely refused. As this was going on, tears were pouring down my face.
I kissed him goodnight, told him I loved him, went home and cried some more.
By Friday night, three days later, dad was clearly not going to get better. He had some breathing apparatus on his face since he was having a hard time breathing on his own. He had been surrounded by family every day and every evening that week; on Saturday we were all at the hospital but he did not wake up that day or any day ever again. Even in his unconscious state, he held mom's hand. If she removed it, he would grasp for it. That says a lot.
We had a decision to make. Keep the breathing apparatus on and prolong this, or remove it and let his body do what it had to do. We knew this was it, we knew he was not going to come back, so we made that decision.
On Sunday morning, we all gathered again with dad and the nurse removed the mask. We stood around the bed looking at him and waiting but of course nothing immediate happened. Actually, I chuckle a bit thinking about that. We gradually relaxed, began talking and reminiscing and joking and laughing. Dad would have appreciated every bit of it. He held steady through that day, and through that night. The next day, Monday, I got the call at work that dad had died. I immediately went to the hospital to hug him and kiss him and tell him how much I loved him.
I thank mother earth for taking my dad this way. He was terrified of death. This way, he simply fell asleep and left us. It was very peaceful and he was with those who loved him right up to the end.
God, I miss him.
His health had been declining slowly for a few years, but that summer he started going fast. He got weaker, shakier. By October, he would have these weird moments where he just wasn't dad. They became more frequent, and many nights after visiting my parents, I went home and cried. This was not my father.
On Thanksgiving, my very frail dad sat at a chair in the living room and was served on a tv tray. His appetite had been very poor but he ate well that night. Someone had made a chocolate cream pie, which got eaten up pretty quickly. He saw someone walk by with a piece and said, like a five-year-old would, "I didn't get a piece of that!" I still feel bad about that.
He had a mild heart attack before Thanksgiving. Shortly after Thanksgiving, he went into the hospital again but no one was quite sure what was wrong. The moments of him as "not-dad" became more frequent. The hospital staff wanted someone with him at all times so he would not either fall out of bed or wander off and get hurt, so on a Tuesday night after work I volunteered. I stopped off on the way to the hospital to pick up some Chinese food for dinner; dad thought it smelled very good, although he still had very little appetite. He was supposed to be on a special diet, but he wanted a taste so I fed him some, daring the nurse to say anything. She didn't. This, I remember. I remember. I am so glad I gave my dad that taste. Still, now, it means the world to me.
That evening was so very hard. My dad was not my dad. He never watched sports, but that night he told me how much he enjoyed baseball and the games he had gone to. I'm still not sure if he ever actually went to any. He would ask, childlike, to watch a favorite show on the tv. A nurse came in to check on him and when she left he looked at me, giggled and said "She was shaking her booty!" So NOT something my dad would ever ever do.
Later, another nurse came in to give him some meds. She wanted to give him a shot in his stomach, which my mom had said was very painful. He refused. She tried gently to talk him into it but he was the recalcitrant child and would not, he absolutely refused. As this was going on, tears were pouring down my face.
I kissed him goodnight, told him I loved him, went home and cried some more.
By Friday night, three days later, dad was clearly not going to get better. He had some breathing apparatus on his face since he was having a hard time breathing on his own. He had been surrounded by family every day and every evening that week; on Saturday we were all at the hospital but he did not wake up that day or any day ever again. Even in his unconscious state, he held mom's hand. If she removed it, he would grasp for it. That says a lot.
We had a decision to make. Keep the breathing apparatus on and prolong this, or remove it and let his body do what it had to do. We knew this was it, we knew he was not going to come back, so we made that decision.
On Sunday morning, we all gathered again with dad and the nurse removed the mask. We stood around the bed looking at him and waiting but of course nothing immediate happened. Actually, I chuckle a bit thinking about that. We gradually relaxed, began talking and reminiscing and joking and laughing. Dad would have appreciated every bit of it. He held steady through that day, and through that night. The next day, Monday, I got the call at work that dad had died. I immediately went to the hospital to hug him and kiss him and tell him how much I loved him.
I thank mother earth for taking my dad this way. He was terrified of death. This way, he simply fell asleep and left us. It was very peaceful and he was with those who loved him right up to the end.
God, I miss him.
Comments
I've lost grandfathers, and watching them deteriorate so quickly is scary. I can't even begin to fathom losing a parent. I know this is something I'll have to come to terms with someday.
Thanks for sharing, my little zucchini.
And the zucchini thing? My dad had joke names for all our body parts when we were kids. I was seriously 12 years old when I realized that my armpits were NOT called zucchini's by anyone else, anywhere, ever. Boy, was my face red.