Once again, there is a part of me that would rather avoid writing about a day that is painful to remember. But I’m beginning to learn that I need to acknowledge how I feel, even when it’s not pleasant. Otherwise these things get stuffed into the subconscious corners of my mind and hidden in my body’s cellular memory. It’s healthier for me to remember, acknowledge, feel, and heal. Also, I believe this could be helpful for others who are witnessing the decline of a loved one. There aren’t always professional people around to help guide us through these tough times.
So, two and a half months ago, my father died.
I was with him the morning before, as I was almost every day for three consecutive months. I obviously knew him well and when I touched him that day, I had the feeling he had a fever. I reported my concern to the nurse on duty and my intuition was validated. This was the second time in three months I noticed him having a fever. The nursing home staff missed it. Both times. I also noticed his breathing seemed compromised. I heard some rattling in his throat.
Now, I have to confess that I have worked for two different hospices. Thus I was quite familiar with the term “death rattle.” It happens to many patients as they get close to the time of their death. I knew this, and yet I was in complete denial that he was close to death. I rationalized that rattling sound. I thought, ‘Well, he seems to have a cold or the flu. Some people probably make this sound when they have a cold and can’t breathe well, right?’
He’d had a bad fever before – maybe 40 days or so prior to this. At that time, he was so weak he couldn’t eat, swallow liquids, or talk. We thought he might die at that point, but miraculously, he came through. After about three days he got more energy and was able to eat and talk again. I foolishly assumed this fever would follow the same pattern.
I didn’t really think he was unconscious. True, he was no longer verbally communicating, nor was he opening his eyes, but this, too, he had done before. He was just resting. That’s what I told myself. He was tired and weak from the fever and he was resting.
He was still inputting and outputting. He’d had food the day before. He was still urinating and defecating. Don’t the digestive systems of people nearing death shut down?
There were so many reasons I thought he “just had a fever.” And although I was very worried about his comfort level, I certainly wasn’t worried about him dying. Not right then. (Although I confess I found myself thinking of that phrase “death rattle” over and over again that day. I remember mentioning the rattling sound to a nurse, but I guess I was too scared to specifically ask someone about the significance of it.)
After about four hours, Dad seemed more comfortable. He seemed to be resting. And so I allowed myself to go home, making sure to first tell the nurse to call me if he anything changed. Allowing myself to go home was something I had learned over the past few months. I had discovered that if I visited for more than four hours or so at a time, I started to crash energetically. So I had finally begun to be more gentle with myself. I generally stayed for two to four hours at a time with Dad. And then I also visited for a few hours with Mom, who lived on a different floor.
“Home” at that point was my parents’ home, although neither parent lived there any longer. Due to financial considerations, they were both now in the nursing home. So the family home was now empty of humans except for me. I was back in Pennsylvania for an extended period of time trying to support both parents as they adjusted to a new living environment. I was also supposed to be sorting through and dealing with all the family possessions at the house so that it could be transferred to the bank. (We’d had to get a reverse mortgage.)
Anyway, after this long and exhausting day monitoring and constantly trying to fine-tune Dad’s environment so he could be more comfortable, then spending time with Mom, and then going home to be with my two sisters for a bit, I crawled into bed at about 9:30. As always, out of habit, I turned off my cell phone before going to bed. There just weren’t enough emergencies in my life to warrant keeping the phone on. I’d come to value my sleep.
I slept soundly that night until about 1 a.m. at which time I woke to go to the bathroom. I glanced at my phone before climbing back into bed and saw that I’d received a text from my sister, Karen. She reported that she was with Dad and that he was on oxygen and morphine.
Amazingly, I was still in denial. I still didn’t really think he was dying! But thank goodness, I went in. I also checked my other phone message and discovered it was the weekend nurse reporting to me that Dad had taken a turn. I had missed her call, too! It was by the grace of God that any of us got those calls from the nursing home because my sister seldom looks at her phone at night either. But uncharacteristically she was up; she was babysitting her new grandson while her daughter and son-in-law were at a going-away party. I will be eternally grateful for this divine timing. If Karen hadn’t been awake, she might never have gotten that call. If I hadn’t had to pee, I might never have seen Karen’s text. I can’t even imagine how I’d feel if none of us had received these messages and Dad had died all alone.
So there my sister and I were, at his bedside, watching him as he lay there very still and breathing very rapidly. We held his hand. We whispered to one another. We walked out into the hall to make calls to family members. We prayed.
Finally at about 4:00, my sister tried to catch a couple winks. She hadn’t had any sleep at all that night. Unfortunately or fortunately, there was no comfortable furniture for her to try to relax in and so she was still half awake when Dad’s breathing suddenly and unexpectedly slowed. Karen, a registered nurse, became alert immediately. We watched him for a minute or two and then she said, “I think I better go get Mom.”
Karen left the room, caught the elevator, woke Mom up, quickly talked with her, got her dressed, got her in the wheelchair, caught the elevator again, and brought Mom into Dad’s room in record time.
Like me, Mom was slow to realize how very, very close to death Dad was. We wheeled Mom next to his bed and she held his hand. Karen left the room to call her husband and at that time I saw Dad stop breathing. I looked again, of course, checking to make sure it wasn’t simply a case of apnea. No, he’d stopped breathing. I was surprisingly calm. Whether it was to protect Mom or because there was some relief that his long struggle was finally over, I don’t know, but when Karen came back in, I simply mouthed, ‘I think he’s gone.’
My sister wisely said to Mom, “Why don’t you give Dad a kiss?” We both helped Mom to stand so she could lean over and give him a kiss. And a minute later Karen told Mom that he was gone.
Dad waited for Mom. He had timed it perfectly. Also, amazingly, the whole entire family, save one son-in-law, was in town. My youngest sister and niece were visiting from Georgia, Karen’s son happened to be visiting from Alaska, my niece Sarah had just had her first baby and her husband had not yet left for basic training. I was there, of course, visiting from Colorado, and both my brothers and my one brother’s family all lived nearby. Except for my one disabled brother-in-law, everyone in the family “just happened” to be in town. Dad’s wife, all five children, all six grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. We were all there. We’d all be able to say goodbye. What a blessing.
I am convinced that somehow Dad “knew” this. I believe at some level his spirit knew the appropriate time to leave. I believe all of this was divinely orchestrated.
Dad chose how to live and he chose when to die.
He was a model for us all.
