My dad’s life story may be nearing an end.
He is resting reasonably comfortably, although an occasional moan will emerge as if, somewhere, he’s feeling pain or discomfort. But he really hasn’t been coherent the last couple of days, at least not during the time I’ve spent at his bedside. There are periods where he is unresponsive, his eyes, only partially open, don’t seem to be looking at this world. Then there are moments when he opens his eyes, looks up, and says, “hello, Ian,” before drifting off into space again.
Yesterday I arrived late in the afternoon and stopped to sign in the visitor log. There I ran into one of the staff whose job keeps her in contact with all the residents. She was looking at my dad’s medical charts.
He’s been refusing food the last two times I’ve been here at meal time, and I asked if that had changed.
She shook her head. “It happens,” she said, referring to the loss of appetite and refusal to eat. The hospice folks had left a sheet of paper alongside his bed containing a discussion of food and eating, or not eating. It’s one of those things that is very disturbing to family members, but is fairly common. Kate knew she didn’t have to repeat all of this.
“He’s strong, your father. Probably all those years being athletic,” she said. Repeating herself: “He’s still strong.”
“And now it works against him,” I answered.
She got my unstated message. He’s unfortunately still too strong to go quickly or easily.
Kate shook her head. “Because he was so athletic, he wouldn’t want to be left like this.” She’s right again.
I always thought that one day he would go out in his boat several miles offshore, jump into the ocean, scrub the bottom of the boat, and then just let himself drift off. But by the time he might have seen what was ahead, he was no longer able to operate the boat on his own and instead had to rely on younger crew members. His window of opportunity had passed.
Then there was the day I found his old police department pistols in a bag on a shelf in his closet, along with a stash of old bullets. He was already showing symptoms of dementia, and I don’t even know if he remembered the guns. But paranoia got the best of me, and I lifted the bag and its contents off the shelf, took them out to the car, and turned them in at the police station. Probably unnecessary, but best not to have to worry.
But now he’s beyond all that. He can barely muster the energy to lift his hand to his face, or lift a napkin the six inches or so from his chest to the rolling table where a glass of milk and a can of high protein drink have been left.
He was asleep when I got to his bed. The other three beds in the room were empty, their occupants out in the common room where dinner was being served.
I rubbed his shoulder, his arm, his hand, signaling my presence while saying hello. His eyelids quivered, then lifted slightly, barely opening a slit for his eye to peer out at the world. We didn’t connect.
I told him that one of his oldest friends had been there to see him earlier in the day. He and Wally must have met very soon after my dad arrived in Honolulu in 1939, and they went on to found the Waikiki Surf Club soon after the end of WWII.
“Wally came to see you today,” I said in a voice louder than necessary, I’m sure. He looked up at me, his eyes blank. “He’s your oldest friend, and it was very nice of him to visit.”
I don’t know if any of this was getting through.
Then he tried to say something, but even leaning over his bed to get me ear close to his mouth, I couldn’t make out the word or words. His voice is hoarse because the oxygen tends to dry out his throat. It’s an effort to get the words out, and I feel bad that I can’t understand what he’s trying to say. It’s hard for both of us, I think.
I tell him that it’s okay, that I’m here, that he can just relax, although he’s more collapsed than relaxed, even with the medication he’s getting for pain and anxiety.
I stayed around for a while, just in case he could sense my presence. I don’t know if he did or not.
Then I slipped away, leaving him to his somewhat restless drifting.
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Ian, my heart goes out to you and your dad. You want them to be eased into the next part of their journey — what worked for my dad-in-law was quietly describing all the relatives and friends that were waiting for him on the other side. Hearing is the last sense to go.
Peace to you and your dad.
Ian,
I guarantee he knows you’re t here; at the very least he can sense your energy and love. I remember asking an aunt who was dying what heaven would be like, and she said “a big open meadow, with two lawn chairs, endless mint juleps and a young man in his 50’s with an excellent sense of humor”.
Everyone has their own view of heaven and I join all of your friends and loved ones in wishing your dad his – when he is ready.
Peace,
Lora
The weeks and time I spent with my father before he passed are amongst the most memorable in my life. A suggestion is you and your family gather with him to tell him that you love him and it is all right to go. My aloha to you and your family.
Ian: I know your Dad. He went fishing with me, probably about about 10 years ago. I think he was in his eighties and he climbed up and down the ladder to the fly bridge like he was a lot younger.Having gone through what you are with my parents I know there is no easy way to approach the end. Just your being there is important and you will be glad you were.Every time I have to endure the right-to-lifers bs about not wanting a death with dignity law I wonder if they have ever been with a loved one as they made that final journey. Keep your spirits up.
Just being there all the time is so important. Knowing that you were there to help him when he needed it most, just as he helped you when you were young and defenseless and innocent. I only can hope my children will care for me the way you have cared for your father.
All of our hearts go out to you, Ian.
Ian, We all wear different hats throughout the day…for you it might be son, brother, husband, gentleman, scholar, blogger etc. Focus on the first three hats and things will work themselves out. Dementia is a cruel disease. The end is near yet so very far away. Life will go on living and he will continue to live on thru you. With much Aloha. May peace be with you.
Ian: you are truly a brave and caring soul. Keep writing about the good memories and the old memories and what’s happening now. I wish peace to you, your father, and your family.
XO
Our hearts go out to you
Is that really true? That hearing is the last sense to go?
When my SIL was dying, the nurses spoke to her in a quiet, gentle voice. They told her what procedure they were doing on her, reassuring her all the while. I’ll always remember that.
Peace be with you all
I was where you are now, 11 years ago in the winter snows of New Hampshire. I never presumed there was no one home, even when the light simmed so dim. I believe that each word, each touch registered , brought solace and helped ease my father’s soul into that good night.Blessings my friend
Your thoughts made my eyes glass over. Put all other things aside for now and spend all your time with your Dad. Tell him you love him and that you will see each other on the other side. He can feel you love and your spirit. Hold his hand. Feel his warmth. Breath his breath. God bless.
My love goes to you all. I do hope that he does not have to continue much longer in his suffering. My prayers are with you.
During the last week or so of my dad’s life, when he was pretty much comatose, we loaded up an iPod with his favorite music so he could go out listening. Did it work? He would react slightly when the iPod had to be turned off for recharging or whatever.
If you’re going to heaven, you might well go there courtesy Glenn Miller.