I can’t believe it’s been 14 years since my dad died shortly before 2 a.m. on October 23, 2010.

He had been living in a nursing home since a day or two before Thanksgiving in 2008, after falling at home and being admitted to Queen’s Hospital for an assessment.

A month before his death, we knew he didn’t have long. This post originally appeared on September 27, 2010.

The telephone rang at home Saturday morning. It was my sister, Bonnie.

“Something’s happening.”

When Bonnie’s phone call came, I was still on my last cup of morning coffee. I had posted more scans of my dad’s old pictures earlier in the morning, including some of him in Aloha Week events that took place 60 years ago. After that, we had gone out on our regular daily walk down to the beach, paid our respects to dawn, and visited with the daily dogs along the way, then made the walk home where we had a spread of grapes, cottage cheese, a bowl of cereal, and coffee waiting.

Then came the phone call.

“Something’s happening.”

Actually, it turns out, two things were happening. Bonnie reported that when she stopped at the nursing home the day before, our father was confused and disoriented. He’s had several periods like this over the past several years, even when he was still at home. They might last an hour, or more than a day. Each “episode” leaves him with fewer faculties, although in the past he has slowly recovered from each one, just not back to the same level of the last plateau, so he’s on a gradual series of steps down the memory hole.

His doctors have previously said these are probably the visible results of one or more micro-strokes, more active short-circuits in an already diminished brain.

And, she said, he complained of nose bleed, and the nursing staff reported he coughed up spots of blood several times. They scheduled him for a chest x-ray to be done on Sunday.

Bonnie tried to fill me in quickly.

“It’s not a ‘put everything down and come right now’ situation,” Bonnie said, “but you might want to get into town today and visit,” her tone of voice undercutting the first part of the sentence.

I got the message, and soon found myself walking into my dad’s room, towards the back corner, past the three other beds, whose occupants were out having lunch in the common room down the hall.

The bed was adjusted to put him in a half-sitting position. Small plastic tubes ran over her ears and were delivering oxygen into his nostrils from a small machine that sat humming away on the floor beside the bed. His eyes were closed, mouth sagging open slightly.

The sun was shining through the window next to his bed. Through much of his nearly two-year stay in this nursing home, he has been lucky to have the spot under the window, at the end of the room on the third floor. But on this Saturday, he wasn’t in any condition to enjoy the bright, sunny Hawaiian day.

It was quiet in the room, except for the hum of the oxygen machine and occasional sounds as buses pulled up to the stop just below the window and picked up or discharged passengers. He was almost totally still, except for the twitch of a toe or hand every once in a while.

After a few minutes, one of the nursing assistants came to check on him before bringing lunch. She gently woke him up.

“Wake up, Mr. Lind,” she said, squeezing his right hand. “You have company.”

His right eye slowly opened, then his head moved an inch or two in my direction until I was in his field of vision.

Today I couldn’t see any sign of recognition. He didn’t say anything, but moved his almost blank gaze back in her direction. He tried to say something, but the words didn’t fall into place. The next sound was a low chuckle, as if he found humor in his inability to wrap his tongue around the desired words. She retreated towards the hall, leaving us alone.

I had to lean forward, closing the space between us, to hear what he said next. His voice low, raspy. The sound of a brain short-circuiting.

“What was it like on the other side of the mountain?”

“What’s the sky like?”

He could have been talking about our home in Kaaawa, but I got the feeling his mountain was somewhere else.

“I’m a day ahead of you,” he said, apparently by way of explanation.

Pause.

“But Ian can help you. He was there.”

I nod. Nothing else to do.

Seconds pass, ever so slowly.

“The hurricane, did she tell you?”

The words emerge only through effort and will power.

I tell him I haven’t heard about the hurricane.

“They went out and found a hurricane,” he repeats.

Then another mental leap.

“Any sign of Sears Roebuck?”

Followed by, after several seconds of silence: “Were the soldiers with you?”

He paused. His open eye looking straight ahead.

“How did you bump into them?”

I’m starting to feel myself spinning while trying to follow the almost random words, but the nursing assistant returns carrying a tray with his regular lunch, breaking up the moment.

There’s a bowl of what I think was stew and rice, a cup of pudding, a glass of milk, a small can of a high protein drink. She carefully opened two small packets of crackers and stacked them up.

He didn’t make any move to eat. We waited.

She broke first. “Here, I give you some,” she said, picking up a spoon, dipping up some of the meat and rice mixture, and aiming it towards his mouth, which dutifully opened on command. “You have to eat, Papa,” she said encouragingly. He chewed, slowly, chewed some more, swallowed, or tried to. The process was repeated, but on the third spoonful he exclaimed in pain. The source of the pain wasn’t clear, but it seemed to hurt when he swallowed. He refused further food. When offered the straw, he did take a few long pulls on the protein drink, then lay back.

We were left alone again.

“The hurricane,” he said. “They couldn’t get any drapery materials.”

I have no idea whether he is worried about the draperies or the hurricane.

He stared ahead. Then slowly looked at his tray, lifted his hand to point vaguely at the cup.

“It’s pudding,” I said. “You’ll like it.”

With great effort, his right hand lifted off the bed, stiff fingers slowly grasped ahold of the fork, dipped the end into the pudding, and maneuvered it to his mouth. It was just enough to taste, not really enough to eat.

His hand, still holding the fork, dropped down to the tray. He closed his eye. I thought he had dropped asleep, but then it reopened, to stare ahead at…what? I can’t honestly say.

Meanwhile, it was as if he forgot that right hand. It was still holding the fork, balanced in space and time. I don’t know how it managed to achieve such a steady state. It seemed like it belonged to someone else. After several minutes, I finally reached over and took the fork out of his fingers, telling him that he could rest.

I noticed then that the fingertips on his right hand were a pink blush, the color visible beneath his nails. The left hand, no similar color. I have no idea what that meant. It’s too late to worry, perhaps.

Then he spoke again.

“Has your mother been around? I haven’t seen her much lately,” he said.

I tell him that I haven’t seen her yet today. He makes eye contact, then slowly fades into a deep sleep.

Not too long after I left, my sister arrived and caught another interaction.

She later wrote:

He dozed again, but when a little old lady from down the hall “came visiting”, he thought she was my mother and greeted her warmly.

“Why, Mrs. Lind, I don’t see nearly enough of you these days. Won’t you sit down? Bonnie, help your mother with a chair.”

I did not correct him, and he was disappointed when a nurse came to take the lady back to her own room.

Bottom line: The x-ray confirmed that he does have recurring pneumonia. This is not good. He’s getting an antibiotic, small doses of morphine for the pain, along with oxygen. His physician has now put in a referral to hospice care, which will be handled by St. Francis, if he’s approved. We meet tomorrow with the hospice nurse to learn more.

Bonnie writes: “I wish him a fearless mind and a peaceful heart.”

Well said.

Was it a coincidence that I just found this small, somewhat blurry photograph at the end of last week? On close inspection, it’s my dad at the finish of a mile race while running track in high school. The year had to be 1932 or 1933.

In the photo, he’s caught mid-stride, both feet just off the ground,
his eyes fixed on the finish line ahead, his closest competitors visible far behind, spectators watching him pass, one even stepping onto the track for a better view.

Click on the photo for a larger version.

An accompanying undated news story identifies the event as the Eighth Annual Coast League track and field meet held at Fullerton.

Johnny Lind of Wilson furnished the biggest upset of the day when he won the mile by six yards from Mallery of San Diego. Lind’s victory fell like a bomb among the Coast League Schools.

He was, they say, a great high-school miler.

From another clipping: “That beautiful stride of Lind’s is greatly feared by many of the best milers in Southern California.”

Now I wish I had seen him run, but this is as close as I’ll get.