He was so awful as I sat there this morning, breathing labored, skin cold to the touch, I had to ask the nurse 'Is he actively dying?' Because I have seen this before. I know what it looks like. She assured me that death was not imminent, but that he is a very sick man. We met with Dr. Gadi (when I heard his name out loud, I thought it was Gotti, and I was worried for a minute) who, like all the doctors and nurses we have seen at KU, was amazing, informative, thorough, and sensitive. He decided to do a head MRI with dad to see if perhaps the brain metasis have grown, or maybe there's a new bleed. He confirmed what we already knew: we are reaching the End. Mom asked 'could he die today?' and Dr. Gadi replied 'Yes, he could.' We went over our DNR request. We want no extreme measures. They are doing their best to keep him comfortable, which means fairly heavy sedation. When he's not sedated, he's agitated and combative. He has no idea where he is or who we are. If my Dad could step outside himself and see the state he's in, I know he's be horrified. This is not how I pictured his end of life. This is not what he wanted. And while I know that people get very uncomfortable talking about death and dying, the reality is I don't want my Dad living if this is his quality of life. It's horrific. He is not my Dad: he's a shell. I have lost him. I said to a nurse 'Unless you can make him lucid and walk, I don't want him to go on.'
This is the ugly side of cancer, the truly heinous side. It has robbed my Dad of his beautiful mind, his intellect, and his memory. The core of who is is is gone. I held his hand and peered into his Paul-Newman-blue eyes and said 'Dad, who am I ? What's my name?' And the eyes were blank, glassy. Mom held up a photo of the kids, 'Scott, who are these kids? Do you remember?' Nothing. That was like having my soul ripped out. My kids were his pride and joy. They were his world.
We are in the dark place now. We wait now for release, for my sweet Father to be granted safe and peaceful passage to the Other Side. I pray for just one more moment of lucidity, for his eyes to fix on me and know who I am.
5 comments:
Christine...I am so sorry. My grandmother was like this at the end. She had bone cancer...I know this has to be the hardest part. I could guess he knew all those things you wished you had told him before. xoxo
Oh Christine, I am sorry to hear your dad is at that point. Even though you know it's coming, it's still never easy. You can talk to him when he's sleeping. He will hear you. Your father has a beautiful soul. He will go on. And so will you. I can't thank you enough for your blog. It has helped me to better deal with my own father's death. You are a blessing.
My grandmother was like this at the end of her life, too. But she sang. She sang and sang. We didn't understand the words, but her voice was still sweet. :(
I hope it doesn't drag on for your dad. And I don't say that in an insensitive way.
Damn, I wish I'd known to read this 5 days ago.
Christine, know that Mom and I are thinking of you. My grandfather didn't know who Mom was at the end; he thought she was his mother and kept asking her if it was okay to go and God bless my mother, she held his hand and told him that it was fine, that she and the rest of us loved him.
Your father may not be able to say the words or acknowledge who you are, but I cannot and will not believe he doesn't know on some level we as the ones left behind cannot see.
My love to everyone there. The Hydemans are with you in spirit, in sorrow and in love. *HUGS*
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