If you were to step outside tonight into the cold autumn air, you'd be able to feel it. It's palpable. My Father is so close, he is right at the threshold between this world and the next. His breathing is not as ragged, he is not gasping anymore. There is not much apnea, just slow, quiet, barely perceptible breaths. His hands are graying, mottling. He can no longer swallow, he is unresponsive to all efforts to engage him. He is beginning the transition from life to death, death to eternal life. And I do believe that. What I am going through with my father is painful, and difficult, but it is also sacred, holy time. I see a peace about him tonight that I have never seen in him before, and I know he is ready.
I walked to Mom and Dad's house last night, knowing I'd spend the night, sure that he would die in the middle of the night. I cut down the path along the Prairie Village Post Office, it was pitch black and the vines have overgrown it a bit. I can't quite explain it, but I didn't feel alone. Someone walked with me, matching my pace. God, Angels, my imagination, I can't say. But I can tell you I felt a presence, and felt comforted. There was a question in the air last night, a whisper that was unspoken, but I heard it nonetheless.
"Are you ready?"
I thought, yes, I am. I am ready. I will cry alone and be strong for my Father. I will be with him and bear witness to his transformation. I wipe his mouth, rub his feet, hold his hand and tell him I love him, that he was a good father, that it was an honor to know him. I do all this because I know these are the last things I can do for him. My last acts as his daughter.
I have so much I'd like to tell you about, the wild host of characters I have met along this journey up until now, but those stories will have to wait for now. I can't focus long enough to write, my soul and spirit are curled up with his, waiting.
Thank you, my good friends. God bless you all. I'll see you all on the other side.
Where are we now? I've got to let you know A house still doesn't make a home Don't leave me here alone...
And it's you when I look in the mirror And it's you that makes it hard to let go Sometimes you can't make it on your own Sometimes you can't make it The best you can do is to fake it Sometimes you can't make it on your own
Saturday, September 26, 2009
I was relieved to be done with my 10 hour shift at dad's bedside. Taking an evening run to the liquor store (I'm out of bourbon), when I nearly hit a dog. A young boxer, in the middle of Tomahawk, looking terrified and confused. As usual, without thinking of what I'm going to do with this dog, pull over and fling open my van door to coax her in. In she went, home I went, only to arrive to the eye rolls of my husband, 'You know, you can't save every dog.' But I can't just drive by an animal in need. I can't. It's not in my nature to think it's not my problem. So I got her in the back yard - but only after discovering that she had somehow gotten poop on her collar. Eww. She had no tags, just a collar and an end of a broken lead. I left her in the backyard and went back to the liquor store (I was still out of bourbon), all while trying to form a plan. I knew animal control didn't work evenings. She couldn't stay out all night. Oh my god, my husband is going to kill me. Got back home, drink of bourbon, call PV Police dispatch. Explain the situation. She asks 'Wait, what kind of dog?' I tell her a boxer. "With a red collar?" Yes, yes, red collar. She had the owners on the other line. At the same moment I called. If that's not fate, I don't know what is. God saw I needed my faith renewed, I needed something good, dammit. The owner was at my house in a few minutes, kids in the car and in total disbelief that I had taken her dog home. She kept saying 'I can't thank you enough' , and I assured her it was my pleasure. And it was. It made my heart swell to know I'd done something good for a total stranger, one I'll most likely never see again.
It was a rough day with dad, he's failing more, eating and drinking less. Mom has a bad GI infection and is very sick. Things are bad around here, But I continue to have faith. I believe God is present with me and guiding me, even through my anger and emotional breakdowns.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Dad has changed dranatically from yesterday to today. He is sleeping most of the time, not eating much, rarely making sense. I think we are closer to death than any of us realized a few days ago. His spirit is hunkering down deep within, his body is conserving energy for the end. And so we wait. I hold vigil by his bed. I wait to feel the presence of God. I am ever watchful, hopeful of the resurrection.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I find myself repeating the same phrases over and over throughout the day. The same motions, the same gestures. My care for my father mirrors and mimics my care for my children. Straightening of sheets and blankets, warm enough? Too cold? Cleaning, wiping, teeth brushing. Food preparation, cutting up of meats, bread cut into triangles. Watching, worrying, waiting. The anxiety of a frightened child at night, a confused father during the day. I go through it all as Caregiver and Mother to all of them, all while engulfed in huge waves of feeling overwhelmed. I am at times both amazed at what I can do, and afraid it's not enough.
Hospice has been a good resource, and we have been blessed with wonderful nurses, but they don't do everything. I think this is a misconception a lot of people have. When I say how hard it is, how much work, they always say 'don't you have hospice?' As if they're magical fairies and elves that live at your house and whisk away all traces of bodily function and disease. And while they are very helpful, they visit about four times a week, for about an hour each time. That's not a lot of time. All the rest is us: me, mom, and Steven. We are all doing our very best, and maintaining a sense of humor about all of this, which is really amazing, considering. Dad is up and down, still bad days and better days, nearly bedridden but still able to get up for short periods of time with a lot of help. We continue to plug along. Thank you for your prayers.
Monday, September 21, 2009
There are some things I just cannot write about here: today was one of those things. Suffice it to say, it was a terrible day, and I have had to do and witness things I never thought I'd have to. I can say that profound changes are happening in all of us as Dad enters into active dying. I can't say yet what I'll be on the other side of this. I hope I'll be stronger, more compassionate. I hope that the bitterness and anger will fade in time. I continue to have hope, because that doesn't always mean a perfect life or survival for my dad. Hope can take many forms, and in this case, it's that we will all come out of this better people than we were before.
Last night, I dreamed I was camping with my Dad at Perry Lake. He was as I remember him, still tall, still energetic and vibrant, and we were looking for firewood as the sun was setting. We separated for awhile, and I was by myself, along the shores of the lake, watching the sun set. I went to find Dad, and he was back at the campsite, but laying on the ground, unable to move and looking like he does now. I was all alone, and I cried and yelled for someone to come help me, but there was no one. No one.
We have him home now, and we are trying to get the hang of things and establish a routine. I have learned about basic care for someone who cannot care for themselves. Mom says how well I do, how capable I am, but what she doesn't know is how terrified I am. Everyday brings new challenges, and I pray every morning that I'll have the strength and grace to deal with it all.
I am woefully behind on my thank you notes, so I need to give a shout-out to the fabulous Krissie Wiggins, for taking on my children twice in the space of two days - you're either a saint, or a glutton for punishment! I so appreciate it, really. Thank you to those of you from St. Michael's and Highlands who have offered to come over and sit with Dad, and thanks to Lisa Welker (RN) for stopping by to check on us yesterday. And lastly, my dear friend (and former babysitter) Joy Baker. She has unfortunately walked this path with her Mom six years ago, and she has been an absolute rock. I'm so grateful for her being in my life right now! Thank you all for your prayers - and meals! They are much appreciated.
If I could through myself Set your spirit free I'd lead your heart away See you break, break away Into the light And to the day
To let it go And so to fade away To let it go And so fade away
Our lives continue into the realm of the bizarre and absurd. My Father floats in and out of lucidity, with some days being better and others being much, much worse. Sometimes he gets angry and mean, and I have to walk out of the room for a few minutes. I know when I come back in, he will have no memory of anything he said. I know this is all normal for his stage of life and looming death: it doesn't make it any easier. It doesn't take away the pain or sadness it brings.
My faith is being challenged and tested lately. More so than usual. I have found myself mediating on the humanness of Jesus, he was born a man, he was a little boy with a family before he became the Saviour of mankind. The Bible sort of skips over 30 years of his life. As I drove to the hospital the other day, I was listening to the soundtrack to "The Last Temptation of Christ" - which is an amazing movie and I never did understand the uproar over it. It imagines Christ if he had walked away from his destiny. If he had married, had children, if he had not willingly been sacrificed. In the end, he realizes he has made a huge mistake, he wants to die so the rest of us can live. He wakes up on the cross; it has all been a dream he had as he suffered. He cries out 'It is Accomplished!' and dies. To me, it is one of the most moving portrayals - to worship his divinity, we need to understand his humanity. Do we presume to think he didn't struggle? Have doubts? Wasn't he scared? But despite this, he knew his destiny, he knew what had to be done.
I passed through the plaza as I listened to the music from that scene- one of the most moving a beautiful pieces of music I have heard- and the church bells were pealing almost in time. I wept for my Father, for me, for all of us. I tell people: "I'm not scared of death, I'm scared of dying." Death is as natural and normal as birth, and every bit as painful, traumatic, and life-changing. I can understand Dad's need to run away, the wild thought we all get of just getting in a car and leaving. I remember thinking that when the fist labor pain hit with Tyler. I irrationally wanted to get in my car and go home 'changed my mind, not doing this.'
I know when the moment comes, and Dad makes his transition from life to death, from this mortal coil to a spiritual existence in the cosmos, peace will come, for all of us. None of us want to die, but we all will. We all must keep the faith, and live our lives in hope of resurrection.
Dad comes home tomorrow for the last time. I am terrified of the huge undertaking, but this is the last thing I can do for him. This is what it means to be part of a family, we care for those we love. Dad would love visitors, and I would love company while I sit with him. Please don't feel shy or weird about calling or coming over. Thank you all for your prayers all these long months.
