"Do you know what? I love you better now"

“We cannot mingle with the splendors we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so . . . The door on which we have been knocking all our lives will open at last.”

—C.S. Lewis

Dad died peacefully at 2:05 pm with me and Mom at his side, after nearly 18 months battling cancer in his lungs, brain, and spine. He fought long and hard, as brave as any soldier, and we fought right along with him.

Dad took a distinct turn this morning, his no longer tried to open his eyes when we talked to him, he wouldn't squeeze our hands. Steven had brought our home movies, and we played those and reminisced as we took turns sitting by his side. I watched the images of us as babies and toddlers, playing with my young handsome Dad and adorable cheerleader Mom, and thought of all the people on it no longer with us: grandparents, aunts, uncles, and could feel them all waiting beyond the veil. His breathing had become fast and followed an unusual pattern of building to a raspy crescendo before slowing to nothing. This went on for several hours. Around noon, I noticed his hands and feet were getting cold. His breathing began to slow down, he was still and peaceful. They called his breathing 'agonized', but it was actually very rhythmic and slow. We knew it was close. The end came swiftly, quietly. His breathing simply got softer and softer, and just stopped. Mom knew. 'That's it.' I got a nurse, who confirmed he had passed on, and we hugged him and cried. He is free of his broken body. He passed over with grace and dignity, and it was beautiful. I feel fortunate to have been there with him.

Thank you all for letting me share this journey with you. Thank you for the prayers, notes of kindness and encouragement, meals, childcare... I can never thank you enough. A special, heartfelt thank you to Fr. Gar, your timing today was truly guided by the hand of God. It was a blessing to have you walk in mere minutes after he passed. Details of a Memorial will be planned at a later date, if you wish to know when, please email me and let me know.

I am falling
Like a stone,
Like a storm,
Being born again
Into the sweet morning fog.
Dyou know what?
I love you better now.

"Listen to me now, I need to let you know, you don't have to go it alone"

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

Pray for all of us

"I'm wide awake, I'm not sleeping'

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

I'm wide awake
I'm wide awake
Wide awake
I'm not sleeping