Homegoing - Part 3 of 3

When the sun finally came up on Sunday, August 4, Dad made signs asking me for his glasses and hearing aids. I helped him turn the hearing aids on, but I couldn't figure out how to put them in. His hands trembled so much that it took him about ten minutes to get them positioned properly, and in the correct ears. The whole time he labored over that task, I prayed that God would guide his fingers because without those hearing aids, he is deaf.

When the hearing aids were in, I reread the verses from Sam, Melody, and Amy and then read two more verses I'd found in my devotional that day:

"Peace I leave with you, My peace I give you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid." John 15:27 

"The LORD's unfailing love surrounds the one who trusts in Him." Psalm 32:10

The day nurse, a woman we hadn't seen before, brought Dad his pills, but he simply shook his head.

"He can't swallow now because of his swollen tongue," I explained. "Is there some other way he could get his medication? Maybe an injection? He wasn't able to take his anti-arrhythmic last night."

"I'll ask the doctor," she said.

"And what about water? He's really dehydrated. Maybe that's part of the problem with his tongue. Would it be possible to give him some IV fluids?" 

"His latest labs showed reduced kidney function," she said. "If we give him too much fluid, it will build up in his lungs again."

"He's really suffering," I said.

Again, she promised to talk to the doctor.

Love Across the Miles

Around 7:30, Dad managed to communicate, with much effort, that he wanted to call his younger sister Donna. I handed him his phone, and he pressed the large icon on the home screen labeled Donna. When I saw that the call had been answered, I spoke into the microphone. 

"Aunt Donna," I explained, "Dad can't speak because his tongue is swollen, but he can hear you. I can't hear you because the sound is going into his hearing aids, but he can hear you. Would you please talk to him and pray for him?"

I couldn't hear her answer, but I could hear her voice emanating faintly from Dad's hearing aids. As she spoke, I leaned close to his ear and picked up a few words: "Dear brother... Heavenly Father, wrap your arms around him... in your love." 

Dad smiled and grunted to let her know he was listening. After a couple of minutes, he motioned for me to disconnect.

We called his older sister, Carol Jean, next. I couldn't hear her voice at all, but whatever she said seemed to soothe him. 

A Shock

What Dad said next astonished me. Very deliberately, he articulated two words. 

"You're... bored?" I repeated. 

He nodded. 

"I guess you're probably missing your TV," I said with a chuckle, and he smiled. "I know you're tired of lying in this bed." I racked my brain for something else to say. 

"Remember how you used to drive me to work at the mall in your smelly truck?" I asked.

He nodded and laughed. "Fah." That utterance needed no translation.

"Yes, your truck always smelled like old, musty farts. But I enjoyed that time with you, Dad.... Remember that Indiana trip where Amy, Emily, and I sang 'We Are the World' for two solid days?" I continued. 

"Mm-hmm."

"We sang the entire way while you begged us to stop." He chuckled. "We are the world!" I sang, laughing myself. "We are the children." 

We continued to reminisce for a few minutes, and I wondered if he was doing better than I had thought. Surely if he felt good enough to get bored, and good enough to laugh, he couldn't be dying.

Tough Questions

When the internist came by, I asked if a feeding tube could be inserted temporarily. Since Dad's vital signs had been improving, our family hoped that if his medication could be changed, his mouth would get better and later he would be able to swallow again. If he could have food and water, maybe he would regain his strength. 

But the doctor presented some very tough questions. "What is the end goal here? If we put in a feeding tube and your father lives a few weeks longer, will he have any quality of life? Will he be able to withstand a heart catheterization so he can recover? If not, are you sure you want to put him through inserting a nasogastric tube?"

I started to cry as I imagined a tube in his swollen, painful throat. "No," I almost whispered. "I think it may be time to talk about... palliative care. But I need to communicate with my family before I say for sure." 

After the doctor had left, Dad made me understand that he wanted to know what he'd said. I wanted to shield him from worry, but I thought of the message I'd just received from my sister Emily and her husband Paul about letting Dad decide for himself what treatment he wanted, using yes or no questions so he could nod or shake his head.

"If they put in a feeding tube," I said, "it would have to go through your nose and down your throat. We don't know if you would get better, and it would cause you more pain. I know you've been suffering a lot, and I don't want to make it any worse. Dad, do you want the feeding tube?"

He made two separate motions that I wanted to pretend I did not understand. First, he drew the side of his finger across his neck. Then, he made his hand into a gun and pointed his index finger at his temple.

 "Are you saying that you want to die?"

He nodded. 

"Okay, Dad. From now on, no more poking you, and no more medicines that make you sick. I'll ask them to do everything they can to make you comfortable." 

Permission – 9:33 a.m.

Dad pointed at his bedside table, and I picked up one object at a time until I got the thing he wanted: his phone. "Mah," he said. 

"You want me to call Mom?"

He nodded. 

I called Mom on my own phone first and explained the situation. "I'm going to call you on his phone, and you can talk to him, but he won't be able to talk back to you." 

"What should I say to him?"

"Tell him you know that he's ready to die and it's okay. Tell him you love him and whatever else is in your heart. I love you, Mom."

This is what Mom remembers saying: "You've been a great husband. We had a wonderful life. We loved each other very much. If you're ready to go be with the Lord and Michele and Monica [the children they lost], you have my permission. Monica might even be in the room with you now." She told him that she, Amy, and Allyson were on their way and that she hoped she could see him one more time. 

"I love you so much," she said.

He said, "Ah luh oo." My heart throbbed with joy and love and pain. 

After I'd disconnected the call, he said pretty plainly, "Pad."

I gestured to the pad underneath him. "You want them to change your pad?"

He shook his head. "Pad," he repeated, and moved his hand as if he were writing something.

"Oh, a writing pad!" I tore a blank sheet out of my gratitude journal, one of those college exam books, and put it on top of the front cover. I handed it to him and tried to place a pen in his right hand. He motioned to the left hand, and I switched it. "Oh, I forgot that you're left-handed," I admitted.

We couldn't get the angle right between the pen and the paper, and he was unable to get the ink flowing. I rummaged through my purse for a roller ball pen, and then he painstakingly wrote out three words with his shaking, arthritic fingers.

"Dry?" He nodded.

"No?" He nodded again. 

"Is that a p? No? Is it an f?" He nodded. "And that one, is it an n? No? Is it a d?" Again, he nodded. 

"Dry... No... Food?"

"I think maybe you're saying your mouth is dry and you don't want a feeding tube? Yes, we have decided not to do that." He didn't respond, but wrote something else I couldn't decipher.

"Write bigger, Dad. Write big like you did in Kindergarten." 

He tried again on the next line.

"That's an r!" I said. "Keep going."

"Ruh," he said. He pointed at the whiteboard on the wall. "Ruh." 

It took my sleep-deprived, overwrought brain a few agonizing seconds to interpret his meaning. In the top, left corner of the board were Rick's name and number, next to the abbreviation "POA" (power of attorney). "You want me to call Rick?"

Dad nodded eagerly. 

Rick answered right away. He, his wife Diane, and his grandsons Miles and Caleb called out "I love you's." Rick told Dad he would be back at the hospital after lunch. He told him he was a wonderful father and that he loved him. 

Again, Dad laboriously enunciated, "Ah luh oo."

"Would you like to call Melody and Emily?" I asked after we'd hung up.

His eyes closed and his head drooped. It seemed that the effort of speaking had lowered his oxygen and taxed his strength.

"It looks like you need to rest now," I said. "Would you like to call them later?" He nodded. 

All night long and all through the morning, he had continued breathing hard through his mouth, and his pulse rarely fell below 100. His breathing sounded almost as if he were jogging. I wondered if he might be anxious, but, in retrospect, I think any anxiety he felt was likely a physiological response to the constant struggle for air.

I squeezed his shoulder and rubbed his chest lightly with my other hand, the way I rub my own sternum when I feel anxious. "You're okay, Daddy. I'm with you. Jesus is with you. You're safe." I leaned closer and looked in his eyes. "Dad, do you realize that all of your children and grandchildren have either come to visit or else called you to tell you they love you?"

He nodded. 

"You are so loved, Daddy." I thought about Aunt Donna's prayer. "All of our love and God's love is wrapped together around you. It covers you like a blanket." 

He smiled. 

A Sacred Echo for Dad and Me

I gently stroked his bald head with both hands, enjoying the feel of the sparse stubble against my fingers. "Soon you're going to see Jesus face to face. He will wipe away every tear from your eyes." I brushed a knuckle under one of his eyes, though he was too dehydrated at this point to make tears. My own eyes streamed with tears. "There will be no more sorrow, no sadness, no suffering, no more pain," I promised. 

Just then, my phone beeped, and I saw a text message from Amy in our family thread, where we had been discussing whether it was time to switch to hospice care:

"...He is dying. We need to embrace that and let him go. We need to rejoice with him because he's going to heaven where there will be no more pain or suffering, only joy." 10:13 a.m.

Chills rose on my arms. I replied, "That is exactly the verse I just said in his ear, Amy." 

Amazing Grace

Amy's words rolled over in my mind as I observed Dad's increasingly labored breathing. Though I agreed with her completely, panic caused my own heart to race. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly and drew in several deep breaths. "Oh, God!" I prayed silently. "Is he dying? Please help me. Please!"

A desire suddenly filled my heart. Mom had told me stories of her family singing hymns to my grandparents and several other family members when they were on their deathbeds. I knew this had brought her much peace, and I had no doubt that she would want to sing to Dad if she were here. Only one song came to my mind: "Amazing Grace." 

Although the desire to sing was strong, I hesitated. The main reason was that Dad seemed anxious, and I feared that singing "Amazing Grace" to him would make him think that I thought he was dying, which was absolutely true. Would that make him even more anxious? The second reason was a more selfish one. I felt silly about singing an a cappella hymn all by myself with all the medical personnel coming in and out.

Don't worry about anyone but Dad, I admonished myself. I squeezed his hand and used my other hand to rub his shoulder gently. Imagining that we were all alone, covered by the blanket of love I'd just told him about, I began to sing, quietly at first. "Amazing grace! How sweet the sound..."

Then I remembered that I'd have to sing loudly if I wanted Dad to hear me. I leaned close to his ear and started again. 

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now I'm found;
Was blind, but now I see.

Without a hymnal, I couldn't remember the other verses at first, so I repeated the first one. While I sang, another verse came to me, and this one made me cry as I pictured my father singing with a heavenly choir: 

When we've been there 10,000 years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Than when we'd first begun.

While I sang, the cardiac monitor sounded the alarm that had become increasingly more frequent through the morning, and my eyes darted to the screen. "V-tach!" it warned. I forced myself to ignore the monitor and instead looked into Dad's eyes, telegraphing my love and God's love to him.

Just as I finished singing, Dad's head swung to his left, and his eyes opened wide, seemingly in shock. I wanted to ask what he saw, but I knew he would be unable to tell me. I didn't think of it then, but Mom and my oldest sister Melody have a theory that makes a lot of sense: maybe Dad saw Monica standing beside me. 

Where, oh where was Mom? I picked up my phone and called Allyson. "Are you almost here?" I asked. 

"Yes, we're about ten minutes out." 

"When you get here, ask them for a wheelchair for Mom and someone to push it while you push Amy. I think you guys need to hurry. I don't know if he's about to pass right now, but I think he might be."

"I'm hurrying," she said.

"Don't speed. Just get here as fast as you can." 

I laid my hand lightly on Dad's heart as his breaths became more ragged. "You're okay, Dad. You're okay. Mom's coming. She's almost here. Emily's coming too. She's flying home this evening and will come straight to the hospital."

Dad didn't answer. All his energy seemed to be focused on the effort of breathing.

My next words tumbled out of their own accord. "Daddy, if you're ready to stop fighting, it's okay. I know you must be so tired, and I don't want you to suffer any more." As soon as the words were out, I slapped a hand over my mouth. Could this really be happening? 

A respiratory therapist approached the bed with a nebulizer mask and started a breathing treatment, but she had to stop it almost immediately because the albuterol raised his heart rate to over 110.

She removed the mask and carefully replaced his oxygen cannula. "I'm sorry, but he can't tolerate the treatment," she said gently. "Do you need anything?"

"A hug?" I said, my voice just over a whisper.

"Pardon?"

"Could I have a hug?"

"Of course," she answered after a beat.

We crossed the distance between us, and she wrapped her arms around me, rubbing her hands in large circles over my back. It had to be the most soothing hug I'd ever received. It felt like she was my sister.

As we swayed together, she whispered in my ear, "I heard what you said to your father. That was so brave and so unselfish. It was the most loving thing you could have done." 

I was sobbing so hard I could hardly speak. "Thank you," I choked out. "Thank you."

"I'll come back and check on you," she promised. She squeezed both of my hands, and then she left the room to resume her regular job.

I took a moment to revel in the lavish love from this stranger who seemed like an angel, sent by God just when I thought I couldn't possibly bear this ordeal by myself. Then I rushed back to Dad's side. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head toward the doorway through which the kind therapist had just exited.

I brought my face very close to his so he could hear my response to his unspoken question. "She had to stop your breathing treatment because your heart was going too fast. I asked her to give me a hug because I'm really sad. I'm crying because... because I think you're going to be with Jesus very soon. I know that's good for you, but I'm going to miss you so much, Daddy." 

I kissed the top of his head. "I love you so much, Dad."

He smiled and nodded as I took his hand again. 

Around this point, I noticed a very odd vibration that seemed to emanate from his throat. It sounded a little like a loud snore, but it made his entire neck tremble with each breath. The words death rattle flashed through my mind, but I had no idea what the death rattle might sound like, so I pushed the thought away.

A notification on my phone signaled Allyson's arrival. I squeezed Dad's hand. "Mom's here, Dad. They're in the parking lot. She'll be here in just a minute."

The cardiac monitor sounded the alarm again and again. First it signaled ventricular tachycardia, but this rapid heart rhythm was soon followed by bradycardia (slow heart rate) and a rapid decline in oxygen saturation. 

A different respiratory therapist rushed in, along with the day nurse. I started to wave her away, but she reassured me that she was there to help Dad breathe rather than for a breathing treatment. "He's been breathing through his mouth instead of his nose, so he's not getting much oxygen. I'm going to put a mask on him."

The mask did bring up his oxygen saturation, and his heart rate stabilized for the moment.

"I love you, Dad. I'm with you," I kept repeating.

Although he was looking right at me, he seemed to be looking beyond me. He took such a deep breath that his torso rose off the mattress, and then he sank back onto the bed. The alarms sounded again, and I saw the respiratory therapist turn over Dad's wrist, revealing the purple DNR bracelet. She made eye contact with the nurse and stood still.

No! No! I screamed, but no sound came out.

Gone – 10:47 a.m.

I looked at the monitor display and started sobbing again. The waves that I'd been watching for days were now flat lines, and the pulse rate was zero. 

As two nurses felt for a pulse and pressed their stethoscopes to Dad's chest and wrist, I held his other hand with both of my own and said into his ear, between sobs. "I'll see you soon, Daddy. I'll see you soon."

I looked over my shoulder to the doorway just as Allyson, Mom, and Amy arrived. "He's gone," I mouthed. 

I waved them in and fell into Allyson's arms.

"He just died," I said. "You literally missed it by about one or two minutes." 

"Oh no!" Allyson said, bursting into tears. "I'm so sorry. I tried to get here sooner but we had to wait for the valet, and Grandma walked so fast with her walker, but–"

"It's okay," I said. "It's okay. It's not your fault." 

I pulled Amy into our embrace, and we sobbed together. Allyson broke away then to hold Mom, who was standing alone at the foot of the bed.

After a few minutes, we started calling our siblings. While I was on the phone with Rick, the kind respiratory therapist who'd comforted me earlier returned. I opened my arms, and we hugged again, wordlessly.

"I wish I was there to give you a hug," Rick said in my ear.

"A lady is hugging me right now," I said. "God sent her to me." 

At last, we pulled apart. "Thank you so much," I said. 

She smiled sadly and touched my cheek. "I'm so sorry." 

"Thank you," I repeated, and then I kissed her cheek.

She squeezed my hand and left the room. 

Several times, Mom lamented that she had arrived too late. "I walked as fast as I could," she said.

"She did walk fast, really fast," Allyson said. She explained how a kind hospital volunteer had led them to a staff elevator and brought them straight to the room.

"But we still got here too late," Mom repeated.

Allyson put her arms around Mom again. "Grandma, I believe we got here just in time. Mama said that Grandpa had just passed a minute before. I think he was walking down the path to the gate of heaven, and I'm sure he saw us."

"Yes!" I agreed. "I've heard that people linger close to their body for a bit after they die. I think you got here just in time to see him off on his journey."

"If God had wanted me here, I would have been here," Mom said.

"That's right," I said. "Everything happened the way it was supposed to."

The day nurse brought us bottled water and an array of snacks and told us we could stay with Dad for up to two hours.

Amy sat in her wheelchair, and Allyson and Mom took the chair and the recliner. I suddenly realized how exhausted I was, after staying up most of the night and then standing by the bed for hours. I hesitated a moment and then sat awkwardly on the foot of the bed.

"Maybe Dick's still in the room with us now," Mom said. "I don't know if he is, but maybe. Do you think we should sing?"

"I sang 'Amazing Grace' to him a few minutes before he passed," I said. "We could sing it again if you want to."

"I don't know," Mom said. "I'm not a great singer."

Amy, Allyson, and I all laughed. "Dad won't care," Amy said. "You know how he loved to sing off-key at all our birthday parties."

We did sing, a little sheepishly. I cried when we sang, "Was blind, but now I see." I pictured Dad in heaven right then, seeing wonders we couldn't even imagine.

Resurrection?

When we'd finished, Mom asked, "Doesn't it look like his eyelids are moving?" 

"I've heard that sometimes people's muscles twitch after they die. Maybe that's what's happening." I said.

Moments later, while I was peering intently at Dad's eyes, his chest suddenly rose off the bed. My eyes opened wide, and I gasped in shock, thinking for just a heartbeat that my father had somehow been resurrected before our eyes. 

Allyson laughed nervously. "It's the bed, Mama. That's an air mattress. Your weight made it rise on the other end."

"No, I think it was because the air in the mattress shifts every now and then to prevent bedsores."  

Allyson laughed again. "You should have seen your face, Mama."

"It was like seeing a ghost," I said, clutching my heart.

"Doesn't he look like he's just sleeping?" Amy asked.

It was true. He looked so peaceful, like he was enjoying the sweetest rest. All traces of his recent suffering had been wiped away.

Farewell

As we prepared to leave, Mom stooped to kiss the top of Dad's head. "Dick, I don't know if you're still here, but I think maybe you can hear me. I just want to say that you've been a great husband. We loved each other for 70 years. We had some hard times, but we always loved each other. I don't know how I'm going to live without you. I love you so much."

A Recent Kiss at a Family Gathering

While Allyson and I stuffed my backpack with the snacks and two mini boxes of Kleenex that probably cost $10 apiece, Mom gathered up Dad's watch, his glasses, and his hearing aids. Her tender care for these things he would never need again brought fresh tears to my eyes.

"Goodbye, Dad," I said, planting one more kiss on his forehead. I took one last, long look at my father's still form and then walked through the door with my family.

As we made our way slowly through the endless corridors, my mind tried to wrap itself around that fact that Dad was gone. For the people we passed, this was a day just like any other, I thought. They had no idea that the man who'd loved me all my life had just left this world. 

In the lobby, I saw a man tucking a tiny baby into a stroller while a woman in a wheelchair looked on, beaming. For these strangers, at least, this was no ordinary day. 

I was reminded again of the circle of life, just as I had been five days before when I saw my great niece Penny Jayne in the emergency room. Today, one old man had left the world behind, and a tiny baby was just starting life's journey.

I smiled through my tears. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you," the man said, smiling in return.

I stepped through the revolving door and into the blinding sun. After so many hours in the chill of the air conditioning, the sun's warmth felt like a hug from God. As I watched my sweet daughter helping my mom and my sister into her car, I knew that life would go on.