This is My Dad
This is my Dad. The photo is from 2009. I don’t have any recent pics with me, so this will do the job.
We — my sisters, brothers-in-law, LD, my mom, and I — are at the hospital with my Dad. Mojo will be here in the morning.
We’re saying our goodbyes.
Dad’s been in slow but steady decline for at least a year, with something new cropping up every month or so. It’s overwhelming for him and for my oldest sister. She’s the main caretaker and the one who has been in charge of all his legal and financial affairs.
It’s tough to see Dad so frail and so out of it. Yes, this was inevitable, but when are any of us ready for the death of a parent?
On Wednesday, big sis, C, took Dad to the doctor. Dad said he no longer wanted to deal with tests or another new diagnosis (weight loss on a noticeable scale) and he was ready for palliative care. They talked about hospice and covered all their bases.
I didn’t know this until yesterday. I mean, I knew he’d lost weight since Christmas, but there’s been ever more since. I knew he was in decline, but I was hoping he’d rally. Deep down, I think we’ve all hoped that.
It’s not to be.
My brother-in-law, D, found Dad on the floor, unresponsive this morning. I knew as soon as I saw my little sis’s number pop up on the phone that it wasn’t going to be good news. Then began the frantic scramble to get down here. KA has been out of town since Thursday, I’m without a car, I have Fletch. So, scramble scramble scramble. A friend was kind enough to drive 25 miles to get me, 90+ miles down, and another 90 miles back. I spent most of the trip talking about NOTHING… basically avoiding the topic of my dad dying.
The shock of seeing him as I walked in the room was something I don’t think I can adequately describe. Or maybe I don’t want to think about it that long. All I know is the man in the hospital bed was a mere shadow of my dad. He would occasionally open his eyes, but he wasn’t really there. His respiratory rate was high, heart rate low, and blood pressure low as well. He’d eaten nothing since Wednesday (and before that, Sunday), despite my sister’s best efforts. When I’d talked with C yesterday, I told her he was becoming dehydrated (the man does NOT do water) with his constant diarrhea and lack of liquid intake. That’s not good for anyone, but especially not someone with multiple critical diagnoses. Still, there’s no making horses or old men drink if they don’t want to drink.
I’ve been here several hours now. Dad’s settled into a regular room on the fourth floor. He’s getting 1mg of morphine per hour for comfort. We can increase the dose if necessary, but we’re trying to hold off on that until Mojo gets here in the morning. Morphine, great as it is for easing pain, also depresses the respiratory system. While Dad’s respiratory rate is high, he’s working awfully hard to get oxygen to the rest of his body. I’m hoping he’ll be less agitated now and his heart rate will come up, BP will come up, and his respirations slow and deepen. Better perfusion means a clearer mind.
Since none of that’s likely to have any affect on his overall prognosis, comfort is the best option. So, comfort it is.
The best thing about him getting the morphine is that he IS comfortable enough that he’s had lucid moments and I’ve been able to let him know I love him. He even smiled a bit when I told him Mojo’s on her way, that LD had been here, that we’re all here for him, that we all love him very much. Even Mom. (Had they stayed married, Memorial Day would have been their 60th anniversary! Instead, they’ve split the difference… married 30, divorced 30. Go figure. Parents. What’s a kid to do?)
C and D are home, getting a break from the “vigil”, grabbing a bite to eat. Little sis J is now at work, tending to (among other animals) a dog in hospice. Mom is back at her assisted living bachelorette pad. LD is at home, likely processing the shock of this. 21 and he’s not been witness to death like this. His great aunt died in January, but he only attended the wake. Seeing death as it slowly takes away a loved one is difficult, even when you know it’s coming.
Please pray for a sweet, gentle passage for my dad. Please pray Mojo gets here in time. And please pray that we all remember to tell those important to us how much we love them.