NOTE for my MSDN blog subscribers: This is an off-topic post regarding the passing of my father. While I generally keep such posts to my normal blog (at www.inkblog.com), I've had a few subscribers request that I crosspost it to my MSDN blog.
Preface: Over the last 3 or so years, I've been a semi-regular blog poster to www.inkblog.com (and my tamed-down mirror, http://blogs.msdn.com/dweller). The last 3 months of 2005, however, nearly sucked the life out of me. First the passing of my dog, Tucker, and then my father in late November. I'll even skip over the nerve I pinched in my lower back, forcing me to stay bedridden during my entire three week "vacation" at the end of the year. In any case, I spent my final weeks of 2005 working myself through both physical and mental recovery from some very life-altering events. I wish I could say, "Hey, I'm all better now," but the reality is that my father's death struck me far harder than I expected, and this blog post represents my first step back into the more "public" person that I really am. Here's hoping that 2006 doesn't suck as much for me as 2005 did.
The story below was written primarily for my own mental sanity. My final tribute for my father, I suppose, and my way of trying to capture a moment in time that was intense, painful, loving, exhausting, and surreal. Each of us has, or will, go through a moment similar to this. This is merely my recollection, passed through my personal muse, and offered to you for your own consideration.
Catharsis
I am swaddled in a blanket, uncomfortably stretched out in a recliner in my parent’s living room. The nurse touches my shoulder, gently rousing me from a sleep that has offered no rest. It is my fifth morning to wake up this way, only this time it has been the nurse’s hand that has cast off my fleeting slumber, rather than some craven lump in the understuffed easy chair. The ceiling fan is groaning, slowly moving the air around on this unusually warm late-November morning in San Antonio.
“There’s been a change,” she says in a quiet tone. The fog of my sleep quickly lifts, and I get up with a sense of dread. This will be a day I will always remember, but will always want to forget.
It’s 5am. The 6 hour sale at Wal-Mart has just started. Many eager shoppers are lined up at various stores to kick off the traditional Christmas shopping season. Shopping retailers call this day “Black Friday,” an irony that will not be lost on me in the hours to come.
The nurse wakes up Nancy, my ex-wife, who has also suffered through dream-filled combat with an equally menacing couch. Although our marriage has long been over, her loving relationship with my parents over the last quarter-century, and particularly with my dad, has made her a daughter in their eyes. We are fortunate that our divorce wasn’t bitter, and that our friendship was preserved. It will be particularly important today.
I walk into the master bedroom. The nurse is by my dad’s side, checking his vital signs. His blood pressure has started falling. He had been comatose for the last 36 hours, and was no longer responding to our voices. The huge array of pain medication that he took every 2 hours was stopped two days ago, as he was no longer swallowing water effectively. Only the pain pump, buried beneath his skin, continues to deliver high power morphine.
I walk out of the bedroom and fix some tea and toast for my mother, who has barely left his side. When I return, Nancy is kneeling beside the bed, holding his hand. My mom is lying on the other side on the bed, her head resting against his forehead, gently kissing it. His breathing is shallow. He takes gulps of air, but his lungs handle it poorly, half destroyed by the cancer that rages within him still. Sometimes his breathing pauses, and we all seem to stop breathing with him, then he continues to fight, and takes another breath. He is fighting his last fight.
Mom whispers in his ear, “It’s ok to let go. I love you.” She kisses his forehead again. It is hot with the 104 degree fever his body is enduring, but his low blood pressure has created a macabre effect: His hands are almost ice cold. Only by moving your hand up to his elbows do you feel the fever heat.
A breath in. A breath out. Another beat of the clock. I watch the digits mark off arbitrary increments, giving us all a sense of the inexorable march of time. The world is turning, and the sun’s morning light has revealed another rare event in this part of the world: A thick fog, wrapping the hardwood mesquite trees and brush of San Antonio in a dewy blanket, and giving a silence to the outside world that is almost as hushed as it is in this bedroom.
It is strange to sit here, looking at his body. There is little now that represents the military man that he was. At 6’2” and 200lbs, he was both tall and strong. The cancer that was discovered three years ago, held at bay for almost as long, finally took over and began devouring his body with an exponential ferocity. He is almost half that weight now. The pain pump, buried beneath his skin near his lower hip, is distended, the skin stretched in a bizarre fashion around it; almost as if his body was retreating from this last bit of chemical comfort.
It is a terrible fight. My father’s soul, bottled up in a body that is being destroyed from the inside, refuses to leave his wife’s side. A few days ago, when he had his last bits of consciousness, my mother told him it was ok to let go. He shook his head, almost violently. He moaned as he struggled to make the words, a pause between each one, as if to emphasize his determination: “Can’t… leave …you.”
It’s 8am, time for the hospice nurse shift change. They quietly talk together in the dining room. My mom, physically and emotionally drained, sleeps at the moment, her head still resting against dad’s, her arm draped lightly over his chest, feeling it heave and toss as it purchases small amounts of air. The oxygen cannula, feeding pure oxygen through his nose, is the only externally-visible technology that supports him now. His chest rattles gently, filling with fluid because he hasn’t been moving. The nurse has explained that this was expected, but the sound is still disturbing. I continue to watch him, hoping that somehow, against the reality of what is happening, he will show signs of recovery.
I eat a Pop Tart, nibbling at the sides before eating the middle. I chuckle quietly to myself as I sit by his side. I learned this from him. I begin to think of all the things he’s taught me and tears begin to well up in me in this dimly-lit room. I set my pastry down, now overly-wetted by my tears, and hold his cold hand again. His fingers are still large and bony, but they don’t respond to my touch. These hands that once held mine so firmly. Picking me up for a piggy-back ride. Holding me as we walked through a store. Showing me how to play a guitar. The person that was my father has already left his hands, and we all know it is only a matter of time before what is left of him is finally gone.
It is noon. The fog has long since lifted, and the warmth of the Texan sun begins to take hold. The 5 hour sale at Wal-Mart is over. Dad’s small dog is curled up by his legs, looking like somebody left a small dust mop by his feet. Mom is waking up now. The nurse tells us that his heart is beating strong, but his blood pressure continues to fall, and is now at 60/44. His death approaches. An instrumental version of “Love Me Tender”, playing on the radio, softly fills the room. Nancy is kneeling by his side again, resting her head on his arm and holding his hand. She looks up at him lovingly. She never met her real father. This is the only one she’s ever really had, and now he’s leaving.
I go to the kitchen for some coffee. The whiteboard still has errands he needs to do, written in his own handwriting. In the living room, his glasses still sit by his easy chair, where he wore them just a few days ago. A movie he wanted to see still sits beside those glasses, new and unwrapped.
Six days ago. It was a glorious, perfect weekend. I had flown my brother down to see my dad. Because of physical limitations that prevented travel, neither of them had seen the other in almost 13 years. The reunion was a joyful, tear-filled moment, and I was proud that I could give them each this gift to finally see each other. It is ironic, in a way, that it was almost as if he was hanging on for that last moment. To see me and, unknown to him at that time, my brother, was his last moment of grace. The cancer was beginning to already affect him mentally though. He would sometimes wander off in thought, or repeat himself. But he was still Dad, and he chatted away with my brother as if those 13 years of separation had never existed. We laughed and watched episodes of “Firefly”, his favorite TV show. We were a family again. But it was clear that the cancer was beginning to take him; but it was the elephant in the room that we all chose to ignore. It was our time, and we made the best of it. Three peaceful, happy days.
Sadly, only a few hours after we left to catch our respective flights home, dad’s transition started, and he was aware enough to ask my mom to call the hospice on-call nurse. I immediately flew back to begin my watch with my mom.
It’s 1pm. His blood pressure has dropped to 49/36. I chuckle softly and ask my mom if anybody properly explained the rules about dying to him. Even in these last moments, Dad refuses to play by the rules. Mom smiles at me, you can see the exhaustion in her face, but she is being strong, and not in an artificial way. She has had a few months to mourn with my father, and this moment isn’t unexpected. Although she is tired, she is the perfect example of strength, serenity, and love. She whispers in his ear that Nancy and I are here, and how much we all love him. The nurse sits in the corner at a respectful distance, available to help us, but there is little we can do for my father now. There are no defibrillators in the room…his ribs, also eaten by the cancer, are mere shells. Any electrical current or sudden pressure on his chest would shatter what is left of his bones. Nothing is left between him and heaven, save his breath.
Thirty minutes later, and we now see another change. His breathing has become more ragged, and his heart is beating faster. Like a runner in the last strides of a marathon, it is clear that he is using up his physical reserves now. He moans softly now with each breath. Mom kisses his forehead again and tells him it’s ok. Her hand is resting on his, touching the wedding ring that has been on his hand for almost 30 years.
A breath in, a pause. A breath out, a pause. It is now 10 seconds between each breath. We are all by his side, holding or touching his hands. A breath in, a pause, a breath out. A long pause.
Longer.
Longer.
Longer.
It is 1:43pm. The person that was my father is finished with his body.
The weight of the moment sinks in. Mom looks at me, a mixture of both pain and relief in her face, and says in a hushed voice, “He’s gone.” Nancy begins crying on my shoulder as I hold her now. Mom quietly asks me to get the nurse, who is now in the living room. She comes in and confirms what we all know.
I hold his hand, still barely warm, and stare at his face. His eyes are closed and sunken, his face ashen white. Tears well up in my eyes, but I cannot find the strength to cry like Nancy does. I merely sit there, holding his hand, and remember who he was, while the pain pump continues to mindlessly deliver the morphine under his skin.
An hour has passed. I still sit at his side, touching his cold hands. His heart no longer beats, he no longer breathes, but it is still Dad. The mortuary service has arrived. We wait in the living room as the nurse helps them gather his body. They gently place it on the gurney, wrapped in a white sheet. As they wheel the gurney toward the door, mom asks them to wait. She gently unwraps the sheet from his head and kisses his forehead. “Goodbye,” she says, “I love you.”
We watch from the door as they take him to their vehicle. The house is so quiet. We have finished our tears now, and all that is left are the heartfelt goodbyes our thoughts are sending to him. Of all the sights and sounds I remember from that day, the one I remember the clearest was the door of the hearse closing.
Six days have now passed. We are driving past the thousands of gravesites at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery, pulling up to the memorial pavilion. It was to be a small service, attended by a few friends and family. To my surprise, over 50 people showed up, all gathered under the covered pavilion. A cool, gentle wind is blowing, while the sun spreads its light between occasional cotton-ball puffs of clouds.
The military honor guard marches smartly up to the small mahogany urn that contained my father’s ashes, and they solemnly performed their flag-folding ceremony. The flag is presented to my mother with both precision and dignity.
The presenting honor guard kneels before my mother, and speaks with solemn pride, “On behalf of the President of the United States, the Department of the Air Force, and a grateful nation, we offer this flag for the faithful and dedicated service of your husband. God bless you and this family, and God bless the United States of America.” He rejoins the rest, and they all march smartly to take their position for the 21-gun rifle salute.
The first volley of gunshots pierces the calm. Everybody visibly jumps at the sudden report. The commanding officer quietly barks out the reloading process. The second volley cracks out, as perfectly synchronized as the first. Another reload. The final volley is fired. The sharp smell of gunpowder crosses the air.
The bugler begins to play taps, each note in perfect tune. He has done this many times before. It is a song that unifies our fallen soldiers, and reminds us, the living, that all soldiers are remembered for the sacrifices they have made.
My mother has asked me to read the eulogy. I have chosen to read a story I wrote for my father several years ago, a tribute, of sorts, thanking him for being the father that he was. I realize, looking back, how lucky we both were. Lucky that I took the time to say that I loved him in the form of a story, and for him to know the kind of impact he had on me, long before it was too late for us to talk about it. It was such an enormous struggle, to read this expression of love about him, and not break down in tears. I finished the story, finding an inner-strength I didn’t know I had, and only when the last words were read did I let the tears begin to fall.
The pastor read a few closing words, and then this small crowd of friends and family gave their condolences to my mother. It was amazing to see so many people, most that I didn’t know, and how much they loved my father. So many people had so many glowing comments or anecdotes about him. People spoke about him with a smile on their face; there was even some occasional laughter. This is exactly how my dad would have wanted it, not with sadness and tears, but of gentle smiles and remembrance.
As we solemnly walked back to the car, mom quietly said, “I don’t know about you, but I could stand to get something to eat.” I smiled inwardly at this decisively human moment, how we can take a moment of grief and find a way to begin recovering from it, beginning with food. We collectively decided on visiting a favorite Mexican restaurant of my mom’s family. This is amusing, in a way, because dad despised Mexican food, and it was the one taboo of dining out; nobody could suggest Mexican food. And so it was that over 20 hungry people sat down to honor my father, at a restaurant my father would have hated to go to. Later, when a friend asked me what we had at that meal, I replied, “Irony.”
My father was a master of humor and puns, enjoying the works of authors like Mark Twain, Erma Bombeck, and Dave Barry. Thus it was fitting that in that columbarium in Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery, the epitaph my mother chose for my father, a veteran of both the Korean and Vietnam wars, were these simple words: “His Presence Was A Gift”.
Indeed, it was.