My father passed away on Saturday, December 22, 2012, at 6:27pm, after a 15-month battle against stage IV lung cancer. He was sixty-four years old.
On Monday, December 17, a visit with his oncologist in regards to his latest scans confirmed our worst fears -- it was everywhere. The tumors were everywhere. (Side note: It's amazing how quickly you grow to resent the phrase as comfortable as possible We'll make you as comfortable as possible. It's the nicest way to avoid saying we simply cannot do anything more, I suppose, and so the phrase is used in abundance, until it blurs and twists and loses its meaning and sincerity.) The oncologist gently urged Mom to speak with the hospice care of her choice. Mom said they went home that evening, watched a movie, and cried for a long, long time before falling asleep.
On Tuesday, December 18, I came by to see them before work and brought my usual fare of groceries to them. Ensure (the only thing Dad could stomach anymore), bottled water, Cokes, odds and ends. Dad gave me an owl hat that he'd picked out for me as an early Christmas gift. I squealed and hugged him and put it on even though it was 70 degrees outside. Dad lit up with mutual excitement -- he knew I'd love it, and he knew that I'd never grow up, just like Mom. They were slowly but surely getting ready to load up and go to the cancer center for a round of fluids, since his stomach had been so woozy. They didn't want to risk dehydration. I hugged and kissed them both and left for work, owl hat perched atop my head.
A little later that evening, after I had gotten back from my lunch break, Mom called from the ER with the news that they were admitting Dad. He had a full bladder but he couldn't urinate at the Blood & Cancer center after he received fluids, so they sent him to the emergency room where they catheterized him and kept him so that they could monitor him more closely. I was trying to hold my composure, to be strong and reassuring for my mother, but then she lost it and said they thought his kidneys were trying to shut down, so I lost it and left work quickly, reassuring my manager that I would be back if at all possible, because we were in the middle of the worst Christmas rush I'd ever experienced. I left work, met up with J, went to my parents' house to gather changes of clothes, pajamas, socks, phone chargers, anything that they'd need for the night so that Mom wouldn't have to worry about leaving Dad, and J delivered those (along with food) to them once they were placed into a hospital room. I went back to work a nervous wreck, calmed a bit once I talked to Mom and she informed me that Dad was asleep, and went home to toss and turn all night.
On Wednesday, December 19, I called Mom to inform her that I was going to relieve her for the day so that she could go home and shower and eat and do whatever she needed to do. She then informed me that Dad had been moved to the sixth floor, to a palliative care suite, and my heart skipped. That's where Granny died. Surely they didn't think Dad was going to die there. I dressed, showered, grabbed a book, and headed toward the hospital. Mom reluctantly left. Dad and I talked, watched American Pickers and Pawn Stars and Too Cute, and we visited with family and friends that dropped in for a bit. Late in the afternoon, Dr. W arrived and introduced himself as the Palliative & Hospice Specialist for the hospital. He was here to ensure that Dad would be as comfortable as possible during his end-of-life care. Since Mom wasn't around so that he may consult with her, he agreed to come talk to us the following day. When Mom arrived, I lingered a bit, told her of our appointment with Dr. W the next day, and I left. I cried all the way home.
On Thursday, December 20, Mom and I both stayed at the hospital all day with Dad. Dr. W came in and spoke with the two of us, since Dad decided that he would rather not know his prognosis. We were told that he would live no longer than two or three weeks, and that Dr. W wanted to get him home by Christmas, so he could at least spend Christmas surrounded by family, and so my poor mother threw herself into the hospice paperwork so that we could get him home as quickly as possible. We all wanted him to be home for his time remaining. While Mom was filling out paperwork, I went downstairs and called my supervisor to update her. She insisted that I not come into work that day so that I could be with my parents. I thanked her a thousand times and went back upstairs to sit with my parents for a while longer. Once family and friends started coming and going, the pressure on my chest became too great, and since I didn't want to burst into tears in front of Mom and Dad, I hugged and kissed them both goodbye and went home for the evening to process everything. I cleaned the entire house, I cried, I listened to music, I cried, I curled up on the couch, I cried, J came home from work, I cried. I felt helpless and angry and empty and horrendously selfish for being at home instead of at the hospital with Dad.
On Friday, December 21, Mom told me not to come to the hospital because a) it was J's birthday and his parents had flown in from California to be with us for the holidays and b) because Dad was being released to come home. The only favor she needed from us was to go out to their house and rearrange the furniture so that hospice could come set up Dad's bed and oxygen condensers. We rearranged and cleaned a bit, stayed while the hospice workers set up the various components (and demonstrated how to use it all), and then called my parents at the hospital to inform them that everything was set up and whenever they got home the bed would be made and ready. I offered at least twice to help them home and Mom insisted that she had enough help (both of my uncles were there to help with the move home) and for us to go ahead and spend time with J's parents for his birthday. We left my parents' house and went to spend time with J's parents (and brother) at the lake house they'd rented for the holidays -- and even though I was grateful to see them all, I couldn't keep my mind off Mom & Dad coming home. Mom called about an hour after J & I arrived at the lake house just to let me know that they were home and in and that Dad was in the bed and resting. She sounded exhausted, so I told her I loved her and that I'd come over the next morning to spend the day with them, and I urged her to get as much sleep as she could. She promised me she'd try.
On Saturday, December 22, I woke up to a text from Mom that said Call before you come over. J had already gone to work, so I showered, ate a bowl of cereal, and called Mom to see if she needed me to pick up anything. She told me that Dad had slept from about 9pm the night before until 7am that morning. He'd sat up and talked to her for a few minutes, asked for a drink of water and a pain pill (since the tumors that were concentrated on his right side were hurting him), flipped over to his left side, went back to sleep, and had been sleeping ever since. We were both relieved, of course, because throughout all this madness, Dad hadn't been sleeping more than an hour at a time, two or three times a day. We were thankful he was getting rest. Despite the fact that he was sleeping, I was determined to come over there to sit with them (since my supervisor had texted me and told me to take that day off, too) so I left the house and ran a couple of errands for her and got to the house around 10:30 or 11. My sister was there, too -- her boss had also told her to take the weekend off to be with her family. I was happy to see her. The three of us sat together on the couch in the living room, adjacent to Dad's bed, talked quietly, and kept the TV volume low so that Dad would keep resting. A couple of times, Mom got up and walked over to the bed, nudged Dad gently, and said, "Stanley... the girls are here to see you... why don't you wake up for a few minutes and talk to them?" And either my sister or I would fuss at Mom for trying to disturb his sleep and she would kiss his forehead and walk back to sit down with us.
Around 5pm, Dad still hadn't woken up. He was still breathing deeply, sound asleep, and Mom kept fretting about it. I felt like she needed to be upset and to get it out (I knew she wouldn't cry in the room with him, so as not to scare/concern him, but I also knew she wouldn't leave us since we were in there visiting), so I asked Jess if she'd like to come see our new apartment (since she hadn't yet) and maybe run get some snacks. She said yes, we hugged Mom and left, and we were gone for about 45 minutes. When we got back, Mom was pacing frantically in the kitchen, and she was crying and had the phone in her hand. While we were gone, she tried everything she could to wake Dad up -- she physically sat him up, she squeezed his arm, she even tried opening his eyelids -- and absolutely nothing was working. She was terrified he'd slipped into a coma, so she called our hospice nurse and he was on his way over. We all started worrying then. Jess was crying, Mom was crying, I was trying to hold it back and reassure them that Jeff (our nurse) would know exactly what was going on and what to do. He would be coming over with a miracle, I told myself, and Dad would be fine. He'd wake up and talk to us and wonder why in the world we were all so wound up.
The ten minutes after seemed to be an eternity, but Jeff finally arrived at the exact moment I had walked outside for fresh air. He hugged me and went inside, and I was frozen to the spot. I didn't want to go inside, I didn't want to know, I didn't want my Dad to be in a coma, I didn't want my Dad to die, I didn't want to know how bad it was. I don't know how long I stood there, but at some point I couldn't feel my toes anymore and walked back inside.
It won't be long, Jeff said.
How long is 'not long'? Someone asked. Me? Mom, maybe?
I'm not leaving you tonight, Jeff said.
.......what?
I knew the restaurant was probably slammed (weekend before Christmas and all), but I didn't know what else to do. I called my husband. No answer. I sent a text at 6:16pm. Call me when you get this. I refused to do more than that; I think that in the back of my head, asking him to leave work to come be with me would be acceptance, it would make it too real.
The rest is sort of a blur. I remember us holding his hands. I remember kissing his forehead. I remember telling him it's okay.
It's okay, Dad. Your girls are here. We're all here. It's okay to let go.
I remember that there was no pain. No gasping. No struggling for breath. With the three of us by his side and at his head and with Jeff standing at the foot of the bed, his breaths got more shallow. And slower. And slower. And then they just... stopped. Mom and I looked up at each other and I swear I saw her precious heart break.
Jeff, I don't think he's breathing anymore. Jeff pressed his stethoscope to Dad's chest, touched his neck, touched his wrist, and just nodded at us. He was gone. 6:27pm, less than 30 minutes after Jeff had arrived.
Aunts, Uncles, cousins, friends showed up. Word travels so fast. I don't even remember who made the phone calls. I just remember breaking down and losing every single bit of restraint I'd clung to as soon as J called me back, fighting my way through the house, stepping outside and sobbing.
He's gone, Jeremy. He's gone. He's gone. He arrived at my parents' house as soon as he could get away from work. Probably too soon. I'm pretty sure red lights were ignored, but I had neither the strength nor the desire to fuss at him for being reckless. I just wanted him there.
Jeff was incredible. I don't know what we'd have done without him. I keep thinking back on it -- you know, you can what-if yourself into a stupor about these things -- and I keep thinking about how much more horrifying it would have been if he hadn't been there to give us such a gentle and sad warning about how close we were to losing him. Thank goodness for Mom's acuity -- she clearly sensed something was wrong even when Jess and I missed it.
I have been completely overwhelmed by how many people have reached out to us. I've been overloaded with emails, phone calls, text messages, Facebook comments/messages, and the list goes on. So has my mother. We've received visits and calls and messages and cards from absolutely everyone we know, a few whom we'd only heard of by name (Dad never met a stranger, especially at car shows, and his car show buddies came out in droves), and a handful we'd never met at all. It has been a touching experience.
We had all the services on one day. There's no way we could have stretched it over two days -- we couldn't have mentally handled it, and no matter which way we'd have arranged it, it would have either overlapped Christmas on the 25th or Papaw & Granny's wedding anniversary on the 27th, so the 26th it was. It snowed that day, first flakes of the season.
I'm sure there are things I'm leaving out -- how beautiful the flower arrangements were (red, white, and blue -- of course), how the funeral home actually upgraded his vault (at their own expense) from the one we chose to the one with the Marine seal on it in honor of his service to our country, how our funeral directors were magnificent, how I didn't even cry at the visitation until it was time to close the casket and we tucked Dad's little blanket around him before the lid closed, how I resent his possessions (half-full cup of water, bed-side slippers, folded socks and white t-shirts in the laundry basket, car keys, his truck in the driveway) for having the nerve to still be in the house and for giving us false hopes that he'll walk right back through the door at any moment, how we are all convinced that he was holding on so tightly in the hospital because he wanted to pass away at home -- but I am exhausted, and I felt like I needed to get this out since I've had a few days to collect my thoughts.
I know that I've avoided social media and communication via email and text message, and for that I ask forgiveness. I've spent most of my free time with my husband and my mother, and until a couple of days ago when they flew back to Cali, with my wonderful in-laws. I've felt the pull of being present rather than distracted, so my phone and my laptop have been thrown to the wayside. I've cleaned, I've listened to music, I've read, I've taken very much-needed time for myself.
There are good days and there are bad days. This, unfortunately, is one of the latter.
The most difficult part of dealing with death, as I posted on Facebook a few days ago, is the "after" part of it all. Immediately after death, your mind is desperate for a distraction, so the planning of the funeral and visitation is a welcome one. You focus, you obsess, you get every single detail down right. However, after the services are over, after the initial rush of visitors and phone calls and messages calms, you are left alone with your thoughts and your memories. You have to sit and let reality curl its tendrils around you, you have to give in and accept the fact that someone who has been by your side for an entire life's worth of happiness and sadness, triumph and tribulation, dissolution and resolution ... is now gone. Your heart rebels against your head; it aches and it fights against logic --
no, it pleads.
Just one more hug, one more smile, one more conversation, one more day. Just one more. Your heart aches for the moments that will never be.
No matter how long we had him, it was never going to be long enough. No matter how prepared we thought we may have been for the inevitable, we had no idea how much it would hurt until we were in the thick of it, and now we're left attempting to adjust to a new normal.
I promised him that we would be okay... and we will be... it just might take some time. Like my mother-in-law told me the night after we lost Dad (because she'd lost her own father to lung cancer as well),
time won't make it easier, but it will make it different.
Right now, at this very moment, I'm not sure if I can handle that -- but I'm going to try. For him.
