myjourneysinsight

WE’LL BOTH BE ALRIGHT

Posted on May 25, 2012 by Judy

I hardly knew what picture to use for this post. I chose this one. It has been so long since I’ve seen my father smile. He is smiling now.

Dear friends and family,

I am sharing the news that my father passed away at 3:30 this afternoon.

It was an amazing experience to witness his last breath and to assist him in leaving his tortured body. The beauty of it will never leave me. I was blessed that I was with him when he died. It was truly the most loving gift he could have given me as I begged him to let go.

I do not yet know about when the funeral will be, but I estimate that it will be probably on Wed. or Thursday of next week. I will email the info when I know.

You are receiving this message from me because I feel close to you and wanted to share my intimate feelings. Sharing has helped me cope, and I am honestly relieved and happy that my father is finally free. I will miss him, but it would have been selfish to expect him to suffer any longer for that reason.

With much love, Judy

–

“Day Five”

Yesterday, I wrote: “You know you are a songwriter when you write a song while your father is dying.”

That is true. I am in the process of composing the chorus for a new song, which already has two verses. This happens in my mind, no matter what I am doing.

Today, I can write: “You know you are a writer when you feel the urge to write about the experience of your father’s death while it is still fresh in your mind.”

That is also true. I can close my eyes and be at his deathbed in a fraction of a second. It has only been a few hours since he took his last breath and I am writing because more than anything else it comforts me.

Why is writing so comforting? It is because I am hopeful that by sharing my experience I can touch other people and be inspirational. I feel like there is a light shining all around me. It lights up what once used to be darkness.

I grew up with a lot of fear surrounding death. For me to watch my father die, without repulsion or fear, simply fills me with amazement.

I am no stranger to grief. Grief has been my companion for so long that it would be easy to become intimately reacquainted. But today, my grief has taken a back seat.

I’ve had no experience with watching someone die. My first experience with death was seeing my own child’s corpse four hours after he died. It was shocking and haunted me for many years.

That is why it is so interesting for me that I did not carry any fear with me into this experience with my father.

I am not a doctor – so I can only guess. But I believe my father had sepsis. He did not appear to have had a stroke. He was dying from the constant infection he had been plagued with for almost a year. His catheter was truly a terminal condition and he was always moaning.

Only a few weeks before, I was called by his urologist’s office and told that my father had a resistant bacterial infection again. He was miserable because this time he would be given antibiotics through an IV. I asked what kind of bacteria, and was told E-coli. I knew it was a matter of time before my father would tell me he was done with antibiotics.

When he could not be awakened on Monday morning, which was his 88th birthday, my complete focus was to fulfill my father’s wishes and help him die as comfortably as possible.

–

I felt like a midwife coaching a birth. My priority was to get my father through as best I could. But all along, I felt like I was only a coach. To witness the birth would be miraculous.

I did it my way. I rested and made sure to pace myself. My father wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It was always hard when I left his bedside to go home. I did not know if he would still be alive when I returned. Every goodbye felt as if it were the last.

I wished it were, because watching his body struggle was the saddest thing I have ever seen.

I countered that sadness with the knowledge that this was exactly what he wanted. However, it wasn’t quick enough for me. He could not move, speak, nor swallow. My father was aware of his circumstances up until the end; I saw many signs of that.

An IV would have prolonged his agony and was something he told me long before he adamantly did not want. The hospice nurse told me, “If he had any liquid, it would only end up congesting his lungs in this situation.”

–

I made my father this sign when he first went into his facility. He loved to sleep. It’s interesting that his death occurred as if he were sleeping.

“The Greatest Gift”

Last night my father gave me one of the greatest gifts I could have ever received. He indicated to me that he appreciated my presence. It was encouraging.

He might have been snoring with his eyes closed, but I knew he heard everything.

The tiny tear that escaped the sides of his closed eyes was more beautiful than anything in the universe. His clear hand squeezes that night to my oldest son, confirmed it even more.

But today he gave me an even greater gift.

He allowed me to witness his death and soul soaring free.

I was able to leave his side knowing that he didn’t die alone and was free from pain.

I felt so happy that I had become so close to him over the last five years. He lived 88 years and was deeply loved by many people.

11:00 a.m.

I wasn’t nervous as I entered his room. I hadn’t received the phone call announcing his death, so that meant things were still the same.

My son was with me. My oldest brother had already visited my father earlier in the morning.

I could tell it was getting harder for my father. His dryness was even more evident; he was skeletal and had been that way for a while. Watching the effort of his breathing reminded me of a machine that was going until the batteries ran out. Although I knew he was more than ready to quit, his body was not going to oblige.

I asked my son if he could feel my father squeeze his hand. My son said he felt a very slight movement. Then he asked him, “Grandpa, are you in pain? Squeeze my hand if you are.”

My father squeezed his hand. I said, “Dad, do you need more morphine?”

He squeezed my son’s fingers again.

I went to check on when he was due to receive his next dose.

As I walked down the hall, I wondered why a pet could receive a shot to relieve pain and end their tortured existence while my poor father had to suffer. For what purpose was there for him to go through this?

I had entered into this fifth day with all my coping mechanisms intact until I found out that my father was not receiving morphine every two hours as I had instructed his hospice team. I was incredulous. It had been agreed to the day before!

I might not be able to overdose my father, but I wanted to do whatever was in my power to relieve his situation. “His situation” was one I would definitely deem as suffering.

His wish was to be dead, not to be prone on his bed with a high fever and without water for five days.

How can anyone tell me that is not suffering?

My head was pounding as the charge nurse explained to me that hospice had written orders of every four hours, but it could be given every two hours – as needed.

My voice was shaking with anger, “Excuse me, it COULD be given – but that hasn’t been happening. It hasn’t been given because no one wants to make that decision. My father cannot move or talk or tell you he’s suffering. Why take that chance? I trusted that when I left his deathbed last night, he would be given this comfort measure every two hours!”

Within five minutes, calls were made and the orders were rewritten.

I went back to be with him. My heart was racing and tears of fury filled my eyes. I took deep breaths to calm down.

3:00 p.m.

I had left my father’s side during lunchtime so I could briefly visit with my mother. I went home and rested for half an hour. My son planned to go back with me in the evening.

My son said, “I’m going to go over to grandpa’s apartment and start helping clean it. I was going to do this with grandpa anyway today – we had a plan for me to take him and to eat dinner together afterwards.”

I took a shower and decided not to wait until after dinner. The ticking in my head was getting louder. Time was running out. I just knew, I was drawn to go back. I couldn’t wait until evening.

I looked forward to being alone with my father. Then I had an idea. Earlier in the morning, I thought it would inspire me to write my father’s eulogy if I listened to a recording of his memories. I had done this a year ago with him. We both sat in the sunshine as he recounted stories about his life.

I found the twenty-minute recording and put it on my iPod. I brought a speaker so I could play it aloud for my dad.

I came into his room and could see my father was definitely weaker. His pallor was almost completely white. He was struggling to breathe and it was awful.

I tried to moisten his sandpaper lips, but it was useless. All I wanted was for this to all be over.

The room was quiet. I began to play the recording. My father’s clear and strong voice filled the room. I said, “Dad, can you hear your voice? I am so glad we made this recording together! I can listen to it and I’ll be able to have you with me. Everyone will know about your beautiful life!”

His breathing started to relax. He was no longer struggling. I could tell that he was enjoying it. I just knew.

The recording was twenty minutes long. His very last words at the end of the recording were in response to a question. I had asked him, “Dad, tell me, what was the best part of your life?”

My father’s voice on the recording answered sweetly, “Shirley, my beautiful Shirley.”

The recording was finished. I looked over to my father.

His breathing stopped.

Then it started. Then it stopped. I became excited. It was happening!

I said, “Dad, you can do it! Give me the greatest gift you could give me. Be free and go, go to Jason! He’s right there taking your hand!”

My father suddenly opened his eyes. It was for the first time in five days.

He definitely saw something I could not see.

He gurgled and a noise escaped his lips.

It was over.

–

Click the blue link below to play my instrumental version of Set You Free:

SET YOU FREE INSTRUMENTAL

–

“I’m happy”

Lest anyone tell me it is inappropriate for me to be happy that my father has died, I am unapologetic.

I am happy that my father received his wish.

I am happy that he loved me so much that he trusted me to help him.

I am happy that I am not afraid of death anymore.

On Monday, my deceased son, Jason would have been 25-years-old. He and my father are now together.

I celebrate how fortunate I am.

I mourn my father, but how blessed I was to have had such a wonderful man to instill within me all of my gifts.

Thank you, God.

–

They’re together now.

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tagged "sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, Caregiving, composing, death, death of a parent, deathbed, father's death, father's illness, grief, GRIEF RELATED, guitar, inspiration, last breath, loss, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, Music, original songs, singing | 3 Comments

OUR LOVE REMAINS WITH EACH TEAR

Posted on May 25, 2012 by Judy

A still taken from an old video. My father is kissing me and I’m probably about six-years-old in this picture.

I grew up with an abundance of rules. The religion I was raised with has a lot of rituals and laws. Although I was raised with Conservative Judaism, my mother was very strict about the particular laws she chose to follow while I was growing up. My father was not as religious as my mother, but he did whatever my mother wanted.

I have chosen my own course. I have hardly written about religion on my blog; it is one of those topics that I rarely wish to discuss. I am conflicted. On one hand I have always been an agnostic, with many doubts about god’s existence. However, because recently I’ve decided I am “blessed,” I have begun to lean toward a different mindset and one that is far more spiritual.

I did not watch any of my grandparents die. My own son is intimately involved now in the process of watching someone die that he loves deeply. I am so proud of him that I want to give him a gold medal. I am amazed that I gave birth to this unbelievable human being.

My own parents did not keep vigil when their parents died.

However, I’m aware that there are many observant Jews who believe that when someone dies it is necessary to have a family member there with them at all times. There is also a rule of not attending or participating in anything “musical” for one year of bereavement. That I certainly could not follow. I plan to sing my heart out, and my dad would want me to.

Guilt is a horrible thing. It can wreck a person’s ability to live peacefully. Every time I have left my dying father at his facility, I’ve tried not to think that I was dooming him to a lonely death.

Did I owe it to him to sit there until he died?

It wasn’t like I didn’t want to. But I also knew how much my father instilled in me the ability to take care of myself. He always told me not to get overly stressed with my mother’s situation. He would say, “You have done so much for both of us and if you never did another thing, it would be enough! Cut back!”

So I listened to him and I cut back.

–

I decided that my course was mine to follow and no one else’s.

–

My mind told me that if I didn’t pace myself better, I might get sick. It wasn’t an excuse. My oldest brother was there in the morning and late afternoon. His wife (my sister-in-law) came every day. My middle brother came after work. During the day I was often there at the same time as my brother, and late at night I would come back again.

I have chosen to get through this difficult time by writing about it. Sharing is a beautiful thing, because yesterday I received a comment from a total stranger who told me that my writing is helping her deal with a similar situation.

Tonight, one of the nurses who read my blog told me that my writing is very sad. That led to an interesting discussion. I admit that I write about very sad things. I have written a great deal on my blog over the past two years, and I know that there were also times when I was humorous and witty.

But my writing is truly about honesty.

As a writer and a person, I am transparent and completely open. I do not hold back. There are no filters for me. My current situation might be sad, but I also see great hope and optimism with my writing.

Even with this story about a very dark time, I see light shining all around me.

I am living through something that many people go through at some point in their lives. That is watching someone you love die.

This is a different experience than losing my child. I have always known it was expected and inevitable. My father lived to be 88-years-old and he had a good life. He was ready to die and looked to me to help him.

A beautiful closeup from a wedding portrait of my parents. My mom was 25 and my father 26 when they got married.

7 p.m.

My son and I took separate cars. I needed to get gas and he waited in the parking lot for me until I arrived. He did not want to go into the room alone.

Before we went into the room, I stopped to ask the charge nurse how my father was doing. She told me she had administered Morphine a few minutes earlier. It was every two hours now. She said, “I’ll be checking on him after an hour and if he needs it, I’ll give him a boost.”

What a change from earlier in the day when the order was every eight hours.

–

I had no idea I could make such a difference. I was so glad that I went from observer into warrior mode!

–

Not much had changed from when I was there earlier in the day. My father was still snoring away. But he was obviously dying. He had not had anything to drink or eat since Sunday night.

He was as dry as a human could possibly be. I remembered that I always considered death to be something ugly. My father actually looked beautiful to me. I was not afraid.

I held his hand and I kissed his sandpaper-like forehead. With the morphine now, I wondered how aware he was of my presence. His eyes were glued shut, but it looked as if his eyelids were fluttering for a moment.

The nurse told me his temperature was 102. My father was always cold and wore blankets and a scarf whenever I took him out anywhere. I wondered how he felt with only a sheet on him. Measures were being done to cool him down, and I knew he probably hated it.

His nurse gently sponged him and spoke so kindly to him. All my life, my father’s name was Lee, but at his facility everyone called him Leo. While she was changing his gown I went outside the room.

I spoke with another nurse in the hallway who was close to my father. She spent a lot of time with me and seemed very experienced. I asked her how much longer she thought it would be until my father died.

She told me that the frequency of the morphine would hasten his death. She said, “Oh, if he’s getting it every two hours now, I think he’ll be gone within 24 hours.”

I felt like the wind was knocked out of me with her words. I was astounded to think that I had not only given my father a comfort measure, but I had also assisted him in getting to the end of his tunnel through death into the light.

I didn’t know if I believed her, but I sure wanted to!

I went back in as the nurse was lifting my father’s limp body into a better position.

Time ticked by as my son and I talked reassuringly about whatever we could think of. I let my father know how I had found all the papers I needed. I appreciated how he had made that job easier for me. I told him the mortuary arrangements were clear and helpful. I remembered to share that I had received a check for one of my recent art jobs. He had worried about whether I would receive payment on a particular job. How I would miss being cared about by him so much!

My son just kept telling his grandfather what a difference he had made to his life. He repeated over and over how he made Dean’s List again. He recited his GPA and told him that it was all because of his wonderful grampa.

–

Every single word was true.

“The Tear”

Since Monday, my life had blurred into one where every minute ticked louder than usual. At the same time, I tried to do the normal things of eating and sleeping even if things weren’t really normal.

The ticking was about knowing that those minutes were the very last ones on earth for my father. Although I didn’t grasp every possible minute by maintaining a vigil, I never tired of telling him I loved him. But I was getting tired.

Tired of hearing him breathe, and waiting for the breathing to stop.

Was there a purpose to this time? It was one-way communication. My father couldn’t really move, nor speak. I certainly knew he loved me and without saying this negatively, my father often nagged me. I joked with him, and let him know that I wouldn’t forget all the things he nagged me about.

When I stopped biting my nails at the age of 51, it was a very happy moment for him. As a child, I still remember him promising me a dime for every nail I grew.

My son and I were talking to him, when his nurse came back in to check him. I moved over to allow her to get closer to my father.

Her words changed everything.

She said brightly, “He’s crying! Do you see it? There are tears coming from his eyes!”

Once again, I felt shock course though my entire body. She was right. My father, who was completely dehydrated, could still make tears.

This was huge. It meant that he could hear me – and my son. The revelation caused my emotions to swell to a state where I could feel my heart almost burst. I still had not really cried and the waves of emotion almost caused me to faint.

With that knowledge, every word counted even more.

Suddenly, my father moved his mouth to clamp down on the swab the nurse was using to wipe his mouth. It was obvious; he was thirsty and trying to suck on it. The nurse went to use another swab and he did the same thing.

My heart was breaking. My poor father was thirsty. I had been told that liquid would cause him to aspirate, and he could not swallow.

Doubt, like poison began to seep through me. Should he have been given water? Was this a painful death? Why was he crying?

Then my son said loudly, “Mom, he squeezed my hand!”

Both of us became more and more excited. He was able to communicate now by gripping my son’s fingers.

We began to ask him question after question. If his answer were yes, he would squeeze my son’s hand.

We asked him, “Are you in pain?” His hand was still.

Do you know how much we love you? My son yelped, “Mom, his fingers are really moving!”

Our last question as we walked into the cool nighttime air, was if it was ok for us to leave and come back in the morning.

I wondered if this was our final goodbye or whether I would see him the following day. I wasn’t sure.

But I felt inspired to write when I got home.

I had written my song “Set You Free” a year ago when my father’s decline truly began. I had no idea that the lyric line “our love remains with each tear” would play out this way.

Such are the mysteries that my songs hold for me.

–

I could not ignore another miracle that I witnessed today. My mother walks every morning. She broke her hip over a year ago and never had any surgery to repair it. She cannot grasp what is going on with my father due to her advanced dementia. I’ve decided to include her at the reception after the funeral, so she can see all of the family members.

Tagged "sandwich generation", Aging Parents, dad dying, death, death from sepsis, death of my dad, death of my father, father dying, father's death, father's illness, grief, GRIEF RELATED, inspiration, loss, loss of a father, loss of my dad, lyric development, lyrics, morphine when dying, nursing home death, terminal patient | 1 Comment

YOU’RE HANGING ON

Posted on May 24, 2012 by Judy

Day 4

It was now four days since the death march for my father began. It started on Monday when he could not be awakened; it was now Thursday.

I was going through the motions of eating and sleeping, but I knew I was in that familiar “netherworld” of living through a life crisis. I remember my mother-in-law sharing with me that when Jason was sick; I behaved much as she had during her occasional manic episodes. My mother-in-law had bipolar disorder. She said, “I know what you are feeling; you have endless ideas and thoughts and are in a place of genius that never quits.”

I didn’t know about the genius part, but I understood what she meant. I had cut back on caffeine, but still felt like my mind was functioning at a fast pace. My heart was often racing.

I had stayed late with my father last night. My oldest son was with me; exhausted from his camping trip and the long drive home. He was energized to finally get the chance to speak to his grandpa. I was certain my father was delighted he was there.

As we left, my son promised he’d be back in the morning. I said my goodbye to my father.

Each time I left him, I hoped it would be our final goodbye.

9 a.m.

Now it was morning. I entered his room with dread; Miriam, my mother’s companion, came with me and was holding my hand.

Miriam kept wiping away her tears. She told me that she loved “Mr. Lee” (as she called my dad) more than I could imagine.

After sitting next to him for a few minutes, I decided I needed to do something. It made perfect sense. I could get started with the huge task ahead of me by sorting through the mess in his room.

My mother was napping, so Miriam was able to help me. Inside I laughed; I realized that if my father knew what I was doing, he would have a heart attack. Was I passively trying to hasten his death this way?

As I separated out the many items for the trash, I found it unbelievable what he chose to save.

There was a clipping about hiccups from a newspaper in 1950 and my son’s class schedule from years ago. There were many cards and photos. I enjoyed sharing them with Miriam; it sure helped having her there.

I had actually pictured this moment a long time ago.

–

This card from my mother made me laugh. I loved her p.s. “except for your junk,” I love you.

As I emptied more important papers into bags to take home, I said to Miriam, “Just imagine, these piles that I am cleaning here represent a fraction of what there is for me to clean at my parents’ empty apartment/coop. That place is filled with thousands of areas like this. Growing up, I was used to it. There was little room in my closet for anything. My clothes were relegated to a small corner.

My own home had a closet and whole area in the living room filled with his “stuff.”

—

An area in my living room specifically for my father.

I purposely did not clean that area. When my father went into skilled nursing, I didn’t know what to do with all the items from his cluster home. Every week when he came over, my father was filled with motivation. His eyes would light up and he would say, “Give me a bag or box to sort through! I am really going to help you clean this up.”

He would say that, but in the meantime, the pile never grew any smaller. I didn’t care. I learned, as I had with many things in my life, to simply let go. With my healing over the past two years, I’ve let go of many things because so many of my priorities changed. I let go of entertaining, cutting coupons, television, movies, car washes and anything that took up precious time I preferred to spend on my new passions.

My son took my picture as I rested my head close to my father. My dad always hated being touched. I wondered how he felt having me touch him now.

11 a.m.

His forehead felt like sandpaper. His breathing was fast, continuous, and raspy. I was certain he could hear everything going on around him.

I started to snap.

I asked the nursing staff to call the hospice department; I wanted to speak with someone. It bothered me that I could not be certain if my father was in pain or not. I wished I could know for sure. Imagining him being paralyzed in his dying body without even being able to scream in pain was not a helpful thought, however.

The chaplain arrived. We had a long discussion about pain management. I said, “Life can be brutal. For instance, there is natural childbirth. And then there are wonderful drugs that make the whole process bearable and make you want to fall to the ground and kiss the anesthesiologist who delivers that epidural. Modern medicine has wonderful things. But where is it now? Can my father die a peaceful death without suffering? Does he need to be aware of his death as he struggles to breathe?”

I could feel my voice tightening as I said; “The order is PRN – as needed. How do they know it’s needed? He can’t tell you. Why not JUST GIVE IT?”

The chaplain explained that no nurse wants to administer what might be the final dose. She told me that it was the reason for hospice to step in. I wondered where they were; I hadn’t seen anyone except if I asked them to come. She added, “It’s uncomfortable for the nursing home to deal with a situation of having a resident die without hospitalization and intervention.”

She pulled the covers down off my father’s feet. She explained that as death approached the circulation to the extremities slowed and toes would curl and turn blue. My father’s feet were warm and pink.

It was going to be a lot longer than I thought.

The chaplain shared an anecdote as we waited for the hospice nurse to arrive. She said, “There was a 103-year-old woman who was dying. This woman refused any and all medication, and had been that way her entire life. In the throes of dying, she adamantly insisted upon not being given anything. But she was screaming and hallucinating while dying.” The chaplain continued. “Because it was so upsetting for the other residents to hear her, morphine was eventually administered. She died immediately after that. It was as if the drug took the fight out of her and she that’s why she didn’t want it.”

The hospice nurse arrived. I told her exactly what I wanted and then I went home. The warrior in me had erupted. All my father’s orders were rewritten and now he would automatically be given Tylenol ever four hours and Morphine every two.

–

I wrote this last week.

I added this to my list today.

When I came home, I rested and showered and planned to go back soon. Writing was something that always helped me. Despite the real pressure I felt to write my father’s eulogy, I decided it would be more helpful for me to express my feelings and write for my blog instead.

This was how I was feeling.

I was angry.

If I wanted to, I could write a whole list of the things I was angry about:

I was angry with my father for leaving me with his horrendous amount of things to go through, because of his severe hoarding problem that did not allow him to throw anything away.

I was angry as I wondered why it was taking so long to get test results about my eyesight from almost a week ago.

I was angry that my husband and sons were home, and now I had to take care of their needs. After listening to my father snore to his death for hours, I could not bear to hear my husband snoring, so I napped in my youngest son’s room.

I was angry about conversations I had with friends who cared about me, but said things that brought me down.

I was angry about how my father was dying and I couldn’t be sure whether he was in pain or not. The hospice team I relied on were nowhere to be found and the morphine order was every eight hours or as needed. A nurse confided to me that it could be every four hours, instead. My father was running a high fever of 102 when I arrived and Tylenol was administered after I complained about it.

–

I emailed my doctor today. Clicking on this makes it larger.

–

“Appreciation”

Despite acknowledging that today I was angry, most of the time I was so grateful for all the wonderful care my dad had received at his nursing home. He was a demanding person, but never hesitated to express his appreciation when treated with dignity. I smiled at the CNA who came in to administer his Tylenol by suppository. This young man always treated him respectfully. He would say, “Yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir?”

Every time I was at my father’s beside, so many staff members came to hug me and pay their respects to my father. They were like one big family. I realized that this was truly now my father’s home and he was in the most comfortable place he could possibly be in. I was wistful because it was understood, that my father would die and then I would probably never have any connection with these people again.

But of course, there was still my mother.

–

I walked down the nursing room corridor and wondered whether I would look back and miss this place someday.

I doubted I would.

–

What my father wrote: (He already submitted this)

The basic unit of caregiving is the CNA. I depend on my CNA for almost every phase of my life. My daughter wanted to take me out for lunch once. I was not ready. Susheila made me ready. She emptied my catheter bag, dressed me to keep out the cold weather, quickly took care of life’s necessities, etc.

She is conscientious and caring, exactly what this facility needs.

–

Tagged "sandwich generation", Aging Parents, composing, creativity, death, father dying, father's illness, grief, inspiration, loss, nursing home care | 1 Comment

I NEED TO SET YOU FREE

Posted on May 23, 2012 by Judy

Story behind SET YOU FREE-PART 1

—

“It’s hard to let go”

Sometimes I ask myself, “What does my journey’s insight really mean?” Of course, that brings the memory of my father telling me how my blog’s title was grammatically incorrect. My father told me that only people can have insight, and journeys are not people. I like that memory; because I know it is the beginning of the many ways I will remember my father.

For me, it is about sharing every bit of insight I find as I navigate my life’s journey. I believe it was the process of opening up that ultimately healed me. Containing feelings is very unhealthy; but I do acknowledge that sometimes it has felt necessary for me personnally.

In order to help myself cope better, I am opening up to intimately share how it felt to watch my father die. I am not alone with this process, because it is universal. All of us are going to die some day. Much of our culture’s approach to death baffles me. We are kinder to our pets than to our elderly.

A few days before my father’s birthday, I asked him what he wished for. He said to me clearly, “You’re not going to like my answer, but I wish I were dead.” I let him know that although I indeed did not like it, I understood.

–

And so it was on my father’s birthday, that he received his wish when he was unable to be awakened. It was even a little mysterious that so many of the staff at my father’s nursing home found his demise baffling. He did not behave differently the days before his final birthday. On that morning, he simply snored and could not be roused.

I was asked (despite my father’s no hospitalization order) if I wanted a 911 call to be made. Without an invasive approach, I would not know what had actually happened. I preferred for my father to die peacefully; whether he had a stroke or sepsis was unimportant.

My father’s wish might have come true, but because he had a strong heart, his body continued to breathe and fight to stay alive.

Late last night, I rambled on to him in the darkness. I thought about his last message on my answering machine. He said simply, “I’m saying goodnight and wondering how your eye is.” He always worried about me. Oh, how I would miss having him there to care about me that way. The day before, I wondered if he might just awaken and this would all be a mistake. I wanted to think his snoring was just that, instead of the death rattle I knew it was.

I was certain he could hear me. Every time I brought up things that he wanted to respond to, his rasping snore became louder. When I ran out of things to say, I decided to sing to him. I was singing when one of his favorite nurses, Veronika, entered the room. She was crying and told me that she would never forget him. From the beginning of the death march, many caregivers approached me to share how they felt my father was wonderful man; all the beautiful words and hugs buoyed me. There were many, many people who loved my father. The last few months when I would drop him off at his facility, he would cry with joy when he had any of his favorite ones. His life revolved around who would be his caregiver for the night.

The process of watching him going from being an independent man to a helpless man, often filled me with despair. But eventually, he accepted it and so did I. It was harder with my mother because I hadn’t gone through seeing deterioration before. But my father remained my vestige of strength; I could always look to him for support. Eventually, that changed, especially during the times when he was continuously moaning.

The kind nurses in the room lifted my mood. We chatted about my father and the conversation became light. An older nurse said to the other, “Do you remember the lady who lived almost twenty days this way – no food or water?”

I didn’t like hearing that. I thought it would be five days, at most.

Then I heard Veronika interject how she knew my father hated drinking water. It made me laugh, because she was right. At every restaurant I had ever dined at with my dad, he insisted on not being given a glass of water. He did not want it to be wasted on him since he would not drink it. Veronika really knew my father!

I came home and it was peaceful and quiet. As I tried to sleep, I wondered if I would receive the dreaded phone call. In the afternoon, I received a call from the facility, and my heart was pounding. But the voice on the other end said she needed to inform me that my mother’s blood pressure medication would be raised.

I could not sleep. I listened to music and took in the magical elixir that allowed me to relax. But my heart kept pounding. I knew I was feeling that extra heart beat. I had never noticed it before, but now I did. My doctor told me it wasn’t dangerous, but I didn’t like it at all.

I prayed for the moment when my father’s heart would stop, because somehow I knew that after that my heart would be calm again. It would be my signpost that he was free.

Most of the time I was with him, I coached and begged him to let go. I wasn’t sure if he was able to voluntarily do that. But I told him it was okay and that he could be free from the prison of his body.

–

My original illustration of a fantasy butterfly which I changed coloration for to use for my song/story cover “Set You Free.”

The Death March

I wondered why I searched for an image to represent courage at my last hypnotherapy session. Had I known this was so imminent?

My image of a gray piece of granite blocking my vision held a lot of layers of meaning for me. Initially, it represented transformation by being a metamorphic rock. I certainly found the concept of allowing challenge to shape me into something stronger to be compelling.

Other thoughts began flowing into me. Perhaps the grayness of the rock represented other things, such as the reason my vision was obscured.

And then came another revelation. Gray was often a metaphor I used for grief. I have said that when I was grieving I did not see any color in the world.

I decided my rock was the image of impending grief for which I needed courage to face.

It was now the third day of the death march. I heard that my mother had babbled something about my father being dead to one of her grandchildren who visited. Perhaps she knew?

I wasn’t yet ready to face seeing my father on this third day of the death march. For the past three days, I had also been avoiding my mother. I brought in lunch to eat outside with my mother’s caregiver, Miriam, my mother and myself.

My brother and I had talked about how much better it was that we not upset our mother. She was mostly incoherent and it wouldn’t be helpful to give her grief over my father. My parents had been married over 61 years. Recently, she had even called him her “ex-husband” much of the time. As we finished our lunch in the beautiful sunshine, I felt rather impulsive when I told Miriam, “I want to let my mom say goodbye.”

Miriam said, “I have been wanting to ask you about this. So many people have told me it would be a good thing – but I respected whatever you decided.”

I said quietly, “I think it’s something I want to do for both of them.”

Together all three of us entered my father’s room. My mother hardly noticed my father. Just as he had the night before, he was prone on his bed snoring loudly. But it was clear that he was dying. My mother seemed pleased to be in the room and did not appear sad. She seemed to appreciate the dignity of not being left out. I asked her to say something to him and she babbled incoherently. The moment became sad, as I whispered to my father that she was there. It was clear my mother did not truly understand the situation.

She looked tired, so I said, “Mom, I want you to say goodbye to dad.” I put her hand in his. His hand was warm and limp. She held onto it for a while; then she said loudly, “Goodbye, honey.” Her goodbye was so clear and familiar. It was as if she was saying goodbye to him, expecting he might answer or she’d see him later on.

–

The moment caused tears to well inside me. But there were no tears I could release yet. They were waiting.

My mother left with Miriam. I sat alone at my father’s bedside. His throat muscles were completely visible now. The base of his neck bulged with a ball the size of a small apple. Taut veins were popping out from his skin with gullies on either side.

Every year around this time, I used to be filled with grief and sadness over the upcoming birthday for my deceased child, Jason. Memorial Day weekend was a reminder of all the wonderful birthday parties I used to make for him. He only had five of them, but the memory was always there.

I was not sad about Jason anymore. Healing was another blessing for me to hold on to.

So often, my father had wept to me about how he looked forward to seeing Jason in heaven. With that thought, I began coaching him. Firmly and gently I said, “Dad, please do this. You can leave the prison of your body. You are not alone. Jason is waiting for you. You can give me a sign and a beautiful gift if you would just let yourself go. I watched as his breathing slowed; I held my breath. But he continued rattling.

Over and over, I continued to beg him to go. I wished I could put a pillow over his face. Why was it like this? Why couldn’t he have died in his sleep on Monday morning?

I left him with my heart pounding in that funny rhythm. I knew my heart would be calm when his stopped. Of that I was certain.

–

I came home to write and prepared myself to go back in the evening with my oldest son after he returned home from his camping trip.

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My father was waiting.

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