his death

In April, 1982, at fifty-six years of age, my dad had a severe stroke that left him unable to recognize his family. He was also paralyzed on his right side and speechless. The daddy of my childhood, my nature guide, my algebra tutor, and my encourager were all gone. Through time and therapy he remembered who were and regained some mobility, but his speech, like his short circuited thoughts, was never again fluent. We never again carried on another real conversation.

Some eight years later on December 12, 1990, I got the phone call about his last strokes. This time he'd had one on each side of his body and was totally paralyzed from his neck, down.

Our family set up siege in the 10' x10' hospital waiting room next to the ICU. Our normal lives were on hold. I felt a great urgency to be with my parents. They seemed so fragile and I wanted to take care of them, to protect them. I left my volunteer responsibilities during our busiest time of the year at the food pantry with my friend and stayed at the hospital. We ate there, we slept there and updated friends and family there during these hard days. We only left long enough to shower, maybe grab a nap and return.

I saw my dad at every opportunity. I tried to talk to him but I didn't know what to say.

"Hi Dad."

I leaned over the side of the bed and kissed him on the cheek. The respirator hissed and swooshed rhythmically.

"Your mouth looks dry. I'll get some glycerin for your lips from the nurse."

His eyes followed me as I got the ICU nurse to treat his dry mouth.

"I came in first but Mom's in the waiting room. She'll be in here shortly. Are you in pain?"

He only looked at me. He couldn't respond. I didn't know how much damage had been done to his brain. Did he even know me? I felt our time rushing away and it felt frivolous to chatter about non essentials and fluff so sometimes I read comforting verses to him from my Bible. Were they for him or were they for me?

Other times I just sat with him, a million thoughts whirling through my head. Will he live? How will Mom take care of him if he does? What will Mom do if he dies? What will I do if he dies?

"I love you, Dad. I'll be back after Mom comes in."

I told him I loved him after every visit. I wanted him to understand the depth of my love. I wanted him to know how much I'd learned from him. I wanted him to know that I am who I am because of him but I didn't know how to say it. It was long ago that we'd last talked about anything and even then we didn't tell one another how we felt. Our family had spent an emotionally silent lifetime, loving one another in deed, assuming--hoping--we all knew we were loved. Now I sat with my dad in his last days, my hand on his motionless hand, my eyes searching his eyes, willing my gaze to push beyond my inability to express myself--hoping it communicated my profound gratitude to him and my deepest love for him.

After two interminable weeks of conferring with his doctors and hearing his prognosis, with deep anguish and excruciating heartache, my mother agreed to remove him from life support.

It was Christmas Eve day.

They took him off the respirator and out of ICU about 10 am and moved him to a semi-private room in the small hospital that is only two blocks from the little church where my daddy walked me down the aisle, six miles from my house and only five miles from the place he brought us when we came to Florida twenty-three years earlier.

Except for my sister Kathy who had returned home to Pennsylvania the day before, the whole family was nearby. Space in this room was close so we took turns sitting with my mother and dad. After about an hour his breathing grew tight and labored and he was no longer conscious.

A younger, yet experienced nurse stayed in the room with us. My dad began to work for every breath. His body and gown were wet with sweat. Even though I thought it unusual when the nurse asked me to help her dry him off and change his gown--to make him more comfortable she said--I agreed.

She raised the head of his bed and slightly leaned him forward. He was a big man so I braced myself and held him steady as she untied and removed his gown. She dried his upper chest and shoulders with a small towel and then we laid him back down and lowered the head of the bed.

With great care she rolled his body way over to one side and I held him while she dried off his back. We laid him flat and she came to the other side. I held him while she dried and then we laid him down again. She got a fresh gown and together we slipped it on him. Then we straightened his sheets and pillow.

As we moved him, his lungs fought for any small amount of air they found. We had physically maneuvered him around and used the towels on him, but his sick, weakened body had worked hard for those dry clothes.

Somewhere in the middle of caring for my dad in those last moments I understood that this compassionate nurse was helping me, help him die.