I’ve discovered that being with someone that is dying, at least being with someone on a daily basis and having been blessed with the task of helping someone through dying, is a lot like helping them pack up their household to move away.
I’ve seen dad every day, give or take one or two, since the end of November. I’ve seen him slowly melt away, but didn’t realize it. I was given the task of getting photos together a while back to create a collage for dad’s funeral; he’s having a closed casket. As I was looking through the photos, I came across one of him from last Christmas. It was a portrait of him and mom that they had made at their church. I’ve never thought of dad as being healthy in the weight department. He’s always been 6’1 and 160 lbs. As I looked at him in the photo I noticed how golden his skin was and full his face was. I had gotten so use to seeing dad emaciated and pale that it seemed normal to me. He seemed to look the same as he did when I was fishing with him back in April of this year. So I could imagine how shocked people must be to see him when they haven’t seen him in years.
In the weeks that dad has been confined to his hospital bed I’ve always seen him in his pajamas, or a t-shirt. I’ve seen his bare back and arms and legs enough to have mental images of them, but it was something that didn’t shock me. Sure I had a very difficult time seeing dad for the first time like that, but I was able to make peace with it. I knew that his cancer was eating his calories, his nourishment. I knew that he was going to waste away. I knew, but I didn’t know what that would look like. I know now.
On Wednesday morning I helped dad with his morning routine. I emptied his Ileostomy bag, and helped him take a sponge bath. This is how the sponge bath occurred. I sat in the chair beside his bed, watching as his long hands reached into the basin to grasp and wring out a wash cloth. I watched as he slowly, clumsily, grasped the bar of soap and enfolded it in the cloth to suds up a bit. I sat beside him and held my breath while he washed his arms, and then his chest. I watched as he dipped the cloth back in the hot water and listened to the sound of the water being squeezed out of it. I tried not to gasp as dad drew his long spindly legs up to him and gently washed each one. I watched him and tried to block the images out of my head. Then dad called out to me and asked me to wash his back, so I stood up and took the cloth from his hand. He rolls over and I take in a deep breath, silently holding it in, and I dip the cloth in the warm water and then I gently apply it to his shoulders. His shoulders that look alien to me because they’re nothing more than two huge twin shields of bone that protrude out from his back. I wash them gently, then I cup his spine in my hand and I run the warm cloth gently down the length of it. I speak to him softly as I do this; I tell him I am honored to do this for him. He tells me that he is glad that I am here for him. I am not feeling anything; I am numb to all of this for the moment. I dip the cloth back in the warm water and squeeze it out. I gently wash his side, which is nothing more than his ribs protruding up and through the skin. I lovingly run the warm cloth along each one and then I dry him off and he rolls over and I do the same to the other side. Once I am done bathing him he asked me to rub a special cream on his back and pelvic area. It’s to help prevent bed sores. I didn’t hesitate and hastily made my way to get it. Dad had me turn the gas heater that is in the wall beside his bed on and close the door. It got warm fast. As dad rolled back over to his side he pulled his underwear down for me and I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. There weren’t two globes there anymore. His posterior was gone. It was nothing more than the end of a spine protruding downward. I didn’t realize what I was looking at; I still can’t bend my mind around it. Dad said mom usually wears gloves when she does this, I told him I didn’t want to wear gloves. I dipped my hand in the cream and I touched him and rubbed it in with all the love and compassion that was in my being. I gently massaged him and worked my way up over his ribs, his spine, and his shoulder blades. Even when I was through with the cream I still rubbed him. I wanted him to feel every ounce of love that I had to offer him. After a while he rolled back over onto his back and I helped him put on his pajamas. Once he was in a comfortable position, I placed a towel on his chest and I shaved him. It was difficult because his face has developed so many sharp angles, and his skin pits beneath the bones. I then gave him a haircut.
After I had finished with dad and brought him his first Ensure of the day, I went to gather my things up. It was almost noon at this point and I needed to go home. I had spent the night, so I was tired and my dogs needed me.
I still hadn’t had the full reaction to seeing my dad the way I had that morning. I was just so mentally tired that when I got home I bathed the dogs and then went to bed. I slept till 4:00 pm. When I woke up the emotional shock of seeing dad in the way that I saw him hit me. It felt like someone punched me in the stomach with all their might. I curled up in a fetal position and wept.
The next day I was ok.
I’ve discovered that I have changed through all of this. I’m a more serious person. I’m not as obsessed over every single thing that crosses my path anymore. I have slowed down; I do things with more thought and am more methodical. I have my ups and downs with this process. I often feel guilty for being so accepting of dad’s dying. I often feel like people view me as callous or indifferent because I don’t cry all the time, or at least cry when I talk to them about dad. I worry that people who don’t know me will think that because of my lack of emotion I wasn’t close to my dad. I worry that I am not handling things in a healthy way. I worry that I’m in some small way not seeing the full picture, even though I believe that I am. I am scared to think what my life will mean without dad in it. I am afraid that after dad dies, mom will not be the same mom I’ve known for the past 38 years. I’m worried that the family will disperse like seeds in the wind. Dad was the patriarch. I have found that in the entirety of my life I’ve been obsessed and curious about death. I’ve been the suicidal, dark, twisted lost soul that sang the praises of death through poetry and ramblings. In all my years though, I’ve never had an experience with death. No one I’ve loved has died. I had no image or face to put on death. I had no pain to associate with death.
I told dad that he has given me so much by allowing me to help him through this process. He has single handedly restored my self confidence, and given me a purpose in life. I have learned so much from him up to this point, and I could only hope that when my life draws to a close it is similar to his. I told him the other day that losing him will help me greatly when it comes time to losing mom. I explained to him that he has been able to talk me through difficult things and he’s explained things to me in a way that no one else could. Up to this point he has given me knowledge and experience to make it easier for mom, or anyone else in my life when it comes their time.
I’m still hanging on tight to dad and I’m afraid I’m holding on too tightly…
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