Two parts of my dad's funeral.

Dad's Funeral, Dad's Grave Side, and Finality

Tuesday morning I didn’t get much sleep. I woke up at 3, just awake and heavy with thought. I got up at 3:30 and got dressed for the day. I drank my coffee and spent 3 hours writing dad’s letter. It just seemed to pour out of me. I went over to moms around 10:30 that morning and rode with her to see dad at the funeral home. When I walked through the doors and headed down the hallway towards dad I could feel my body constricting and pulling me in the opposite direction. I just kept walking because I knew that it would pass. I glanced in and saw dad’s coffin and just had to walk past the room, I could feel and upheaval of emotion and I wasn’t ready to do that in front of people. After I gathered myself together I went in and saw dad. All I could hear was people saying how good he looked. He didn’t look good. Are you kidding me? He looked like a mannequin. They put too much foundation color, or whatever you’d call that stuff, on him. He looked too made up. I guess I had seen him for so long in such a state of deathlike apparition, that I couldn’t tell a difference. The one thing that I was taken aback by was how long his eyelashes were. That was just amazing to me. Mine are long and I use to always get comments on that when I was a little boy. Now I know where I got them. Mom didn’t want dad dressed in a suit. She wanted him dressed in his casual clothes. So he was buried in a plaid shirt and jeans. They asked for underclothing, so yes he was wearing a t-shirt and underwear and socks.

After we got back from visiting with dad we had lunch. My sisters did not come by for support and only one sister came to the viewing. So it fell upon me once again to comfort mom alone. After we had lunch, mom and I had to go back to the cemetery to straighten out the funeral plots. Once we got there we discovered that the woman who sold us the three plots had sold us three plots that belonged to someone else. We were both astonished that that could happen. It ended up working out better, because the three plots we picked out actually were in a better location with shade, and near dad’s father.

I came back home for a while to get into my funeral clothing, and to pick up Mike and then we headed over to moms. We were both very somber. Once we got to mom’s some of his brothers and his sisters were there. We spoke with them for a while and then got ready to head to the funeral home. We go there around 5:20 and took our time looking at all of dad’s flowers. They were all so beautiful. Mom was very happy with all of them and especially the casket spray that she picked out for him.

Soon everyone started showing up. There were the Parkers from Kinston, the Johnson’s from Virginia and North Carolina, and the Worley’s from Selma, and family members that I can’t remember their names from all over the state. I was so impressed with the gathering. We mingled and chatted amongst ourselves for a while. Most of these people I haven’t spoken too since I was a little kid. Some were upset and visibly shaken, and others seemed to be at peace with things. I was feeling ok. I didn’t seem to have any pain yet.

The funeral director came and got us all and we filed out down the hall and through the lobby and outside through the carport area and into the family room entrance. There were a lot of us. We ended up fitting 9 to our bench. It was Mom, then me, Gary, Teresa, Michael, Debbie, Brittany and Grandma. When I first sat down Teresa was sitting beside mom. Mom quickly told Teresa to trade places with me. I’m glad she did. Mom had asked me a while back to sit beside her. I should have done that to begin with.

So after we were all seated the funeral began. It slapped me hard and I began crying. I tried to hold it together, but you really can’t in such a situation as this. The first preacher said a lot of good things. He had known dad for a long time, so he was spot on with everything he said. Then there was a song sung. I’m not sure of the name, but it was beautiful. Then the second preacher got up and he started speaking. I kept thinking about the letter I wrote and I was suddenly embarrassed. I was afraid of how it would sound. I was afraid that it was going to be childish or come across as something other than what I meant it. Once the preacher got through his speaking, he introduced the letter. He read it and it was so beautiful. I honestly couldn’t believe that that came out of me. I held my breath and just literally turned purple with despair and such upheaval of sorrow. Mom put her arm around me and comforted me. I just tried so hard not to make any guttural sounds, I wanted to maintain my composure so bad but couldn’t. That letter sounded like everything I could have ever said about my dad, and it just sounded so perfect. Then he finished, and it was suddenly over. He told everyone to remain seated while the family was brought out for visitation.

When the funeral director started lining chairs up out in the sanctuary at the front by the podium I kept thinking “I can’t do this…” I was very scared. Mom was first out, and then I was right beside her. Then everyone in the family poured forth. The first thought I had was feeling like we were in a play and this was the stage, and none of this was real, just an act. Then after we were all seated people in the sanctuary got up and filed out into the center aisle. They stretched all the way out the back door into the lobby. I was amazed. People started with mom and then worked over to me. They hugged me and shook my hand and some told me how beautiful the letter was, and how I had a wonderful dad. They all told me how sorry they were for my loss. One person told me to strive to be like my dad, and one person told me to write down all the advice dad gave me through the years. One person even told me that I should take his place as greeter at his church. I wanted to say “I’m not going to try to take my dad’s place” but I ended up saying, we’ll see and maybe… I saw people that I didn’t know; most were people that went to their church. There were lots of extended family, and distant cousins. After it was all over and most of the people had left, mom came and told us she was ready to go. Mike and I gathered ourselves together and took her home. Once there, yet again, I discovered my sisters were nowhere around. One sister went to see her mother-in-law, and the other sister went home. I know they both were dealing with their grief in their on way. It's ok and I understand I just hope they both can get through it.

I proceeded to pull food out of the fridge. I heated up stuff and laid plates on the table. It ended up only being mom, grandma, Mike and me, as usual… The one thing I felt good about was how we were actually eating out of real plates and not paper plates. We had been using paper plates for four months. It started to feel like a new normal. While eating, I noticed mom’s actions and her current mood. She seemed to be handling everything ok. I felt ok at that point too. We stayed awhile and then around 10 or so we left to go home. I didn’t want to leave mom, and it hurt me that I did. I know I could have gone back and spent the night, and I asked, and she not too. Once we got home I just wanted to go to bed. I had been up since 3:30 that morning and I was dog tired.

The next morning we got up and headed over to mom’s for the grave side service. Mom, Mike and I rode together in mom’s car. We ended up being a few minutes late for the service. I guess we just let time get away from us. There weren’t that many people there, but the ones that were there were mainly family. A few of my friend were there, and Penny and Meredith were there. It was a short beautiful service. We got up and hugged and talked to a lot of people. Dad’s vault lid was beautiful. It had two men in a boat. They were fishing with colorful fish beneath them. Below the picture it said “Gone Fishing”. I felt very sad and I felt a sharp pain of finality.

Once we left to go back to moms, we began setting up the kitchen area for the ridiculous amount of food that was on its way. I had no idea just how much food there would be. All of dad’s brothers and sisters were there and all of dad’s children were there. We sat up the food area and prepared to eat. Mom, Brittany, Teresa, Michael, Debbie, Me, and Tori sat at the round dining table and ate. Afterwards I showed Debbie and Teresa dad’s hospital papers. It showed the actual procedure of his operation and diagnosis. We discovered that what he had was hereditary and I left that thought with them and moved on into the living room.

I won’t go into all the feelings that I was having on this particular day, but I will say after we cleaned up and after both my sisters left, I suddenly felt the weight of mom’s fragility on my shoulders. I stayed and Mike went home to do a few things around the house. It was jus t mom, grandma and me now. We all three took a nap. Then we got up and went to see dad’s grave. It was difficult for me to see. I kept having waves of emotion that I couldn’t keep down. Then we headed back over to moms where mom, grandma and I decided to plant the three Hydrangeas and the One Azalea that was part of dad’s funeral. Once we did that, one of my sisters decided to come back over for a while. Mom, grandma and I ate dinner and then cleaned up and then my sister brought me home. It was after 9 when I got home. So even though I had been with mom all day, I cried for having to leave her.

Dad

I have so many things that I want to say about my dad, but know I can only say so much. He was a multi-faceted person. He was like an onion in that he had so many different layers of wonderful and unique qualities that you just had to get to know him to uncover. Obviously dad was a gentle, soft spoken man. He was a good listener and he always put great thought behind each word that he spoke. You always knew he was listening to you as you talked to him. You could just look at him and see that he was absorbing your words, and then when you finished talking you would always have a sense of anticipation as to what his response would be. He always gave the best advice in that he never just gave you the answer you wanted to hear. He was true to his convictions and to his experience with life.

Dad was the man that if you were hanging at the end of your rope and on the verge of falling on your face, you could simply call upon him and know that he’d do everything in his power to keep you from falling. If you did fall he’d pick you up and he’d help you find your footing in life once more. You knew that he wouldn’t be judgmental or hard on you. He’d just offer you compassion and understanding.
Dad had a wealth of knowledge on every subject from nature, to fishing and hunting, to woodworking, cooking, metal smith and gardening. His constant desire to learn and do was amazing. He was so full of ideas and he wanted to do so many things. He loved to work with his hands and he appreciated nothing more than a good mechanical problem that begged to be solved. He could come up with some of the most ingenious solutions. That’s one of the things that I’ll miss the most about dad. You could always count on him to have an answer for something you were at a loss about.

Dad loved his family; he loved his friends, and anyone that just happened to grace the surface of his life. He worked with diligence and determination. He had this way about him that wasn’t necessarily one of doing a job perfectly, but doing the best he could, and he always pushed that in everything he did. If you ever had the opportunity to work with dad or help him on a project, he would guide you along in such a way that would allow you to leave the task with better knowledge of what you had done. He was a good teacher, and a good companion to have in life.

Even when dad was going through the first stages of his illness, he persevered. Between going back and forth to the doctor and having tests run, he would push himself through his pain and discomfort to continue his work and doing the things he enjoyed. One thing that stands out in my mind was how he worked on his creek boat. He had a modification that he wanted to do so that he could use an electric motor with foot petals to steer the boat. He successfully did that and with such excitement he enjoyed sharing how he did it. He took great pleasure in getting to spend what time he could with his boat on the river. We spent early spring through midsummer fishing in his favorite places. He would call me on his good days and want to go to fishing, and he did it in such a way that I was clueless that he was as sick as he was. I knew that he had some health issues, but not what it ended up being. We’d get up early in the morning and load up the boat and the trailer and head out. He’d have such anticipation and excitement that you just would never know that he wasn’t doing well physically. Even in his pain he never complained and he would go about doing things the way he always did and he’d see each task through til the end. You could still count on dad even when he was going through the worst.

What was amazing to me was how dad micro-managed his care from day one after his diagnosis. When he became bedridden he would look at every aspect of what was happening to him and he would get past the hurdles of it. He made it easy on us, his caretakers, by giving us guidance when he saw we needed it. When he would see us wrestling with a task, he’d stop us midway through and he’d walk us through it. The next time we did that same task it would be easy and efficiently done because of his earlier guidance. Throughout the entirety of this dad always had a grace about him and he could teach you things without you even knowing it. It was a great pleasure helping dad and no matter who it was that was helping him through his illness, he always had that gentleness about him, that warm smile of appreciation.

His final lesson in life, at least to me, and hopefully everyone that knew him, was how to properly live your life and then leave when it was time. He never struggled, never complained, he always greeted people with that same welcoming smile and open spirit. He accepted everything with grace and he appreciated every simple thing that was done for him. He left us knowing that we were ready and that we’d be ok in a life without him.

The Days After...

Sunday, after I had gotten the call that dad had passed; I spent the morning with my family at mom and dad’s. Around 1 I decided to go home and get lunch and drop Mike off at the house. On the way back to mom and Dad’s I started crying and couldn’t seem to stop. When I got to moms my sisters were there with my grandmother and my mom. I went straight to the bathroom because I don’t like for people to see me cry. I don’t like to be consoled or touched when I’m grieving. I don’t know why, but my nerves seem to be on the edge of my skin, and I recoil. I sat in the computer room and continued to try to gather myself back together, but just had a hard time of it. I knew that I couldn’t go into the living room at all because of that hospice bed, so I decided to take it apart and drag it outside under the carport. So my two sisters and I did just that. We put the furniture back the way it use to be and we all felt better for it. As the day drug on and people started coming to visit, things started getting easier. My sister Teresa spent the night, and I reluctantly went home around 9.

Monday was a completely different day. I had slept pretty well and I managed to go about my routine of coffee and dog walking. I then headed over to moms. When I got there my sister Teresa was there with my mom and my grandma. We gathered up dad’s photos and headed off to breakfast at Shoney’s and then went to the funeral home. I sort of had a moment of angry outburst, but it was just that, a short lived lashing out. It was over and I apologized for it afterwards. Then we went and picked out dad’s flowers.

When we got back I decided to get dad’s John Deere riding mower out. I had been hesitant because that was his and he always took the best care of it and I only used it once. I was afraid of how it would make me feel. I was right about that. When I got it out of the barn I couldn’t figure out how to operate it properly and my first thought was to ask dad. I cried because of the obvious. I consulted the manual instead. I worked for a few hours cutting grass to stay busy and then when I finished I went in and showered.

The rest of the day was spent receiving visitors and way too much food. My emotions seemed to be leveled out and I was ok.

I am now overwhelmed with worry for mom. I don’t want her to be alone and I don’t want my grandmother to leave and go back home to Virginia. Mom told me before I went home last night that she was going to have to be alone sometime. I told her that I was having a hard time visualizing that. I know she will be ok eventually, but I have a sick feeling in my stomach for how she will be feeling those first few nights.

Dad's Passing

So I got up this morning, drank my coffee and stayed in the guest bedroom while I blogged my earlier posting. I peeked in at daddy to see if he needed anything briefly and noticed he was still sleeping. Mom was asleep on the couch, so I didn't disturb them. After I blogged, I decided to go in and check on dad. He looked up at me and I asked him if he was ok. He mouthed something to me and I couldn't understand him, so I he asked for something to write on. He wanted me to change his Depends. I didn't wake mom, I let her sleep. I went through the process of cutting them off of him and he was able to roll over for me just enough to clean him up. He must have been very uncomfortable because he asked for skin cream. After I did that and changed the padding he was laying on, I had to remove his pj top. It was long sleeve, and it was very difficult to get off of him, but we did it the same way we always did it. He'd reach his arms up and grab onto the trapeze bar above his bed, but this time i had to place his hands around the bar. His skin was very cold and clammy and I had a difficult time getting the new pj top on. I talked to him the whole time I was doing it. I was very gentle in my tone and reassuring. I had him good to go and comfortable in no time. After I got him settled in I went to my bedroom there and fell to pieces. It was a very difficult thing to do. After everyone got up I went to Bojangles with my aunt to get breakfast for everyone. Mom, grandma, my aunt, and I sat around and had Easter breakfast. After I was done I asked mom when she thought I should go home to get another change of clothes, she said anytime. So I decided to go ahead and go. I went in and squeezed dad's knee, told him I was going to go get some clothes and that I'd be right back. I told him I loved him and he smiled. As soon as I got to my house and sat my things on the kitchen table the phone rang. Dad had died. I had just gotten off the phone with my sister prior to finding out dad had died. I told her that I hoped dad passed while I wasn't there.

So when I got back mom had already called hospice, and they were on the way. I waited til she showed up and then I went to my grandfathers to tell him bout dad passing. After Hospice came, Parrish's Funeral came out to get dad. I watched for them and waited with dad. It was a hard experience, but i'm glad I got to experience it.

As far as how I feel, I'm fine. I am so happy that my last act with dad was one of compassion and love.

So yesterday dad's entire family, brothers and sisters, favorite uncle and mother, were all here. They all sat in the living room with him and dad just smiled the whole time. He doesn't say much anymore, and he's finally given in to morphine drops. He's in pain with his stomach, which I'm assuming is the cancer. He has begun to lose control of his bowels, which suprised us all because he has an Ileostomy. The hospice nurse said that is because of his body breaking down.

There was a moment yesterday when I was in there with him by myself with my uncle and dad called me over to his bedside. I went to him, and he suddenly made this face like he was trying to cough and then he let out a high pitched cry. It hit me hard and my uncle got up and went out. I just stood there, frozen. I didn't ask if he was ok, I just rubbed his knee. When he was able to whisper he simply told me to sit down. I just watched him, and he made this motion like he wanted to throw up, and his face contorted. I didn't know what to do, I was alone with him. I got back up and he shook his head and whisped for me to sit back down. I thought he was dying. I waited and felt like if he dies, what will people think if they walk in and see me sitting here on the couch with my legs crossed, just watching him...

So how do I feel? I feel horrible, just horrible. Not because dad is dying, but because I want him to just let go and fall off to sleep. I know he's suffering and I'm not going to be selfish and want him to stay longer.

I did something last night that I probably will never forget. I had to clean my dad up and change his Depends. That's all i'm going to say about that.

Giving Up.

Dad has shown nothing but grace in dying. He has had every opportunity to be angry and bitter and frustrated and just plain difficult, but he has been anything but that. He has been in complete control of his body. Every decision has been made by him. He has never complained about being in pain, about being uncomfortable, about anything. He has been a man of great courage with his dealings with his cancer. Everytime a problem would arise he’d come up with a solution. Dad has been able to show me how to take care of him in ways that I would not have been able to figure out on my own. He has walked me through every single problem and because of that I have been able to make him more comfortable. Dad would be the man to go through hell with, he’d keep his cool and he’d get you through it. He has literally helped us all through this process of his dying. He has gotten us all through it whether he knows it or not.

Dad has decided to end his Ensure regime. He’s been sleeping an awful lot today and he has given up. It is now a matter of time and I can feel the end coming soon.

The Dynamics of Feeling

Dad had a hard night last night. Apparently since he isn’t eating anymore and he’s started watering down his Ensure he can’t lay flat because the liquid in his stomach backs up into his esophagus. He’s trying to figure out how to deal with that. He’s going to try to drink an Ensure that isn’t watered down. Hopefully that will help him.

Sundays are interesting. They are a time when I get to be alone with dad, but it’s also a time where I am put in a position to watch preaching on TV. I’m not sure how I feel about that. I would imagine it makes dad feel good to see me “actively” listening to what is being said. I do that for him, but once he’s shuffled off, I’ll go back to “out of sight, out of mind”.

How do I feel when I’m with dad? I’m not sure. It’s strange that when I’m in the “situation” with dad I’m not feeling much. I guess I’ve put insulation caps on the ends of my nerves that prevent me from feeling much when I’m there. I just sort of go about my time with him as if it’s just another day. Really it is, you can’t visit with dad and be all sad and twisted externally. You have to treat him as if it’s all going to be alright. So that’s what I do. I try not to look too deeply at him and wonder what he’s thinking or feeling. That usually gets me all stirred up inside. I also have a tendency to glance over at him from time to time to make sure he’s still with us… I’ve noticed mom does the same thing. When I’m saying goodbye to him I have to resist the urge to say “goodbye” in such a way that might cause me to fall apart. I haven’t leaned over and kissed him on his forehead yet like most people do. I usually just gently squeeze his knee and rub his foot. I’ll do the forehead thing when it’s merited, just not now… When I leave, it usually doesn’t hit me till I get home. Then it comes to me in a form of panic. My chest will tighten, and my breathing becomes shallow. I guess the insulation caps twist off and leave my nerves raw and frayed. I’m usually a bear to be around when I’m like that. I just tend to close the door and keep to myself till it passes. I don’t like for people to see me cry, it’s just not something I’m comfortable with. So you can imagine the dread I am feeling when it comes time to stand at the front during visitation after dad’s funeral. That’s like torture to me. Why do they do that? The visitation part…

Dad and I spent many Fridays from March til September fishing. This is one of my favorite shots of him. We would go to Mills Pond (it's not really a pond, it's an old mill with a river that runs up from it for miles)

Is It Time For The Train?

Dad needed a hand bell to ring when he needs help. He doesn’t have the voice to call out anymore, and the panic button on the monitor doesn’t seem to work, or mom is just too asleep to hear it… I found one at an antique shop in Selma. It’s loud, and I think dad should have no problem waking up the house.

I had dinner over there yesterday. Then we watched The Blind Side. I’ve seen it 3 times now, and I cry each time. Dad seemed to enjoy it.

He has congestion in his chest and he struggles to get it up and out. He basically can’t at this point. He looks so close to death. His skin is purplish, and his body is feeling more pain. He refuses to take morphine, he wants to be completely cognitive. He's skeletal at this point. He's nothing more than a human form at it's most base level. I can't believe that he has gotten to this point. Now dad has become an image I will always have of dying.

It was very difficult staying over there yesterday evening. It just seemed like dad is in the process of trying to die. He just lies in his bed and he’ll rest his hands and arms in a cross shape across his chest. He closes his eyes and I try so hard to see through him, but I can’t. I can’t for the life of me figure out what he’s thinking, what he needs, if I can help him in anyway and it frustrates me. I don’t ever want to go through this again. I can’t do this again, I hope that everyone else in my life lives longer than me so that I don’t have to see this slow agonizing decent into death. You just don’t realize how vicious cancer is till you watch someone die from it.

I came home very agitated and ill last night. I just feel so helpless that I can’t do anything but watch my dad die. I am lost in my thoughts, this fog of despair.

The Reality

I’ve been avoiding writing in my blog for a while. I have been keeping myself distracted with such frivolous things that I’ve not allowed myself to feel anything. I think my brain believes that dad is just in a temporary state of illness. My heart knows better. How do I detach from the situation? I go on with my days as if nothing is the matter. I go see dad and I am so locked within my own story of what is happening that I see past him, past his weak, emaciated, contorted body. I see nothing more than the images of my dad that I’ve painted in my memory. Sometimes I’ll come back down to earth and I’ll see him for what the situation is and I’ll heave inside with despair. Somehow I always manage to keep a grip on the jagged stone walls that I have climbed up and held onto. I try so hard not to allow myself to think about what dad might be thinking, or feel what dad might be feeling. I shut off my empathy; I don’t want to know what it’s like to be in his shoes. I know that I can’t handle that.

I know that he is this man that I’ve always admired and I know that he is so strong in that he is stoic in his perseverance. I just wish that I knew what the purpose of this is. He’s been in that bed in a constant state of deterioration for 4 months. How much longer can he hang on? He hasn’t eaten anything other than a pancake in those 4 months. He’s forced down three to four ensures everyday and sipped water endlessly. What is that like? I think I’m going to try it for a week to see for myself. God, what’s the point in this snip it of life? I feel so helpless and angry. I feel guilty for having the ability to eat, the ability to walk out the front door and enjoy the sun. I feel so guilty for having the ability to do all the things that my dad dreams about every minute, and I have that and I squander it. I feel horrible that I can leave dad’s side and come home and turn it all off in my mind and go on as if he’s ok and mom has to stay in this hell 24 hrs a day.

I don’t know what more I can do at this point. I feel dumbfounded, gob smacked, flabbergasted, bewildered, and overwhelmed. I want this to be over and I want to move on in such a way that I shatter everything around me that is familiar. I want to propel like a rocket into my life without dad and embrace everything and live like I’ve never lived. I just want this pending devastation to happen so I can put myself back together again. I want to know that dad isn’t suffering anymore; I want to know that mom is unfettered from this emotional despair. I don’t want dad to go, but he is and I can’t stop that. I love him so much and it kills me to know that he’s going to a place that I can’t go, might not go, probably won’t go…

Passing Time

It's amazing how fast time goes by... I have been so preoccupied with everything outside of what's been going on with my dad, that i've allowed myself to become a little indifferent. I have had a friend living with us. That sort of shifted my attention away from dad and it's been a good thing. He moved out yesterday. So now my attention is being shifted soley back to my dad.

Dad's condition just seems to be perpetual. There's not much change in him, other than more weight loss, withdrawal and a weaker voice. He has managed to beat the odds. It has been three months since his diagnosis of just a few weeks left to live. Dad still isn't in much pain, he's just uncomfortable. He's still able to shave himself, brush his teeth, comb his hair. He's still able to manage his Ileostomy bag, but he's changed in his mindset where he only wants mom to empty it. I'm perfectly fine with that. I don't know what happened, maybe he feels like it's too much of a burden on me to have to deal with that. He does, however, only want me to change it out completely. He's got me trained to do that in such a way that it's the most efficient process yet.

He requested a pair of headphones for his radio. I brought them over this morning. When he put them on I realized that he's further isolating himself from everyone. It saddens me, but that is what he wants and that's ok. He doesn't eat anymore, just drinks his Ensure three times a day.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop...

Dad has started to decline a little more. The past few days have been about the same for him in that aspect. I've noticed that he has gotten so he can't stay awake much anymore. He drifts into a deep sleep and sleeps hard for an hour or so then he stays awake for a little while, then repeats the cycle. He is still eating his one pancake and drinking his three Ensures.

Dad is still able to talk and carry on short conversations. It's just harder for him to talk than it use to be. He is a bit hard to understand at times, but I'll take that over not being able to hear his voice any day. I've discovered that instead of going over and being engaged by dad for hours on end, it's become this thing where I go over and sit and watch him. That has gotten to be a bit difficult and I feel guilty because I don't go over as much anymore. I still go four days a week, but my quality time with dad has minimized. I don't know what to do when I'm there...

Mom is doing ok. She seems to be a bit more anxious. She wakes up in the middle of the night every time she sees dad's lamp turn on. He has a touch lamp that sits on his bed side table and he turns it on every hour through out the night to check his Ileostomy bag and to release air build up. She's still running between dad and her dad and brother. It seems like her lot in life has always been the caretaker...

I'm ok. I'm sort of at a point where I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know that sounds terrible, but it's like holding your breath and constantly waiting for the inevitable phone call. I catch myself watching dad's chest for signs of life when he's sleeping.

Penny, the hospice nurse, told mom that she is just amazed that dad is still with us.

Week recap

So this past week as a whole has been average for dad. He has had a few good days, and a few bad. The bad being that he just didn’t feel well and he slept a lot. He is having a harder time talking these days. He has to take a breath after each word or two. He also seems to be quieter, which doesn’t necessarily mean he is slowly withdrawing from us, but is just due to his difficulty with conversation. I don’t call him anymore at night to wish him goodnight… I don’t know if that bothers him, but I do call him every morning. That bothers me that I don’t call him at night anymore. I just don’t want to make it difficult on him, and I would imagine he’s pretty tired at night anyway.

Meredith, from hospice, came over Tuesday. She stayed for a good hour or so. She wanted to know how we were doing with things. We talk so candidly about things when she comes over. My grandmother, dad’s mom, is staying with them and she made a comment that she wished Meredith wouldn’t talk about dying with dad. I held my tongue for the most part, but I did tell her that it was good for dad to talk about that and what his feelings are. I think the idea of a faith healing is hanging to heavily over everyone and no one knows for sure what that will look like when things finally complete. So to talk about dying with dad is to accept that he is dying and to deny that a faith healing might occur. I can’t accept that dad is going to be healed. I look at this cancer and I see that it has progressed too far and if a faith healing does occur, then that will be like raising Lazarus from the dead. For now I accept and I wait. Let them have hope wherever they may find it.

Dad can’t laugh. He can’t belch, or cough or even clear his throat. He has a hard time swallowing. That just doesn’t seem real to me.

Passing time and waiting for the inevitable

Well, I feel bad that I haven’t blogged in a while. I’ve been in one of those moods where I just felt stifled. Dad is doing about the same as far as I can tell. I still go over as often as I did before, but I don’t stay all day anymore. I think I’ve come to another wall of feelings that are new to me and they’re hard to explain. I was talking to mom about that just yesterday. I told her that I felt guilty but I just don’t feel that sense of urgency anymore towards dad. I’ve so deeply accepted his fate and reconciled myself to such a point that I don’t feel anything but complacency. I’ve accomplished all of his tasks, I’ve nothing left to do now, but wait. Waiting is so very difficult, escpecially when you don’t know what the end of the day or tomorrow or the end of the week might bring. I still call dad every morning to see how his day is starting off. I don’t call at night anymore or at least not as often. I feel bad about that, but I wonder sometimes if my doing that was just a symptom of fear for what we’re all expecting. I don’t want dad to think that we’re all waiting for him to die, how do you not express that when it’s so obvious? It was 8 weeks on Feb. 9th since the doctor told dad that he had a few weeks to live. Has it been those few weeks? Doctors don’t really know do they?

Ileostomy Bag Change and Dad's Physical Being

Things have slowed down for dad over the past week or so. He’s been doing amazingly well for someone in his situation. I really don’t understand what it's suppose to be like for someone who has the type of cancer that my dad has. He doesn’t seem to be in pain, he only has discomfort in the form of pressure in his lower back. I guess that is pain… His vitals are always good, and they are almost always exactly the same from week to week. He is upbeat most of the time. He is able to carry on conversations; his cognitive abilities seem to be really good. He gets confused with days, but that would be for anyone lying in a bed for 2 months. So I’m just befuzzled… I try to look at it from a logical perspective, but it there is a very strong spiritual side to this and that has made all the difference. I realize that the doctor told dad that he only had a few weeks left, and that was December 9th. It’s been 7 weeks now, and I’m not sure where we’re at anymore with this.

I went over to dad’s Friday morning around 7:40 to specifically help mom change his Ileostomy bag. When I got there he was sitting up in his bed still waking up. He has had problems with his eyes being really dry and on a few occasions he’s struggled with opening them upon first waking up. We put a humidifier in the living room for him and that has made all the difference. I spoke with dad for a few minutes and asked him how he slept. He said he slept well. He only had to wake a few times through the night to release air pressure from his bag. That’s been an ongoing pain for him, but we’ve tried everything and nothing works. They make vented bags, but those are mainly for colostomies not Ileostomies.

As we readied ourselves for the bag change out I took inventory to make sure we had everything we needed. Wafer, replacement bag, adhesive paste, stoma sizing chart, scissors, bandages, surgical tape, several wash cloths, soap, gloves, basin of hot water, towel, hair dryer, and mom, fully awake and prepared… The last time we did this mom put the adhesive paste on the wrong side of the wafer... His bag was full, so I had to empty that first. A full bag first thing in the morning is a very foul smelling thing. When you have to stand over it and make sure it pours into a hand held quart bucket you get the full effect of the smell and that is what makes it so bad. I dread that the most of all. So we worked through the entire process and after 30 minutes dad had a new Ileostomy bag.

Dad hadn’t planned on taking a sponge bath, but he hadn’t had one in a day or so and I convinced him he would feel better. So mom went and did her morning devotions and I took care of dad. While I was helping dad with his sponge bath he made general observations on his body. Imagine being able to see every tendon, and every bone silhouette in your body. Imagine, instead of having round beefy thighs, you have straight bones with heavy ropey tendon stretching out and down towards the knee. You have pits and pockets between the tendon and bone and once you get past the knee you have a spindle with a small protrusion that is your calves. Then beyond that is just straight bone then foot. He is just overwhelmed at the condition he is in. Too make him feel better I softly commented to him that his deterioration is just part of the process and it is ok. I told him that he isn’t defined by his body, that he is defined by his spirit, by his voice, by his being and I didn’t “see” his body, I just saw “dad”. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have a body that is so alien though. I seem to have become numb to that aspect of his illness. Because of that I can lovingly take care of him with a more controlled gentle presence. After I gave dad a good rubdown with skin lotion, and rubbed ointment on his back to prevent bedsores, I helped him get dressed and then changed the sheets. Once he was all together and ready for his day to proceed I made him his usual pancake and coffee syrup with a very small glass of milk.

I don’t want the idea to settle in that dad has become an invalid, that’s not the case. He just can’t do certain things that require him to lift his body. He still has his voice, which may not be the stern voice that I grew up knowing, but it is a voice that is very much understandable and very capable of correcting when needed.
Mom isn’t as anxious as she was before, “before” being when grandma was still with us in the nursing home. She seems to be handling things with dad better. I was telling my sister just yesterday how dad being here for as long as he has in his current condition has helped us, or at least helped me, accept the inevitable. I would like to think that death could be as tolerable in the future when it comes to other people I love. I think if dad would have died on the operating table back in November life would have been a twisted mass of pain and misunderstanding.

Saying Goodbye

I'm not sure how appropriate it is to post this picture of my grandmother... It's just a part of my life and now my memories. She was a wonderful person and I will miss her greatly.

Time...

I've been bad about blogging these past few days, sorry. Dad is doing fine. He's just amazing. Either I've become blind to what is going on with him, or he's doing a really good job at pretending to be ok. I'll catch up later.

Dad in the Shadows, and Grandma's Pending Funeral

When I was over at mom and dad's on Wednesday evening, dad had me searching for a certain movie that he wanted me to watch with him. I had pulled all the DVDs and a pile of books out of the book case in my feeble attempt to find it. As I was sifting through DVDs and VHS the phone rang, it was the nursing home. They needed to speak to mom, but she had already left to go to church. I sat back down to my losing attempt at finding this movie and speculated with dad what that phone call could mean. We both were in agreeance that grandma had probably passed. A few minutes later I heard mom drive up, so I quickly put everything back where it belonged the best I could. Dad and I sort of both held our breaths waiting for mom to come in the room, when she did her face was twisted with grief and all she could say was "mama died." I went over to her and gave her a hug and held onto her for a minute and told her how sorry I was. I think at the moment we all sort of shifted from dad to mom. What we didn't realize was that dad was getting a front seat view of how his passing might look.

Grandma Mary stayed with dad while I drove mom down to grandpas. He had spent all day with grandma, so like mom, he had an idea that she might pass soon. When we walked into his house, mom went up to him and told him. You could tell that it was difficult news to hear. His face took on a whole new dimension, one of instant despair. I watched as mom tried to comfort him and decided it was best if I stepped outside for a moment. Before we left I went back in to say goodbye to him and patted him on the back. 87 year old men don't hug men... We proceeded to the nursing home where we found grandma lying in her bed with the sheets pulled up to her neck. She looked like she was sleeping, but her skin was a different color, there was no rosiness to it. Mom stood at the foot of her bed and gazed at her for a few minutes and then we went into the hallway and found a nurse. Hospice hadn't gotten there yet, but they were on the way.

We were taken to a empty room to sit in private. Mom's preacher soon came out to speak with mom. She cried and seemed to be focused on how she had been praying that "they" wouldn't go at the same time... Dad and Grandma... She was just so thankful that dad was still here. They prayed while I slipped out and went back to sit with grandma.

When we got back to the house, my sister Teresa and my niece brittany were there. I said "hey" to them and checked in with dad. He seemed to be lost in all of this. I can tell by his eyes when he's lost or despondent. I tried to imagine what he must have been feeling at that moment. Helpless to do anything... He was upset mainly because he couldn't comfort mom when she needed it most, and I imagine he felt pretty guilty for being on the cusp of leaving her too. I squeezed his knee, and rubbed his leg that was buried beneath soft blue microfiber and smiled at him in a way that told him I loved him. Wonder if that gives him comfort? I know it would me. Anyway, I went back to the back bedroom where mom was sitting thumbing through the phone book trying to find phone numbers. Her hands were shaking terribly, so I sat down beside her and took the book out of her hands and found the numbers for her. She had to call people to tell them about her mom passing. It has to be a hard thing to have to do, I don't look forward to it, but it has to be a release as well. You seem to be announcing that your loved one has gone, like uncorking a champagne bottle, all your emotions spilling out. You cry enough and you tell enough people till you eventually run out of tears and emotional energy. That is what happened to mom, eventually anyway.

My grandmother passed away on January 20th at around 6:45 pm. She had a stroke back in the summer and never recovered from that. She was in the nursing home when she passed. Her 91 year old roommate, Ms. Odessa, sat with her while she struggled to hold on and read Bible verses to her. Ms. Odessa told us that while she read to her, grandma suddenly stopped struggling and she looked at her and she seemed to be at peace and she let go. Grandma and Grandpa had been together for 66 years. He is having a hard time with this.