Fair winds and following seas...
One of our last walks around the block before he went back in the hospital. It was a gorgeous day, having rained that morning; you can see the clouds in the background. He saw me taking these and told me, "Eh, you don't want me in your nice pictures." I assured him that I did, very much so. Then we went home and I packed to go to the Bay Area for work for the weekend. The next Wednesday, after an xray by his doctor, he was admitted to the hospital once again; he'd only been home for about a month and a half.
The following is an account of my father's death. I'm leaving this public because after my mother passed away, I found similar stories comforting, but maybe I'm just morbid. Please skip if you find such things distressing, or if needed I could make a filter, because there's likely to be more related stuff here for a while.
Alternatively, other entries from this journal about my dad are here - or by clicking Dad in the tag cloud on the right on my LJ page. They may be happy or not so much. Also, I had made a journal for him where I was transcribing some of the stories he told me at deadwood_bob, although I always intended to write down more of them. If you knew my dad and have a story about him, I would love it if you could write it down and send it to me, and I'll include it there as an entry.
He seemed to be perversely proud of that bright metallic blue walker. When Beth came to see him in ICU (we said she was my sister - and I really consider her to be), he pointed it out against the wall and wheezed through his oxygen mask, "How do you like my new vehicle? Cost me $200!" He was so glad to see her. And Woolsey, too (my brother's roommate), who came the next day.
We kept being fed these little slivers of hope, that if we can this infection taken care of, the other things should fall into line, if we can correctly balance his fluids, his kidneys should help his lungs clear up better, if he has tube feeding rather than IV, the antibiotics should work better and his blood sugar should even out, even if he's intubated, people can still go home after a tracheotomy procedure. And we understood that even if any of this worked, it would only be until the next time an infection or a CHF flare set all of this into motion again. But we hoped he could at least come home for awhile, to clear some things up, to see his grandkids again, to say good-bye. Up until a couple of days before, things seemed to be improving - when talking with his primary care doctor, he even received a text from the pulmonologist, who had seemed hopeless before, that seemed fairly positive.
With the BiPap machine at 50% or the regular mask at 100%, his oxygen saturation levels stayed above 90%, but that was just lying in bed without moving. Anytime the nurses came in to work on him, move him around, bathe him, give him medicine in some applesauce (before the risk of him choking became too great), they dropped below very quickly. Without the pulmonary fibrosis, he might have pulled through this.
But I guess it was too delicate a balance that just couldn't be sustained. Saturday morning, while I was at the Shipley Nature Center helping my friend Carole with the Garden Club table, the nephrologist called to ask if he could be put on dialysis before his blood pressure dropped too low. I gave permission, but it had already dropped too far to be done. Shortly after, he was intubated, but I think we knew then it was only a matter of time - he had not been responsive for the last 24 hours.
I asked if the kids could come in to ICU to say good-bye to him, and they said that would be ok. Some people questioned, was I sure that's how I wanted them to remember him, but I believe they're old enough to decide that for themselves. Avalon and Gareth chose to see him, Angus chose not to, but I think that's ok, he had been in to see him before he'd been taken to ICU. The nurse covered him up more with a sheet so he didn't look too scary, although I told them beforehand Grandpa wouldn't look normal because he had a tube that was helping him breathe; he wouldn't be able to talk back but they should tell him they loved him and anything they wanted to say. Gareth and Avalon came into his room for a little, and they both held his hand, hugged as much as they could reach, and told him they loved him.
Beth had been down in Huntington Beach with her brother; she called me and had him drop her off at the hospital so she could be be with us. Doug made the decision to go home, as he was just getting too tired and he had to drive home to L.A - at the time there were no changes in Dad's condition. And then we waited. They made sure with me there was to be no cardiac resuscitation, and let us know the only thing really still keeping him alive was the IV drugs, keeping his blood pressure up. We did not have to decide immediately. The respiratory therapist also observed to us that the gasping he appeared to be doing around the tube was mostly neurological; he was not responding with gagging if he was suctioned. I noticed myself when I touched his face and ran my finger over his closed eyelids, there was no reflexive blinking. I really appreciate the respiratory therapists for being the most realistic with us; several of them recognized me for when I've been in the emergency room with John having an asthma attack. Especially the one who looks a bit like Robert Redford with a mustache, who told us he was going through something similar with his father.
And it was so hard to make that decision. Christ it was bad enough with my cat! Really, it had already been made, I just could not make myself say yes. Dave already had, and was waiting for me. And I nodded and said I understood. Finally the charge nurse called for the nurse supervisor to be in on the decision; he was the same one who had told me to go home at 11:30 the previous evening, they would call if anything changed, sounded hopeful for the tracheotomy, etc. And here it is only a little more than twenty-four hours later, about 4:30 am (when I'd be getting up for docks if I were doing them) and he's telling me, "I don't envy you this decision. But if I may be blunt; I'm a trauma nurse. The drugs he's getting now are ones I usually reserve for people who've been shot in the head. IMO, he was gone the minute he was intubated."
Thinking back, what I think he meant was that he was already gone by that time; he hadn't been really conscious since sometime Thursday. But at the time, it sounded like we'd killed him then by allowing it. I blinked back tears, and nodded, but still said, "Could we wait until daylight?" Dave shook his head. I really didn't see what difference an hour would make, but nodded again. I'd had to sign for the non-resuscitation; now I can't remember if I had to sign for this, but they moved to shut off the drips and most of the alarms (the monitor and the intubation machine kept going off, and we had to keep hitting the buttons to shut them off). And my father began slipping away, in body if he already had in consciousness.
I stepped out for a minute to call Doug, who didn't answer. He told me later he knew what the call was, and didn't have the courage to answer - I don't blame him. Then I held Dad's hand - his thick, heavy-boned mechanic's hand, now splotched with purple from IV needles and blood tests. I've always thought I inherited his stocky muscular hands, rather than my mother's slender piano playing digits. Doug got those. I stroked his cheek and his thin hair - as thin as it is, he's still only gray at the temples, although his beard is white. Outside the window, the sky began lightening; Beth said, "You got your wish, Leeanne." We watched his face, and sometimes looked at the monitor, where all the numbers fell slowly. The gasping motion he was doing with his jaw weakened and slowed, until only the machine was working. And then there were no numbers, just XXs, except for the respiration, and he was gone. It was 6:30 am on May 1, Sunday morning, with a beautiful clear blue sky. The sun began showing on the California flag outside the widow, on the medical buildings across the parking lot. And I thought, now I'm an orphan.
Dave and Beth slowly left the room. I stayed, still holding his hand while the nurse came in and sadly began removing all of his IVs, monitors, tubes. I moved to his feet and took off the inflated boots that were supposed to have kept him from getting a blood clot while in bed. A lot of good they did, I thought angrily, he'd said earlier in the week he wished he could have them off as he couldn't get comfortable. But then we'd thought he might still be coming home.
I almost snapped at the same blunt nurse, who told me I should take off his ring as a memento, and got rather insistent about it. I had thought of letting him keep it; it was one he'd only purchased recently, gold colored silver from the Franklin Mint, not even especially valuable. He'd tried to give it to Doug, who didn't like it and gave it back. "I don't agree with you," said the nurse, and after seething for a moment I relented, thinking Gareth would like it - they were close. Beth came back in, probably to get me so they could move his body, and I looked down at his hand again, so pale and sallow now, but still warm.
"And this is what you look like, when your blood stops moving," I said.
"I never thought of that," she replied. I set his hand down on the sheet and made myself let go of it for the last time.And then we finally left the room.
All the nurses expressed their condolences - the charge nurse, who had been there the first night when I tried to get a feeling as to how serious pulmonary fibrosis was, told me he'd been cute, and told her earlier in the week Kona was his favorite coffee. The supervisor nurse also apologized for being insistent I take the ring.
We exited ICU's automatic doors for the last time. Dave stuck his head in the ICU waiting room to say good bye to the other family whose father was also in ICU, but apparently slowly recovering. They had been camped in there 24-hours a day all week. It made me feel guilty for leaving, but also irritated me that they were taking it up all the time sleeping in there when other people had family in the ICU too. I never said anything though. I hope he did recover.
We went out the Emergency Room doors into the morning. Dave went off into the parking lot to call his wife, who'd gone home to Ohio the day before. Beth and I spoke uneasily while waiting. Then we went across the street to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf and got coffee while Beth waited for her brother's girlfriend to come down and give her a ride back home. We watched a bunch of older guys with Harleys apparently meet up for coffee and an early morning ride. We chatted about other things for awhile until Stanna came to collect Beth.
I went home and Dave to his hotel for a nap since we'd been up all night. I gave Gareth the ring and he said he'd put it somewhere safe until he was big enough to wear it; it was now his most treasured possession. I tried taking one of my father's pain pills, hoping it would knock me out; unfortunately, while it made my limbs feel very relaxed and heavy, I only dozed. My mind still seemed to be going a mile a minute.
Later, Doug had us up to his house, where he fixed everyone dinner. Dave phoned to let our cousins and aunt know. We shared some funny stories about Dad, and cried some, and then we watched Tangled. Or I listened to a lot of it - it was cute, but I had a glass of wine (Doug insisted I needed it) and I became boneless on the couch again. My eyes wouldn't stay open, but the movie was still registering. Mostly. I remembered the day my mother passed away at home in our back bedroom, what has been Dad's room since then. That day we walked to the park while the funeral home people came, and later we also went to a movie - Stargate.
Dad became a fan and always watched the TV series. The DVR still has it clockstopped where he set it on the SyFy (GODS that is a stupid name) channel. If the TV in the living room is on around 9:30 pm, it switches over to Stargate.
I think I may start watching it. Stimpy will like that. He misses his warm wide lap; he's an aging kitty and it's been chilly lately.
Fair winds and following seas, Dad.