Rest In Peace
My mom asked me to write this. I've been telling the story for a few days, but it's still a bit raw... still I think that's the right time to write.
This was the last time that I saw my father's eyes.
Mom wanted us to make sure that he would never be left alone after his stroke. It was a massive stroke and we learned on Tuesday that he would never again be able to speak, read, write, or understand language. However, he would still recognize faces (even though he wouldn't know who you were, he would feel the emotions he associated with that person) and music that he loved. So on Wednesday I bought a CD player and a 3 cd collection of the "Old 100" most well known traditional hymns. I had been looking for a collection of classical music, as he loved classical piano, but the Walmart outside of Little Rock that was the only place I could get to on the way to the hospital didn't have anything. That ended up being a good thing.
So we were told that the brain swelling would normally take until Friday or Saturday to put the pressure on his brain stem that would eventually kill him. There were all kinds of things wrong with him, but that was the one that would get to him first. He was still on a machine to help his breathing and he still had food and fluids going to his body through a stint. Mom was the person who would have to decide when the machines would be turned off and when we would go to "full palliative care" instead of having anything left keeping him alive artificially. She needed to sleep. She needed a shower. She really needed to go to the apartment we had rented. I told her that I would stay with him that night so she could have a clear head in the morning.
So she agreed to let me stay with him, and at first it was easy. I had a chair that would lay almost flat and I could sleep near him. When the nurses came in, if they didn't have to do much, I would sleep through it, as would he. At 3:30 that morning though, he needed a sponge bath so they were there to do that. When they started to turn him and clean him, he woke up. His right arm was useless but his left was not, and I woke up when I heard one of the nurses say to the other one "Can you hold his hand down? He's localizing."
I said "Can I do that? I think I can help calm him down." They let me, and I started talking with him and telling him "Dad, it's ok. I'm here. It's Patrick. I'm here with you. We haven't left you alone. We won't leave you alone. And then I started playing the old hymns on the CD. It started with Amazing Grace, then The Old Rugged Cross, then A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. When he heard those hymns or my voice, he would relax. Also, at first when I was talking with him, he would look at me. For about 15 minutes he looked at me. Then he started looking up at the ceiling. His eyes defocused and he was looking up. He would still try and move his hand to the breathing tube or the stint when I wasn't talking with him, but when I was he quit fighting and just would look up. His arm was still strong. I remember being amazed. This battered body, yellow from jaundice, bloated from kidney problems, still bleeding internally from the infections that wouldn't heal, still had strength.
I started to cry and tell him that he didn't have to fight. We were taking care of him. He didn't have to fight anymore. Everyone would be there with him soon. Finally after about an hour, he closed his eyes. The CD stopped playing, so I started it over. The old hymns played on. Amazing Grace. The Old Rugged Cross. A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. Precious Lord, Take My Hand.
I never saw him open his eyes again. After my family arrived, I left for a few hours, assuming that he would be with us for another couple of days. I was told that he opened his eyes again for my mom or my younger sister, but he didn't look at them. Once he shut his eyes for me, I thought about how I had been given a blessing. When I was a baby, I had no words, but I knew his face and voice. I didn't know who he was, but I knew I was loved. I got to have one night where I could repay that care that he gave me when I was too young to have language. It was the hardest hour of my life, but it was the most meaningful hour of my life so far.
I cannot speak how grateful I was that I got to be there for him one time. Words cannot express, but this is as close as I know how to put them together to say how that terrible, wonderful, beautiful hour went. I love you dad. May you rest in peace.
This was the last time that I saw my father's eyes.
Mom wanted us to make sure that he would never be left alone after his stroke. It was a massive stroke and we learned on Tuesday that he would never again be able to speak, read, write, or understand language. However, he would still recognize faces (even though he wouldn't know who you were, he would feel the emotions he associated with that person) and music that he loved. So on Wednesday I bought a CD player and a 3 cd collection of the "Old 100" most well known traditional hymns. I had been looking for a collection of classical music, as he loved classical piano, but the Walmart outside of Little Rock that was the only place I could get to on the way to the hospital didn't have anything. That ended up being a good thing.
So we were told that the brain swelling would normally take until Friday or Saturday to put the pressure on his brain stem that would eventually kill him. There were all kinds of things wrong with him, but that was the one that would get to him first. He was still on a machine to help his breathing and he still had food and fluids going to his body through a stint. Mom was the person who would have to decide when the machines would be turned off and when we would go to "full palliative care" instead of having anything left keeping him alive artificially. She needed to sleep. She needed a shower. She really needed to go to the apartment we had rented. I told her that I would stay with him that night so she could have a clear head in the morning.
So she agreed to let me stay with him, and at first it was easy. I had a chair that would lay almost flat and I could sleep near him. When the nurses came in, if they didn't have to do much, I would sleep through it, as would he. At 3:30 that morning though, he needed a sponge bath so they were there to do that. When they started to turn him and clean him, he woke up. His right arm was useless but his left was not, and I woke up when I heard one of the nurses say to the other one "Can you hold his hand down? He's localizing."
I said "Can I do that? I think I can help calm him down." They let me, and I started talking with him and telling him "Dad, it's ok. I'm here. It's Patrick. I'm here with you. We haven't left you alone. We won't leave you alone. And then I started playing the old hymns on the CD. It started with Amazing Grace, then The Old Rugged Cross, then A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. When he heard those hymns or my voice, he would relax. Also, at first when I was talking with him, he would look at me. For about 15 minutes he looked at me. Then he started looking up at the ceiling. His eyes defocused and he was looking up. He would still try and move his hand to the breathing tube or the stint when I wasn't talking with him, but when I was he quit fighting and just would look up. His arm was still strong. I remember being amazed. This battered body, yellow from jaundice, bloated from kidney problems, still bleeding internally from the infections that wouldn't heal, still had strength.
I started to cry and tell him that he didn't have to fight. We were taking care of him. He didn't have to fight anymore. Everyone would be there with him soon. Finally after about an hour, he closed his eyes. The CD stopped playing, so I started it over. The old hymns played on. Amazing Grace. The Old Rugged Cross. A Mighty Fortress Is Our God. Precious Lord, Take My Hand.
I never saw him open his eyes again. After my family arrived, I left for a few hours, assuming that he would be with us for another couple of days. I was told that he opened his eyes again for my mom or my younger sister, but he didn't look at them. Once he shut his eyes for me, I thought about how I had been given a blessing. When I was a baby, I had no words, but I knew his face and voice. I didn't know who he was, but I knew I was loved. I got to have one night where I could repay that care that he gave me when I was too young to have language. It was the hardest hour of my life, but it was the most meaningful hour of my life so far.
I cannot speak how grateful I was that I got to be there for him one time. Words cannot express, but this is as close as I know how to put them together to say how that terrible, wonderful, beautiful hour went. I love you dad. May you rest in peace.