Dad's Last Day/ The Hardest Phone Call

For some reason Saturday after watching Restrepo I wandered through the other programs I had on the DVR. There was an episode of Deadliest Catch in the menu. I was puzzled trying to remember why I had decided to record it. Before I prematurely deleted the program I decided I might as well watch a few minutes of the episode, maybe it would jog my memory as to why I had saved it. As it turned out the episode was when Captain Phil died. The opening preview scene was Josh calling his younger brother letting him know their father had passed away. I turned off the DVR, the thirty second clip was enough to open an old wound, rewind my memory back to the early morning hours not too long ago when I had to make one of the hardest phone calls I have ever made.

November 22, 2010 It was exactly a week since Dad had been admitted to the hospice house. He woke up about six in the morning. Looking back I am not sure what it was, but something was different, I had a melancholy feeling I could not shake. Dad seemed different. I had sat by his side all night in the recliner. I spent most of the night writing in my journal serenaded by Frank Sinatra. Dad had not been able to speak for over a week. His voice long silenced by a lack of liquid being swallowed, moisturizing his vocal chords. No matter how many times I swapped his mouth with a moist sponge it never seem to help the irritation and dryness. His body was no longer able to tolerate the feeding tube. He had not received nutrients for almost two weeks. His need for food, his hunger was only being fed, masked by morphine.

Pain is watching someone you love slowly starve to death, watching cancer devour every ounce of them. Nurses, doctors everyone tried to comfort me with the explanation that with all the pain medicine Dad was on, he was feeling nothing. I am not sure if I ever truly believed them. The knowledge that Dad was not in pain was little comfort to what my heart was feeling. The guilt I was carrying.

Usually when Dad woke he would squeeze my hand. I would look at him, smile and tell him good morning. No matter how weak he was Dad always managed to greet me with a smile. My morning greeting was not met with a smile but rather tears. I asked him if he was in pain, he shook his head no. Dad could not speak but he could shake his head yes or no, occasionally he would shrug his shoulders. Our communication the last few days had been limited to questions that could be answered by a simple yes or no. I stood up, wiped Dad’s tears, adjusted his pillow. Asked him if there was anything I could do for him. He shrugged his shoulders. I kissed his forehead, then went to get a nurse so we could shift Dad to make him more comfortable. I knew he had been in the same position for several hours. I was well aware his skin was so thin and frail it would tear if he was not moved and shifted gently. After adjusting Dad, the nurse went to get another dose of morphine. Dad was once again crying and holding both hands up for me to take. It was awkward but by lowering the railing on his bed I was able to hold both his hands. I balanced myself on the edge of the bed trying not to fall off and trying not to lean too far forward and possibly fall on Dad. Twenty minutes after he received his medication he was once again sleeping.

After making coffee, greeting some of the other hospice patients in the dining area I settled back into my recliner. My brain was too tired to write, I tried to nap but was unsuccessful. I didn’t know why but Dad was restless. His arms were lifting and moving while he slept, once again I lowered the railing so I could hold both his hands. I felt his body relax when my fingers entwined with his. His breathing seemed awkward, fast then almost non existent. When Dad was at the hospital I learned he seemed to breath easier when I sang to him. I changed the play list and began to softy serenade Dad. For the next few hours I sat on the edge of Dad’s bed singing along with my iPod. Several times while I was singing to my father I could see out of the corner of my eye a couple of the hospice patients stop in their wheelchairs outside the door and listen. It took all the strength I had not to tear up when I noticed Bill was crying as he listened to my “concert” for my father.

Mom arrived a little after one in the afternoon. I had been up for almost thirty hours, I needed to head home, shower and take a nap. Before I left I told Dad I would be back shortly. The moment I stepped outside I had an uneasy feeling. I ran home, showered but could not sleep so I dressed and headed back to the hospice house. When I arrived Mom informed me since I left Dad had not moved. I looked at the clock 3:30 p.m.. I walked over to Dad’s side, “Afternoon Daddy. I am back like I promised?” He opened his eyes, smiled then closed them again. I sat next to Dad settled in playing sudoko.

Colonel Cuffey arrived from Fort Belvoir later in the afternoon to visit Dad. I learned there were two things that could wake Dad from the deepest of sleep, his great grandson Cole and/or a man or woman in uniform. When the Colonel entered the room I announced him to Dad. His eyes immediately opened and Dad tried to salute him. The Colonel graciously reached down, stopped Dad’s hand and said “No sir it is I who should be saluting you.”
The past two years my father, the old retired CW4 had formed a friendship with the young commanding officer at Fort Belvoir. Any time the Colonel was near Fort Meade he would stop in to visit and chat with my father. They had an unexplainable close bond. Mutual respect and admiration for each other. When Dad was in the hospital the Colonel made several trips to visit him. Now the Colonel drove to the hospice house to visit my father, in essence say good bye. The Colonel reached down and took my father’s hand, stood by his bedside and talked to him for well over an hour. During the course of the conversation he asked mom how she met my father. Mom explained dad was a “fill in” date. My mom had been asked to a dance by a friend of my Dad's. He got sick and asked my Dad to be his substitute so my mom would not be disappointed. Dad agreed, drove to pick up a girl he had never met or talked to and took her to the dance. Half way through the dance he asked mom how attached she was to his friend. When my Mom said not at all she hardly knew him, my dad told her good because he wanted to take her out again. My mom joked around if her original date had not been sick she would have never met my father. As mom was relaying the story of their chance encounter, I closed my eyes and remembered my own chance encounter twenty seven years earlier almost to the day. Colonel Cuffey talked for awhile longer before he said good bye to my father. He and his aide saluted Dad. Then Colonel said to Dad, “You need to rest now sir. You have been a good soldier.”

I looked at Dad and his eyes were tearing up. I immediately took his hand and told him it was okay. I was still with him I wasn’t going anywhere. Before Mom left at nine I went out to the kitchen and made myself a thermos of hot tea, prepare for the night ahead. At ten o’clock I turned on Hawaii Five-O. When I was little Dad and I would watch the original program together. I pulled my chair against Dad’s bed. I dropped the railing, lowered his bed, took his hand and put my feet up on the edge of the bed next to his feet. I laughed out loud when I saw Dad wiggle his toes. I laid my head on the side of his bed, he squeezed my hand. I looked over and he smiled. I could hear Dad’s breathing change as we watched McGarret and Danno catch the bad guys. When the show was over, the nurse came in to give Dad his medication for the night. I adjusted Dad’s pillows. Swabbed his mouth, it was then that he began to try to talk. I leaned in closer putting my ear close to his mouth hoping I could hear what he was saying. Several times I told him I could not understand what he was saying. Tears began to roll down his checks as he tried to talk. I apologized over and over for not being able to understand him. I took his glasses off, wiped his eyes, then said, “Daddy I am so sorry. I can’t understand you. I know you love me and you know I love you that is all that matters.”
He squeezed my hand. Tears continued to flow down his cheeks for a few more minutes. Finally he started to fall asleep so I turned off his light. I whispered in his ear, “I am not going anywhere Daddy I will always be with you.” I moved my recliner to the corner near a lamp. I pulled out my computer and began to write.

I decided I would write about my great great grandparents Henry Wilson and Amanda Jane Dent. As I wrote I softly sang along with the music that was echoing through the room. I was typing the last sentence when I felt this strange strong ripping pain pierce through my heart. For a moment I stood up, stretched my arms out, wondering was I having a heart attack from the lack of sleep and all the stress. I felt it again. Then it registered in my brain, I had felt that pain once before a very long time ago. I knew what had just happened. I took a deep breath afraid of the truth that awaited me. I closed my eyes for a moment then turned, I knew Dad had died and I did not want to look at him. I stared at my Dad for a minute tears streaming down my cheeks, not sure what to do.

Dad was gone, he was no longer with me. I looked around almost dazed, the halls were dark, there was a soft glow on my dad's face from my light. In that instant I have never felt so alone. I was an adult yet I felt like I was five years old and just orphaned. All I wanted to do was to crawl into someone’s arms. I needed someone to hold me tight and tell me I would be fine. But there was no one, I was alone. Not quite sure what to do, I walked down the hall to the nurse's station. I softly interrupted the nurses conversation and asked trying not to cry, “Can you check on my Dad because I think he died and I don’t know what to do.” The nurse looked at me on the verge of tears, smiled and tried to reassure me by saying, "It is okay."

She walked down the hall and into his room. I sat against the wall in the hall across from his door. She came back out after a few minutes and confirmed what I already knew, Dad was gone. I was told she had to call a doctor so he could come in and officially pronounce Dad dead. She told me if I wanted I could go in and sit with Dad until he arrived.

From the hall I could see the light from my computer softly glowing against the glass. I couldn’t go back in the room, Dad was no longer in there, only his body. The last time I had held his hand it was weak, but it was warm, he was still there. I was not alone then, now I was. I pulled my legs into my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I laid my head down on my knees as I waited for the doctor to arrive. The hospice house was quiet I could hear my iPod playing Frank Sinatra. I took a deep breath composed a list of what I needed to do in my head. First on the list call my mom and tell her Dad had passed away. I was trying to compose in my head the proper way to tell my mom the man she had been married to for 51 years, my father, had died. I called her, no answer. Called again, no answer. Called again, no answer. In a way it was a strange blessing when my mom did not answer the phone, I was annoyed. Annoyed was much easier to handle than sorrow. Feeling annoyed stopped me from crying. Finally the fifth or sixth time I called my mom finally answered. After I spoke to my mom, I hung up and called my sister. Then I had to prepare myself for the hardest phone call of all, I needed to call my daughter.

Kathryn was Grandpa’s little girl. Her father walked out on her when she was three and a half years old. I never married, never dated anyone while she was growing up, so Dad was her father figure. Every father daughter function Dad took Kathryn. My sister and I would laugh when Kathryn was younger talking about how our parent's had changed once the grandchildren arrived. We remembered when we were little Mom and Dad never went to any of our games, saw any of our plays, they went to an occasional concert but that was a rarity. With Kathryn, Dad was at almost every game she cheered at, saw every play, every concert. I lost track of the number of times Dad took Kathryn and her friends shopping or to the movies. He even suffered through Barbie on Ice on his birthday because that is what Kathryn wanted to do. If Kathryn needed something and I could not afford it, Dad would buy it for her. She did not want for anything, especially love. On senior night in high school it was Grandpa (Dad) that walked Kathryn across the football field. I would not have it any other way. She hung the moon in Dad's eyes. Kathryn was his pride and joy. He was a constant in her life. Kathryn could have grown up bitter not trusting men but she did not. She was constantly surrounded by love. She knew because of her Grandpa there are good men in the world.

I sat in the hallway, began to dial Kathryn when I realized I was making a huge mistake. I understood, one of the hardest things for Dad about dying was going to be leaving Kathryn behind. I knew I had to do what was right. I stood up, squeezed my fists, told myself I could do it and walked into the room where my Dad laid. I moved my chair back next to my Dad’s bed, lowered the railing, sat down and took his hand. I knew he would want to be with me as I called Kathryn. I had to tell my daughter the man she adored, the man she loved with all her heart, the man who loved her more than any man ever would, was gone. At 2:48 a.m on November 23, 2010 I had to make the hardest phone call of my life. I held back my tears as I told my daughter her grandpa had passed away.

Anywhere But Here

Once again another day blurs into night as I sit here staring out the window of room 640 at Baltimore Washington Medical Center. To the right of me Dad is sleeping in his bed, to the left an orange glow of sunset is settling over Baltimore. For a moment I have to think what day it is, what month. Time is moving outside my window, but here on the 6th floor it feels like it is standing still. Life is on hold waiting for Dad to get better.

Halloween has come and gone, the clock is beginning to tick away at November. The orange of sunset is now being replaced by darkness expanding over the horizon. The landing lights are now visible and I can see the planes as they line up for the final approach at BWI airport. One, two, three, four, five, six planes I count waiting for their turn to land. They form a straight line of bright dots. I wonder where the flights are coming from? I try to imagine an exotic location warm and beautiful. Where the nights are filled with gentle ocean breezes. I try to envision a hamlet full of laughter and life. A place where I can escape the sounds and smells of the hospital. For right now I long to be at any locale, any city, any abode, anywhere but here.

Looking out the window I am lost in a day dream, a place unknown when the cries of pain from my father transport me back to reality. I call for the nurse, ask for more pain medication. Feelings of helplessness envelop me as I take his hand. I understand there is no physical comfort I can give him. I can only wait with him until his medication takes effect.

I hold his hand and look out the window at the traffic on route 100. I look away so my Dad will not see the tears forming in my eyes. His moans of agony break my heart, tear at my soul. I squeeze his hand, try to comfort him with words. I remind him I love him, everything will be okay. I hear his breathing begin to slow, his moans begin to fade, the medication is slowly taking effect. His grip begins to loosen on my hand, I know he is now asleep. I continue to peer out the window and begin to have selfish thoughts. I look at the highway below and wish I was on it. I long to drop the top on my Mini, crank my iPod and feel the wind on my face, through my hair. I am surrounded by sickness and I hunger to feel alive. I yearn to drive to distances unknown, somewhere fun. I wish I was anywhere but here.

I am lost in a memory of spring break when I am awaken by the red and white flashing lights of an ambulance as it arrives at the emergency bay below. Several times a night I see the lights reflect off the windows in the distant darkness. Every time I see the lights, even though I do not know the passenger I still say a prayer. I pray that whatever injury or illness brought them to the E.R. can be fixed and they can return home. I pray their family never has to stay here. I pray they have the choice to drive anywhere but here.

3:27 a.m. a cry breaks the quiet of the night, I hear the nurses call to each other. I lean forward, I can see the family crying. I can’t remember their names, only where they are from, how they like their coffee. I learned the day before their mother had stage four lung cancer. I witness them consoling each other. I realize their mom has passed. I squeeze my Dad’s hand tighter. I feel tears begin to pour down my cheeks. 4:00 a.m. the ding of the elevator reverberates through the hall. I look out and see the gurney with the unwanted empty burgundy bag turn the corner. A few minutes later the gurney returns, the bag no longer empty. It carries what was once a mother, grandmother, the love of someone’s life. The sight is more than I can endure. I let go of my Dad’s hand and rush to the bathroom to regain my strength, my composure.

I lock the bathroom door, I need to be alone. I feel everything closing in around me. I am afraid I am not strong enough to handle another day, another night. I am scared I am moments away from losing my sanity. I wash my face, stare at myself in the mirror. The reflection I see is not me. My face is so tired, my eyes appear sad. I look like I have aged a hundred years since Dad first arrived on the sixth floor. I hate this place. This floor is taking everything out of me, I am losing hope. I fear the optimist in me is slowly dying. I lean against the wall, catch my breath and ask God why can’t I be anywhere but here?

After a few moments of self pity I remind myself I need to have faith in God, in myself. No matter what the outcome it will be God's will. He will not give me anymore than I can bear. I grab a paper towel and remove all remnants of tears from my face, take a deep breath and head back to Dad’s room. I grab another pillow and sit in my chair between Dad’s bed and the window. I change the play list on my iPod, try to get as comfortable as possible. Once again I take Dad’s hand, stare out the window hoping to find a star to make a wish on. I slowly drift off to sleep, dreaming of happier times when life was the way it was suppose to be. I am almost off in peaceful slumber when the tech wakes me, she has to take Dad’s vitals. I need to move my chair. I stand and continue to gaze out the window. Light is beginning to penetrate the darkness. Another day has arrived. I feel a gentle squeeze on my hand. Dad is awake. He smiles at me. As the warm glow of the sun enters his room I realize here is the only place I want to be.

Simply a Song

The past nineteen days I have spent with my father in the hospital I have been serenaded by the song of cancer. The bleeps of his monitor, the whirl of his feeding tube, the bubbling of the oxygen line, the alarms on his IV, the sounds of the suction machine clearing his airway, the elevator's ding outside his room. Dad's constant chants, his malignant melody, the easy sounds to hear. Strange as it may seem, I have come to appreciate this anthem. For I know as long as I hear these notes Dad is holding his own, he is still here. No matter how much I hate the tune, I know it is much better than the song of silence that awaits me. For now, I cherish his lullaby.

The harshest refrains are the echoes that resonate through the halls at night.  They breach the silence of sleep. The chorus of urgency is so loud, so constant it causes me to stop whatever I am doing to pray. The ward's bewitching waltz; cries of pain, alarms alerting nurses of a patient in need, deafening code blues, and the swift shoof of shoes as they rush to divert darkness' dance partner. Attempt to save the song for one more day.

There are sad ditties as well, the melancholy psalm of despair that tears at my soul and causes me to weep for the unknown person. The sobs of a patient a few doors down. He cries from loneliness every night. He longs for his son to visit. His chorus never changes, please God. His is one of many falsettos released from the open doors. They reverberate from room to rotunda. The intonations of pleas pierce the middle eight and change the composition.

I have learned there is a certain rhythm to tears. Everyone cries in beat as they stand in the hallway, gather their courage to call family members, disclose the diagnosis is cancer. The vagueness in their voice, the uncertainty of fate, solicitation for prayers, a lyric I have lived. They are at the beginning of the song, the first stanza of cancer. Christened the new frontmen in the fight; surrounded by those who await the closing curtain, pray for one more bridge, one last chorus. The crescendo of confusion and desperation, sung in rounds, fills the theater, circles the heart and submerges the soul. No mater, they continue to play, hope for harmony between life and death.

The opera that rages deeps and cuts like no other, the heartache of the final farewell. The last verse written. The cry is a note unlike any other. When the anguished aria is sung, there is silence in the ward. A sound everyone recognizes and fears. The final lyric is the heartache that we all must face. It is life's ending hymn that none of us are ever prepared to sing. We understand once the final note is sung, there is no encore, the ballad, the battle, is finally over.

Holding Dad's Hand

Usually when one thinks about two people holding hands they envision lovers, boyfriend/girlfriend walking together. The first realization that a guy is interested in you is when he first takes your hand. The first contact between a boy and a girl. The first sensation of their touch, their skin against yours. Holding hands is the beginning of a relationship. Sometimes it is a relationship that only lasts a short time, other times it signifies the beginning of a lifetime together.

The first time we "hold hands", our first lifelong relationship, is with our parents.
The inaugural touch outside our mother's womb happens usually moments after birth. It is our parents caressing our arms, hands, placing their finger inside our hands, the first time someone holds our hand. As a small child our parents hold our hand to keep us safe, keep us from running off, keep us near. Holding our hand is in essence a safety net between us and the outside world. As we grow older, as we feel safer, we reach for our parent's hands less often. They too relax their "grip" on us. With continued independence we no longer seek the contentment, the safety of our parent's hands, we seek the comfort of a companion's hand.

Over the past eighteen days I have lost track over the number of times I have held my father's hand. Late at night when Dad has trouble breathing he reaches out for my hand. Anytime he is in pain or scared I reassure him everything is okay by simply taking his hand, caressing his fingers gently as they wrap around mine. The simple gesture of holding his hand let's him know I am not going to leave him. I will always be with him.

Thursday night as he was sleeping I sat in the chair next to his bed staring at our hands entwined together. I could tell when my Dad was in pain, I could feel him squeeze my hand in his sleep. I noticed how frail, how thin his skin had become. I began to wonder when did I stop holding my Dad's hand? When was the last time I remembered reaching out for him? I searched my brain, trying to locate the answer to my question.

Over the past five years as Dad has battled his cancer, I have caught him when he has fainted. I have put my arm around his waist helping him in and out of his wheelchair. He has leaned on my shoulder when he needed help walking. I have placed my hand on the small of his back, balancing him, shadowing him as he walked up the stairs, walked down the hall. I was there ready to catch him if he fell. I have sat with Dad stroking his arm while he was waiting for a doctor, while he was getting chemo. Until he was admitted to the hospital my Dad never reached for my hand, I never reached for his. The last time I remember holding my Dad's hand was in 1985. I had just given birth to my daughter. I was excited to be a mom, Kathryn was beautiful. As I laid in the recovery room after having a c-section the realization hit me I was going to be a single mom. I was going to be raising my child on my own. I suddently felt alone and scared. When I saw my Dad come into the recovery room I reached up for his hand. I needed him, holding his hand was my safety net. When he took my hand, when I felt his fingers around mine, I knew everything was going to be okay. I was not alone.

I continued to stare at our hands. I was amazed at the difference time had done. Our hands had drastically changed over the past twenty five years. My Dad's hands went from being strong and tan to frail and covered in bruises from all the injections and IVs. I thought to myself, twenty five years later our roles were reversed. Before his hand was the reassuring grip, now it was mine. In the past it was the gentle squeeze of his hand that let me know I would be okay, he would always be there for me. Now it seemed, it was me letting my Dad know I was going to be with him, I would help him through every final step he faced. He would not be alone, I would always be with him.

In my mind I was trying to recall when did this transformation take place. When did I become the parental/sheltering figure. The longer I laid with my head against the back of the chair staring at our hands, the more tears began to form in my eyes. I began to comprehend the truth, our roles had not reversed. Dad may have reached for my hand in comfort but he was giving me more. When he was squeezing my hand he was letting me know he was okay. I began to understand, as long as I could hold his hand, no matter how weak his grip was, I felt safe. As long as I could hold his hand, I could still hear his voice. Over the years, hearing my Dad's voice always made any bad day better. Dad had a way of making me feel like everything would be fine. I could handle it.

Ever since I was a little girl, Dad was my umbrella protecting me from all the frightening storms that lay ahead of me. He was always there when I needed him. I slowly began to comprehend looking at his frail fingers wrapped around mine soon I would no longer have his hand to hold. I would no longer hear his voice ask how my day went, how I was doing. We would no longer share our talks on Thursdays. My lifeline, my safety net was slowly leaving me. The man who in my eyes could make any and everything better, help me solve any problem was no longer going to be here with me. I was going to miss him more than I could ever adequately describe in words.

While I sat next to his hospital bed, holding his hand, Dad's grip tightened around my fingers as if he understood what I was thinking. What I was trying to accept. I smiled, told Dad everything would be alright, I would be alright. I promised him once again I would be right next to him holding his hand. The rest of the night while I sat with my father, I longed to have those twenty five years back. I wish I could regain all the times I neglected to reach for and hold the most wonderful hands I have ever known, my Dad's.