It was a year ago yesterday that Dad passed. I am surprised at the intensity of emotion I still feel today. The visions of seeing him struggle through his last few months stayed with me in vivid images flashing through my mind daily for most of the year. Lots of tears shed, sleepless nights, fears, regrets and questions that remain unanswered. It was only in the past month or so where my thoughts of Dad had transformed more to fonder memories...of vacationing, picnics, swimming, watching TV, riding on his shoulders, fishing, etc.
I knew it was coming, as the calendar grew closer and closer to February 25th, I began thinking of the experiences we all shared with Dad at the end of his life, and tried to prepare myself for the culmination of emotion that might come on the first anniversary of his passing. It began with thoughts of seeing him in Hersey after his surgery, his missing eye covered by bandages, the tracheostomy, feeding tube, suction, medications, but mostly his extreme discomfort. Izzy was just a few weeks old. Then, the short stay at home and admission to St. Lukes, where we almost lost him due to a displaced trach. Next to Good Shepherd for rehabilitation and then home again. The discussions along the way were not about losing him, but about treating the cancer, radiation, and having him fitted for a prosthetic palate so he could eat again. Did we know what his eventual future held at this point, probably yes, but at least I know I was hopeful. Some might say I was in denial. Then came his last admission to Lehigh Valley Hospital, his confusion and then his final diagnosis of brain cancer.
I can recount the details of his room in the ICU, when his oncologist spoke to all of us, telling us that the cancer had spread to his brain and there wasn't much more they could do. I can see Dad's face, a single tear running down his cheek, and his declaration that "I am done...no more." The discussions then followed, with Dad's initial request to go home to die. Mom was fearful and honest about her inability to care for him at home in his last days. We all wanted to make it happen, but realized that it may be too much for all of us. Being a new mom of an infant, I was certainly not in a position to provide much assistance to my family in caring for him at home. Dad was experiencing fleeting moments of clarity, shadowed by varying states of disorientation. With further discussion, Dad told us that he would like to do what we all were comfortable with. To this day, I know many of us, including me, regret deeply not bringing him home, but it is done, and he is gone.
After the decision was made to move him to the Hospice unit to await death, I sat by his side and held his hand. I can feel his warm, and still strong, hand squeeze mine as I asked him "Dad, are you scared?" I can see him look at me, and with warmth and confidence, he whispered "No."
The move to Hospice happened quickly. It was a familiar place, the same location my paternal grandparents both passed in. How fitting, for the lives of a mother, father and son to end in the same place. As I got off the elevator and entered the unit the memories of my Grandmother's passing quickly came rushing back. I walked down the hall to what was her room. There was nobody there. I entered and stared at the bed. I remembered sitting in that very room alone with her, reading to her, holding her hand, stroking her hair. I remembered her breathing patterns as she neared the end. I closed my eyes and saw her take her last breath. It was as if time stood still and I was back in the same place. It seemed like a dream (or a nightmare) to be there again, and this time to say goodbye to her son...my Dad. I spoke to her in a whisper that day and told her Dad was coming...I asked her to help him go to her peacefully and quickly, and to watch over all of us as we prepared for his death.
I spent as much time at the hospital, and then at Hospice as I could. Izzy was 2 months old - I remember going in and out of the ICU, and camping out in the family room of the Hospice unit - Sometimes my husband would be in the waiting room or walking the halls with her. I nursed her in the waiting room, and pass her around to grieving family members. She slept in a little portable bed next to Dad. There were a few times when he was awake and alert, and he touched her, waved to her and smiled. I know he knew she was there...that we all were there. I can only hope that her presence gave him the same peace and comfort that it did for the rest of us. What an amazing respite and source of joy she was for all of us during this time. I am thankful that Dad got to meet her. I recognize the timing of her birth as a blessing - God's way of sending Light and comfort to us all during a tremendously painful and trying time.
The more time that passed, the more excruciating the experience became for all of us. Is Dad in pain? Does Dad want us to touch him? Does he want us to talk to him? Does he want music? Does he want us in the room with him all the time? Can he hear us? We all spoke to him privately to say goodbye. I waited for days before I took my turn, not knowing what to say. How do you speak to someone who is facing death? What are the right words to say? What if I say the wrong thing and he passes thinking that I am mad at him? What if I don't say enough, or he perceives my words negatively? What if he takes his last breath and leaves this world thinking his daughter didn't love him? I felt tremendous guilt for having not spent enough time with him, and not being as emotionally close to him as I should have been in my adult years. Do I tell him that? Do I tell him that I am sorry? Our conversation was difficult and filled with tears. I whispered to him, he opened his eye and looked at me, he squeezed my hand, and we both cried. I told him that I loved him, and that I was sorry that I didn't spend more time with him, that I was sorry for all that he went through in the past few months, that he was a great father, and that I would miss him dearly. I asked him to give Grandma a hug for me and to watch over Izzy as she grew, and the rest of us. Then I kissed him on the forehead and wiped his tears. The finality of this gesture was impossible to bear. Today I can think of many things I should have said...but its too late, that was it, my last words to my Dad. There is no way to go back.
It happened on a Friday, after days and days of sitting vigil by his side, seemingly all of us staring at him and waiting. I had to work that day, but left the office as soon as I could to get back to his bedside. I was driving home when I got the call from my sister, "You should come now...its time." I got there as quickly as I could, my husband and Izzy in tow. The scenario plays in my mind in slow motion, off the elevator, teary family members filling the hallways, escorted by my sister to his room where everyone gathered...hugged my mom and then, almost instantly, his final breath. It was like he waited and knew we all were finally there at that moment and he could go. My mom kneeled by his bedside sobbing, I rubbed her back and put my hand on his leg...his body was cold and hard...lifeless...he was gone. My Dad was dead.
The days that followed, the funeral arrangements, seeing him in the casket, the church...all still fresh in my mind. He was too young, 68 years old, and I was too young to lose my father. The horror that he endured at the end of his life was unimaginable to me before these events unfolded. I question the judgment of the surgeon who took half of his face. I question the care he received while in the hospitals. I regret not being able to help my family more during the ordeal. I regret not being able to grant him his wish to die at home. I regret that I had only 38 years with my Dad, and that I failed to cherish those years appropriately. I regret that I may not have been the best Daughter that I could have been. What did my Dad do to deserve such a fate? I couldn't at the time, and still can't today, reconcile why it all happened. What I do know is that my Dad was incredibly courageous through the entire ordeal. I love him, miss him terribly, and will strive as often as I can to replace the traumatic visions of the end of his life, my questions, fears and regret with warm and wonderful memories of him smiling, happy and healthy.
I knew it was coming, as the calendar grew closer and closer to February 25th, I began thinking of the experiences we all shared with Dad at the end of his life, and tried to prepare myself for the culmination of emotion that might come on the first anniversary of his passing. It began with thoughts of seeing him in Hersey after his surgery, his missing eye covered by bandages, the tracheostomy, feeding tube, suction, medications, but mostly his extreme discomfort. Izzy was just a few weeks old. Then, the short stay at home and admission to St. Lukes, where we almost lost him due to a displaced trach. Next to Good Shepherd for rehabilitation and then home again. The discussions along the way were not about losing him, but about treating the cancer, radiation, and having him fitted for a prosthetic palate so he could eat again. Did we know what his eventual future held at this point, probably yes, but at least I know I was hopeful. Some might say I was in denial. Then came his last admission to Lehigh Valley Hospital, his confusion and then his final diagnosis of brain cancer.
I can recount the details of his room in the ICU, when his oncologist spoke to all of us, telling us that the cancer had spread to his brain and there wasn't much more they could do. I can see Dad's face, a single tear running down his cheek, and his declaration that "I am done...no more." The discussions then followed, with Dad's initial request to go home to die. Mom was fearful and honest about her inability to care for him at home in his last days. We all wanted to make it happen, but realized that it may be too much for all of us. Being a new mom of an infant, I was certainly not in a position to provide much assistance to my family in caring for him at home. Dad was experiencing fleeting moments of clarity, shadowed by varying states of disorientation. With further discussion, Dad told us that he would like to do what we all were comfortable with. To this day, I know many of us, including me, regret deeply not bringing him home, but it is done, and he is gone.
After the decision was made to move him to the Hospice unit to await death, I sat by his side and held his hand. I can feel his warm, and still strong, hand squeeze mine as I asked him "Dad, are you scared?" I can see him look at me, and with warmth and confidence, he whispered "No."
The move to Hospice happened quickly. It was a familiar place, the same location my paternal grandparents both passed in. How fitting, for the lives of a mother, father and son to end in the same place. As I got off the elevator and entered the unit the memories of my Grandmother's passing quickly came rushing back. I walked down the hall to what was her room. There was nobody there. I entered and stared at the bed. I remembered sitting in that very room alone with her, reading to her, holding her hand, stroking her hair. I remembered her breathing patterns as she neared the end. I closed my eyes and saw her take her last breath. It was as if time stood still and I was back in the same place. It seemed like a dream (or a nightmare) to be there again, and this time to say goodbye to her son...my Dad. I spoke to her in a whisper that day and told her Dad was coming...I asked her to help him go to her peacefully and quickly, and to watch over all of us as we prepared for his death.
I spent as much time at the hospital, and then at Hospice as I could. Izzy was 2 months old - I remember going in and out of the ICU, and camping out in the family room of the Hospice unit - Sometimes my husband would be in the waiting room or walking the halls with her. I nursed her in the waiting room, and pass her around to grieving family members. She slept in a little portable bed next to Dad. There were a few times when he was awake and alert, and he touched her, waved to her and smiled. I know he knew she was there...that we all were there. I can only hope that her presence gave him the same peace and comfort that it did for the rest of us. What an amazing respite and source of joy she was for all of us during this time. I am thankful that Dad got to meet her. I recognize the timing of her birth as a blessing - God's way of sending Light and comfort to us all during a tremendously painful and trying time.
The more time that passed, the more excruciating the experience became for all of us. Is Dad in pain? Does Dad want us to touch him? Does he want us to talk to him? Does he want music? Does he want us in the room with him all the time? Can he hear us? We all spoke to him privately to say goodbye. I waited for days before I took my turn, not knowing what to say. How do you speak to someone who is facing death? What are the right words to say? What if I say the wrong thing and he passes thinking that I am mad at him? What if I don't say enough, or he perceives my words negatively? What if he takes his last breath and leaves this world thinking his daughter didn't love him? I felt tremendous guilt for having not spent enough time with him, and not being as emotionally close to him as I should have been in my adult years. Do I tell him that? Do I tell him that I am sorry? Our conversation was difficult and filled with tears. I whispered to him, he opened his eye and looked at me, he squeezed my hand, and we both cried. I told him that I loved him, and that I was sorry that I didn't spend more time with him, that I was sorry for all that he went through in the past few months, that he was a great father, and that I would miss him dearly. I asked him to give Grandma a hug for me and to watch over Izzy as she grew, and the rest of us. Then I kissed him on the forehead and wiped his tears. The finality of this gesture was impossible to bear. Today I can think of many things I should have said...but its too late, that was it, my last words to my Dad. There is no way to go back.
It happened on a Friday, after days and days of sitting vigil by his side, seemingly all of us staring at him and waiting. I had to work that day, but left the office as soon as I could to get back to his bedside. I was driving home when I got the call from my sister, "You should come now...its time." I got there as quickly as I could, my husband and Izzy in tow. The scenario plays in my mind in slow motion, off the elevator, teary family members filling the hallways, escorted by my sister to his room where everyone gathered...hugged my mom and then, almost instantly, his final breath. It was like he waited and knew we all were finally there at that moment and he could go. My mom kneeled by his bedside sobbing, I rubbed her back and put my hand on his leg...his body was cold and hard...lifeless...he was gone. My Dad was dead.
The days that followed, the funeral arrangements, seeing him in the casket, the church...all still fresh in my mind. He was too young, 68 years old, and I was too young to lose my father. The horror that he endured at the end of his life was unimaginable to me before these events unfolded. I question the judgment of the surgeon who took half of his face. I question the care he received while in the hospitals. I regret not being able to help my family more during the ordeal. I regret not being able to grant him his wish to die at home. I regret that I had only 38 years with my Dad, and that I failed to cherish those years appropriately. I regret that I may not have been the best Daughter that I could have been. What did my Dad do to deserve such a fate? I couldn't at the time, and still can't today, reconcile why it all happened. What I do know is that my Dad was incredibly courageous through the entire ordeal. I love him, miss him terribly, and will strive as often as I can to replace the traumatic visions of the end of his life, my questions, fears and regret with warm and wonderful memories of him smiling, happy and healthy.
