Father's Day remembrances of endurance and determination, despite the 'odds'... and after all, who really knows the definition of 'living'..??

Letters from Hospital

Sunday, June 27, 1999

Spent the night here with Dad; they gave me a small cot. This morning I have a kink in my back, but I got more sleep than since he came into the hospital. It was broken up a bit whenever he’d call out, but I had no trouble going right back to sleep.

He’s on his last days, I think, although who am I to say? One thing I know: if he could get better, he would, full of vim and vigor; the Gramps we all remember. I hate it that he is hooked to the bag of morphine, with a handy pushbutton available, but I am glad he is given that alternative. He has been in such pain. His entire left side is painful to him, as well as his back. There is nothing more to be done for him, say the doctors.

When our good doctor finished giving our family this news yesterday, I listened, questioned futilely, rushed out of the hospital, full of my own pain and loss and panic. I drove the 50 miles to Newport from Spokane, to home and familiar things. But when I walked in the door, it was not familiar. It looked uninviting, poorly kept, deserted. The animals were happy to see me, though, so after taking care of their needs, I called my best friend, expecting all sorts of sympathy and support. And I got it.

But I got it the way she sees things, which is slightly different from the way I see things, and I couldn’t even argue her into seeing my way. Miffed a bit, but not angry, I hung up the phone, only knowing one thing. I had to go back to the hospital, to be with Dad as much as possible, no matter what happened.

The hour-plus drive back to the hospital gave me frustration because it took so much time, but it was also a good time to think. How often I have hated that drive, either to or from, because it takes so long, and it also seems that on those days when I am in a particular hurry to get to my destination that is the time every slow driver hits the same piece of road. The only thing to do is settle down, let the flow happen at its own pace, and join it.

So I had lots of time to think about living in a world without Dad, without a home, friendless, homeless… I wallowed there for awhile, probably about five miles. I don’t exactly know when it began to change, but my mind cleared, and I could see my path ahead clearly, not only the road to the hospital, to Dad, desperately ill, but the possibilities beyond this present time, however the outcome. It doesn’t matter! My heart began to sing with the knowledge that I have available to me, right now, everything I need to move to the next step…. whatever, wherever, it is. It does not matter what happens, although I do indeed have preferences. Those I am pursuing, and I am willing to compromise them if I must, but only a little!

I have already defined Value; this is what gives me the strength and flexibility to walk my path. Through these past days with Dad, going through all the ups and downs of his illness, the hopes the fears, the loneliness, the agony, the anger – I have discovered that all this is nothing more than fluff and flurry. When scraped away, what is found beneath is Value, or Values; those living, loving decisions already made.

A decision becomes a value if it is lived truly and honestly, in my humble opinion.

So, driving down that Newport highway to the hospital in Spokane, I discovered what had been momentarily forgotten in my panic flight away from reality. I discovered that I had already given this some thought, long before Dad was very ill. Those considerations, along with my Value sense of what is right or wrong for me and for Dad, combined into a crystal picture of my next few days. My shoulders settled down into a more normal mode, my sightless gaze out the windshield gave way to the steady highway in front of me. I knew what to do, without doubt.

And it helped me feel easier about the future. That other state of mind is a killer for sure.

***

Monday morning, June 28, 1999

I woke this morning to the sound of clear, steady breathing from my father. I don’t remember being awakened too often by the nurses either, nor did he call out as he had the previous night. I think he made a decision yesterday. If he follows the doctors, he will find himself at the end of his insurance rope, and it would hang him when he came to the end of it.  He has come close already, I suspect. Yesterday the doctor told him he could give him enough morphine so that he would not feel any pain as he sat at home waiting to drown in his own juices.

I was sitting behind Dad, so I couldn’t see his face when the doctor finished his little prepared statement about dying, clearing the way for the family to feel better and not be upset. When he finished speaking, we all waited. No one said anything. Finally the doctor asked again, a bit of impatience in his voice, “Did you understand what I just said? What do you want to do?”

“I want to continue,” said Dad.

The doctor stared hard at him, unbelieving. “You want to continue this circle of pain? He asked. “I can promise you one thing for sure – in six months’ time you will only be in worse condition than you are today.” Satisfied that his point was made beyond redemption, he sat back. “Now, tell me, what do you want to do?”

“I want to continue,” said Dad.

The doctor’s eyes squinted a bit as he leaned forward, speaking into my father’s face. Maybe it was my imagination, but I was certain he was piqued. “You will have most of the pain meds removed today. I will prescribe a one-time-only shot for your arthritis in that knee. You will receive dialysis tomorrow morning, and then we’ll decide about sending you home.” Abrupt, terse, (angry, I wondered), he strode from the room.

And that’s the last time we spoke directly to him. Dad saw him in the hall later in the afternoon, but he did not stop or look our way.

The pain began to ride Dad in the early evening. I knew but didn’t want to speak of it; neither did Dad. Finally, he said in a soft voice, “I think it is just about ‘scream time’.”

“Let me call a nurse for you, Dad,” and I jumped up, my finger pointing at the red call button. “No,” he said. “Just wait a bit. Let’s see what we can do ourselves.” We prayed together, to direct our combined energies. It was slow; Dad said little, but I knew it was not easy for him. I had to remain aloof from his pain. I was concentrating on easing, healing. Located the nurse’s aid, convinced him to release a sleeping pill earlier than scheduled, found a heated blanket for his knee, and dug four extra-strength Tylenols out of my purse to go with the sleeping pill. Furtively, Dad swallowed the pills, and allowed me to cover him with the warm blanket.

What followed was not comfortable for Dad. I had to remain quiet and leave him to it. I lay back on my uncomfortable cot, sending prayers of energy to help, but not speaking. He was sitting on the side of his bed when I last looked, determined to overcome the pain, but looking as though he didn’t really believe it would happen. I still didn’t speak to him, just turned my head to the wall and went to sleep.

Cold, you say? Wait.

In the pre-dawn hours I was startled awake by something. What? My vision cleared, and found a male face, framed by page-boy style hair, peering into my face. “Sh-h-h”, he whispered. “Is that the way he sleeps?”

I looked over at my dad’s bed. There were his legs, dangling over the side; he had fallen asleep sitting up, and apparently just fell back when he lost consciousness.

“No!” I snorted. “Look at that stubborn man! He would not lie down. He looks so uncomfortable!”

The nurse stood, went to the call button to request some assistance. Two women came into our room; I watched as the three of them gently lifted Dad, stood him up and supported his still sleeping weight while Page Boy straightened the bed. They tucked him in, covered him up and left us alone. Dad’s breathing was clear and steady, and that is the way I found him this morning.

Today, I hope we both know more about our own power of directed prayer. It was mightily motivated by our doctor’s message of death yesterday. I really don’t care what brought it about; I am only happy that it has apparently changed the course of our lives.

Now maybe we can get on with living.

***

Father’s Day, June 15, 2003

Dad breathed his last on July 27, 1999. Today these old notes are being posted in his honor on this Father’s Day, as a salute to his courage and determination.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad!

~~~~~