4am

It’s 4am and I’m sitting next to my dying father’s bed.   The nurse has just given him another shot of morphine, but it will be at least fifteen or twenty minutes until it starts granting him any comfort.    Until then he will be restless and his eyes will open and stare away at things I cannot see.  

He can receive morphine every four hours to make him comfortable, but at this stage he’s only getting about 3 hours of benefit.   The last forty five minutes or so the effect has been lost and he gives weak moans and is in noticeable pain.   Then it takes a while to kick in again after a new dose.    It’s a long hour.

Dad would have been 87 in November, and for most of that time, he’s been one of the strongest men I have ever known.   At five foot eight and slight build, most people would underestimate his strength, but those who worked with him knew that my Dad was primarily muscle and iron will.  He worked hard his entire life, even after retirement when he dedicated his life to taking care of my sister and my Mom.  

That was his prayer, he often said, that God would let him live long enough to take care of them until they didn’t need him anymore.   His prayers were answered and he’s now lived three years beyond when we lost them both in that painful late summer of 2012.    He cared for them selflessly and tirelessly, and now he is simply tired.

His health has been deteriorating slowly since their passing.   Congestive heart failure, renal failure, lung problems, lymphoma.    He’s dealt with it all in good faith and good spirits.      He attended church every Sunday that his health would allow (and many that I’m sure most of us would have stayed home).   He sang a solo in church just a few weeks ago.  He couldn’t play his guitar anymore, and he had to sit down to sing, but it was a blessing to all who heard him.     

It’s 4:30am and Dad is talking.   I can’t understand because his voice is so weak and he can barely push air out from his lips.   I lean in close to his face and ask him to repeat what he said but his eyes are closed again.    Whatever he needed to tell me is now gone.   I’ll never hear it.

There is nothing I can do and there is nothing more frustrating.    

It’s 5am and I know my Dad is dying.    He knows too, because despite his failing body and the effect of the morphine, his mind is strong.    He knew what it meant when the doctor said they were discontinuing the dialysis treatment.   He knew what it meant when they said they were going to give him morphine to help keep him comfortable.  

He told me just yesterday (when his voice was a little stronger and I could lean in with my good ear), that he was ready to go, but he hated to leave us.    I told him, “Dad, you’re not leaving us.   Mom didn’t leave us when she passed.   She’s still with me every day…and you’ll be with us every day too.   The things you taught us will always be in our hearts.”   He looked at me and nodded in acknowledgement.   I kissed him on the forehead and told him, “I love you Dad.”   He whispered back, “I know, love you too.” 

As his breathing patterns changed throughout the night and into the morning, I could feel him slipping away.   He was becoming less a part of this world and more a part of the next.   He couldn’t swallow so I began to wipe his mouth with a wet sponge and dribble drops of water into his mouth from the end of a straw.  These little things were as much for me to feel like I was doing something…ANYTHING…other that just standing there feeling so helpless.  

Just before Noon, as my brother Wayne stroked his forehead and I held his hand, Dad took his last breath.   I thought it would be easier, since I knew he was dying, but it was that same low punch in the stomach that I felt when I got that late night call that Mom had died.   The air in my lungs compressed and I was hit with the reality that the man who had been there for me my entire life was gone. 

It’s 4am the next day and I’m laying alone in the house that was once filled with the laughter and love of my family.   Mom and Dad moved here in 1960 and it was and always will be home.   I get up and wander through the dim light of the rooms and see my brothers and sister rushing past, still flush with youth and hope.   I see Dad in his chair and Mom at the stove cooking dinner.   I see my life here and it was a good one.  I will be forever grateful.

In the light of the morning, as I carried some things to the car, I could see some of the small cracks appearing in the foundation.   In the months that the house has been uninhabited, the porch has taken on a few loose boards, and the roof has become in need of some repair.     Mom’s garden is getting overtaken by weeds.   Dad’s fence needs cleaning out. 

I make mental note that we’ll have to come back soon and take care of all these things.   It’s strange that at the moment, they seem both unimportant but also extremely important.   As I back out of the driveway I can’t help but think that the house seems much smaller now, and kind of sad, almost as if the house is grieving too.    It will miss the smell of Mom's cooking and Dad watching over it from his chair on the front porch.    So will I.



Dad...a life in pictures