Well, Get Going!

Dec. 13, 2005

"It's time", the hospice angle/nurse said. "It's time to call your family and get them here." My head exploded at he rush of adreline. I think I'm having a stroke. I paced and took deep breathes, just trying to get some oxygen to my brain. The drill that my brothers and sisters and I discussed fell to the wayside, as I tried to dial my brother's cel phone. My hands shook, and I couldn't even see the numbers. "I've got to call my brother Chuck", I said over and over as I frantically tried to hit the right numbers. "It's time." The words were hardly understandable with choking voice.

The hospice angle/nurse was the calming voice in all this. My dad just got moved from the hospital to the hospice facility. She took one look at him, and knew the time was near. In fifteen minutes, my mom, siblings and all the grandkids were there. We surrounded his bed, and told him how much we'd miss him, that it was time to go, and that we loved him. The doctor arrived and told us what to expect. "24-48 hours" he said. He would be given medicine to ease the gurgling sounds of his breathing. Morphine for the pain. My poor dad. His battle with alzheimers, was coming to an end.

It was only three weeks before this, that he shuffled over to my sister's house. "Come sit with me, I have to tell you something." He had been telling everyone he saw, that he had to tell them something, but his words were jumbled and no one knew exactly what he wanted to say. Except this day, clarity visited him for a moment. "My brain is dead. My words don't work. my legs don't work. We have room here for everyone." and then he clapped his hands together like a plane taking off.. He spoke of a ring, and them he pointed to his heart..."but its still ticking". He got up and walked off.

When I visited him at Thanksgiving, we took a walk. He kept stopping and telling me he had something to tell me. The words were not there, as with my sister. But I understood. I told him I would keep the secret, whatever it was.

The week after Thanksgiving, the violent man that possess my dad's body lost control. The next day he was in a home for alzheimer's patients. He was dangerous to himself and my mom. He threatened her with a plastic knife, a banana, and then tried to choke her. For 11 days he was in a home. He refused food, and drink and all meds. No one could get near him. No one could touch him. He was checking out. And we let him.

My dad had a 3 day stay at the hospital before he was transported to a hospice care facility. That's when I arrived from out of state. He never regained consciousness. He never spoke again with words. "Its ok to go, Dad." I whispered over and over again. "We'll be ok. We'll miss you, but we'll be ok." I stroked his hair, like I did when I was a child. Even in the midst of dying, treasured memories brought my soul relief.

I had my hand on my dad's wrist and felt his pulse, as the life slowly ebbed from his body. I felt each beat of his heart. Not a struggling heart, but one that just slowed down. We had expected him to last the night. My mom went home to rest for awhile. His doctor even made the comment to my brother David "So, your spending the night" His nurse came by, loving on my dad, and telling him how special he was and that she would miss the dance he always did when he greeted her in the office. My dad loved to flirt and she knew it. It was a touching sight.

Then my niece said "there is no color in his lips" My dad was leaving. Quick, go get mom, as someone dashed home. By now the pulse in his arm could not be felt. I had one hand on his chest, and my fingertips on his neck. The hand on his chest was loving him, but my fingertips would know when he was gone. Please, my soul was screaming, please, don't die before my mom gets here. Please, don't let her feel guilty about this. Please, hold on. And then his heart slowed.. and slowed. The door opened and my mom walked in – my dad had one beat left of his tired heart, and he was gone.

Everyone was there. His wife of 57 years. All five of his kids. Many of his grandchildren, and a few close friends. We all made our peace with the man that gave us life, as we watched his life end.

For the past 10 years, whenever I would visit, I would say goodbye, and hope it wasn't the last time I would see him. This past Thanksgiving I wondered the same thing. The last words I ever heard my dad say to me was "Well, get going". I think what he was trying to tell everyone at Thanksgiving, was that he was going. He said it with words, jumbled and clear. He said it with his actions when her refused to eat and take his medicine. He said it over and over.

I'm going now, dad. I'm going.