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ponderings
In another couple of hours, I will go to bed and go to sleep.
When I wake up in the morning, it will be more than a year since my father died.
Last October 27, I was supposed to fly back here from my childhood home; but my dad had a rough night on the Friday (26th), so on Saturday I changed my flight and we started making plans to move him to a hospice facility on the Sunday.
All day on the Saturday it was clearer and clearer that he knew the end was coming. Here are some things I don't want to delay recording any longer, in case I somehow forget them:
That's about when we called the hospice nurse. Much later, after the nurse had arrived, he and Mom were going over paperwork about medical power of attorney and whatnot, and I was sitting with Dad and holding his hands until he tried to pull himself up to sitting, at which point I'd let go, so he'd let go, so I'd hold his hands again. So the last thing Mom heard him say with any kind of clarity was before the nurse arrived, when he was struggling to get out of bed: "I have to go, but you're holding me down." But I know the last thing he said before he couldn't speak anymore was at about 1am on the Sunday, before I went to catch an hour or so of sleep (which ended when my aunt came and got me again), when he responded to me: "I love you, too, honey."
When I wake up in the morning, it will be more than a year since my father died.
Last October 27, I was supposed to fly back here from my childhood home; but my dad had a rough night on the Friday (26th), so on Saturday I changed my flight and we started making plans to move him to a hospice facility on the Sunday.
All day on the Saturday it was clearer and clearer that he knew the end was coming. Here are some things I don't want to delay recording any longer, in case I somehow forget them:
- At some point in the day - I don't remember when - he sat up on the couch and, for the first time in the whole process, said "I don't feel good."
- He asked me to bring him his shoes because he needed to put them on before he could go get in the car. In fact all day he was talking about traveling. (I brought him his shoes and put them on his feet and didn't take him to the car. What was I going to do?)
- He asked me how many chapters are in Ethan Fromme. It's public domain, so I downloaded it for iBooks and told him, and he nodded and never said another word about it.
- My least favorite: he called me over and asked me to help him take his wedding ring off his finger, "before [his] hand stiffens up." I ... don't remember exactly how I queried this, but he said again: he wanted to get the ring off "before rigor mortis sets in." Okay, I said, I'll put it right here on your table next to your glasses, so you'll know where it is when you want it back. "No," he said, "give it to your mother."
- My most favorite: as the sun was setting that Saturday evening the three of us just sat together on the couch and held each other and looked out the window at the fall color in the back yard.
That's about when we called the hospice nurse. Much later, after the nurse had arrived, he and Mom were going over paperwork about medical power of attorney and whatnot, and I was sitting with Dad and holding his hands until he tried to pull himself up to sitting, at which point I'd let go, so he'd let go, so I'd hold his hands again. So the last thing Mom heard him say with any kind of clarity was before the nurse arrived, when he was struggling to get out of bed: "I have to go, but you're holding me down." But I know the last thing he said before he couldn't speak anymore was at about 1am on the Sunday, before I went to catch an hour or so of sleep (which ended when my aunt came and got me again), when he responded to me: "I love you, too, honey."
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