Dave
Staff member
This post will be a summary of everything that went on with my dad from start to finish. If I do this the way I think it'll be quite long and I apologize for that. Also, if you go to the funeral, some of my speech there may sound a little familiar as you'll have read parts or paraphrases of it here first.
First, the medical stuff. I've put this behind spoiler tags as I've either posted about it before or it's just information you don't want to read. I'll un-spoiler once we get the the final scene.
Let me explain to you how it goes with hospice. Everyone is very nice. Nobody treats you like you are a trouble. You ask for something and if they can help you they will do so, without complaint. The people at Midlands were exceedingly professional and absolutely wonderful to our family and specifically my father. But he was still dying.
A nursing home is a wonderful and terrible place. Wonderful because the people there treat you with dignity and are very caring. Terrible because of the sights and sounds of people in the waning days of their lives, some who have been largely abandoned or forgotten by their families, if said families even exist. One lady across the hall would cry all the time and yell for help. At first I felt sorry for her but then realized that she did this for everything. She wants candy? "Someone help me!!" She has candy but they won't let her lie down so she won't choke? "I want to lie down! Won't someone please help me?!?" She was very into drama. And a lot of them like to sit in the hallway and greet people as they come in. I talked to several of them and they are wonderful people. Lonely and probably a little bored, but wonderful people. And the girls at Midlands treated them all with patience and grace.
Dad started eating less and less. His only nourishment was from these little protein juices he really liked. But he was losing weight at an alarming rate. They couldn't feed him intravenously as his kidneys weren't processing fluids. His breathing was becoming more and more shallow. On Sunday (January 29) the family gathered in his room to see him. For most of them it was goodbye.
It was at this time I spoke to my work and they were very understanding. Bellevue University and my boss, Scott, I owe a debt of gratitude. They could have made a difficult time even more difficult. When I needed to be gone I could be gone with no questions asked. I can't thank them enough. I had planned on working right from the hospital room (I know it's not technically a hospital room, but it's easier to call it that for the understanding of others.) but the wifi signal in the room was degraded too much by distance from the router and because of wiring in the walls. From then on my entire life was spent working 1/2 days. I'd do my morning reports and then leave and spend time in the hospital, talking to him and doing what needed to be done - feeding, giving drinks, helping to move him up or change his pillows. When my sister got off of work we'd switch out and I'd head home, logging in to my work sometimes until midnight. Then I'd go to work and do it all over again.
On Thursday he'd been fairly lucid, joking around and showing faint glimmers of the person he'd been. But it was not to last. It's unknown whether it was the infection coming back or another cause, but his temperature started to rise alarmingly. At noon he was at 98.2 degrees. By 4 pm it was 102.0. Using cold compresses on his head, under his neck, under his armpits and a few other strategic locations we watched the fever rise to a peak of 102.7 before starting to drop back. By the next morning it was back to normal.
That was the longest night of my life. You see, I was alone with my father that whole night. It was I who refreshed the compresses and checked the temperature. I woke up at 6 am on Thursday and did not sleep until I was relieved Friday at 8 am by my wife, who came to take over so I could sleep. I went home, did my morning reports and fell into bed. I woke at 2 pm and went back to the hospital still wearing the same clothing in which I left.
Even though the fever had abated, my father as I knew him was gone. His breathing had become very shallow. He was no longer eating or drinking. It was a matter of time, whether that time was hours or days we had no idea. Everyone left, leaving my sister and I alone with him. The door closed. We sat at his side, stroking his hair and talking to him. We let him know it was okay to stop fighting. It was time to end the suffering. It was time to go.
At about 7:15 pm on February 3 my father took a few breathes and then slipped away. He left the pain, the loss of dignity something like this brings. He left a family who is saddened for his passing but glad we knew him.
My father was a man of very strong conviction. He never did anything half way. When he was drinking, he was drinking hard. When he was working, he was working hard. When he was playing, he was playing hard. He was a man with a wicked sense of humor, although not everyone saw this side of him. He was a man of uncommon wisdom who used words like cudgels. He could pick apart an argument with a few well-placed statements that sounded so ludicrous that you were at the same time ashamed you lost the argument as much as ashamed that you got schooled with a phrase that sounded like it belonged in a Louis L'Amour novel. Let me give a couple of examples to his speech.
On weather: "It's raining harder than a tall man pissing on a short rock."
Also on weather: "It's hotter than a two-peckered billy goat."
The EXACT SEX TALK HE GAVE ME when I was a young teenager: "Don't fuck anything you don't want to see over the kitchen table every morning at breakfast."
Short, sweet, to the point. This was my dad. A carpenter who built houses, worked every day to provide for a family and created a home for whomever needed one.
See, our house was a safe-haven for several kids who for one reason or another couldn't go back to their own house. Whether it was because of an abusive parent, an argument or just because they had nowhere else to turn, our house was where they invariably ended up. In the forefront of this was my mother, standing between the child and the problems from which they were running. But behind her, silent and firm, was my father. He never struck us that I can remember - with one exceptional time which I may or may not tell at a later date. (I so totally deserved it!) But the force of his disappointed stare was enough to curtail our attempts of nefarious intent. He never ruled us through fear but through love and instruction.
A great example of this was the time I decided to play around with his shotgun. I was probably 14 or so and my parents were out playing cards with friends. I was showing off to a couple friends of mine and the shotgun went off. I had been just pointing it at my friend but instead moved it to the side where I disintegrated my parent's bedroom window. Blew that shit right up. My parents came home after we called them and my friends were sent home and I was sent to bed. The next day - without punishment - my father took me into the country, showed me how to shoot, how to handle the weapon and how to properly clean and store it. How many parents would have treated such an episode as a learning experience? Not many, I'd surmise. But that was my dad.
My dad was my hero. Silent and stoic to a fault. If he complained about something you damned well better listen because something was really wrong. Even to the end he never once complained.
My father passed in his sleep, surrounded by family who loved him. The ease of his passing is just one more thing I can only strive to emulate.
I love you, dad. I'll miss you. Rest in peace.
First, the medical stuff. I've put this behind spoiler tags as I've either posted about it before or it's just information you don't want to read. I'll un-spoiler once we get the the final scene.
This story starts back on Christmas eve when my father took himself quite a tumble. In fact, he broke his hip. Being a Nihsen and stubborn as a fricking mule, he did not want mother to bother anyone, this being a holiday. So she tried to help him - unsuccessfully - into bed. He was able to struggle into a chair, I believe, but it was not until the next day when an ambulance was called to take him into the hospital. There they determined that the break happened right above where his hip had been replaced a few years ago, and there was nothing they could do for the break. They would, however, be letting him sit a bit and then do physical therapy. But then...
As you know, when one is in the hospital, they do all sorts of tests. During one of these tests they discovered that he had blood in his stool and that they needed to do a colonoscopy. Lovely. Into surgery he went.
During the colonoscopy it became immediately apparent that something was wrong. They found a large cancerous mass and found that the walls of the colon were exceedingly thin, having been eaten away by the cancer. They determined it was too dangerous to continue the scope, so they attempted to retract it...but in the process the wall of the colon tore. This is not the fault of the doctors and indeed they did a wonderful job with him, but this was just another domino. They had to keep him in surgery to repair the damage and extract the cancer. He was in intensive care for over a week recovering.
When he got out of intensive care it was determined that he would be moving to the Midlands Living Center - a nursing home and skilled nursing facility. He couldn't go home because he still needed care that my mother couldn't give, and they would help him rehab to go home.
He was in the home for only a few days before he was moved back to the hospital. Something was wrong.
His kidneys were having trouble working and his white blood cell count was rising. There was an abscess. The doctors prescribed antibiotics, but it didn't work as intended. They needed something more. The next one they used was for drug resistant infections. The fight was on.
About then the doctors informed us that the end was coming and to prepare. He was fighting, but the odds were stacked against him. He went back to Midlands, but this time it was hospice not rehabilitation.
As you know, when one is in the hospital, they do all sorts of tests. During one of these tests they discovered that he had blood in his stool and that they needed to do a colonoscopy. Lovely. Into surgery he went.
During the colonoscopy it became immediately apparent that something was wrong. They found a large cancerous mass and found that the walls of the colon were exceedingly thin, having been eaten away by the cancer. They determined it was too dangerous to continue the scope, so they attempted to retract it...but in the process the wall of the colon tore. This is not the fault of the doctors and indeed they did a wonderful job with him, but this was just another domino. They had to keep him in surgery to repair the damage and extract the cancer. He was in intensive care for over a week recovering.
When he got out of intensive care it was determined that he would be moving to the Midlands Living Center - a nursing home and skilled nursing facility. He couldn't go home because he still needed care that my mother couldn't give, and they would help him rehab to go home.
He was in the home for only a few days before he was moved back to the hospital. Something was wrong.
His kidneys were having trouble working and his white blood cell count was rising. There was an abscess. The doctors prescribed antibiotics, but it didn't work as intended. They needed something more. The next one they used was for drug resistant infections. The fight was on.
About then the doctors informed us that the end was coming and to prepare. He was fighting, but the odds were stacked against him. He went back to Midlands, but this time it was hospice not rehabilitation.
Let me explain to you how it goes with hospice. Everyone is very nice. Nobody treats you like you are a trouble. You ask for something and if they can help you they will do so, without complaint. The people at Midlands were exceedingly professional and absolutely wonderful to our family and specifically my father. But he was still dying.
A nursing home is a wonderful and terrible place. Wonderful because the people there treat you with dignity and are very caring. Terrible because of the sights and sounds of people in the waning days of their lives, some who have been largely abandoned or forgotten by their families, if said families even exist. One lady across the hall would cry all the time and yell for help. At first I felt sorry for her but then realized that she did this for everything. She wants candy? "Someone help me!!" She has candy but they won't let her lie down so she won't choke? "I want to lie down! Won't someone please help me?!?" She was very into drama. And a lot of them like to sit in the hallway and greet people as they come in. I talked to several of them and they are wonderful people. Lonely and probably a little bored, but wonderful people. And the girls at Midlands treated them all with patience and grace.
Dad started eating less and less. His only nourishment was from these little protein juices he really liked. But he was losing weight at an alarming rate. They couldn't feed him intravenously as his kidneys weren't processing fluids. His breathing was becoming more and more shallow. On Sunday (January 29) the family gathered in his room to see him. For most of them it was goodbye.
It was at this time I spoke to my work and they were very understanding. Bellevue University and my boss, Scott, I owe a debt of gratitude. They could have made a difficult time even more difficult. When I needed to be gone I could be gone with no questions asked. I can't thank them enough. I had planned on working right from the hospital room (I know it's not technically a hospital room, but it's easier to call it that for the understanding of others.) but the wifi signal in the room was degraded too much by distance from the router and because of wiring in the walls. From then on my entire life was spent working 1/2 days. I'd do my morning reports and then leave and spend time in the hospital, talking to him and doing what needed to be done - feeding, giving drinks, helping to move him up or change his pillows. When my sister got off of work we'd switch out and I'd head home, logging in to my work sometimes until midnight. Then I'd go to work and do it all over again.
On Thursday he'd been fairly lucid, joking around and showing faint glimmers of the person he'd been. But it was not to last. It's unknown whether it was the infection coming back or another cause, but his temperature started to rise alarmingly. At noon he was at 98.2 degrees. By 4 pm it was 102.0. Using cold compresses on his head, under his neck, under his armpits and a few other strategic locations we watched the fever rise to a peak of 102.7 before starting to drop back. By the next morning it was back to normal.
That was the longest night of my life. You see, I was alone with my father that whole night. It was I who refreshed the compresses and checked the temperature. I woke up at 6 am on Thursday and did not sleep until I was relieved Friday at 8 am by my wife, who came to take over so I could sleep. I went home, did my morning reports and fell into bed. I woke at 2 pm and went back to the hospital still wearing the same clothing in which I left.
Even though the fever had abated, my father as I knew him was gone. His breathing had become very shallow. He was no longer eating or drinking. It was a matter of time, whether that time was hours or days we had no idea. Everyone left, leaving my sister and I alone with him. The door closed. We sat at his side, stroking his hair and talking to him. We let him know it was okay to stop fighting. It was time to end the suffering. It was time to go.
At about 7:15 pm on February 3 my father took a few breathes and then slipped away. He left the pain, the loss of dignity something like this brings. He left a family who is saddened for his passing but glad we knew him.
My father was a man of very strong conviction. He never did anything half way. When he was drinking, he was drinking hard. When he was working, he was working hard. When he was playing, he was playing hard. He was a man with a wicked sense of humor, although not everyone saw this side of him. He was a man of uncommon wisdom who used words like cudgels. He could pick apart an argument with a few well-placed statements that sounded so ludicrous that you were at the same time ashamed you lost the argument as much as ashamed that you got schooled with a phrase that sounded like it belonged in a Louis L'Amour novel. Let me give a couple of examples to his speech.
On weather: "It's raining harder than a tall man pissing on a short rock."
Also on weather: "It's hotter than a two-peckered billy goat."
The EXACT SEX TALK HE GAVE ME when I was a young teenager: "Don't fuck anything you don't want to see over the kitchen table every morning at breakfast."
Short, sweet, to the point. This was my dad. A carpenter who built houses, worked every day to provide for a family and created a home for whomever needed one.
See, our house was a safe-haven for several kids who for one reason or another couldn't go back to their own house. Whether it was because of an abusive parent, an argument or just because they had nowhere else to turn, our house was where they invariably ended up. In the forefront of this was my mother, standing between the child and the problems from which they were running. But behind her, silent and firm, was my father. He never struck us that I can remember - with one exceptional time which I may or may not tell at a later date. (I so totally deserved it!) But the force of his disappointed stare was enough to curtail our attempts of nefarious intent. He never ruled us through fear but through love and instruction.
A great example of this was the time I decided to play around with his shotgun. I was probably 14 or so and my parents were out playing cards with friends. I was showing off to a couple friends of mine and the shotgun went off. I had been just pointing it at my friend but instead moved it to the side where I disintegrated my parent's bedroom window. Blew that shit right up. My parents came home after we called them and my friends were sent home and I was sent to bed. The next day - without punishment - my father took me into the country, showed me how to shoot, how to handle the weapon and how to properly clean and store it. How many parents would have treated such an episode as a learning experience? Not many, I'd surmise. But that was my dad.
My dad was my hero. Silent and stoic to a fault. If he complained about something you damned well better listen because something was really wrong. Even to the end he never once complained.
My father passed in his sleep, surrounded by family who loved him. The ease of his passing is just one more thing I can only strive to emulate.
I love you, dad. I'll miss you. Rest in peace.
<3
