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Remembering: February 26th, 2009
Friday, February 26, 2010
This was the day that dad said his final words to me. Only I didn't know that was what they were when he said them. They were simple, and escaped him light as air.
I just want to get some rest. Goodnight, Toria.
Nothing too poetic, no real sense of him saying goodbye. I was preoccupied with making some mashed potatoes that he would never eat, washing clothes he would never wear. I turned his oxygen on that night, and kissed him good night.
The day had been filled with sleep. As I explained the events of the day to my husband that evening, he recognized what it meant and packed an emergency bag. He would need it sooner than even he expected.
As I walked quietly through Dad's house, I should have felt his shifting from the land of the living to the realm of the dead. I should have heard those that, in just a few hours, would appear by his bed to retrieve him. But I heard nothing. I wonder if that is how it is for the living, so connected with life you can't see the end that is coming for us all?
Dad would stir every once in a while with shakes, and I would pile blankets and sometimes myself on him to keep him warm. I was heating blankets for his feet in the dryer and then switching them out. His temperature hovered at 96.2. I know because in my attempt to distance myself from what was happening, I took diligent notes like how I thought a nurse would. Some stranger who wasn't invested in the outcome of this losing battle.
One bright moment was when I shared something a family member sent to me. It was a heartfelt email that was meant to express in words what Dad had meant to them. And it did, as Dad readjusted himself and fell back to sleep I noticed he was smiling. I like to think his last dreams were filled with old memories of less trying times.
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