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Remembering: February 27th, 2009
Saturday, February 27, 2010
This day will be in two parts, because it felt that way.
Shortly after 2am, I had to help Dad out of bed so he could use the restroom. I had decided the night before to just sleep in the same bed so he didn't have to yell to wake me in the mornings. He seemed very disoriented, like he couldn't focus, but I assumed it was a combination of the morphine I had to give him and being sleepy. In fact, it was his bodies reaction as it was slipping into a coma.
After only a few moments, I heard a sound that made me shoot out of the bed. Dad had fallen. I tried my best to help him up, but he was quickly becoming more unresponsive and was unable to help me. In a moment of panic, I called several people including my husband asking for help. It was my grandma that yelled some sense into me and said to call the fire department.
I laid some pillows down for Dad and covered him with a blanket. He just looked through me. I lay with him on that bathroom floor until I heard the knock at the door. As the firemen came in, I quickly explained what had happened and that he was terminal. They were amazing, lifting Dad from that cold floor and placing him gently in the bed.
As I arranged blankets around Dad, I saw what had until then escaped me. He was leaving us, and it would be soon. His face was vacant, except for a small sadness of final realization. I don't want to remember that face...
My husband arrived a few minutes later and together we faced death head on. It was a terrifying moment, and I could not have handled it with anyone other than Micah. I've always called him my light and in that moment he was keeping away so many dark shadows. As I lay next to Dad and held his hand he began to look up at the wall opposite him. It was like someone had just come through the roof, and he could see them.
He looked panicked, and it pains me to use that word. I think it was the panic you feel knowing that death has come for you. He would squeeze my hand intermittently for a few moments and try to speak. His head would sway, and his eyes lost focused. After what felt like hours, his eyes closed.
This was too much for a pair of twenty somethings to handle, and my husband called his parents. I don't know when I feel asleep, it was probably a few hours later. I knew I should call Uncle Manny, the hospice nurse, Elizabeth but none of them could save him and I just wanted to lay there with my Dad.
Later that morning, my coffee came with the confirmation that Dad had entered a hepatic coma and it wouldn't be long now.
I decided that day that other people in Dad's life deserved to say goodbye to him. I had been given weeks of wonderful memories, but I wasn't the only one that would miss him. My sister was on her way, as was Uncle Manny. So I began calling people, explaining that he could hear them and they should say goodbye. I wanted him to hear that he would be missed, that something would be missing from this world with him not in it. I would put the phone on speaker, and shared my grief with others. It was the hardest thing I have ever done, and it is something I am most proud of.
Micah's parents were amazing, and I am so thankful they were there. They made sure the house stayed a home, filled with love and support. There was so little Dad could control in this process, but in that moment I realized how his house had changed in just a few weeks. I was glad we were there. The Coopers helped with so much that day, including finding a priest to perform the anointment of the sick. Together, along with my sister-in-law Natalee, we prayed with Dad for the final time. It was an amazing moment in that bedroom.
As people called that day, I gave them updates. I encouraged as many that could to come over. I had used the word peace all that day, when people would ask what they could do. I thought if I just kept saying it, maybe it would come. And at that moment, you can't really tell people how to help. They just have to guess, and while that is completely unfair, most of them get it right.
Elizabeth arrived by noon that day, and she was lost. Children always sense that they will probably bury their parents, its simple math. But to be almost 18 and see death on the face of your father is a terrifying reality to live in. She was old enough to feel the full weight of what was happening, but young enough to not be ready for it. Uncle Manny arrived at 8pm, and I explained in detail what had happened. He removed his shoes, pulled up a seat next to Dad, and didn't leave his side until the end. It was a touching moment between brothers, and I was sorry it had not happened sooner.
Some friends and fellow soldiers came over to say their final goodbyes, and it was a beautiful moment. They started telling hilarious stories about Dad and his antics. We laughed beside him, knowing he would be equally embarrassed and proud about the stories we were telling.
As it got later, we knew the time was coming. His breathing was more and more shallow, and his heart was slowing. Someone was always by his side, ensuring that when he went he wouldn't be alone.
I slept in 15 minute intervals, trying to calm my anxiety since there was nothing to do. Once everyone had said goodbye, I said to Dad what I thought I could never say. I explained that it was OK for him to go home, that we would be fine. I confessed that I didn't have all the answers, but I was good at learning and I would do my best to not let him down. I let go of my Dad that night, hoping he would fly away home.
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