My dad died on Christmas morning. I've said this numerous times to friends and strangers and everyone in between, but writing it now has me stopped in my tracks.
It was a year ago today that I was finally understanding the seriousness of his condition. The day before I had landed in Sacramento and rushed over to his hospital room. Upon my arrival, I thought he had given me the wrong room number.
The man lying in the hospital bed was ashen and gaunt, save for a protruding belly. At first glance, I would have guessed he was in his early 70s.
But it was my dad, looking like Death itself, struggling through heaving breaths and losing the fight against consciousness.
Luckily, as you entered there was a separate room for the nurse's station, so there was a slight partition between me and the outside world as I broke into stifled sobs.
He woke up about an hour later, and I put on my "game face" so we could both act like this wasn't the most heartbreaking situation either of us could imagine. In many ways, we had the traditional father-son rapport, which was great when it came to teaching me how to weld and drive off-road like I was in the Dakar rally.
This was not great. This was years of stoicism and erecting facades because we only talked about the hard stuff when we had to. That moment would come soon, but not in the way I would have expected.
I finally got the opportunity to speak to his doctor early the next morning when I was called into the hallway where my dad couldn't hear us. There was a nurse present, as well as another doctor whose specialty I can't recall.
I can only recall the bullet points of that conversation: "His blood pressure is too low for dialysis." "Even an emergency transplant wouldn't help him at this point." "We recommend hospice."
Not wanting to be the one to deliver the bad news, and not being sure that I physically could, I asked the doctor if he could repeat his assessment with my dad present. He patiently explained that he had, but the overwhelming amount of toxins in my dad's brain left him with varying and unpredictable levels of lucidity. We had no way of knowing if my dad truly understood what he was being told.
Regardless, the conversation was repeated at the foot of his hospital bed and the doctor's explanation was made painfully clear. To everyone but him, at least.
Dad either couldn't or wouldn't process the information presented to him. He railed on about hating the hospital, about being routinely poked and prodded while surrounded by ceaselessly beeping machines in the dead of night. And so on. He just wanted to go home, where he was convinced a healthier lifestyle would have him on the rebound in no time.
"Hospice will allow you to do that," we told him. We had to make him understand that a nurse would only come as needed, because he believed that the hospital experience would simply be extended into his home.
Once the mental log jam was broken and our explanation got through to him, we were on the fast track to getting him back home again. (And I say "fast track" in terms of hospital time, which is notoriously tedious.)
While we waited, my dad mostly slept/passed out while I struggled to meet a payroll deadline on my teeny-tiny Surface. With no mouse. And a glacially-slow wifi connection. There were definitely a lot of frustrated tears shed.
Now, I've neglected to mention a crucial bit of information but only because I can't remember its placement on the timeline. At some point, I had the cliched "Give it to me straight, Doc" conversation about my dad's remaining time on Earth.
"Could be days or weeks. But he won't make it another two months at the maximum."
Stone-faced, I said, "Okay," and simply nodded as the room lost its focus.
Looking back, I wonder if they thought I just didn't care. They praised the amount of care I was giving him, but I was so fucking clinical during our talks that I feel intensely guilty now. As if I should have been hysterical, red-faced and covered in tears, or shook my fist at the sky and begged to be taken in his place.
But back to his release from the hospital. Having dropped off his MINI for maintenance per his request, I pulled the '98 RAV4 around to the entrance while he waited in a wheelchair. The nurse and I managed to ease Dad into the passenger seat, with much groaning on each of our parts.
His body hurt all over, but he wanted me to haul ass so he could be home ASAP. Each shift of the gears brought a tinge of anxiety thanks to a slipping clutch and my ultimate goal of making the ride as smooth as possible.
One of his roommates was there when we arrived. I've known Ken since I was 8 years old, so it was immediately obvious that he was hiding his shock at the sight of my dad.
They both settled into their favorite chairs around the dining table, and Dad regaled Ken with his stories of torment at the hospital workers' hands. I went into the kitchen and made the necessary calls to hospice and the hospital supply company that would provide a bed and other medical items.
Only a couple of hours later, both would arrive to make their assessments and deliver the supplies. The bed was great as far as my dad was concerned, but I knew he would be embarrassed and indignant at the mere mention of a toilet chair. It was non-negotiable as far as I was concerned.
Understandably exhausted, he was soon helped into bed and immediately fell asleep. I reviewed all the drugs he had been prescribed and the accompanying information; mainly it was an assortment of pain medications and diazepam in case he had a seizure. Fortunately, he wouldn't need the diazepam at any point.
I ordered dinner for myself and went back to the main room to get caught up with Ken. By then the other roommate, Chris had arrived. I'd known Chris for as long as I had known Ken, and Chris greeted me with a bear hug that made me weepy.
And this is how the next few days would go. Caring for Dad, then updating the guys when they got home, sprinkled with occasional cameos by Dad when he had some strength and presence of mind.
Other than a scheduled weekly visit, the hospice nurses came only when called. This was difficult considering the holiday season when they were short-staffed and it could take an hour or two before help would arrive. I must have cried to three different people over the phone on one occasion because Dad had shit himself.
So I would call them as sparingly as possible and they would come as soon as they could. Hospice workers are angels, plain and simple.
And I'm no stranger to being self-reliant. I have depended on myself for so many things since childhood and I approached this situation no differently. I worried over him constantly. I practically begged him to take some of the liquid Oxy which, in truth, was entirely selfish because my heart went to pieces every time he cried out in pain.
Because he wasn't eating solid foods, broth and juice and smoothies were offered countless times each day. He couldn't taste anything, either, which made his appetite practically nonexistent. It did, however, make it easy to add a 30:1 CBD:THC oil to most of what he ate. One way or another, I had to do something to help manage his pain.
Knowing that I was struggling and the end was near for my dad, my brother Tommy made plans to fly up from LA that Sunday. (We have different fathers but that's a whole 'nother story.)
In the meantime, my dad slept a lot and I usually spent that time cooking & baking. At night I would get hammered, build a fire in the backyard and ugly-cry until I ran out of firewood. I installed a baby monitor app on both of our phones, so a live-streaming video of his bed was always at my side.
Sunday would be his last day of coherent communication (aside from the final sentence he would mutter to me on Monday.) If I believed in any deity at all, I would have thought divine intervention played a role in the timing of everything.
When I brought Tommy home from the airport, Dad was up and talking. In fact, he was more active than he had been all week.
I left my favorite guys to their chatting while I started cooking up my dad's favorite: ham bone soup. I could hear their laughter down the hall and it brought a sad smile to my face.
After text exchanges with Dad's closest friends, I urged them to come by that day while he was still coherent and upright. Just an hour or two later, they startled to trickle in.
The first was "Shiner", a woman who my dad had been in love with for a few years. She had earned the moniker after giving a black eye to some dude for repeatedly invading her personal space and just generally being a dick. But beneath the surface, she's actually a sweetheart. Totally my dad's type.
Wanting to continue the trend of everyone getting their one-on-one time with Dad, I signaled to my brother and we left the two friends together. More laughter from his room, more sad smiling for me.
When more friends arrived, I led them to Dad's room and I could see that Shiner was sad-smiling too. My dad only looked at her with adoration and I was crushed to know that he would die with that unrequited love in his heart.
Now that he had his favorite group of degenerates around him, I was free to make bread. For the first time in a week, I could let my mind go (mostly) blank and try to enjoy something. It wasn't until folks began to make their exit that I snapped out of it.
Dad walked everyone to the door and hugged them goodbye. He slowly descended into his dining chair with a smile.
"That was really cool," he said. Expanding on the statement, he expressed how glad he was that those specific people stopped by and how glad he was that so-and-so didn't.
One of his friends, Jerry, lived five states away and couldn't be there, however. He and Ken were also friends, so Ken & I teamed up to express the urgency of a goodbye phone call with Dad.
After an hour-long call, my dad had an ear-to-ear grin as he hung up. I felt something resembling relief.
We all chatted around the table for a little while longer, but it was clear that Dad had worn himself out. Tommy helped him to bed and I served up some ham bone soup dosed with the CBD oil. He drank some of it from his favorite Starbucks cup but almost immediately his eyelids began to droop.
I set the soup aside and put on "Last Week Tonight" because a new episode was airing and we both loved the show. He was asleep right away, so I finished the episode with Tommy before retreating to the living room where we had been sleeping.
Dad slept through the night but the next day was a waking nightmare. Near-constant groaning & moaning in pain, coupled with labored breathing, all day & night with nothing to be done for it. He still refused the Oxy, so I would swab some on the inside of his mouth whenever he would go unconscious. (I felt weird about this at first, but the nurse confirmed it was okay.)
Then came the words that will haunt me forever. His last words to me or anyone else on Earth.
"I can't do this anymore."
Until then he had been a little melancholy at worst, defiant at best. He truly believed that he would come out of this and would be stronger than ever. He just had to make the necessary changes.
I can never know whether this was the product of a brain that was being poisoned by its own body or his genuine belief that he would live through it. I have lost several hours of sleep thinking about it.
But in hearing those words, I knew for sure that it was the beginning of the end. I told him that I understood, that it was okay.
And in my mind, that was all I could think: "Okay." Resigned and dutiful. I had a mission to do what needed to be done and I would deal with the fallout later.
Now all I could do was brace myself for the ugliness of an undignified death.
While I felt I still had the chance and Tommy was out of the room, I crawled into the bed and gently rested my head on Dad's chest.
"You know I love you bunches, right?" I asked him.
"Mmhm..." he mumbled weakly.
"You don't have to fight anymore, you can let go. I'm going to be okay. I'll miss you a lot, but I will be okay."
I don't know how I managed to say the words. People hold to the belief that only little white lies are forgivable, but in reality, the biggest lies can sometimes be the most necessary ones.
When his closed eyes began to flutter and his breathing became rattled, the internet told me he might have mere hours left. I called our assigned hospice nurse and she told me it was likely true in my dad's case. There was nothing anyone could do but keep him company and it was likely he was "already gone."
Tommy and I set up an air mattress next to my dad's bed so we could be by his side at every moment. I called the nurse again, bawling, when brown foam became visible on his lips. I was told the foam was blood coming up from his lungs; he was essentially drowning.
My brother would keep Dad's face clean and I would intermittently leave the room throughout the night so I could lose my collective shit. Shiner had lost her dad fairly recently so I felt horrible for calling her, but I didn't know where else to turn. It was Christmas Eve and the last thing I wanted to do was ruin anyone's holiday.
After our midnight talk, I felt as good as anyone could given the situation. I went back to the room and we agreed to sleep in shifts. Of course, neither of us slept for more than 10 minutes at a time before being startled awake by the slightest sound or movement.
Around 7am on Christmas morning, the intensity of Dad's breathing had increased to a quaking hyperventilation that scared me into panicked tears. His eyes were open and his body heaved with each exhale. I held his hand while Tommy continued to clean his mouth.
By 7:30am, my dad had died. His glacier-blue eyes opened as wide as they could and looked straight into mine, then he drew his final breath. My own breath stopped as I waited to see his chest rise again, but it would not.
I have mixed feelings about this final moment. Maybe the last thing he ever saw was the face of someone who loved him. Maybe he had zero mental capacity at that moment and it was just a horrible thing that will be forever in my memory and for no good reason. Again, it's the not knowing that causes me to lose sleep.
When the nurse arrived to do her final paperwork about an hour later, I was already tits-deep in gallows humor. I made a crack about "What kind of asshole dies on Christmas morning?" but she only cocked her head to the side, looked at me sadly and touched my shoulder in sympathy.
A year later, I still feel incredulous and more than a tiny bit resentful. After all the crazy shit that has occurred in my life, of course this would be my story. And after all the tragedy and heartache my dad experienced while he was alive, it rips me to shreds that this was the ending to his story.
But ultimately he did it to himself, as is the case so often.
Cirrhosis. The word was on a list of homophones I studied while competing in school spelling bees. Once I learned its meaning and could differentiate it from "xerosis," both remained stuck in my mind along with some other weird vocabulary.
Considering Dad had been drinking for the past 37 years, the last 5 of which included scotch on a nightly basis, I couldn't be too surprised by the initial diagnosis. But I didn't think it would progress so quickly between October and December. I thought we had caught it early enough.
Now I'm lost. A year later and I'm still lost. I wanted to write all of this down sooner but the words wouldn't come. Now I can't get them to stop.
While this story is long, it's a very small window into my experience, let alone that of my dad's. Each minute of each day was an event unto itself, and each of those events is seared into my memory as if it just happened.
And as of yesterday, each minute of each day is crawling along until the dreaded anniversary of his passing.
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