It started in November with a missed doctorâs appointment. A simple drainage, as he liked to say. No big deal, just rescheduled it for a few weeks later. As those weeks ticked by, his stomach continued to grow...until it couldnât take it anymore. It ruptured out of the front and burst a hernia as well, pouring fluid all over the kitchen floor. 18 lbs. of liquid lost from the human body in a matter of seconds. He was rushed to the hospital...and I was upstairs helpless and useless from an accidental dosage error in my medication.
He remained there for 3 days before he was discharged...far too soon...by a close friend who let his heart override his training. He was okay, but he wasnât. He tried to resume a normal life, and moved to quickly, standing up from his desk and passing out. I rushed to help him as he forced himself back to his feet, stabilizing himself on his chair and desk. I remained behind him and supported his back. His words slurred, his eyes fluttered before rolling back, the slurring turned into stammering as he became dead weight and I could only safely lower him towards the floor, ensuring he did not hit his head on the door frame.
He was on the floor, seemingly dead for 45 seconds, before he came to. He didnât know where he was, what had happened, and could only beg me not to call 911 as the ambulance was on its way.
This was the last time my dad was home in 2017.
He wasnât home for Festivus, Christmas Eve, or Christmas. Holidays were spent in full gowns, gloves, and masks to protect from infections. Reports ranged from hopeful and optimistic to dreary and grim, and his body only seemed to grow weaker and shrivel. My family kept saying the same thing over and over again: just keep working on your dissertation, thatâs all he wants right now for you and him.
I did...and thatâs when they told me that he was lying, that they were lying. There wasnât hope. That he was dying. He was coming home...with hospice. All those visits were to make sure I got time, and so that he would have peace knowing I finished before he died.
I watched as for two months his body continued to deteriorate. My father, my first role model, my first superhero, went from being invincible to mortal...and quickly. I watched as he became immobile to bed-ridden, as he could no longer eat, as I had to help feed and give him something to drink, give him medicine. Stories become quick sentences; sentences become words; words become mumbles. His mind--cognition, awareness--faded, and we didnât know when âheâ was with us.
One of the last clear things he ever really said to me...was him begging me to kill him. My own father not just wanting to die, but him pleading with me to put him out of his misery. He wanted mercy.
12:48 PM, Thursday, March 15th--Moments before I had to begin my next assignment, I receive âthe call.â They started the cocktail--it could be minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, but it was likely soon. I cancelled my appointments, called off work, and hurried home. In his delirium, he was fighting to escape his bed, so I spent the next hour holding him back, trying to keep him tucked in as he mumbled incoherently, swore vehemently at me, and ultimately lost consciousness with the next round.
Nothing has left me:
I can still hear the gurgling from his mouth and throat as the saliva clogged his airway.
I can still smell his organs failing amidst his final defecation.
8:12 PM, Friday, March 16th--He was gone. The man who gave me life, who raised me, my DAD...was a cold, lifeless figure still upon a mattress. After months of preparing, nothing could truly ready me to see and experience seeing, touching, holding my lifeless father. Nor could anything prepare me for the sounds of a gurney with a body bag being wheeled through your house to take out a family member...one last time.
And as these memories haunt me even still today, even though I am actually âokayâ with my fatherâs passing, I deal with the imminent death of his parents. His father has moved into continuous care. He too begs to die, constantly speaks of his misery...longs to be with his son. The emotional tearing of wanting to help but knowing you canât just continues to plague my mind and my heart. I want him to be happy...I want him to have peace, too.
I want him and my dad to be together.
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