Tomorrow is the first anniversary of my father's death. I'm not sure how I'll feel tomorrow. There are plenty of days when I don't think about him much. Other times I'm nearly immobilized by grief. I know that it can get, if not easier, at least more bearable with the passing of time. And a year isn't all that long, really.
My dad's mental breakdown was immediately followed by physical collapse. For a few days he was able to rise from his bed long enough to get settled on the bedside commode; he never walked again. He never ate more than a few bites of semi-solid food or drank water without help from someone else. My brother had medical POA, and got Dad set up for in-home hospice care. Dad had made it clear, that was what he wanted when the time came. A hospital bed was rented for him, it was delivered on his second day back home. A number of Dad's friends from church volunteered to sit with him in shifts. His girlfriend-fiancee-girlfriend again offered to stay overnight. I had serious misgivings about that; I was overruled. Dad himself wanted her there, along with her four year old child. It turned out later that my doubts were justified. Not that that was any comfort for me.
I would come in the early mornings and stay with Dad until the early afternoon. When I arrived the girlfriend would be bundling up her child to leave; she'd give me a brief rundown on how it went the night before, and then leave. I'd get Dad cleaned up and put a fresh adult diaper on him. Not that there was much in the old one. I'd offer him watered down juice and hold the straw to his lips; if he needed it, I'd put drops of his pain meds in the cup. Midmorning the hospice nurse would arrive to take his vital signs and discuss with me what was going on with him. By 1 PM or so, a church friend would show up to relieve me. And I'd walk up to the main house to continue getting it ready for my family to move in. It was both difficult and a relief to get back to the physical work of scrubbing and sweeping and repairing. I'd been doing hospice work for years. This certainly wasn't my first rodeo. But it's very different when you do it for someone you love. Professional detachment flies right out the window. My brother went back home; his wife was poorly, he himself had suffered a few health crises of his own in recent years. The stress was taking it's toll on him. I promised to keep him updated.
A couple of days before he died, Dad became vocal. At one point he called out, "Mama!" like a little kid. I'd felt the presence of my grandparents for days. I didn't see them, and they didn't speak to me. I knew they weren't there for me. I did catch a brief scent of Grandma's favorite perfume. White Shoulders. That made me smile. Later that morning Dad spoke his last coherent words to me. And looked at me for the last time with eyes that actually seemed to see me.
"I'm already missing you".
I was up at the main house, taking a short break, when my cellphone rang. It was the friend who'd come to sit with Dad. Telling me he thought that my dad had passed away. There were two women in my house, cleaning the carpets. It was the last big job before I and my family were to move in. A couple of hours before we were chatting, and I told them I wished my dad could see this place now. I had to tell them that I needed to leave them, that I was going down to the little house. To confirm that my father had died. Those nice women looked absolutely stricken for me.
Dad's friend met me at the door. He was clearly anxious to leave. He'd called my brother and the hospice. I thanked him, and sent him on his way. He promised to call the other friends who'd been keeping vigil, to let them know that it was over now. I think he was surprised by how quietly it happened; many people make a particular sound when the end is near. The "death rattle" that issues from the throat of a body that's ready to let go. It's a sound that I'd heard many times. It's unmistakable. It's not a thing you can easily forget. But it didn't happen to Dad. His breathing was quiet and slow right up to the end.
I closed his eyes and cracked open a window. Fresh air is needed when Death is in a house. I called my brother; Yes, it's true, I told him. He asked me to wait to call the funeral home. He and Dad's brother, our Uncle Joe, were on their way. They wanted to see Dad one last time before his physical presence was reduced to a box of ashes. My brother told me that it was okay if I wanted to go home. He'd understand. I told him I'd stay, and wait. I didn't want to leave our father alone. And besides, someone needed to be here when the hospice nurse came to confirm the death.
I let Dad's dog in, to see and sniff her master. So she'd know that he was gone. I pulled up a chair to wait. The dog curled up under the hospital bed. The sun went down; the three of us remained in silence for the hours it took for my brother and uncle to arrive.
It was very quiet.
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