From the very start, life is terminal. We know not for the most part when our time will come, but it matters not how we die, but only how we live. These are words that my father, a man that was my hero, and I had shared over the span of twenty four months and two weeks we shared together after he had been diagnosed with a rare cancer. My story is one that came on the last day of this adventurous journey. I had spent the last week sleeping by my father’s side knowing the time was near.
Friday night had appeared to be like the previous five nights aside from the noise he made through the night exhaling with a dull moan. I slept very little that night being up and about watching him not knowing when the moment would come that it would be finished. The last leg of a two year marathon was coming to an end, knowing from the onset that this battle would be lost. We shared no regrets for the many blessings this disease had brought us. My mind began to wonder to a time in the treatment center for my father’s weekly doses of chemo. A place where recliners lined up like the preparations of a super bowl party, I had expected sorrow and tears, but was taken aback by the laughter and jokes loud enough that some had to be called down. With uplifted spirits they would celebrate the life missing, evidence of the empty chair in the middle of the line.
As morning came, I was awoken by his voice calling out to me “please help me I’m suffering”, so I sprang to my feet rushing too his bedside to answer him. The blanket had been kicked to the foot of the bed and I notice his legs were cool and clammy. As I reached for him, I notice the same of his hands and arms. He sat on the edge of the bed getting his bearings. The room was quiet aside from the TV left on through the night with the sounds of Matt Dillon talking to Festus at the Longbranch. The smell of old man, tobacco, and lilac filled the house. As always in my dad’s house, it was warm, either from love or the adjusted thermostat, but comfortable. My father’s sister and her husband Uncle Dick and Aunt Ester had came down from Wisconsin to help out in the last weeks. One a retired auto worker and the other a retired hospice nurse. Grateful for their help, my wife and I were at the point of exhaustion from the last two years.
My aunt came into the room as I was helping my dad to stand, immediately assessing the situation, she leaned to me and whispered its time. My mind began to race, and I thought to myself “we can’t do this now there are places to go and people to see.” For example my father enjoyed meeting people, and when they would ask “how are you doing today George” he would reply “oh not bad for a man who’s dying”, leaving people speechless with his warped sense of humor about his illness causing many to feel better about what they could redefine as trivial matters in their daily lives.
Father asked for a drink of water and motioned for help getting to his seat at the head of his dinner table. This was a short distance since hospice was so helpful setting up a bed in his living room that adjoined the dining room. Before we could reach the table, aunt Ester brought the water slipping a tiny morphine tablet on his lips before he could drink telling him that this would help him. Beyond his first statement “I’m suffering” and for a drink of water he never spoke another word.
After sitting down at the table my Uncle Dick came out of the bedroom to join us. Sitting at the head of his table with arms stretched out and fingers spread out on the table his posture was straight with head held high. I sat to my father’s left, Aunt Ester sitting to his right with Uncle Dick at his right rear. I slipped away for a moment to call my wife to tell her that it was time. She knew to get a sitter for our children and was on her way over as quickly as possible. I returned to the table sitting down, my left hand holding his left with my right hand on his left forearm. Turning to me we fixed our eyes on each other as if to look deep into one another’s very soul. Never had so many words been spoken between two people in silence. I wanted to just cry like a little child, but knew that it was my responsibility to help him to be as calm as possible preparing for what I knew to be him to depart his fleshly body set on an adventure to the other side of eternity. The process was long and my senses were high. I could feel my lower back tighten as I leaned forward in that old straight back chair.
My wife arrived entering the front door slowly walking to the table leaning over and said “George we love you.” Standing to my side she put her hand on my shoulder filling me with strength to carry on with the task at hand. For three and a half hours this process went on as I spoke reassuring him that he had prepared me well and that it was ok to let go to stand before God, letting him know that all of his work on this earth was done. Throughout the journey he hadn’t complained one time staying active in the lives of others from volunteering in an after school program helping disadvantaged children with their reading and math to dropping off groceries at a benevolence pantry on days when he could barely walk. When I asked him why he did not just stay home sometimes and take care of himself, his reply was simple “life is not just about me, but how we can serve others”. A hint of lilac hung in the air from the candle on the table. My father had become fond of the smell after my mother passed away since this was her favorite fragrance.
Dad’s breathing became more labored, and he lifted to draw every ounce of air he could pull into his lungs so tired from the struggle. When he could lift no more, the words from the hospice manual for families rang loud in the back of my mind. “When a patient is close to passing they may take on the appearance of fish breathing” as he could no longer inhale nor exhale his mouth began to open and close repeatedly increasing in frequency. It was all that I could do to remain calm swallowing the lump in my throat for his sake. All at once he stopped, with mouth shut , paused for a moment, lowered his jaw, and released what is known as the death growl, a sound so deep with such authority that you could never forget. This is understood to be the point at which the soul leaves the body, and as a witness I truly believe this. Able to time his death by the sounds of the room, I could hear the theme music of Bonanza from the TV, letting me know it was 8:30AM.
Exhausted from the experience, we all fell forward holding his lifeless body releasing our tears. After a few moments, we gathered our composure gently lifted his body to lay him in the bed in a respectful manner. Weak from the battle, as we were laying him down we fell into the bed with him. The motion caused him to expel blood from his nose and mouth. Knowing the nature of the disease the actual cause of death was due to internal bleeding filling his lungs with blood resulting in a drowning effect. I immediately grasped for a towel to wipe his face and position him properly in the bed for our final goodbye
I stood there next to my father with mixed feelings of sorrow and relief. I miss him greatly, but I was so tired from the long battle. I still had work to do calling hospice and making the funeral arrangements. In addition, the last conversation with my dad was the previous Thursday night just 36 hours before his death; we planned the funeral to make a difference in the life of others. We videotaped him doing his own eulogy and speech to be played unknowingly to the audience that would attend the life memorial service. His attempt was not to create a show, but rather to make a difference in the life of others one last time on the important things that really matter in life from the other side of eternity.
To conclude, I have to agree how a man lives is more important than how he dies. It can be said that from conception we are all diagnosed as terminal patients. No matter how vivid a picture painted of our departure, the choices we make today become the memories left behind for tomorrow. I’ll leave you with the last words of my father’s video “and with that I bid you all farewell.”
