It was a typical Sunday afternoon when I got the call from my sister. The one I knew would be coming soon. The one where she said, “Hey Sis, we are putting Dad on hospice.”
OK, I was expecting this. I got online and got a flight headed out the next morning. I arrived by his side just as the other residents were getting their breakfast. He hasn’t been well since they put him in the nursing home. The one where they put non-responsive patients up to the dining room table with a tray of disgusting food in front of them, that they couldn’t possibly eat.
The one where the residents, like my dad, kept his roommate up all night yelling for a drink of water, to which no one responds. The one where they left the curtains off the window that my dad kept pulling down in his fits of pain, thirst, and frustration, so that the sun beat down on his body.
Once hospice was called in, thankfully he could have morphine so he wasn’t in excruciating pain any longer. He couldn’t drink water, but I kept his lips and tongue moist with a small sponge on a stick. Right before the family got there he was cleaned up, we were told. Before that they just let him sit in his own waste, we were told. Once the family got there, maintenance came and put the curtains back up, finally.
So I just sat on the floor with my head on his shoulder, and talked to him, and sang a little, and held his hand, and listened to his breath, and felt his heartbeat. And I told him how much I loved him, and what a great dad he was, and what an awesome grandpa my kids had. I told him I was proud of him, that he led a good life, a long life, and he did the best he could.
He took care of his family.
He voluntarily and proudly served his country, and I know he was proud of me for doing the same.
I told him I believed he was going to a better place, one where there is no more pain, no more tears, no more thirst. I think he believed that too.
At one point on that day my step mom was there, she handed me Dad’s harmonica, it had been my brother’s, who died in 2007.
She asked me if I wanted it, I said yes. “You were always his favorite,” she told me, I said “I know.”
I never left his side except to go down the hall to the restroom occasionally, and every time I did I quietly practiced a simple tune on that harmonica. I didn’t stay away long; I was mercifully hoping he would pass away peacefully soon, before Friday, since that’s when I was going home; and also selfishly hoping I would be with him at the very moment he died.
I did go to my Dad’s house that night and slept in his room. Early the next morning, I went back to the nursing home to keep vigil by my Dad’s bed. Several people came that day to see him, and for those that couldn’t come we gave the option of talking to him on the phone. My sister bravely asked the hospice nurse if she thought he would make it through the night, and she said maybe not.
So I knew I was not leaving that night. Several did call and we held the phone up to his ear, as one by one his kids and grandkids talked to him for what would be one last time, my husband, my brothers, my daughter, my son, my niece….
He didn’t respond but I think he heard and knew, that this was the end. Shortly thereafter, still sitting by the bed with my head on his shoulder, I heard his breathing start to slow down.
I put my hand over his heart and felt it flutter, and then stop, and no more breaths after that.
I pulled out his harmonica and played him this tune.
Goodnight Daddy.
