Epistle 9: Oh, to Wonder How It All Could Be
February 25, 2018
It has been a year since I reported on my father’s dying time. Through 2017 his withering was like watching paint dry.
The learnings for me were steep: powerlessness, surrender and awe, being part architect and mostly witness to his dying, unfettered by the chemicals and machines usually employed to calibrate more time.
As 2018 turned, there was a quickening. In early January, it would take him nearly an hour to eat his one small meal a day. A few weeks later he could no longer hold a fork, manipulate the cup, nor did he seem to have much interest in food.
He became more and more curled up and made few attempts to interact. He was sleeping most of the day and lay at night talking, restlessly pulling at his clothes, taking off his diapers, and trying to get out of bed.
By his 92nd birthday, Wednesday, February 14, he had not eaten for almost a week. I drove down that day and canceled the following week of work and let death be in the driver’s seat.
He stopped drinking or asking for water on Thursday. By then he had very little speech, was constantly moving his hands, looking around the room, and insisting on being naked. By Friday, everyone who was inclined had said their good byes. He was able to whisper, “Thank you” and “I love you.”
Saturday, the process continued. The frenetic moving of his hands, pulling his skin, reaching for the sky, and touching his face slowed ever so slightly. By Sunday afternoon there were just sporadic movements.
However, his breathing continued strong. He was skin and bones. His rib cage rising and lowering with each breath. His pelvis was like a mountain on the other side of the canyon of his stomach, at the bottom of which you could see the outline of his backbone.
I tried my hardest to “set the mood”: candles, a little Polish music, some soft caressing of his body mirroring his breathing pattern, and just sitting. Now I will confess I could only sit for so long. I would also think, “Would he die when I was sleeping?” More surrender.
Monday, I awoke at 4:30 a.m. His hands were not moving. He was taking 40 breaths per minute and his pulse was at 27. I stayed by his side until 9:00 a.m. I went to make some food in the next room, listening closely to his breath.
When I came back a few minutes later, his chest was no longer moving yet his breathing continued. I got down on my knees at his bed side, started crying, and began caressing his head. Whispering to him what a blessing his life had been to all those who loved him including the old people who were always so present. Within a few minutes the shallow breaths became short, muted gasps. Those proceeded, the time between them lengthening at each interval, until they ceased.
I sobbed for what seemed like an eternity. At some point, however, I began to turn to what was next. The calls to family and friends, the notifications to the mortuary, etc. He spent the next 36 hours bathed in candle light. He was washed and dressed for the pick-up the next day.
Once open to learning, it is hard to resist. There are numerous stories to recount regarding what I have encountered since Hank died: people’s reactions, the “machine” and the dead industry. Here is a big one to ponder…
For all the effort I took to have a “green” mortuary, no hospice, minimal medical intervention, someone still needed to pronounce him dead before he was picked up. The paramedics arrived, followed by the police. When asked, “Why police?” they said it was for two reasons. One, to investigate if the paramedics determined foul play. Two, to protect the paramedics from attack by loved ones who become enraged that their family member could not be saved or to break up fights among themselves.
During this process, we needed to have the palliative doctor who had followed us by phone to confirm with the police - “natural” causes. These doctors had respected the experience I was attempting to craft. They got in touch with the police, who then left. Later in the day, I went to log into my father’s Kaiser account to thank them. The password no longer worked!
And so it all goes. Some of you I will see soon; we will shed more tears, tell more stories and spread more praise. Others, especially many of my fellow People Gathered by the Storm, likely will not share such pleasures.
So let me say to you whom I may not see again: Without the learning we shared, this odyssey would not have been possible. What kept me going was seeing your smiling faces, hearing your suggestions, and knowing that you might be obliged to tell the story of my father’s death to feed a world impoverished in the practice of humanity.
Your faithful witness,
Brian, son of Henry