.jpg)
Last night I woke up in the middle of a dream. I don't know if it is called a dream when it was more an actual memory than a conjured up story line about flying or going to school with no clothes. I was taken back to the last night I spent with my father before he died.
My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in the summer of 2005. Those are difficult words to hear. You don't know what to do or even say. So you are left to a meaningless attempt to say something that would make it all better. If someone comes up with those words please let me know.
Although he fought the best he could, we feared all along that it was found too late and too far advanced. I was not living near him the last months of the struggle, so I was left with phone calls and well wishes from a distance. Then in late September I received the call from my mother...come quickly your father is not doing well. My brother came down from Oregon and I came from Utah to join with my mother and sister who live in Arizona.
After a few days in the hospital where it was determined that there was not much that could be done at that point, we moved him to a hospice facility in Scottsdale. I am not sure where they find people to work at places like that but somehow they find the best of humanity. They are kind and gentle and understanding.
Since he was so sick we didn't want to leave him alone at night so we decided that the boys would take turns sleeping in the recliner next to his bed. I took the first night. The night went relatively smoothly. He suffered with his then normal amount of pain, without complaint. He just got quiet and rubbed his hands and wrists. I tried to make him comfortable but I know now that was not possible.
About 3:00 in the morning we both gave up on any attempt to sleep and we sat at the edge of the bed in the dark. It seemed to help somewhat rubbing his back so that is what I did. There we sat, in the wee hours of the morning, rubbing his back talking about life. Ironically we didn't talk about death, just life. We talked about what he was proud of and where he felt he failed. We talked about success and failure. All we talked about was family and love. There was no talk about his high school football days or his days as a fighter pilot, just about home, just about us.
At about 4:00 am the door cracked open introducing a penetrating light into the darkness of the room. Our backs were to the door but we heard a very bright voice say "What are you fellas doing?"
So I told her, "We are just talking". She turned on the light and came in. "What are you talking about?" I said that we were just talking about life. She said she understood and with what we would come to know as her normal level of perkiness, added, "Do you guys want some pudding? I would love some pudding right now."
All I could think was...pudding, pudding? Who would want pudding at 4:00 in the morning. My dad however thought he might indeed like some pudding so about 3 minutes later in she came with 3 bowls of pudding and 3 spoons. She told my dad to scoot over and then she jumped in the bed next to him. She looked at the bruises and marks left on him from his hard last fight at holding onto life and talked about them and how sorry she felt for him. She rubbed his head and made him laugh. She said she loved working there because she could actually get to really know people.
So there we sat, my dad and me, neither of us knowing what was about to come and a bubbly nurse who had seen it hundreds of times but acted as if it was nothing to fear and could be all be made better with chocolate pudding.
Somehow the light of dawn came. The family started assembling again for what was to become the last day we had with him when he could still talk. Later that day his condition worsened and my brother and he spent a very difficult night together. He did not make it to a third night.
I miss my father. I miss his strength. I miss his ability to answer any question I ever had.
I am grateful for his memory and that one night of life and death and chocolate pudding.
My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in the summer of 2005. Those are difficult words to hear. You don't know what to do or even say. So you are left to a meaningless attempt to say something that would make it all better. If someone comes up with those words please let me know.
Although he fought the best he could, we feared all along that it was found too late and too far advanced. I was not living near him the last months of the struggle, so I was left with phone calls and well wishes from a distance. Then in late September I received the call from my mother...come quickly your father is not doing well. My brother came down from Oregon and I came from Utah to join with my mother and sister who live in Arizona.
After a few days in the hospital where it was determined that there was not much that could be done at that point, we moved him to a hospice facility in Scottsdale. I am not sure where they find people to work at places like that but somehow they find the best of humanity. They are kind and gentle and understanding.
Since he was so sick we didn't want to leave him alone at night so we decided that the boys would take turns sleeping in the recliner next to his bed. I took the first night. The night went relatively smoothly. He suffered with his then normal amount of pain, without complaint. He just got quiet and rubbed his hands and wrists. I tried to make him comfortable but I know now that was not possible.
About 3:00 in the morning we both gave up on any attempt to sleep and we sat at the edge of the bed in the dark. It seemed to help somewhat rubbing his back so that is what I did. There we sat, in the wee hours of the morning, rubbing his back talking about life. Ironically we didn't talk about death, just life. We talked about what he was proud of and where he felt he failed. We talked about success and failure. All we talked about was family and love. There was no talk about his high school football days or his days as a fighter pilot, just about home, just about us.
At about 4:00 am the door cracked open introducing a penetrating light into the darkness of the room. Our backs were to the door but we heard a very bright voice say "What are you fellas doing?"
So I told her, "We are just talking". She turned on the light and came in. "What are you talking about?" I said that we were just talking about life. She said she understood and with what we would come to know as her normal level of perkiness, added, "Do you guys want some pudding? I would love some pudding right now."
All I could think was...pudding, pudding? Who would want pudding at 4:00 in the morning. My dad however thought he might indeed like some pudding so about 3 minutes later in she came with 3 bowls of pudding and 3 spoons. She told my dad to scoot over and then she jumped in the bed next to him. She looked at the bruises and marks left on him from his hard last fight at holding onto life and talked about them and how sorry she felt for him. She rubbed his head and made him laugh. She said she loved working there because she could actually get to really know people.
So there we sat, my dad and me, neither of us knowing what was about to come and a bubbly nurse who had seen it hundreds of times but acted as if it was nothing to fear and could be all be made better with chocolate pudding.
Somehow the light of dawn came. The family started assembling again for what was to become the last day we had with him when he could still talk. Later that day his condition worsened and my brother and he spent a very difficult night together. He did not make it to a third night.
I miss my father. I miss his strength. I miss his ability to answer any question I ever had.
I am grateful for his memory and that one night of life and death and chocolate pudding.
Wow, Dad. That was really good. However, when you sent me to your blog, you could have mentioned that it was going to make me cry. Forewarned is forarmed and all that jazz.
ReplyDeleteI miss Grandpa a lot too and was thinking about those last days we spent with him. Specifically, I was thinking about how although he was right about almost everything his whole life, thankfully, he was wrong about my kids being funny looking. I guess being hopped up on morphine screws with your credibility. I think Sam is pretty darn cute--I'll bet Grandpa would too.