I’m certain some people will think the title of this article harsh, and it probably is to some not in my shoes. My father was given six months to live sixteen years ago. That’s a long time to get ready for death. I made good use of that time. Many times I have had the opportunity to thank my father for all the wisdom he gave to me, and to detail the good memories of my childhood. He never tired of listening to me tell him all that I remembered. He would exclaim, “You remember that? I never thought you would remember!”
As with terminally ill people, he would lapse into depression from time to time, and it was those times when I made sure to remind him of all the good he had done for me.
Now he’s days away from the final departure. I have been doing deathwatch with my mother. He will be moved to hospice today or tomorrow. His decline started the beginning of last week.
Most of this past week I have been okay. I really have been okay. When the doctor came and told my mom and I that hospice was the next step, she looked at me, and her eyes welled up. My heart was stabbed by such pain; my eyes welled up as well. I cried most of that night, not for my father, but for my mother. The next day, both of us were fine, and we met with hospice. Next came a few days of visits from the hospice rep, who talked with my father and answered all his questions.
He said, “I don’t know what to do ... what do you think?” He asked me four times. Three times I said, “It’s your decision, Dad.” The fourth time I sat on his bed, held his hand, and looked into his eyes and said, “I think you are tired of fighting; are you tired?” He said, “Yeah.” I said, “Then I think you deserve to be happy and comfortable for the time you have left.”
He said “Thank you. All I wanted was an honest opinion.”
For the next two days, he seemed to grow more alert for longer periods. And we talked about hospice. He said, “I am afraid to die. But I don’t want to live like this.”
Today was tough. He is miserable physically. He is displaying a lot of the signs of the body shutting down. He knows my brother is flying into town in two days. I think he will hang on until then. I have become educated on the dying process, and it’s not a bad thing to be educated in. What ripped me apart today is the torture of the fight to hang on. And it’s nothing I can help him with. It’s his fight.
I cry today, not over grief for my loss. I dealt with that a long time ago. I cry because grief just brings tears. And tears wash the windows of the soul. I want my windows to be clean for Dad. So I can be there in his last moments and tell him it’s okay to let go, you can stop fighting, just let go, and there will be peace.
