One may think that spending the last week with your dying father would be a depressing event, but the reality is that, for me, such a week was filled with numerous and unexpected blessings.
My father had been declining in health for the past six years due to the onset of Parkinsons. We had spent the previous Christmas with my parents in their North Carolina home, during which time my ailing father told my wife how difficult it was to get up everyday and not to mourn when he finally passes away.
I remember placing my hand on my father during Christmas Mass that year, praying over him, feeling his body tremble with uncontrollable minor spasms, my eyes filling and eventually overflowing with tears. I felt his pain, his suffering and wondered in my heart if this would be the last Christmas I would celebrate with him.
It turns out my fear was right.
A few weeks ago a series of calls ran through the family tree alerting us that my father had developed pneumonia and an infection. At 83 and weak, we knew that any simple ailment may be the catalyst for his eventual demise. His fever was high, his Parkinsons had interferred with his ability to swallow and he was given a feeding tube. The doctor's gave him days to live.
Blessed with an understanding boss and a job that allows working from a remote location if necessary, I immediately hopped a ride with one of my brothers and his wife and drove up to North Carolina. We stayed with my mom in their small cabin.
Within days the entire family, all seven of his children, stopped by to see him, talk to him, pray with him and for him.
When I first entered his room I almost walked passed him. He was so skinny, so frail, immobile and barely conscious. The mere sight of his weakened state nearly brought me to tears. But I had to be strong, especially for my mother.
Leaving the room and with my mother down the hall far in front of me, I lurched into my sister's arms and burst into deep, vocal tears.
Everyday we would visit him and talk to him. We were unsure if he could really understand the complexity of the situation, but it didn't matter at the time. The doctors told us that the hearing is the last sense to decline, so we just kept talking. We knew that he knew we were there for him.
Later, the family met and came to the same, uncomfortable and unfathomable conclusion that our father would never leave that room. Whether that be days, weeks or months, in his current health and atrophied muscles, his final bed would be in that nursing home.
It was a moment my mother struggled with the most. After all, this was her husband and best friend for 62 years. Watching him decline over the years had perhaps clouded her ability to see how much he had weakened. Or, perhaps it was not wanting to believe it. Or some combination of both. Either way, many tears were shed that night and difficult, but necessary questions were starting to be asked about my father's wishes for his funeral.
Over the next few days my father stablized and most of the family had to return to their jobs and responsibilities. Again, blessed with the option, I extended my stay and worked from my parents cabin.
It would be the last week of my father's life.
My father had been declining in health for the past six years due to the onset of Parkinsons. We had spent the previous Christmas with my parents in their North Carolina home, during which time my ailing father told my wife how difficult it was to get up everyday and not to mourn when he finally passes away.
I remember placing my hand on my father during Christmas Mass that year, praying over him, feeling his body tremble with uncontrollable minor spasms, my eyes filling and eventually overflowing with tears. I felt his pain, his suffering and wondered in my heart if this would be the last Christmas I would celebrate with him.
It turns out my fear was right.
A few weeks ago a series of calls ran through the family tree alerting us that my father had developed pneumonia and an infection. At 83 and weak, we knew that any simple ailment may be the catalyst for his eventual demise. His fever was high, his Parkinsons had interferred with his ability to swallow and he was given a feeding tube. The doctor's gave him days to live.
Blessed with an understanding boss and a job that allows working from a remote location if necessary, I immediately hopped a ride with one of my brothers and his wife and drove up to North Carolina. We stayed with my mom in their small cabin.
Within days the entire family, all seven of his children, stopped by to see him, talk to him, pray with him and for him.
When I first entered his room I almost walked passed him. He was so skinny, so frail, immobile and barely conscious. The mere sight of his weakened state nearly brought me to tears. But I had to be strong, especially for my mother.
Leaving the room and with my mother down the hall far in front of me, I lurched into my sister's arms and burst into deep, vocal tears.
Everyday we would visit him and talk to him. We were unsure if he could really understand the complexity of the situation, but it didn't matter at the time. The doctors told us that the hearing is the last sense to decline, so we just kept talking. We knew that he knew we were there for him.
Later, the family met and came to the same, uncomfortable and unfathomable conclusion that our father would never leave that room. Whether that be days, weeks or months, in his current health and atrophied muscles, his final bed would be in that nursing home.
It was a moment my mother struggled with the most. After all, this was her husband and best friend for 62 years. Watching him decline over the years had perhaps clouded her ability to see how much he had weakened. Or, perhaps it was not wanting to believe it. Or some combination of both. Either way, many tears were shed that night and difficult, but necessary questions were starting to be asked about my father's wishes for his funeral.
Over the next few days my father stablized and most of the family had to return to their jobs and responsibilities. Again, blessed with the option, I extended my stay and worked from my parents cabin.
It would be the last week of my father's life.
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