The weekly prompt for my Story Republic writing community was “Last Time”. I had to sit with this one for a bit, having just buried one of the loves of my life, my father, this past week. Here’s where I landed. Telling someone to treat every day like it’s the last, is a cliché, which I try and avoid in my writing as much as possible. But “lasts” have been on my mind. I’ve found it hard to write about my dad’s death, which is surprising because the journey of being by his bedside throughout his final days is occupying my mind and my body incessantly. I still feel like he’s here.
My hope is that finding the words to write through this profound grief might lighten it for me, but maybe for others too.
Please, if this is too difficult to read, carry on. I understand completely.
I’ve been struck by “lasts” of late and how much we really don’t know when it’s going to be the “last time” for many things. The passing of my father at the age of 87 has given weight to this, but this was on my mind before his health took a drastic turn for the worst in early August. Things had started to shift for both him and my mother with numerous health emergencies, one after another, beginning last fall. The idea of treating every day with them like it could be the last had started to settle in.
I had the great honour of having my dad in my care last November when my mother had emergency bowel surgery. At the start, he was also in the hospital, so my only responsibility was to visit him there to fill the enormous void of my mother being absent. They wouldn’t release him until we had homecare set up, which I managed to accomplish after numerous days navigating the system, which was hard for my impatient, frantic need to get my dad home. He always seems to lose ground both physically and mentally (he has dementia) when in the hospital.
I was finally able to “break” him out of the hospital and then began the 3-week full-time care until my mother was well enough to take over. This involved preparing his meals, taking him for walks, getting his favourite television shows up on the set, and driving him an hour away for daily visits with my mother.
There was more. I was determined to loosen the grasp of his dementia, to tease his mind to better places. I began reading to him from some of his favourite hockey books. This opened conversations about his days in hockey and his favourite hockey players. Even with the gentle onset of his dementia, he had remarkable recall. We shared stories and quite a few giggles. At night I “tucked him in” but told him I wasn’t smooching him like my mom did. More giggles. But watching him turn over with a smile, knowing he was in good care, brought peace to my heart like I’ve never known.
As I settled in, far away from my husband and woodland home for weeks on end, I became fully aware of the gift this time was. With the daily hospital visits, I observed my parents enduring love story at a new level. The rituals of the “one, two, three…kiss” at the beginning of each visit and the “See you later alligator, in a while crocodile” shared with good humour as they parted at the end of the day.
I didn’t know this would be the last time we’d have such visits.
I didn’t know this would be the last Christmas with my dad, but I still treated it like it could be. His slow physical and mental decline had alertered me to that possibility.
I took lots of photos, read a portion of my recently published short story “Love is Like Peanut Brittle” that recounts their love story. It’s in the What is Love Story Republic book published last year (available on Amazon). I embraced the challenges of preparing a full Christmas meal for the first time in their small apartment.
Then, my dad had a fall and fractured his hip in early January on one of his unsteady walks to the bathroom in the middle of the night. It wasn’t the first time. That changed everything.
He recovered well but he was never going to come home again. While she was amazing and patient with his dementia, my mother finally had to face the fact that she couldn’t continue to manage his physical needs. It was killing her.
Christmas was the last time I sat with him in their apartment.
We moved him into the local nursing home where one day he looked at me and said, “Is this where I’m going to die?”
I nodded and answered yes, although I didn’t know for sure.
But it was. The place he died.
So began the ritual. I hugged and kissed him and told him I loved him like it was the last time every time I visited. My mother visited him daily. She was finally able to be his wife again and not just his caregiver.
I continued the practice of “lasts” during this final episode. He had declared he was dying when he first arrived in Emergency after a suspected stroke. I suspected he might be right.
There was no stroke, but a myriad of other health issues came into play. Lymphoma was discovered and there was also gall stones that couldn’t be removed after several attempts and work arounds. The stroke doctor explained that other health conditions can appear like a stroke with dementia patients.
The day before he was rushed into emergency he had been up and about watering flowers and chatting with my mother after a visit to the local ice cream shop. How was she to know that was going to be the last time they would be together that way?
We watched him decline over several weeks. When I asked the doctors if he would ever return to being that guy in the flower garden, they said no. What we were seeing now was likely what the rest of his life would look like.
Again, I hugged him, told him I loved him every day like it was his last.
With the doctor’s advice, my mother made the decision to stop all interventions. There was really nothing more to be done. She was firm she didn’t want my brother and I to make this decision. All agreed it was the right one, but I was still having trouble letting go.
My mother has told me that she fell in love with my dad twice—After their first kiss over 67 years ago. And again, 20 years ago when he finally quit drinking for good. Their love wasn’t always a storybook “happily ever after”, but it had endured many trials. And in the end, it was a beacon of love and devotion that was an honour to witness.
These were now his final days. I never left the hospital without recognizing it might be the last time I’d see him. I didn’t want to have any regrets if I couldn’t be there when he passed.
I sometimes had to remind my mother to do the same. On the last day, she was halfway out the door when I beckoned her back. She bent over him as she always did, whispering how much she loved him and that it was time to go.
I was the only one there as heaved his last breaths. I quietly stood and put my hand on his chest to see if I could feel his beating hearting. The heart that had fought on long after the rest of his body was failing him. That was no surprise.
After a few moments, where I stayed in the indescribable presence of just me and him, I pressed the emergency button.
The nurses came in quietly and confirmed he was gone. He’d fought so hard these past weeks, gasping for breath, often stopping breathing for several seconds – as we held our breaths – but always starting again. This time, he finally meant it.
When my mom arrived, she put her head on his chest and jumped up sure he was still breathing. His face, so peaceful, finally, told another story. I actually laughed with her, shaking my head. Whether she liked it or not that he’d chosen to leave when she wasn’t there, he was gone.
We both stood and took in all his beauty, his sweetness, everything he was to us – for the last time.
This poem came to me in a matter of minutes during the Story Republic “Workout Wednesdays” live telling session, when “impatience” came up on the writing wheel. I really don’t expect my grief to pass quickly but over the past month as my dad was dying, I was struck by both my profound patience and startling lack of it.
Impatience
Hurry up,
this release
of grief,
must you stay
in every moment
of these long days?
Surely you have
other places to be.
My lack of patience
is not good company
for your slow journey
through every corner
of my heart
and my mind.
hurry up already!
be gone.
I too have
other places
to be.
