The Blessing and the Curse of One Last Look in My Father's Eyes
Because sometimes the untold stories rest on the surface and you must tell them to get to the others below.
Late 90s
I entered the hospital room with my Mom. My Dad laid before me in the ICU. Machines and screens hissed and beeped to the rhythm of his newly repaired heart. He was motionless, eyes closed, still.
I walked up beside the bed and in a small voice I said, “Dad?”
His eyes opened and he was immediately stirred by the tube down his throat.
“You’re okay. They’re going to get that tube out in a minute.”
He relaxed.
My heart relented a bit from its pounding. He is okay!
He was okay. He made a full recovery following a quadruple bypass.
Saturday, October 8, 2022
I went to see Dad in the rehab (surgery) facility. At that point, he’d been there 12 days with no progress.
Each time he would sit up or try to stand, he became so dizzy that the therapy team could not work with him on his mobility.
Getting him to eat and drink was a constant battle. That weekend, he had an excellent nurse who paid attention to what was going on with him.
She got him IV fluids and oxygen due to his blood oxygen level dropping. These were all signs of what was to come, but I perceived it as steps in the right direction at the time.
I stayed a while and kissed him on the forehead before I left.
I fully anticipated that on day 14, they would decide he wasn’t going to progress and start talking about complications with insurance paying for the additional time.
At that point, he would come home with me into hospice care and I would work with him as best as I could to hopefully get him strong enough to go home.
I tested positive for COVID the next day.
Unbeknownst to me, Dad already had COVID and was rushed to the hospital the following Wednesday.
Here I was, stuck at home with Dad in the hospital. They called daily and eventually, they called for permission to place him on a ventilator “so he could rest” because they “couldn’t let him sleep on the bi-pap machine”.
This was a pivotal decision because it was the catalyst to him never coming off the ventilator again. It was the only decision I felt I could make. To me, he had to rest if we wanted him to improve even a little bit.
He turned 82.
The Last Look - Saturday, October 22, 2022
I tested positive for a solid 2 weeks.
During that time, I was plagued with phone calls from the hospital.
“Your Dad is not doing great. There will be big decisions to make soon.”
My brother sent me pictures of him on his visits as they did breathing trials to try and get him off the ventilator.
I finally got to the hospital on October 22, to see Dad.
I touched his face. His eyes opened.
“I survived COVID. I’m here now. Squeeze my hand.”
He did.
“Yeah, there he is!”
He couldn’t speak to me because of the ventilator. His eyes followed mine groggily. He had something to say, but there’s no way he could say it. He just held my gaze before he drifted back off.
I stayed a while and told him I loved him and left.
My brother and I had a meeting early the next morning with the Nurse Practitioner about a “plan”.
We were approaching the 14-day mark with Dad on the ventilator and we had two choices:
Pull the tube and keep him “comfortable”.
Insert a trach with all new problems.
My brother is a registered nurse and the oldest, so I leaned heavily on this thoughts and opinions.
Dad wouldn’t want to have a trach or for things to be prolonged more than they should. I agreed. We decided to give him until Wednesday for the extra time to heal and a better chance at breathing on his own. There was still hope!
We stopped in a for a short visit.
He woke immediately when we got in the room. He stared into my eyes the whole time like he was saying “Why won’t you do something!?!”
My brother’s voice broke, “His eyes.”
What if he was scared? What if he didn’t know what was happening or where he was? I could “what if” myself into a frenzy.
It was gut-wrenching.
I didn’t visit on Sunday.
I was supposed to go on Monday with my sister-in-law, but she couldn’t go, and I said that was fine. I felt comfortable enough to go on my own, but I didn’t. I couldn’t, so I didn’t go.
The Last Day - Tuesday, October 25, 2022
My brother and I went together on Tuesday.
He reviewed Dad’s blood gas and vent settings. There was no improvement. He was unresponsive.
He was gone.
So, rather than go one more day, we decided to let him go.
We called in the rest of the family and waited an hour or so for them to switch from the saving meds to the dying ones.
I snapped a photo from the waiting room window.
The five of us entered the room and waited a while. They came in and removed the ventilator.
I expected a silent, peaceful cessation of life. My brother and the doctor had assured me there would be no response. He would peacefully, painlessly, slip away.
After the third time he made a noise, I ran sobbing from the room.
It was just a few more minutes before he was gone.
After This
I was not there when my Mom passed away. I’d seen her just hours before. It was the first time that she slept through my visit.
She’d been in so much pain the last month and we had tried everything to keep her comfortable. She refused pain medication beyond a couple of aspirin.
I incessantly propped her up with pillows and I told her, “I will cram every pillow in this house under you if it will help you stop hurting!”
Before I left that day, I kissed her as I always did and told her I loved her. She caught my gaze and paused to make sure she had my attention before she said, “I love you, too.”
I think she knew.
Despite the stroke taking her ability to communicate with both speech and in writing, she could always manage those words. God gives us small gifts sometimes.
I left and she passed away around 4 the next morning with my Dad beside her.
He talked about the hundreds of times he relived that night and morning, and now I understand what he was talking about.
I will never forget that last time I looked into his eyes…or the last time I saw his frail body as he left it behind.
I both treasure and abhor those moments because they tear my very soul in two. I will never be the same again. Life will never be the same.
But It Goes On For Now
We are the ones who are left behind. Those who are gone live now through the telling of their stories and in eternity with the Heavenly Father.
My dad was an amazing person who went through so much in his life. His father was an alcoholic and that was the least of his faults. Dad was a Vietnam Veteran and retired from the Air Force.
For the last 3 years of my mom’s life, he was her 24/7 caregiver at 80+ years old. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but he was one of the greatest humans I’ve ever known and my world is dark without him…without both of them.
Telling their story is how I shine a light from the shadows. My heart goes out to everyone, especially this time of year, who has lost their greatest humans. May we find better, brighter ways to go on until we get home and see them again.
I Can’t Close This Out Without Mentioning…
Did I give my dad COVID or did he give it to me?
I helped care for my mom through the pandemic, so I was no stranger to staying home. I went to their home and mine. That was it.
When Dad went into the rehab center, his room was this far |-| from the COVID unit. I should have protested, but the case workers are very good at convincing you that you’re lucky if you get a bed at all anywhere.
First and foremost in my mind was getting Dad stronger so he could come home.
While he was there, I went between there and home, so I’m fairly certain that he and I both got COVID there.
That’s not all.
When he got to the hospital from the rehab place, he was septic due to untreated bed sores. The sore on his tailbone was so severe it couldn’t even be staged. Stage 4 is a deep wound that reaches the muscles, ligaments, and/or bones. It was worse than that.
The care that he received there was unacceptable, and they are complicit in my eyes.
So, I have words of caution for anyone who has a loved one who has to enter one of these facilities.
2 out of 2 times for me it was a death sentence.