It’s been four years since I saw you last. 

You were just moved into your new room in hospice and I was grateful for the fact that I was able to see your face in person. Covid demanded that families be separated when a loved one was in the hospital, and Mom was the only person that could ever be chosen to visit you when the edict was “one visitor per day only.” But it was decided that you were not getting better after a month long captivity in the sterile environment and papers were signed to move you to your new home. I think we all knew that it wouldn’t be a long visit even though we hoped you wouldn’t deteriorate quite so fast.

The hospital capitulated and allowed me to join Mom for your last minutes at the hospital. It pained me that you were so lethargic and sore but I wouldn’t trade those moments for anything else in my life. The strongest person I have ever known was clinging to the little energy you had left and Mom was trying her best to give you the comfort you needed to receive and she needed to share. I was in shock and felt decidedly as if I had intruded into a world that I probably should have left to you and Mom, but still oddly proud to have been asked to help with this important life change. We packed your very few personal items and left the room so that you could be prepared to be moved.

I tried my best to keep Mom from falling apart and heavily into her feelings. We left the hospital and spent some time shopping and then waiting quietly in my living room. An event that was supposed to take three hours to accomplish had been pushed to four and then five and then six…Mom was on the edge and I was getting more and more pissed as the precious moments we still should have with you were mired in hospital paperwork and shenanigans. To this day I say, “Fuck them all!” The stress was off the charts painful and we finally decided that we couldn’t just sit in our sorrow and frustration while waiting for the powers that be to get their shit together.

We decided to drive to the hospice and wait until you came to us. Thankfully, the rules were slightly less stringent and two people at a time were allowed in to visit you. And it wasn’t restricted to only two specific persons per day–when things got settled the family would be able to rotate through to spend time with you. Mom and I were allowed to find your room and scope it out and I found it rather pleasant. Not very furnished to be sure, but it was a room that was clean and, thankfully, not full of dreadful machines that would deign to keep you awake from much needed rest. It had been decided that you would not have to be pinched, prodded, or filled with fluid anymore. The only thing you would have would be a tube with oxygen and then the sickness would take its natural course. 

It was where you were going to die. 

Mom was exhausted to the point of madness and she could no longer find the strength to wait for you to be brought to us. I feel that I should have pressed harder for her to stay for you, but she was a mess. A thoroughly exhausted and emotional mess of a woman who was drowning in the reality of what was currently in front of her and what would be coming sooner than could ever be wanted. She really wasn’t in the shape to be driving a car and I tried to convince her to stay at my house, which was much closer than her own, but she had reached her limit and just wanted to go home. Luckily, my niece decided to stop by the hospice and was available to help Mom get home. One less concern to have to deal with. I stayed behind and continued waiting for you to arrive. My fingernails were destroyed and my leg had almost shaken itself off of the rest of my body. For the moment I was the responsible one and I was terrified with every thought of what that meant. 

You finally arrived and a gaggle of emergency workers pulled your bed out of the ambulance and into your room. I was surprised at how efficient it all went and how after only a few minutes there was only you, me, and one of the workers who would be monitoring your stay in this new place. You were much more aware and verbose than when I saw you at the hospital and I felt lifted in spirit by seeing you acting closer to the man I grew up with than the fragile being I had left behind earlier. You wondered where your machines were going to go and the woman had to patiently (oh, so patiently) explain that you would not be needing them anymore and that only oxygen would be provided from that point on. I think you understood and you took a second to stop and look around. You were neither impressed or unimpressed–just there. 

I quickly called Mom and told her that you arrived and I could feel her relief through the phone. I stood at the foot of your bed and watched as you started ordering staff around. I had to stifle my laugh as it was so inherently YOU and typical of how you would normally act in a place you had never been to before. The trash can had to be moved closer and the box of tissues put right on the table by your phone. And where was the god damned charger?! You had me shuffling through all of your belongings and pulling them out to place them exactly where you wanted. So gruff and so exasperating. My daddy in a nutshell. I was happy to see you as much as I was shaking in my shoes–this was going to be our last time together. I knew it even if you didn’t. I stood and watched the show and breathed in every ounce of you that I possibly could. It was the most bittersweet moment of my life.

After everything was placed just to your liking and the staff had left us alone we chatted. Not about anything deep or confessional, just normal discussion about who knew you were there and who was planning to visit. Where was Mom? Where’s the remote for the television? I sat and watched and breathed you in the best I could. I knew that I was not going to visit the next day as there were so many of us kids and family that wanted to see you and I was going to remove myself from the equation. When only two people could visit at a time, it was going to be difficult to let everyone have their moment with you. I hate that I sacrificed more time with you, but I also knew it was the right thing to do. I wasn’t the only one who loved(s) you.

I was sure that your health would deteriorate quickly without your artificial support and if I did manage to make it the day after next you probably weren’t going to be very cognizant. I was right. It absolutely killed me to know that when I decided to leave that night that I wouldn’t see you again. I didn’t want to go, but you told me you were tired and that you wanted to go to sleep. I walked over to your bed and looked down at your face. You took my hand and I leaned down to give you a last kiss and hug. You told me that you loved me and I walked away, not finding anything else to say. I exited the room and stood just outside the room against the wall. I couldn’t make myself leave just yet. I peeked back in through the door and saw you shuffle your way into a more comfortable position and then close your eyes. 

I pushed myself away from the wall and took about six steps towards the nurses station before I completely broke down in sobs. I didn’t collapse onto the floor but I did collapse into myself and hugged myself into as much of a ball as I could manage while standing up. I was never going to see you alive again. You finally knew it. I definitely knew it. And it was all too much. I can’t decide if I was grateful or angry that no one came to check on me but either way I was able to pull myself together enough to stagger outside and to my car. And thank goodness for my friends, because I called each of them asking for all the love and support they could give me. I could have called my family of course, but my pain would only add to their own and I wanted no part of that. 

The next day unfolded much as I had expected and you were visited by Mom, your other children, grandchildren, and your own Mom (who is still alive and about to turn 101 years old)! I heard that you were somewhat awake for the beginning of the day and that you were less and less coherent as the hours went by. Goodbyes were everywhere and the sadness became heavier for everyone. I only heard about this day from Mom and the siblings but it seemed to have passed exactly as I had expected. I had a small moment of actually being happy that I wasn’t there. It wasn’t my place to be there at that time. I was happy to have received what I did. 

The day dragged on and I lay on the bed in my guest bedroom watching shows that I had seen a million times before and needed no brain power to understand. I looked at the time on my phone and then the television. Waited for texts and phone calls while knowing that life as I knew it was going to change forever way sooner than later. I just sat there and waited for the call that I knew was coming. 

And it did. Midnight, December 31, 2020.  

Mom was crying and asking me to meet her at the hospice as soon as possible. No one else was going to be there and we needed to be able to look upon your face one more time before the machine responsible for cleaning up death began to roar. We met in the parking lot and clung to each other’s hands. We didn’t know what we were going to see and we didn’t know how we were supposed to act. You were gone and we were going to have to figure out how to deal with that. 

The room was dark and quiet and the large television provided photos of nature and soft music in the background. You were in the same position that I last saw you alive but you were so, so still and calm. Unmoving. Not there. Gone. Mom called you Honey as she leaned over your face. I don’t remember if she touched you but she was weeping and completely bereft. She moved away and gave me space to see you. Your skin was already a bit plastic and your eyes looked sealed closed. I put my cheek next to your lips and looked down at your chest to double-check that you were, in fact, not breathing. You weren’t. And I was sad. And horrified. And calm. Because you were no longer in pain and were free of your earthly bonds. It was every bit as beautiful as it was unbelievable. I kissed your forehead and moved away.

We didn’t know how much time we should spend with you and we didn’t know what was going to happen next. A lot of tears and feelings to be sure, but also a lot of planning, and deciding, and practical items that would need to be taken care of. Mom and I quietly packed your things and made our way to the door. We both looked at each other and then back and you–lost in whatever last words and wishes we were making for you deep inside of our bodies. We quietly walked out the door and into our new normal. We already missed you. We already didn’t know what we were going to do without you. We knew that we would love you forever.

And I (we) will never, ever forget.

©DRB 2024

Photo by Marcelo Leal on Unsplash