My 81-year-old dad died on Easter Sunday. It's OK. I'm fine. Really. Except for the day I tried to pay $5.27 in cash for a few things at Von's Market in Hemet and couldn't for the life of me figure out which coins I needed.
Dad had been having transient ischemic attacks (TIAs) for two years. He'd had somewhere between four and 400 of these so-called mini-strokes. Their effect is cumulative and anything but "mini." Each one had taken a little bit of Dad's previous self.
He took longer to process new information. He stopped driving. He stopped fixing and building things. He no longer talked about current events during our weekly telephone conversations. My dad -- who had been an electrician -- had trouble changing light bulbs and batteries.
Early last month he suffered an aneurysm on the right side of his brain, which took what was left of the Dad we knew and loved. His left side was paralyzed and he'd forgotten how to speak or swallow. He'd forgotten how to make his eyes focus and track. Surgery was possible but unlikely to provide any quality of life. He had often spoken of the "poor old buggers" at the VA hospital.
When his doctor suggested an evaluation by Hospice, we knew there was little hope of survival, let alone recovery. My mother and I were uncertain at first about our ability to do this, to bring Dad home and care for him. Finally, we looked at each other, squared out shoulders, took a deep breath and agreed to try. Ramona Hospice in Hemet, Calif., arranged everything. God bless Hospice. We didn't have to worry about anything. Anything, that is, but how to say good-bye to Daddy.
The night before he came home I went back to the hospital to sit with him. I sniffed my way through an explanation of what was happening to him -- that the doctors couldn't fix this. When I finished, my poor old Dad reached his good right hand through the bed rails to give me a pat on the shoulder -- an "atta girl" kind of pat -- and then firmly shoved me toward the door. I think he was telling me to go home and take care of my mother in the only way he could. I did as I was told.
The next day Hospice brought the hospital bed, which we set up in the family room, right where Dad's chair usually sits. They sent nurses and home health aides, a social worker and a chaplain. They taught us how to keep Dad comfortable as well as what to expect in the coming days. For a week we watched Daddy go. He was semi-comatose, sleeping most of the time. He only responded with tiny nods and shakes of his head or the squeezing of a hand. The Hospice workers assured us he was still in there.
During that week friends and family stopped by to say hello and share memories. All of the grandchildren called from across the country to talk to their Papa on the speakerphone and tell him they loved him. We laughed and we cried.
But Mom and I were fine. Really. Although we couldn't concentrate long enough to read books, watch videos or play cards. Instead we cleaned and did crafts. We spent two weeks making centerpieces for an upcoming golf luncheon, sorting through boxes of photographs, cleaning the computer room and the laundry room. I even shampooed the carpets. Yeah, we were doing great.
Although there was that one day when my cousin and her husband arrived for a visit about 4 in the afternoon. I offered some of Dad's pink wine and we talked and watched Dad's chest rise and fall. I poured more wine and brought out the mixed nuts. It was after 6 before my mother and I realized we had made no plans for supper. It had just slipped our minds. Yeah, we were doing just fine.
And we are fine because, although we miss him like crazy and our sadness goes beyond words, we had done a good thing, the right thing. He was in no pain and as he passed, Mom and I held his hands, kissed his forehead and told him to have a good trip.
No matter how old I get, there is part of me that wants to make my parents proud. I also want to set a good example for the children, to show them how I handle the big stuff, how I bear great sorrow. And you know what? I think I did fine, just fine.
Just don't ask me to make change for a while.
Lorie Schaefer has lived in Carson City for 25 years. She is a reading specialist at Seeliger School.
