July 23, 2015

[This is a very personal letter to my Dad. I am sharing it]

Dad,

Can you believe that six years have passed?

I cannot.

I have weathered many difficult storms since I last held your hand, since I saw you alive.
Our children are getting so big and there are moments when I look at them and at the very moment my heart swells with love, awe & bewilderment, something occurs in my peripheral view; a quick flash or reflection, a beam of light between rustling tree branches, and I pause for a moment to wonder if that is you?  

I miss you almost daily.
I find myself thinking of how badly I want to share my stories with you, or of moments where I could use advice from you, or the times where I am wishing I could just hear your compassionate voice when things are really tough.

I am so sorry that things fell apart after you made your departure. I couldn't give my all to Jen & the kids AND protect Mom from the chaos and the hurt and the destruction that came (too soon) after you left. I did my best to pick up the pieces after the destruction took its toll on her, and even all the heroic efforts and sacrifice made by me & a handful of my friends (people you loved so dearly), we find Mom back to where she started; he will do it again as he has done it before. I'm waiting patiently for the same old patterns to arise and am not certain that I can even muster the energy to pick up the pieces that will fall again. I am hoping that you would understand the things I did, the lines I drew, and why I do what I do now to protect my family.

After 6 years I sometimes have trouble remembering your voice. That is excruciating to me.

These days I have been replaying your obsessions with water conservation during our drought years, and all the work you did continually on making sure we had disaster supplies (I told someone the other day about your elaborate water storage regimen and remarked on how hilarious it is that my eye rolling of yesteryear now turns to a bright light bulb going off above my head in a most brilliant "AHA!" moment.)

You'll be happy to know that I celebrate your birthday every year with a warm glazed doughnut and I listen to a collection of your favorites; from Creedence Clearwater Revival to The Beach Boys... You have to forgive me for passing on your 'New Country Phase' from the late 90's to early 2000's.

It's been a tough run for me. Some folks say that they wholeheartedly believe that you know of the tough times, and as much as a part of me would love to believe that you're floating around and acting as some omnipresent guardian angel, I cannot believe that it is anywhere within the realm of possibility.

My brain still delivers some really sweet memories of you from time to time. Sometimes the memories flood in with such clarity that it blows me away... Most recently I remember that day when I was Zoe's age. We were fishing what seemed like an hour drive from camp outside Kings Canyon. It was close to 100 degrees and fishing sucked. I think I caught 3 small fish to your zero (as per usual). With fishing outlook being so dismal, you surprised me with your sudden sense of adventure... You thought you had found a perfect 'natural' water slide on this rushing creek. The creek seemed to cascade down a giant granite rock face that sloped gently downstream and whose erosion was very subtle but in a slide-like channel... so you hopped in and rode it down (hooting and hollering) and yelled for me to follow. I hesitated but was pulled in by your enthusiasm & encouragement. I remember every single moment; I waded over, sat down, and with a scoot I found myself hooting and hollering until I hit the pool at the bottom. The cool clear mountain creek was almost electric.

We took our time getting back to camp and I remember grabbing an ice cold root beer at one of those country general stores that had noisy wood floors. It was just the two of us & it was one of the best moments in my life. I can still hear your hooting and hollering in my head sometimes and I can't help but grin.

If I'm going to be completely honest with you, I would say that one thing I am amazed by is the recurrence of dreams where I relive moments (both good and bad) during the last handful of weeks leading up to your death. I want to believe that you knew I was there at the end. I am hopeful that this is true.

I do wonder sometimes if your soul was able to observe Mom & I in the living room with your body after you took your last breath? We were both so tired that night... We were both in shock.

I'm doing the best that I can these days. I am always adapting to new challenges and battling the things that cause me pain (physical) and setbacks (vertigo) as I think back on all that you endured for so very long.

Thank you, Dad, for the lessons you taught me. They have all merged with my life experience and have helped me to be the man I am today. I'm confident that you would be just as proud of me, if not more.

I love you and miss you something fierce.

Love,
Rob        

Half of a year already passes

It's January 17th and in just about 5 days it will be 6 months since my Father died.

I am checking in because there are some important components for those who are still living:

Coping
Reasoning
Acceptance

I believe that I picked a poor way to manage the post-death experience I have had in these 6 months. Each person will deal with death in their own way and no single path is right for everyone.

For me, I have been running as fast as I can not from the death, the event, nor because of fear but because it was the easiest choice. My life is chaos with moments of bliss sprinkled in there like hidden coveted gems in a favorite ice cream.

It was just a week ago when I really made some important realizations. I spent a Friday in the Emergency Room in a local hospital. I had been suffering from abdominal pain and reluctantly went in to have them check to see if my gall bladder needed to come out.

I laid on the gurney in my hospital gown and felt such loneliness. I was wheeled to a nearby department for an ultrasound. While in motion I just watched the acoustic ceiling tiles, lights, and it hit me.

I wasn't sad that my Father had died. It had been 14 years of sheer hell for him and to be honest, for all of us in the family. There are few things worse than being on edge and thinking that each medical challenge meant it was his time to go only to find that it wasn't. The tragedy is that he never got better, there were no days where he felt normal again, there was never a day free of pain or complications.

What did make me sad was how lonely he must have been during all of those hospital stays. It filled my soul rapidly while laying there and my eyes welled up with tears.

An administrative office employee came in to gather information from me while I awaited the results of the ultrasound. She asked me a series of questions and obtained all the information they needed from me. When I explained my situation (i.e. no medical insurance, a son with autism, unemployment, mortgage, three people counting on me) I also had tears streaming down my face. I felt bad for the woman because she felt awful.

Not a day goes by where I find myself regretting anything I fought for or did for my parents in the summer of 2009. It was as if I received cosmic signals as early as June that I needed to take the role of advocate and assume my old position as the 'voice of reason and calm' in my family.

Now that I have been able to empathize with my father, it is time for me to seek out some other therapeutic ways of coping with the experience. I think that I should observe my mother and her courage as she had been seeing a counselor to help her through the grief process.

So, as I mentioned above, I think it is important that people take some time AFTER the death of a loved one and find out what you're going to be doing to cope, what you are going to do to reason with this situation and last, accepting that it happened and that you cannot change it. What you can do is LIVE. Move forward knowing that it is your job to hold that spirit in your heart.

We'll see how this goes. I'll check back soon to let you know.

Departure

I finally went to sleep around midnight.
I never seem to sleep deeply.
I was in the middle of a dream where I was at the beach with my family when my mother came into the guest room.

"Rob... I think things are not going well. I'm sorry to wake you but I think you should come out now."

It was 3:55AM.

I came in and my father was fading. At this point, he seems to be exhibiting all of the signs that were written in the book given to us by hospice.

His eyes were slightly open.
He was unresponsive.
His breathing was labored, as if he here a fish out of water. It seemed to occur every 1.5 seconds.
He did not look like he was in pain.

We sat on the couch, holding hands, and watched silently.

4:09AM arrived. His breathing intervals began decreasing. Each breath became more and more gentle and less 'fish out of water' like.

And then, at about 4:13AM the breathing stopped.

As I began to get up, he jolted slightly and it startled my mother and I. We could not help but find humor in that split second - like in the movies when a character dramatically dies and sits up for one last moment kind of thing.

He didn't move.

We watched him until about 4:17AM and did not see him breathing. We tried to feel his pulse, nothing. My mother then grabbed the blood pressure monitor and we tried to get a reading.

There was nothing.

He was gone.

His body was still, the life, the energy, the spirit and soul seemed to have departed from the vessel.

I sat with my mother. It hit her hard. The grief came in waves.

I remained so calm. I am still calm as of 10:48AM today.

I made my way to the kitchen and picked up the phone. I called Hospice and alerted them that it appeared he had passed away.

I called Jen. I told her. I miss her so terribly, again, as I did the previous weeks of being here and away from my heart's home.

I called my brother. He decided to come immediately.

After he arrived and processed his grief a little, we sat as a family around my father and filled long periods of silence with happy memories.

The hospice nurse arrived and pronounced him dead (officially). She and I worked to remove his T-shirt and replace it with a football jersey (San Jose State Spartans) a gift from one of his fraternity brothers. My parents lived, ate, and breathed football and this was their passion since graduating from San Jose State in the early 60's.

After my mother retreated to her bedroom, I went for a walk to the coffee shop to load up on caffeine.

After some phone calls to family and friends, my brother called to let me know they were there at the house to remove my father's body.

I walked back quickly and set my hand on his shoulder. I smiled. I saw him in my mind by the side of a creek with a fishing pole in hand and a roll of toilet paper in the other. There is a long story about that, but it brought an even bigger smile to my face.

I was relieved that his pain and suffering had ended.

Now I am immersed in phone calls, arrangements, restoring the house to its original condition...

I have a timeline and the clock is ticking.

I have to be at the airport in 5 hours. Wish me luck.

Checking out

It's now Wednesday.

I did not sleep much last night.
My mind is filled with the endless list of things I need to do, things that need securing, plans needing to be made, phone calls to make, and on... and on... and on...

My Father's pain seems to have once again been met by the powers of serious meds. We have been given the green light to double the quantity of his base level pain meds.

He has been retreating. Food is becoming more of a burden than a desire or a treat. His weight is at an all time low. I am guessing we're at or below 100lbs, or I am getting stronger and able to lift him easier.

His voice changed before I arrived. It is an almost robotic mechanical sound now.

He coughs, but it isn't the kind of cough you or I are used to. This is a gentle cough because he simply does not have the energy. It is wet and I imagine his lungs are full of fluid.

I was nervous about leaving tomorrow, but I really have to balance between my family in Portland and my parents now. I have come to the realization that there simply isn't more that I could do. Everyone will have their own personal feelings about my departing and likely not being present when my Father does go, but then what other people think really does not matter to me in this particular case.

No one can interpret, experience, analyze what I have done. The conversations with my father, the words, emotions, feelings and concerns he shared with me - all of them are treasures that I will hold close to my soul for the rest of my days.

I really need to sleep. I really think I need to look into some pharmaceutical help with sleep once I get back home.

Back to the grind now. Phone calls, arrangements, rescuing the security my mother should feel and has earned.

Rock hunting

One of the most miraculous things about spending this time with my father is the power of his brain.

At this point, he is accessing areas of the brain that have been on 'hold' for some time. Memories from his childhood, from my childhood, seem like they are just minutes old.

I recall last week the moment when my father was moving his hands while he was not very conscious. He had his hands in front of him and he mumbled "I want to cut this rock."

I leaned in and said "What rock are you talking about?"

He spoke, without opening his eyes, and smoothed one hand over an invisible rock held in is stationary hand and said "I found this rock and want to cut it so I can see the cross section of it."

He proceeded to go back into silence.

My father used to be a rock hound, a hunter of rocks and gems with his father. When I was a young child, before my grandfather passed, I remember looking forward to visiting the trailer park where they lived and having both my father and his father show me some of their amazing finds; poppy jasper, thunder eggs, the list was seemingly endless.

Today I returned to San Jose.

Like the previous times before, I received a call of some bad news. My father is deteriorating quickly.

He has not eaten today, as his throat is hurting more than ever before. He complained of having difficulty breathing, which is another step we knew would occur. He is on 5 litres of Oxygen up from his standard 2 and is still having difficulty.

His pain level spiked to a high level. Now we're at 10 on a scale of 1 to 10. This is new.

I had been in contact with my mother and with hospice and we tried a few adjustments in hopes of managing the pain better.

Then, this afternoon, the social worker from hospice said "You need to be a squeaky wheel."

This was all I needed to get the ball rolling and up the baseline pain medication. If by tomorrow he is feeling pain, we'll push for even more pain medication.

I was able to take some photos this afternoon. Living with an amazing photographer means that I feel a need to capture images in a way that shows what I might be seeing from my own perspective.

Pain management

The weekend is over.
I have been home since last Thursday afternoon.

Family time, play time, weekend work, and a date night with my lovely Jenny.

Today is a mad scramble kind of day. I am having to catch up on important things I have neglected, we've got Sam in school, errands to run, a computer to get ready for me to take to San Jose, playtime with the family, more errands... It feels a little overwhelming.

My father's pain has been getting worse since I left. He is now suffering from the discomfort of constipation from the pain medication.

The increase of pain medication has made him retreat more; less lucidity, more unconcious deep sleep... drugged.

I checked in daily, on a few days twice. I was pleased to see that the 9 days I spent getting in-home care arranged seemed to go as well as I had hoped. My mother sounds relieved and is thankful.

Another challenge has appeared. Blood sugar levels, insulin, and just how difficult it is to keep him in a range that is 'safe'.

We'll see how that goes this week. I am only able to be there for a short visit this week.

Taking its toll

The weekend arrived. My exhausion, combined with the emotional strain from missing my family is meddling with my ability to sleep.

I have been making an effort to step out and away. This is really important and I would offer this advice to anyone in this position. You need to have contact with people outside, be in the fresh air, to connect to humanity.

It would seem that my realization of needing to connect with humanity was like some kind of cosmic beacon sending out an S.O.S.

I began randomly running into people from my past.

The most amazing coincidental run-in was with my childhood best friend. We have lost touch for years and I have had him in my mind and heart many times over the years. It was on Saturday afternoon that I ran into him at a store in the old stomping grounds, the city where we grew up together.

I went to a party saturday afternoon and soaked up the positive loving energy from the group there. It was really what I needed to feel recharged.