My dad did.
His last days of life were
consumed by that question. At the time, we thought he was wondering what he
could expect to happen next in the day. So we would update his white board with
dates, times, names, activities. As the end approached, I began to wonder,
though, if he meant more than that. He mentioned at one point, two or three
days before he passed, that he had to separate.
“Separate what, dad?”
“Mind and body.”
Was he wondering what
comes next in life? Or what comes next after life?
My dad wasn’t a religious
person. He wasn’t even a spiritual person. We had a clear understanding of his
belief. This was it. There was nothing else. Once we died, we ceased to exist.
When he lost his parents, his sister, and his two brothers, he didn’t believe
that they would go on to live in some other dimension, a parallel universe,
heaven, as they did. When his second son, Donald Jacob, died shortly after
birth, he must have felt the same way. Here he came, and there he went. Living
on only in memories. When his third son died (that’s another post), my dad
genuinely believed that there was no more Greg. He just . . . wasn’t. It
bothered him to have a small urn of Greg’s ashes, so mom hid it away despite
her belief that Greg continued, even as an essence, and lived among and beside
them.
On April 11, 2017, dad
went to the doctor for persistent diarrhea. He went to the doctor a lot. It
exhausted and frustrated mom because, so often in the past, the explanation
given for his ailment-du jour was that he was getting old and that’s just what
happens when our bodies age. This visit must have struck the doctor
differently, though. Dad was referred for an ‘abdominal scan,’ which he was to
have done the following Monday, April 17. I later deduced that he’d had an MRI.
I went over to their house when the results of the scan had been received, on
April 19, at the end of my last day at SelectHealth. Dad handed me a piece of
paper on which he had written his ‘diagnosis.’ It read:
My birthdate is January 7th
1928
According to my math, that tells
me that I have now lived for 89 years and approximately 4 months. Physical
evidence reveals that my body is now attempting to prepare me to rest in peace.
In the meantime I’m moving about
securely with my walker, assuring me of balance and comfort.
Okay, so I deduced it was
bad, but clearly that wasn’t the whole story. It wasn’t even the gist of it.
Mom was cryptic, as she should be sitting in the room with a man who was either
in complete denial or suffering from a lack of understanding. Regardless, she
didn’t want to disrespect or frighten him by saying anything different than
what he understood and believed. Props to her. She eluded to ‘the C word’ and a
‘mass.’ I was unsatisfied, so I made an appointment for a phone consultation
with the doctor.
That yielded more detail
than I probably thought I wanted. Dad had a large tumor that seemed to be
emanating from his prostate that was putting pressure on his kidneys and
bowels, causing a near-constant sensation of the need to ‘go.’ It had
infiltrated the soft tissue around his lower spine, and seemed to have
metastasized into his lower left lung. He explained that dad was quite clear he
was uninterested in any further scans, testing, or treatments, without which we
would never have a completely accurate diagnosis. After some pushing and with
many CYA disclaimers, the reluctant doctor said that he would unofficially name
it Stage IV Prostate Cancer, and offered that dad likely had months (“probably
6”) left to live. He prefaced that with stories of two patients who had similar
diagnoses, one of whom owned the cancer, fought with all of his might, and
lived for three more years. The other gave up the minute she walked out of his
office and was gone in three weeks. It wasn’t hard for me to interpret that. We
wouldn’t have him for long. The doctor recommended that we contact a hospice
care provider sooner, rather than later. I made the call that day.
The next two weeks were
spent visiting a lot and carrying on with Life . . . Gibson Style, all while
preparing for our much anticipated final family fling in Cancun. That’s another
post. Oh yeah, and starting my new job. Dad had several epiphanies, which mom
wasn’t sure whether to pursue or not, so she either confirmed his thoughts or
just let them ‘hang out there.’ He recognized that everyone who was visiting
was coming because he was dying. He identified that his ‘trouble down there’
was being caused by a ‘growth.’ He never did, however, use the words cancer or
tumor.
Based on my conversation
with the doctor, my brother Gary came out from California. We arranged for
Horizon Home Health and Hospice to come while he was here. Katrina, the nurse
who was assigned dad’s case, was very kind. I think he had a crush on her. She
was very matter-of-fact, smiled a lot, and explained things in
easily-understood terms. She called him buddy- “Hey buddy, how are you feeling
today?” Hospice wasn’t necessarily ‘end of life’ care but, rather, an extensive
system of support for the patient and the caregivers throughout the journey
which could, in some cases, take years. She indicated that some patients even
came off of hospice and went on to continue living their earthly lives. Our hope
and realism couldn’t reconcile that.
Katrina left paperwork for
us to complete before her next visit the following week, including a POLST form
(physician’s order for life sustaining treatment), which gave dad a chance to
express his desire for what extent he wanted us and doctors to go to if his
heart or breathing stopped. At first he said we should do anything and
everything, that he ‘wasn’t ready.’ This took us all by surprise because we
truly believed it was against everything he believed in to be kept alive with
feeding tubes or respirators. Since we weren’t sure if he had actually
reconsidered what he’d expressed before or just didn’t understand what we were
asking, when she returned, we asked Katrina to explain each of the life-saving
measures involved and the success rates and repercussions of each one. He
changed his mind, requesting a full DNR. Katrina brought the hospice chaplain,
Dan, along on this, the second visit, who found many commonalities with my mom,
including a love for all things French. It was really nice to see her
conversing and laughing again. We agreed to weekly visits with Katrina and her
crew. Each time she came, we had a list of questions, concerns, changing
symptoms, increasing disabilities, and requests.
My sister, Elizabeth, made
arrangements to fly to Utah from France, her current home base, and help mom
and dad while Gary and I were away on separate but overlapping vacations in
Mexico. She arrived on Friday, May 12, the morning after we left. It was an
eventful week. The hospice team sent a social worker named Mark, whom dad
really clicked with and wanted to share some of his standard tales of ol’ with.
My sister had the presence of mind to video tape the exchanges, which are
priceless. Dad’s iconic choke-laugh, which we are all so goofily fond of, is
clearly audible, and his pure joy in recalling memories from his long-term bank
was palpable.
Throughout the week, dad
became increasingly uncomfortable and agitated, often yelling at mom or
Elizabeth, refusing help, and lacking a general desire to be pleasant. He also
became more confused and less able to think rationally. On Saturday evening,
after sleeping most of the afternoon, he got up around 6pm, still light out. He
was very confused, thought it was morning, and Mom had to tell him many times
that it was evening. (Of course, after a
long afternoon nap, anyone would be confused about that, and with his
short-term memory loss, he kept forgetting).
That night he called out for Mom around 4am and told her that ‘he was ready
for a glass of wine.’ She declined that request... Mom and Elizabeth then spent the next few
hours taking turns with him in his bedroom, trying to help him relax, breathe
deeply, and go back to sleep, with a promise of later having coffee and watching
"The Spoken Word" Sunday morning TV program that he enjoys. To that
plan, he said multiple times: "Wonderful!" And he was still able to crack a joke-- a
long standing one that involves a line from Out of Africa -- "Oh, you've
changed your hair!" After about 30 minutes of Elizabeth lying next to him
with her hand on his shoulder, while he repeated the same several sentences
over and over, he announced the she should now "Go fix your hair, and then
come back".
It became clear during
that week that he was not really capable of dressing or undressing unassisted,
or maintaining personal hygiene – the physical; but, he was also not capable of
allowing his wife or daughter to assist him – the psychological. On Sunday, he
spent 4½ hours in the restroom refusing to let either of them come in, and
being very rude and confrontational to Mom every time she knocked on the door
to help (at one point reducing her to tears). When they described this behavior
to Katrina she said it was not untypical, for Dad to lash out at the caregiver
to whom he felt the closest and therefore felt the safest with.
On Monday, after a bout of
extreme back pain coupled with delusions, the doctor added three more medications,
two for pain control (morphine and methadone), and one for anxiety/confusion
(lorazepam). These helped him sleep much better, which meant in turn that Mom
and Elizabeth also got some sleep. In
fact, after the first dose of morphine (probably the first time in his life
that Dad ever had a narcotic drug), he slept for 18 hours.
On Wednesday evening, with
his pain and confusion more under control, Mom and Elizabeth had a great few
hours with him, watching home movies- The Foster Children Story, An American in
France (my video of mom's 1968 trip), and The Virgin River, a beautiful
composite of nature photos and music that Dad made many years ago. He was lucid
and remembering things about when the movies were made and other anecdotes
about the past. Elizabeth asked him if
he remembered filming The Foster Children Story and he said “Oh yes, every
single frame.” One of his favorite
movies was a travelogue called "Visions of Provence", which they also
watched that night. Dad was in France
once, in 1988 on a trip with our whole family, and told Elizabeth that he could
remember everything "with perfect recollection." They didn’t know then that it would be the
last time he watched these beloved movies.
Unfortunately, he didn’t
often have to actually use the bathroom, but was the victim of an insatiable
feeling of needing to. Their fears of a fall grew with each passing day. As
expected, it was when, not if. He fell on Friday while trying to navigate the
bathroom and mom and Elizabeth had to call paramedics to get him up and back
to bed because they were unable to lift him themselves.
That was a catalyst for
change, for a minute. Hospice had a new toilet seat delivered, that had handles
on both sides, to help prevent another fall when trying to sit down or get back
up. He let Elizabeth get him into the bathroom and help him prepare as much as
possible, but she was then instructed to leave the room and ‘do not come back
under any circumstances until I call you.’ She complied. Mom disassociated.
Based on the rapid decline
in his physical and psychological faculties, Elizabeth cancelled her flight to
return to France the following week and committed to stay ‘for the duration.’
I returned home the night
after the fall and went over the following afternoon, Saturday. None of the
week’s events were known to me at that point. I arrived to find an exhausted
mom and sister, an irritated but happy-to-see-me dad, and a house in disarray.
They were clearly all running on full autopilot, nearly out of fuel, and in need
of another able-bodied adult to help with the physical part and a clear mind to
help with the rest.
We had some nice visiting
time with dad in his red chair. I showed them the presents I’d brought from
Mexico, showed him our pictures which we beamed through the TV, and he had some
tomato soup and a protein shake for lunch. Then he was ready for the bathroom
and bed.
That night, Elizabeth and
I shipped mom off to her baby sister, Vicki’s, house for a sleepover, complete
with pizza, movies, and shopping, and we took full duty with dad. He was, of
course, up multiple times in the night, only allowing us minimal interaction,
and mostly wanting to go straight back to bed. Until 2:50 a.m. After a
45-minute visit to the restroom, he instructed us to take him to his red chair.
‘To my red chair.’ No misunderstanding that command. One of us walked backward
while supporting the front of his walker and not allowing it to become
rear-heavy and topple over, while the other walked behind dad with our hands on
his waist, keeping him from becoming
rear-heavy and toppling over, as had quickly become our custom. He could barely
lift his feet, but shuffled from one room to the next, stopping momentarily at
each change in floor-covering to ensure he didn’t trip over the slight change
in height. We had agreed as we waited for him that his body-clock was no longer
accurately telling time, that day and night were no different for him anymore, and
that our body-clocks needed to adjust accordingly. Granted, it was 2:50 a.m.,
or 3:35 at that point, but he was ready to start his day and, thus, so would
we.
As we all settled into the
living room, he asked “Is there anything you would like to converse about?” I
told him about a dream I’d had. That’s another post. I asked him if he had
anything he would like to converse about, but he did not. I asked if he would
like to watch a program on TV, but he did not. So, we sat silently, my hand in
his, his eyes mostly closed. After about five minutes, he announced that,
believe it or not, he was ready to go back to bed. Uh huh. Yes. That makes sense since, even though you’ve only been
sitting for five minutes, you’ve been up nearly an hour.
We reversed our ritual to
get him into his room, slippers off and spaced exactly the right distance apart
on the seat of his walker, hearing aid and glasses cases open on the nightstand
and spaced exactly the right distance apart. He used his waving hands to let us
know if we didn’t have it quite right, and announced ‘Perfect’ when we did. We
tied his robe, right side tucked under left, sleeves pulled down. We tucked his
shirt into his waistband and his pant legs into his socks to keep things from
getting twisted up as he slept. We put his double pillow angled under his head,
careful not to let the corner get stuck under his shoulder. We added the green
pillow behind his back for support, and tucked the blue pillow between his
knees. His sleeves were pulled taught again, and his covers were pulled up and
tucked under his arm, then carefully smoothed to avoid any wayward wrinkles.
This usually settled him down for a good fifteen minutes or so, before he
decided he needed to use the restroom. And so we began again. It felt as if we
were inside the children’s book, If you
Give a Pig a Pancake. Although his speech was becoming labored, he made his
wants and needs clear to us with hand motions, sporadic words, and a few clear
demands for absolute compliance. I was glad he still had some control over at
least this.
Gary and his oldest son,
Christopher, returned on Saturday night, May 20, making their way to mom and
dad’s mid-day on Sunday. We had our normal day, transitioning in 15-minute to
2-hour increments from the bed to the bathroom to the chair to the bathroom to
the bed to the bathroom . . . By evening, dad was in such distress, complaining
of severe pain in his back and hip, that we called the hospice facility and
requested a visit from a nurse. A wonderful man named Russ arrived an hour or
so after our call and evaluated dad. He gave us some more powerful pain killers
and anti-anxiety medication, and a new timeline. He expected dad to stay with
us for just a matter of days. Gary and I committed to stay ‘for the duration.’
The meds helped, and dad stayed comfortable albeit less and less capable from
day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute.
The losses were swift and
significant.
- Getting out of his chair without help
- Walking unassisted without his walker
- Walking unassisted with his walker
- Picking up his feet to walk
- Standing
- Sitting up unassisted
- Showering
- Dressing or undressing himself
- Restroom self-care
- Walking with his walker
- Getting out of his bed
- Sitting at all
- Speaking
- Swallowing
- Moving
One thing that was never
lost was his sense of humor. Until his voice was gone, he was quipping and
making wisecracks with us.
Sarah:
I
love you Grampa.
Dad:
What’s
left of me.
Gloria: Hi
honey, it’s Gloria.
Dad: I
knew a Gloria once.
As
Gary, Elizabeth and I responded to a request to get him to the restroom:
Dad:
Well,
the gang’s all here.
Gloria: You’re
my one true love.
Dad: . . .
Gloria: You’re
supposed to say ‘ditto.’
Dad (with a smirk): Ditto.
After
several of us had been in and out of his room visiting, holding his hand,
adjusting his position, I asked if he wanted the light off. He said, in no
uncertain terms, ‘Yes, and your mouth.’ Well!
Okay! I guess we’ll all leave the room now!
We kept up our list of
questions, concerns, changing symptoms, increasing disabilities, and requests
for Katrina, and ended up crossing nearly every item off by the next time she
came because his situation was changing so quickly. We asked her to come daily.
She did, and also added a home health aide to our visitors, Victor, who would
come daily to help with the physical requirements such as showering, shaving,
dressing, changing sheets, etc. By the time Victor arrived the next day, dad
was well beyond showering, but still got a bed bath, shave, fresh jammies, and
clean sheets, and admitted that it had felt good. For a man as private and
self-sufficient as my dad, this must have been absolute torture to resign
himself to needing this type of assistance. I leaned over him and told him how
handsome he was and how good he smelled, and that I had to kiss his soft cheek.
That got a little grin. From both of us.
Monday was a busy day. Dad
spent a few waking minutes in his chair, and then slept there for a while. Katrina
came. Victor came. A representative from Serenity Funeral Homes came to make
pre-arrangements. Meher arrived. Brian
rescued ducklings (that’s another post).
Monday was a bad night.
Dad had a lot of pain in his back and hip. We called hospice again to request
stronger pain medication. They increased his methadone and risperidone (pain
and anxiety, respectively) for long term control, and gave us the appropriate
dose of morphine and lorazepam for immediate triage. Since it was becoming
increasingly difficult for dad to swallow, they switched all of his medicine to
sublingual liquid form, so he could just let it absorb into his cheek.
Later that morning, Pastor
Dan came and gave the family a lovely blessing. Vicki, Alicia and Jerrick came,
along with Ashleigh, Dave, Meher, Sarah, Brian, Gary, Elizabeth, mom, and me.
Victor stayed with dad while we all went into a lovely ‘common area’ in mom’s
complex. He spoke of dad’s art legacy, and how we were all the most beautiful
strokes made on his canvas. He complimented us on how we’ve come together to
support each other through this. He prayed. He cried. Some of us were reduced
to tears. Some of us were renewed. Some of us were calmed. All of us were
grateful.
On Tuesday evening, dad
gave us a gift. After having been in bed essentially since Saturday afternoon and
while the majority of the family was at the house, he decided to spend some
time in his red chair. ‘To my red chair.’ We asked our standard question,
‘Would you like to watch a program?’ He decided on a YouTube video about Man’s
Early Flight Attempts [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gN-ZktmjIfE],
and then a Frank Sinatra concert DVD. And a ‘full’ glass of wine. After debate
among the family members (me against them) and a text to Katrina (“If it were my dad, I’d give him the wine.
I’d give me the wine.”), we gave him the wine which he managed to
sip without help – as he commanded – once, followed by a huge sigh of
satisfaction and a beautiful smile. We all sat around with him and enjoyed the programs.
Mom sang, dad tapped his foot, and lots of tears and laughter filled the room.
We toasted ‘new beginnings’ and family. Took pictures of dad with various
groups. When we asked if he wanted to see the photo, he said, ‘Of course!’ Dad
smiled.
 |
| Doing it His Way, with Frank. |
And then he was ready for bed.
I’m not sure we would have
made it to this point without the hospice team. One member who was particularly
appreciated was the massage therapist who came on Wednesday for us caregivers.
When Caleen (Cal like California) walked in wearing Minnie and Mickey Mouse
scrubs, I commented how ironic and perfect it was since, after all, my parents
met at Disneyland. She was astounded and said that for some unknown reason,
until that moment at least, she’d changed four times before deciding to ‘dress
down’ and wear those particular scrubs. We enjoyed about an hour long visit
about the power of energy and all things metaphysical before she was ready to
get down to business and start the massages. She apologized for her music
choice, as she – again – wasn’t sure why she’d chosen it. Caleen had brought
the soundtrack from Out of Africa, which
happens to be mom’s favorite movie and music. We skeptically confirmed she had
not received a ‘cheat sheet’ about our family. Who was guiding this visit?
Someone or something beyond our understanding was manipulating us like
marionettes. Caleen believed it may have been dad, as he hovered between this
realm and the next. He knew that nothing could make his love feel more
comfortable and able to enjoy her first massage ever than Disney and Out of Africa. I believe that too.
That afternoon, dad seemed
to be awake in his room. He and mom stared at each other for about 30 minutes
before she began to wonder if he was even awake. We decided that, just in case,
we would put something within his line of sight for him to look at and chose
the life portrait we’d had done after Greg passed away. I held the painting up
above him so he could see it, and dad caught his breath and began to tear up.
His eyes switched to me ever so quickly, and then back to the portrait. I could
tell he was looking at each individual pose. Gary leaned down and told dad, “He
was a great man. I miss him, too.” I told dad that Greg was waiting for him,
and had a cold beer ready. After a few minutes, I moved to put the picture on
the window sill, and dad’s breathing grew rapid. I knew instantly he wanted to
keep looking at it, so I held it there for him for about five minutes. He
finally calmed and indicated by closing his eyes that he was okay for me to
move it.
Our days melted into one
another. Coffee and wine were poured liberally at all times of the day and
night. Respite runs – errands, Starbucks, or walks around the block – were
taken by each of us at one point or another. Laundry was kept up, barely. We
lived on take out. Naps were rare. Yawns were prevalent. Hugs and tears were
sprinkled throughout. We were each other’s bright spots, encouragement,
strength.
Each night got
progressively harder, before they got progressively easier. As the physical
needs increased, the mental distress diminished because he was with us. As the
physical needs began to decrease, the mental game began because we knew we were
losing him. But throughout, none of us got more than an hour or so of sleep at
any given time, we were so in tune to his breathing, and the occasional periods
of silence.
By Thursday, I’d made a subconscious mental switch. I shut off daughter and turned on caregiver. The mental
disconnection helped me maintain some semblance of order in my mind so that I
could give him what he needed and not get bogged down by tears and sadness. It
was all still there, just tucked neatly away for the time being. Dad slept from
3:30 Wednesday afternoon until Noon on Thursday, and then woke up, saw his
lovely wife looking down at him, and gave her a nice smile and hand squeeze.
Later that afternoon, he had tears in his eyes and was very agitated. I wiped
his tears and asked him if he was scared, told him it was okay to be scared and
that we all were, too, but that we were all going to be okay and would take
good care of mom. I told him that none of us know “What’s Next”, but that he
got to find out soon. I told him we were excited that we would get to be with
him and Greg again someday. Mom went into his room, and dad slowly raised his
arm to wrap it around her and hung on for dear life. His breathing slowed, and
he seemed to calm down. He kept his eyes fixed on her (or rather, his left eye,
as it seemed his right eye was no longer really focusing). She laid with him for quite a while before
needing a mental and physical break.
Following the hospice
team’s advice, we took turns the rest of Thursday sitting in the room silently,
sending him positive energy, remembering times with him, and letting him rest.
Or leaving him alone. Thursday night we went to bed relatively early. It was
the first night all week that family hadn’t been there late into the evening,
or sleeping over. It was the first night all week that it was just the five
remaining Fosters. It was the first time all week that we slept for several
hours. At 4:00, Gary, Elizabeth and I spontaneously woke up. We were all in
different beds, but we all woke up. After lying in bed for several minutes
listening to dad’s breathing, and then realizing she was actually hearing mom’s,
Elizabeth got up and moved to dad’s bedroom door. It was silent inside. She
moved to his bedside, and heard nothing. She put her hand on his forehead. It was cool and smooth. She took his hand. It was also cool, though his arm and chest
were still warm. She came into the
living room and kneeled between Gary and I, taking our hands. Gary asked, “Is he gone?” She whispered, “I think so”. Gary, now our patriarch, went in to check and
confirmed that daddy had passed.
The three of us hugged and
prayed and cried in mom’s family room before pulling ourselves together and
going in to tell her. Gary handled that part, too, saying simply, ‘Daddy’s
gone.’ Her voice came out in a sigh that was undoubtedly a jumble of relief,
resignation, and regret. ‘Oh, he is? Oh . . . thank goodness. Bless his heart.
I want to see him.’
We all headed back into
dad’s room. Mom hugged and kissed him, told him he was her one and only love. I
was so overcome that I had to leave the room. I felt as if we were being
compressed, like there was so much . . . I don’t know . . . energy, spirit,
power in the room that I had to get out from under it. I stepped out onto the
deck to breathe and keep myself from either throwing up or passing out. They
were there for him. All of the ones who came before – grandmothers and
grandfathers, brothers and sisters, sons, friends, pets – they were there for
him. He was there. He was lingering. Teetering. Finding his way. Exploring his
surroundings. Enjoying his healthy body and mind. Finding sunsets and waves and
birds to paint. Having a beer with his boys.
The next few hours were
tranquil, surreal, comforting. Hospice came, the nice man from earlier in the
week, Russ. He did a quick assessment and confirmation. He sat with us for over
an hour, shared stories, admired dad’s art, had coffee, and called the funeral
home. Representatives from Serenity arrived at about 6:30. The two young men
who came, Beau and Caleb, were both in their early 20s, tall, soft-spoken, and
dressed in suits. They were exactly who I needed to take my daddy. They
carefully wrapped a sheet around him, gently lifted him onto a stretcher, and
placed a beautiful blue and white patchwork quilt over him. We walked down the
hallway, into the elevator, and out of the building. We didn’t see a single other person, thus
maintaining Dad’s privacy and dignity. I escorted them out of the building and
to their waiting van, a non-descript white vehicle that I was grateful wouldn’t
call any unwanted attention to him as dad was driven to his temporary resting
place. As he pulled away, the biggest flock of geese that I had ever seen
(there must have been 50 or more) flew over squawking their sympathies and
condolences, and probably guiding his spirit through the heavens. I learned
later that, at that same moment, Gary had brought mom and Elizabeth back in
from the deck where they waited, not wanting to see dad leave. They stood in
his bedroom doorway and watched as a hummingbird flew up and stared at them
from outside as it hovered, and then flew away!
It was then I realized it
was my birthday.
I decided not to
celebrate.
After dad had gone, Dave
and Meher arrived. They brought pastries. We robotically talked for a minute,
maybe a couple of hours, time had lost its impact. I realized I needed to
leave. I needed to be home. I needed to get my mind and heart out of the
spirits’ way who were so clearly providing an escorted departure, which wasn’t
complete. The air was thick from it. Their presence was tangible. Dave took me
home and I talked to the kids for a while, loved on Cooper (who I’m surprised
didn’t go completely bonkers without me for 15 days!), then went to bed. The
family went about their business and I conked out for about three hours. When I
woke up, Sarah made me a bubble bath with candles, a cup of coffee, peppermint
oil for my headache, and Netflix queued up on her laptop. I don’t really
remember the sequence of the next few days, but I know they involved lunch out
with Dave, lots of sleeping, lots of crying, the family coming for dinner on Saturday,
and maybe again on Sunday – not really sure – and a few mundane but welcomed
household chores.
I returned to work on
Tuesday, grateful for the distraction but barely able to hold it together. Gary
and Elizabeth were preparing things to go with dad into the crematorium (namely
what we had of Greg, two buds from a peace rose that they bought for mom, and a
black feather in a beautiful, locked wooden box). Gary offered a Lakota
blessing of the seven directions. They took dad’s urn and the box to the
funeral home. The urn was given to us by Steve Thomas several years ago. We had
no idea this is what its purpose would become, but it turned out to be a
perfect vessel.
Daddy was cremated that
afternoon, Tuesday, May 29, 2017. I collected his ashes the following day after
work. They were heavy and there was too much to fit in the single urn. So I got
an extra box. The four Gibsons, mom, Elizabeth, and Rene will be taking them up
to the mountains on Sunday, June 11, and scattering them with the wind, to
forever rest in the tranquility and beauty of the Wasatch wildflowers. Rene
will be offering the blessing again, and everyone will have the opportunity to
share memories, pray, or silently reflect on dad, Greg, life, beauty, peace,
and new beginnings. In the fall, I hope to go to Grand Tetons and scatter the
rest of their ashes there. It was one of dad’s favorite places to paint, and
one of Greg’s and our favorite places to camp. I think they will enjoy living out
their new existence in the splendorous shadow of Mount Moran.
So now, on to the new
normal. It finds those of us left behind far from one another, but closer than
we’ve ever been. Mom is (at least on the surface) seeming freed, wanting to go on
living a full and rewarding life. She has been a caregiver for years. Ever
since Greg died, I would say. Dad began to decline, at least in motivation,
from that day forward. A little piece of him died, too, and eventually overtook
all that was left alive. It comforts me to know that they are together now, and
that I will see them both again.
I still don’t know ‘What’s
next.’ But my daddy definitely does.
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| Katrina |
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| His namesake, Christopher Donald |
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| Sarah, Brian and Chris with Grampa Don |
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| Daddy with his Disney Princess. |
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| The walker no longer an option, dad made a trip out in the hospice-provided wheelchair. |
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| "Hi, pal!" |
His last few days were spent in his comfy bed, wearing his comfy jammies, gettin' loved on by us all.
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| A last goodnight |
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| One true love. |
Vaya con dios, daddy. I love you.