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On Thursday, one week ago, I received a phone call at work from my daughter. She was crying. Her cousin had just got off the phone with her.

“They’ve taken Paw Paw to the hospital,” my daughter sobbed.
“He’s had a stroke. They don’t think he will make it.”

Now, that was a phone call I had dreaded getting my entire adult life. I thought I had received that phone call over eight years ago. Mom had called crying. Dad had cancer. That was part of what made this phone call all the more sudden and surprising. How? My dad had come through cancer surgery, chemotherapy, and all the years of follow up without ever having been sick or losing his hair. The doctors were in constant disbelief at his stamina, strength, and lack of side effects through the whole ordeal.

My dad had continued working. He didn’t work, look, or act like an older man. He didn’t work because he had to. He worked because he loved it.

Two years ago, Dad had worked circles around me helping me roof my house. To the day he went to the hospital he was working with a friend installing gas lines and furnaces. He did the crawling under the houses and the digging. He was really in great shape.

Everyone believed he would live to be a hundred or more. He was the picture of health. He still looked like he was in his mid 50’s. I knew he would see my grand children marry.

So, I called my wife and told her the bad news. My dad and mom live almost 1200 miles to the east. We discussed it for a moment and decided to drop everything and get there as fast as we could.

At different times along the trip, someone would break down. We would all cry for a bit. When we arrived, early the next morning, I realized it was the first time in my life I wasn’t glad to see my home town. In fact, I hated it.

We went straight to the hospital.

My father was elevated in CCU with nothing attached except a heart and respiration monitor. My parents had long decided not to use anything to prolong the life and death struggle. But, you could see the new world we live in when the nurse promptly called for the neurosurgeon after I arrived. I’m sure they were needing to make sure I was on board with the decision to allow things to take their course. I comforted them with an affirmation of “whatever Dad and Mom wanted.”

Dad was so strong, as he lay there. I feared this could last months–even years. Evidently, the right side of his brain had suffered massive damage, but the left side was ok. He was able to squeeze my daughter’s hand when she asked, but he was basically comatose in every other way.

It was very tough seeing Dad that way. I’m very glad he suffered no pain throughout the whole thing.

The morning before his death, Dad ate breakfast with mom. He started slurring his words and losing control of his right side. He never even knew anything was happening when mom asked him. They took him to the hospital where he continued to lose cognitive levels, but never experienced any pain. A blood vessel had burst deep inside the right side of his brain. The neurosurgeon didn’t expect him to recover.

I asked them what would kill him. They said that pneumonia was most likely to end his life. There was a possibility he would begin to bleed again in his brain. This could cause him to lose respiration and heart beat.

The next day was a repeat of the first day. Many visitors and relatives dropped by. There was a small family clan that went in and out all day.

That evening, mom, I and my wife were returning to his room after the nurse had turned him and taken his temperature. The nurse wouldn’t tell us she knew he was dying. She said, “things are changing quickly now.”

I looked at the gages and instrument displays that had become easy to read the last two days. Dad’s respiration was 15 per minute. That was very low. It had been high in the 30’s and 40’s all day. Yes, 15 was very low.

As I watched, in the course of 2 minutes, Dad’s respiration rate kept going down. 15 per minute, 10 per minute, 8 per minute, 3 per minute, and finally, no respiration. I was surprised that his heart rate held steady at 49 beats per minute.

When he quit breathing, then his heart rate started to slow. 42 beats per minute, 30 beats per minute, and in less than two minutes, it started to lose its healthy pattern. It slowed to less then 20 beats per minute, and then just rippled where it had been beating. Finally, that stopped too.

I had just watched my dad die. It was one of the toughest things I have ever had to do. My mom laid across him sobbing, “What will I do. What will I do without him.” We all cried again.

That very night, at home, mom had to answer the donor survey when they called. It made me a little angry as she spent 20 minutes telling them Dad wasn’t ever in prison, Dad had no sex diseases. . . Couldn’t they find that out earlier? Maybe not. Things can change. Still, I hated that part of it.

Well, I’m back home now. I just called my mom again tonight. She is as well as can be expected. Life goes on.

We were planning to visit for two weeks this summer. To see Dad and Mom. It’s hard to think I’ll never see my dad again. Life goes on.

Regards.

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This entry was posted on Friday, April 7th, 2006 at 3:38 am and is filed under Relationships, Emotion, Death. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Responses are currently closed, but you can trackback from your own site.