Dancing With Monsters

It is the quiet now

That seems to be so loud. It was indeed "it". My father died on March 7 at 4 a.m. My sister, brother, stepmother and I coached him through his final hours of suffering until he was able to die. There were no words of asking him to let go or telling him everything was going to be alright. We walked with him while his drugged body gasped for air trying to find just the right position for failing lungs to get oxygen. Morphine and ativan took care of his pain and anxiety but there is nothing you can do about a body needing to breathe. Not when you want to die like he did. So we helped him. It as if we were helping him birth himself out of this life and into... what, I do not know. That is not my business. What was my business what helping my father die. And we did.

Random word sketch of my dad dying

I sit in his room just watching him breathe. In and out. Labored. Wondering if this is really it. Is it? This time? A 10 year  up and down battle with heart disease, congestive heart failure, and emphysema (COPD as they now call it) all leads to these final few nights in a hospital bed in Conway,SC. The battle has him shrunken up and aged way before his time (he is only 61). There is an oxygen tube wrapped from ear to ear to help him breathe. When I am tired it looks like some kind of umbilical cord running from each nostril to this odd little robot looking machine that gurgles with water and motor sounds. Sometimes he wakes. First rubbing his face and then his hair with drug induced tremoring hands. He looks over with glassy eyes that look like they are about to cry (but he isn't) and I wave and smile. He has no idea who I am. And I am ok with that for now. I will deal with that later, when he is done with dying. Then he stares off into space for a while and goes back to sleep.This goes on for hours.That has been the day today.

Here is a lesson learned from last night's time with my dad:
My dad is not able to walk very well any more due to the drugs he is on and where he is in the dying process. Last night he leaps up from his chair as I was sleeping and I caught him just as he was about to leave his room.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"To hell", he responded.
Oh god. I know my dad believes in hell and I am afraid that he is having nightmares. He looks at me with these sunken eyes that are a little frightened and I am not sure why.
Then I look down at my shirt to realize that I am wearing an Ed Hardy t-shirt with a surly looking skull on it that says "Free Agent".
Nice job Wyndi.
Now my father not only does not know who I am, he thinks I am one of Satan's escorts.
I turn the shirt inside out.
Lesson here - don't wear the hipster/poser/cool t-shirt with scary imagery on them when spending time with the dying. Not a good costume choice.

This is all so bittersweet.