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You are here: Home / Archives for death

death

Dad Memories

June 18, 2021 by admin

Sunday is Father’s Day, so I thought it would be fitting to pay tribute to my dad.

It’s coming up on a year since my dad died, just shy of his 70th wedding anniversary and his 88th birthday. Not a bad run, but there’s never a good time to lose a parent, and his absence still feels odd and strange. Worse, his dying happened during COVID, so saying goodbye was equally odd. We drove from New York to Illinois with a full cooler of food, stopping only to get gas and use the rest stops.

Once we arrived, we stood at his window to talk to him. Dad wore hearing aids and had macular degeneration, so we’re unsure how aware he was of our presence. Mom had to balance her walker on landscaping rocks, and they didn’t let her in to see him, even though they lived in the same facility, until they determined he was near death.

My father was a quiet, reserved man (something I inherited from him), but he had his own way of showing his love. I recall a lot of little things: his determination to teach me to drive a stick shift, for example. We had a ’74 Pinto where the difference between first and third gears was so minimal it was easy to pop into third and stall out. No matter. He wanted me to learn in case I was ever in a situation where only a standard transmission was available. In fact, that happened some years later when I wrecked my car and didn’t have rental car insurance. The car I borrowed had a stick shift.

Every now and then Dad decided to bake something. It didn’t happen often, but when it did it was a big deal. After all these years, I still remember sitting with him while he made cookies, and the smell and taste of hot Snickerdoodles fresh from the oven.

In junior high, I got sick at a basketball game and had to go to the hospital. When we got to the ER, he picked me up and carried me, me worrying about his bad back while he did so. I was petite, but still, that was a lot of weight for a guy to lug around who had to spend a lot of time lying on his back on the floor with bent legs propped on a chair to relieve his pain.

When my first attempt at college failed miserably, he was the one who comforted me. “Take some time off,” he advised. “You can go back later.” I did, though it was much, much later than either of us ever expected. But in that moment he taught me how most things aren’t black and white, all or nothing. We can choose, and we can do life in a different order.

Mostly, I remember the love story between my dad and my mom. Married as teenagers, they provided an example of devotion that stayed with me. It took me a long time and a few divorces to find the equivalent of what they had, but I always knew what was possible.

His illness and death were rather sudden, with a swift downhill. It seemed like only a minute from the time he mentioned, casually, that he’d lost 25 pounds in a short time, to multiple falls, to hospitalization and the cancer diagnosis.

Now that he’s been gone a year, his absence is both more disconcerting and comforting at the same time. It feels good to remember all the ways he made a difference in his quiet, thoughtful way. He is always missed and always loved.

If you have fond memories of someone who is no longer with us, please share!

Filed Under: grief Tagged With: dad, death, Father's Day, grief, loss

That Good Night

August 13, 2010 by admin

The garden remains untended, unfed today. I had ten minutes this morning to walk around and look at the ripening vegetables, feeling less guilty as I saw that Mother Nature is taking care of my plants while I take care of other things. I missed the opinionated neighbor cat that enjoys hiding among the pepper plants; he never gets too close to me, but talks incessantly from a safe distance while I work. But not today.

Today, we work with Mother Nature on another project entirely: a good death for my father-in-law. At 80, beset by multiple serious health conditions, he feels ready to go. For months we have worked with the medical establishment, feeling increasingly dissatisfied as his questions: “What happens if I don’t take my meds?” “How do I check out?” fell on deaf ears as he was told how good he looked and how he could at least enjoy the sunshine and the birds.

For him, though, the sunshine and birds no longer hold any joy. Nor does the upcoming football season or anything else that he once looked forward to. His body has failed him, and he misses his wife. In his frustration, he often lashes out at us–we used the wrong coffee cup. We didn’t take the easiest route to the doctor’s. We didn’t re-use the tea bag.

We try not to take things personally, and sometimes we do better at that than others. In the meantime, we maneuver through the quagmire that is our medical system. We have agonized over every decision since March, when we discovered a life-threatening leg infection. What do we treat? What do we let go? If we stop his meds, does that cause suffering for him? How do we help him die with dignity, given that what he really wants, to go to sleep and not wake up, hasn’t happened on its own?

When the recent healthcare debate descended into nonsense about “death panels,”  I learned how frightened we as a society are about end of life conversations.For months these questions remained unanswered. I’m glad the doctors work so hard to save lives–but there is a time to let go.

After conversations both with hospice and other palliative care personnel, we finally have our answers. He is dying, and perhaps quickly now. He has discontinued his meds and will never ever have to stick his finger anymore to check his blood sugar. He will no longer bleed and bruise from the belly where he gives himself his shots. Anything that remotely causes suffering is now removed from his life, and we focus entirely on his comfort.

Dylan Thomas wrote “Do not go gentle into that good night.” Yet with modern medicine, with all its choices and options, maybe we need to rethink that notion. We do not want to see someone we love die in a hospital, or survive through artificial means. Maybe, keeping him home and surrounded by loved ones, he can go gentle into that good night–and it will be all right.

On another day, very soon, I will return to work in the garden, where plants grow, flourish, and sometimes die. I will chat with the cat and try again, probably to no avail, to pet it. I will harvest the vegetables and feed the family with them. I will plant new plants where others are now gone. But today, and for a little while longer, we learn a little more about that good night and how, perhaps, to help someone go gentle there.

Filed Under: Uncategorized Tagged With: death, death panels, dying, dylan thomas, end of life care, hospice, nadine galinsky

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