Forever Close in Spirit - Part II

FEBRUARY 1996

We make our way back upstairs to mom and dad's apartment. Mom is talking to someone on the phone. I get dad settled in his recliner, complete with pillow and blanket despite the heat on the tenth floor, and he is instantly asleep.

Mom hangs up the phone and I tell her about dad's visit with Nancy. She has her account book open and I doubt she really hears anything I say. I stop talking and watch her. She looks lost, scared. She has been in such a state of confusion and fear and uncertainty since I arrived that I feel useless to her. My efforts to comfort her have seemed futile. Sometimes, I feel I'm more of a hindrance than a help, and I wonder if I did the right thing by leaving my family to come back here.

My sister and niece arrive. Terry and I are more than sisters. We're best friends. My heart breaks for my niece. She is experiencing her first loss of someone so close, and her pain is written all over her face.

We all go for a drive on Saturday, a long drive where we take dad to some of his favorite spots in the Adirondack country. We know this is the last time, on this side of eternity, anyway, that he'll see the landscape he's loved since childhood.

When we get home, dad is so tired, he can't assist us as we try to move him from his recliner to his bed. My sister and niece have left for home, so it's just mom and I. Mom feels helpless and scared and I'm worried for her. I'll need to leave in a few days too, and she'll have to face these situations alone then.

We've engaged the help of hospice, so she decides to call them. Hospice responds in less than ten minutes. A gentleman who looks like an NFL linebacker makes his way across the room. His eyes are kind, his words kinder. He picks dad up with the tenderness of a mother scooping a child into her arms and deposits hm gently into his bed.

The next few days are a blur of tension, fear on mom's part, useless attempts on mine to comfort her. A hospice nurse stops by twice a day, friends and relatives come by to visit. One of dad's doctors even makes a house call to check in on him. Mom spends time sitting by dad's bed, talking to him, grieving for him, reminiscing about their 45 years of marriage.

Dad has slipped into an altered state of consciousness now, sometimes waking up enough to look around and speak, sometimes grimacing with pain, but most of the time just peacefully sleeping, hanging in suspension between here and there. We sit in silence, listening to those breaths that come ragged and labored. Listening for the next one. Hoping we'll hear it. Praying we won't.

Wednesday moring is Valentine's Day. Mom steps into the shower and I am alone with dad. I hold his hand, stroke his hair, and a smile comes across my face, despite my grief. I'm reminded of the remark my sister made a few days ago. "If I was dying and you stroked my hair like that, I'd jump right up and slap you. I can't think of anything more annoying!"

Then I see it. The little trickle of blood that makes its way out of dad's mouth and meanders down the side of his chin. I grab a cloth and tenderly wipe it away, then reach for the swabs and clean the inside of his mouth. Three swabs, five, half a dozen, all blood-soaked. His chest ceases to move. His pain is no longer.

The warmth from the bathroom permeates the hallway as mom emerges from her shower.

"It's over, mom. He's gone." I put my hand on her arm, a feeble attempt at comfort.

"I need to get dressed and make the calls." The undertaker, hospice, my sister, a dozen other people who will want to know.

All I can think about is the Valentine's Day card I can't give her now because it's addressed to both mom and dad. Such an absurd thought at a time like this.

Andy, the undertaker, arrives. He's about the sweetest, most understanding man anyone would ever want to meet. He and his assistant have been in dad's room for about two minutes when I knock on the door. "Can I have a moment alone with my dad?" I ask.

Andy clears his throat, looks uncomfortable. "We dont' have the - uh - him, prepared yet."

"I know, but it doesn't matter. I'm a nurse. I've seen my share of dead people. Doesn't bother me a bit."

He hesitates, then smiles. "Sure."

I want to say a few last words, but the lump in my throat is too large. I can't choke the words out around it, so I kiss dad's cheek, hold his hand, and think the words. "I love you, dad. We'll always be forever close in spirit."

And I know with a rock solid certainty that he hears them.

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