Dad had a burst of energy in December and early January.
People around the nursing home noticed how animated he was, how happy he seemed
to be, and how clear-thinking. He would roll himself up to the nursing station,
slap the counter, and say “Bartender, I want a drink!” They would pour him a
shot of brandy or wine and he would announce “Ahhhhh! That was good!” He would
then roll himself away.
Then, around January 17th, he came down with
something. He stayed in bed, developed a fever, slept a lot, and started having
trouble breathing. The following day the nursing home asked me and Jackie for
permission to transfer him to a hospital. He was declining rapidly. I said, “No.
Do your best. Keep him there in his home. A hospital would be frightening for
him. You can do there whatever needs to be done.” We brought in a hospice team.
I changed my ticket with American Airlines in order to fly out on a 6 a.m.
flight from LaGuardia to Tyler. It was January 20th. Jackie met me
at the airport. We stopped for lunch in Tyler, then arrived at the nursing home
around 3 p.m.
Dad was completely clean. He looked like he was in a deep
sleep. His bed was elevated to help him breathe. He had an oxygen mask. He was
struggling a bit and his respiration was irregular. We removed the mask. He
licked the wet sponge Jackie held to his lips. I held his left hand and
whispered, “I’m here Dad. You take it easy. You’re in no condition to go to the
American Legion. You want to go out and get a beer? You have to rest a little.”
Jackie held his right hand. She put the mask back on his
face. We held onto him for awhile.
Then he stopped breathing. We held his hands and looked
at him, then at each other. We both started crying, and we put our heads on his
chest. It was over. We were there together at the end, a father, a son, and a
granddaughter.
He had waited for me. His last gift was that final hour,
in his room, talking to him, holding his hand as he let go of 95 years of life.
That was it.
