Ten long days ago, my father-in-law passed away peacefully
in the care of some lovely hospice nurses and surrounded by his pastor, his
wife, and my husband’s aunt. His last breath was not labored, it was more of a
sigh, a tired sigh of relief and exhaustion from a life that always busy,
always full of drama, and always, always, controlled by him. His passing was as
prohibitive as his life- he offered what message he wanted to offer, and we
took that message and believed what we felt was possible. Some parts were left
out to protect those that needed it, and other parts were left in to hurt those
that absolutely didn’t deserve it. It was his life, the way he wanted to live
it.
Jackson made every single decision based on what he alone wanted,
and I believe he made a choice to draw his last breath at that moment when he knew
his son was not in the room, he knew his grandchildren were no longer in the
building. Jack was a professional at controlling the moment.
Just one month earlier, Jackson had flown into Chicago from
Phoenix, picked up a car to borrow for a few weeks, checked into an Extended
Stay America, driven himself to a restaurant, and had a fun lunch with my
husband and I, and our three children. It is important to note that my husband
and I thought he wasn’t looking so “good” at that lunch. Maybe slightly weaker?
Maybe a little more unsteady on his legs than when we had seen him a couple of
months prior to this visit? But we brushed off our thoughts as silly, and we
all ate our usual delicious breakfasts at Jackson’s favorite Greek diner.
There wasn’t really a logical reason for Jackson to be
flying into Chicago to visit this July. When we asked him why he’d suddenly
made plans for a trip, he could only say, rather sheepishly, that he wanted to
visit the kids. This, was of course, odd to us on several levels. 1. We were
scheduled to bring our family to Arizona for a visit in a few short weeks, so
why couldn’t he just save some money and wait to see us? 2. He had just seen
the children less than two months prior, over their spring break and so it’s
not as if it had been months since their last visit. 3. Jackson’s interest in
the children was actually an anomaly. In almost eight decades of life, he had
never been overly interested in children. Even with his own children, he felt
like kids were only worth speaking with when they were old enough to hold
intelligent conversations over topics such as the “history of the gold rush, “
or, “how the Grand Canyon was formed.”
The day following our lunch with Jackson, he called us from
the hospital ER. He had driven himself to the hospital because he was
experiencing chest pains. As my husband recounted his conversation to me, I
found myself rolling my eyes because his stubborn father had once previously
driven himself to the hospital with chest pains. That time it turned out he was
in the midst of a massive heart attack and eventually ended up with a quintuple
bypass. This time, however, it was quickly discovered it wasn’t his heart. It
ended up being a gall bladder issue. And a few tests, and a few days later, the
gall bladder was removed.
Yet again, something still was not going right. Removing a gall bladder is usually an
outpatient procedure, however, Jackson remained in the ICU for several days. Later the
doctors said he could go home, which actually meant he could go relax at the
Extended Stay America while he recovered, because home was in Arizona and since
he could not navigate stairs, he was stuck in the ground floor hotel room.
But, something seemed wrong again, and an ambulance came to
the hotel and took him back to the hospital. A few days after that, he was
moved to a rehab center. This man, who had days prior, walked off an airplane
and driven himself to a restaurant to meet us, could no longer walk or stand or
even get from the bed to a chair on his own. It was as if his body had
completely shut down- and he looked as though he’d aged twenty years.
On my first visit to the new rehab, my mom had sent me with
a card for Jackson signed by her Bible study group and I read it to him. He
looked right at me and said, “well, I have not thrown in the towel just yet. I
don’t need all those prayers, I just need some more rehab.” I had to explain
that prayers were for his healing, not for his journey to heaven. But he knew
what they were, and he cracked a half smile at me, which told me that he was
still fighting to get out of there and he was still in possession of his
sarcastic demeanor.
Days later, he was moved to a more intense and more
permanent rehab center. One where he could have a private room, personalized
occupational therapists, physical therapy as much as his body could handle, and
one where his wife could spend the nights with him if he desired. After he moved in to this place, he
only attended two, maybe three therapy sessions before it became clear
something was not going right for him.
Labs, which in recent years had always been on the poor side,
were coming back even worse, and now showing obvious signs liver and kidney
failure. Yet, doctors said if Jackson wanted to push through, he could
certainly do so. And as he stopped opening his eyes for more than a few minutes
at a time or even speaking, doctors told my husband that this is what they
refer to as, ”failure to thrive”.
At that point, just a little over a week ago, we were faced
with a decision about moving him to a more permanent round-the-clock care
situation. We thought we had a few days to make the choice, when he seemed to
make the choice for us. Jack’s doctors from the rehab center thought it
was necessary he be transferred back to the hospital because his belly was
filling with fluid and needed to be drained to help with his pain comfort
levels.
His only form of communication with us during this time were
words like, “I just want this [life] to be over,” and, “I don’t want to live
this way”. We had no choice, we had to make him comfortable and we also had to try to carry out his
wishes.
In times like these, all you want to do is give a
person every chance to live and thrive like they once did…like he once did only
three weeks prior, and yet the patient is asking you to let them go, each
decision becomes physically and emotionally draining. We knew if he had the will to live, he could fight back, but
since he had given up, we had a plan in place. Like most people these days, we
had the advance directives, the DNR ready and signed years earlier. It was only
my husband and I who were not quite ready. And so, Jason made the heart
wrenching decision to have his father transferred from the rehab center to the
hospital to have the fluid drained from his belly.
With all 8 liters drained, it was a relief to see
improvement to his pain level. He was more peaceful. The draining wasn’t a life-saving measure, but rather a
comfort measure, and the choice we had made was a good one. While recovering
from the draining, Jackson continued to ask anyone who would listen to let him
go. He refused food and had been refusing it for a little over a week at this
point. His breathing was labored, lips were dry, and he could not move but a
little part of his hand and slight turns to his head.
The dreaded time for a decision about hospice had come. The
doctors wanted to know our decision, the nurses, the hospital administration.
Everyone concurred it was time to move Jackson into a place where he’d be
comfortable enough to let go.
Jason and I visited a brand new in-patient hospice facility
that was comfortable, soothing, clean, and spacious. The room was large enough
for the family to visit with him and not be cramped. There was a kid’s room
filled with games and couches and a giant TV for the kids to watch their shows
on without disturbing anyone. The minute we set foot in this place, it seemed
like this was where we were headed, even if Jason and I were not mentally
ready, Jackson was certainly physically ready.
I told Jackson all about the place. I told him he would love
how he could see right out the windows and we could open them to get fresh air;
how his wife could remain with him 24 hours a day; how the kids could come
visit him.
All he said back to me was, “how long?”
I had no answer for him. This man, who three weeks prior,
was surfing the internet for vacation deals, driving all over Phoenix in a
white Lincoln Continental (and Chicago in an Audi A4), navigating his new Iphone5
with the ease of a 21 year old, teaching my oldest about how to build a
tower--where the base must be wider and stable before each higher floor could
be added on using creamers from his favorite diner, was asking me “how long” he
had until he would die.
Twelve hours after he was moved from the hospital to the
hospice, we went to visit Jackson in and he had completely stopped talking.
There was now no communication whatsoever. His eyes were half open, or half
closed, depending on how you look at the situation. And this time, unlike at
the hospital, my kids were allowed to go and visit. Kids were a welcome sight to
all in this place where people came to end their lives peacefully and pass into
wherever they believed they were going next.
It was at the very moment we walked into the hospice building,
where Jackson was a patient, that
I realized each of my kids had their very own relationships with each of their
grandparents. My children were not privy to whatever preconceived notions I had
about the man that lay dying in that bed.
All those kids knew about their Grandpa Jack was that he
loved to grow vegetables; he would eat at Greek diners for any meal; he was
proud of his fruit trees, especially the apples and peaches; he loved the Grand
Canyon and anything that the Earth formed naturally over thousands of years; he
knew interesting facts about seashells and fossils; he had grown up in North
Dakota and someday he wanted the kids to see where he grew up; he thought
history was important and he tried to give the kids a little bit of a history
lesson whenever he saw them; he had diabetes and sometimes that meant he had to
give himself a shot; he loved cars; he loved ice cream; and he adored these
three kids unconditionally.
I sat with my kids, 3, 5, and 7 years old in the lobby. I
explained that Grandpa Jack was very sick and he couldn’t talk to them, but he
could definitely hear them if they wished to speak. I asked my kids if they
would like to see him. I asked them if they would like to talk to him and if
they’d like me to go with them into the room.
The oldest went first. He jumped into Grandpa Jack’s bed,
and he held his hand. And he asked me if it was ok if he did just as he was
doing, and I said, “yes, of course.” He then leaned in close to his
grandfather’s ear and told him how much fun he had going to Phoenix to visit
him during his last two spring breaks…how much he learned at the old gold mine
that his Grandpa had taken him to…how cool the Spring Training Cubs game was to
see, especially since he had front row seats…how much he liked getting chicken
fingers at every restaurant he went to with his Grandpa…and then, without
prompting, he said, “I love you very much,” and looked at me with large tears welling up
in his eyes. His grandpa, who hadn’t shown signs of life the last few hours, squeezed
my son’s hand, then his second finger twitched as he let go.
Our little 7
year-old jumped into my arms and squeezed me tighter than he had in years. And,
without skipping a beat, he let go and asked if he could go back into the kids’
room with the games. He needed to escape back to being a kid again.
My middle son, the thinker, came into the room next. He
asked me to sit with him and help him talk. He held his grandpa’s hand and told
him about how much he liked picking apples from his tree…oh, and he loved
seeing oranges on the trees in Arizona…and he liked the Cubs game in Arizona
even though his grandpa couldn’t go this year with him because it was too much
walking…and he liked the pancakes at the restaurant he ate at with Grandpa a
few weeks prior…and couldn’t he just get better? He kissed his grandpa on the
cheek, and Grandpa Jack’s hand squeezed that 5 year old’s hand gently, as a
grandpa would. And then, he let his grandson’s hand go. That child leaped into my arms and was
attached himself like a koala to me. He buried his head into the crook of my
neck and quietly cried. “I don’t want Grandpa Jack to go to heaven yet. What if
he doesn’t go to the right heaven? What if he can’t find Daddy’s mommy there?” And
back to the game room he went.
How cruel it was that both of their grandparents were going
pass before they even had the chance to really know them. Their grandmother
passed 6 years prior, and now their grandfather. Sometimes, often times, life just isn’t fair at all.
Our youngest, she’s three. She certainly does not understand
what dying is…in fact, she thinks it is the same word as “diving”. So, ultimately,
she really thought her grandpa was going swimming and could not understand what
the big fuss was about. She still can’t. Even all these days later, as everyone
has shed tears and lost hours of sleep, that kid thinks that her grandpa went
to heaven to go off a diving board, and I’m not ready to fix her belief just
yet, not sure I want to.
When the time came for my little girl to visit with her
Grandpa one last time, she crawled up into his bed and snuggled right
in-between his arm and belly and then held his hand in hers. She said, “he’s
not opening his eyes, I think he’s seeping,” and then she saw his eyes flutter,
letting us know he knew she was there. I told her that she could tell him
anything she wanted, and she said, “I love you Grandpa Jack, when are you gonna
wake up?” Silence. “Do you think you would like a kiss?”
I told her to give him
one, and she kissed his cheek, then kissed it again and lay across his chest
offering him a big hug. I picked her up off his chest, and she seemed to be
held back by something as I pulled her up- it was his hand. He had not let his
grip go from his, and I let out one painful sob, because I knew he knew he was
saying good-bye and he was having a hard time letting go of this little
innocent girl.
We went home that evening and I was affected by what I had
been witness to in that hospice room. I knew he’d probably make it through the
night, so I’d see him tomorrow, but that was the last time my kids would see
him. And hours later, as we put them to bed, it was not our usual wild bedtime
corral, it was serene. Every child was calmer and quieter…introspective.
And just as we thought we had them all in bed, the 5 year-old
(middle guy) got up. He came walking down the hallway and as he saw me, he just
burst into tears. Finally that ugly cry I’d been expecting, complete with gasps
for air and sniffles. He soaked my shirt with tears and snot, and he said he
could not understand why Grandpa Jack had to go to heaven and leave us. He
said, “I’m just so sad.”
The 7 year-old was fine that night, but certainly the next
day, his usual happy and cooperative demeanor was quite the opposite. He was
angry about everything, yelling at the little things. Finally, on our living
room couch, he broke down into tears. He was mad at his toys, made at his video
games, his Ipad, and he was mad at his Grandpa Jack for getting sick. The
sadness manifested itself in anger, which finally turned to pure sorrow.
Our three kids, they knew their Grandpa Jack as an old man.
They knew him when he turned 71 and was gray and bald and sad from the death of
his wife of over 35 years. He was a softer man, one his older children, former spouses,
most grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would never know.
My children had their own personal relationship with their
grandfather. I never thought of it before, but in his old age, Jackson
projected a grandfatherly innocence on them, that they, in turn, reflected a
child’s innocence back to him. He loved that about them. Whatever he showed
them or taught them was never tainted by past mistakes or missteps that he’d
made. My kids didn’t know his past and he would never know their future, but
for now, they were in each other’s lives and it was a good unfiltered loving relationship.
One I can say I did not share, but that I now envied.
Ten days ago the kids were innocent. Their grandfather, in
their eyes, was also innocent. All of them resilient and strong in ways they
will never fully understand. As my kids grow older, they will certainly lose
that innocence and add a more complicated spin to their Grandpa Jack’s last
story. But I will try my hardest not to let them get to that place too early in
life. I will try to keep his memory as pure as they see it today. I will try to
help the kids picture their Grandpa Jack diving into heaven headfirst with a
smile upon his face, growing fruit trees everywhere he goes, and enjoying long
hikes in beautiful spots, because that’s what he liked them to see. That’s who
he was to them.
