My Dad, Part I

I have needed to write this post since January 11, 2006. For the more quick-witted of you, that day need no more introduction. For the rest, that is the day that my father died. I need to write this post. A small bit of it will be part of the story that my faithful readers already knew, but the rest will new to all of my bloggy friends. And 99% of my friends and family IRL.

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My father smoked and drank for most of his life. For the last 10 years of his life he did not drink. For the last year of his life he did not smoke. He had chronic bronchitis for as long as I can remember. When Chicken was a baby he was diagnosed with COPD, specifically Emphysema.

My father died slowly for so long it was unbearable for me. Many days I wished that it all could end, the suffering, the pain. The agonizing breath after breath. All the drugs, all the side effects. Towards the end, the haze of constant morphine provided by the hospice nurses. He was well-loved and well taken care of, but it was agony for me to let my father die.

I received a phone call from one of the hospice nurses that my father had been in bed all day long and was mostly unresponsive. She was afraid that he would get up in his weakened condition and fall. My father did not want to spend the rest of his days in a nursing home, and so we weighed the decision carefully. We also knew that he was on his third or fourth cycle of antibiotics and that he was getting weaker and weaker. His time was running out. I gave the nurse authorization to take my father to a hospice care center for the night, to keep an eye on him and assess the situation further. I booked a flight for the very next day.

My dad had perked up when the ambulance came to pick him up, and was cheery and as talkative as his limited breath and energy would allow. The nurse put me on the phone and I told him what was going to happen, that I would be there the next day but he had to go somewhere for the night. He did not have the energy or breathe to reply in a word, but he made a sound that I knew meant "Okay, I will see you tomorrow."

The morning of the departure, I received a phone call from my father's nurse. "I have bad news I am afraid," she said. My heart plummeted. "Your father fell in the hospice center. We think he broke his hip." I told her that I would be there in a few hours.

I flew into Salt Lake City, Utah on a Tuesday afternoon. I picked up a rental car and drove straight to the hospice center. I found out it was actually an Alzheimer's home with a hospice wing, the only thing that was available the previous night. I spoke with my father's nurse. She told me that my father had eaten breakfast with the residents (this made me giggle, all the old senile people with my father!) and then went back to his room. His bed was almost on the ground to make it easier to get in and out of I believe. At lunch time his nurse said, "Stay here and I will be right back with your lunch" and when she came back my father was on the floor.

They believe that he was either trying to reach the bathroom or he misunderstood the nurse and thought he was supposed to walk to have lunch with the others. They gently placed him back on his bed, and noticed that his left leg was not where it should be, his hip had obviously broken.

My father was in good health with the exception of his lungs. He was not yet 65 years old, but all of the steriods he had to take in order to breathe leeched the calcium from his bones. The Osteoarthritis medication he diligently took was not enough to counter the effects of the steriods.

I walked into my father's room. He was laying on the bed (the very close to the ground bed) and his eyes were closed. He had an oxygen mask on and was breathing in deep, ragged breaths that were almost like his loud snoring. I sat on the floor beside him and held his hand.

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Here is where I take a break to cry and mourn. I will continue the story as soon as I can. I need to get it out. I need to heal more of my mind so my body will follow suit. Thank you.