Writing this out every day really helps. It’s catharsis; therapy; expression; and something crudely akin to taking a nice, satisfying shit every day. I feel empty, cleanly hollowed out after every session.
I hear Dad coughing right now through the baby monitor Mom bought a month or so ago; we placed one in the kitchen so that we can hear his activity while we’re out there. (One of us is almost always in the room with him, except for at night when we go to bed.)
This morning was a long one. First the hospice nurse came. A new one. She was good. She was very warm, friendly, kind. We showed her the bandage (with a little new blood but not much) around his peg-tube port hole. She cleaned it out and wiped the blood away and put fresh bandages on and held her palm against it for ten minutes hoping to coagulate the blood underneath the hole and then taped it down. She told Mom and I more information about the “aid-in-dying” drug, for example that it usually takes around 15-20 minutes for the patient to fall into a deep sleep and a little longer for death. There’s some potential unlikely variation though; some people can technically take all the way up to eight hours to finally die. This is rare, of course.
While the nurse was there my mother’s neighbor from across the street came over; she’d agreed to be the second non-family witness to my father’s decision. She stayed for 15-20 minutes, petting our yellow Lab Luke, talking about her upcoming nine-day trip to Tuscany (jealous of anyone traveling right now), asking me about my fiancée, signing the document, and crying a little. She said goodbye to my father, looking down at him, clutching his hand, saying, I wish we’d gotten to know you better.
Ten minutes after the nurse left the financial planner/advisor (C.F.P.: Certified Financial Planner) came over. He was a young guy, probably early thirties if I had to guess. Dapper, wearing a nice pair of pants and a sports jacket with a nice collared shirt. He had deep, kind brown eyes. I let him in. The dogs went nuts. He smiled at the furry beasts. He followed me across the kitchen and down the hall. My mom met us in the hallway. They met and we went into the room. For two hours—from 11am to 1pm—the four of us sat in our respective chairs and my father in bed and we went over the finances and what things will look like after dad dies. (Dad has always done this stuff himself, so we had to find a new planner.)
By the time the guy left we were all exhausted. Dad had done well but it cost him. He was tired. He wanted to sleep. I decided I’d go drop off some returns to UPS and then hit Trader Joe’s and pick up some chocolate and half-n-half, both essential. Driving down the mountain road, twisting against the sharp curves, I played the band Dawes from my iPhone, which ironically had just played down the block at the Santa Barbara Bowl the day before, on Monday. (Britney and I’d heard them playing while on our epic urban walk around Las Alturas in the hills above my folks’ house.) The song Comes in Waves came on and I suddenly felt like crying; I saw my father, arms outspread, walking towards The Light; I saw my mom and me holding his hands at the very end, saying our last words, giving him the medication which will kill him. I looked around me at all the joyful, regular people wandering along State Street and I thought, I am not of these people; I am disconnected from them. I am in my own universe.
I dropped off the returns—a woman ahead of me was angry about the $470 charge they were telling her she had to pay for sending a massive four-foot-by-four-foot sized artist’s painting on canvas—and then hit Trader Joe’s. I faked my way through the sinister smiles and dumb fake questions and left.
At home I grabbed the mail from the box and lugged the grocery bag up the steep stone steps—as I’d done for the past two years endless times—and put it on the kitchen island. I walked down the hall to the room. Dad was tired and irritable, Mom said. And indeed he looked frustrated. Old. Broken down. Pink-cheeked. (Lack of oxygen and food and water.) Today is Day 5 of no food. His hands were shaking today when the financial planner was here; I noticed that. Mom says it’s a lack of oxygen. I ate some chocolate I’d bought and then snagged my computer to write on, placing the laptop on the glass-topped, turquoise-edged table.
But when I started writing Mom interrupted saying Dad was being difficult. I followed her down the hall and inside found Dad trying to turn over onto his side so he could pee into the little hospital jar he uses (he’s too weak to stand up and walk to the bathroom anymore; his body is wasting away without the food) which he’s done himself all this time except this time he couldn’t figure it out. And he was talking erratically, not making sense. Mumbling, his speech slurry and incoherent. This made sense of course; it was the higher dose of Morphine. It was surprising, though, because this was the first time he’d been like this. So far we’ve been giving him smaller doses and he’s been normal. Tired, but normal. But now he seemed high. Because he was high.
We convinced him to let go of the peeing—most of the time he can’t go anyway, when push comes to shove—and got him back flat on his back in bed and under the covers again. He seemed a little confused and agitated though. Stern through his slurred confusion. But when I left and went back to writing Mom came back out ten minutes later and said he wanted more Morphine. Mom stood in the kitchen, looking at me through the open French doors outside at the glass table, the view of the city and the ocean and the islands beyond me.
“Do you think you should give him more?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “Whatever he wants.”
“But he’s had a lot. He’s high. Maybe he’s not in his right mind to know what he wants at this point.”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s getting it.”
I let it go. Backed off. She’s probably right. I don’t know anything. The hospice nurse had said we could give him a lot, as much, basically, as he felt he wanted within reason. So she gave him more. I went back to writing. Soon I heard the faint sound of the murder-mystery Audible book older woman narrator emanating from the room. They’ve been listening to these murder-mystery historical series for months now.
My mom always rolls her eyes at me because I want to listen to “serious” books. I’m always too “serious” for my mom, and for this family. Lighten up, Michael, they all seem to be saying to me constantly, take a load off, laugh a little, have some fun. But how does one have “fun” when one’s father is dying? My sister is an expert at this type of thing. I know her method, too: Denial. I don’t have the privilege of using denial; I’m far too honest, open and authentic. I wear my heart on my sleeve. I taking things seriously because I take myself seriously (both something I admire about myself and a fatal flaw). We live in a non-serious society, especially now. So I’m shit out of luck.
Of course I’m whining and oversimplifying; my mother is very serious right now, though she and I did briefly crack up when handling my father an hour ago, when he was high and making little sense and seemed to be saying something like “dog bones” repeatedly; we laughed, unable to contain ourselves. And to both their credit, we listened to the entire 37 hours last year of the classic German novel The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann which was also quite humorous yet simultaneously filled to the brim with seriousness and sincerity.
This morning it was very foggy and wet. I showered and stood naked outside on the lower porch and eyed the tiny slivers of semi-drizzle against the low morning sunlight; it was gorgeous. I felt the little moist slivers cold against my still-hot skin. There’s a tall bush around the lower porch which protects you from view of neighbors and the street. It’s above the front yard, which no one ever uses. I stood there this morning and I thought, Every day is a blessing. My father is alive. I will remember every single minute, every single hour forever. Soon he’ll be gone and I’ll retain only these memories. Soon he’ll be only a recollection.