My Dad is peacefully resting in his Hospice bed, pain-free and quiet. He is still when I quietly say, “Hi, Dad.” I am certain of his awareness as I tell him about my husband and daughters and how we all love him. I tell him that we love him so much and that we will be ok whenever he needs to leave. That he will be forever in our hearts. The bubbling of the oxygen seems to say, “Not quite yet.” And so I sit, musing about our lives together. I am absolutely sure that Hospice is the place for my Dad right now. I am grateful for the quiet, gentle caring and being that surrounds him and us as we wait.
As I walked the dogs this morning, I was once again struck by Nature’s majesty and her cycles.
In the Natural world things come from the earth; they grow, and they live, they go back to the earth. And so it goes. Nature makes so much sense.
The funeral urn that Steve made was fired yesterday and is out of the kiln. It is blue, straight and tall, it’s lid a hat, just as Dad wore. Its quiet elegance is a testament to the man I call Dad.
Perfect.
On Friday evening, my sister and I took our Dad to hospice. He had a massive stroke on Fathers’ Day, and was rushed to the hospital. The effects of the stroke are devastating: paralysis, inability to swallow, limited speech, total dependence.
My Dad is a philosopher, a man of words, thoughts and ideas. He answers questions with questions, frequently quoting a favorite book or author. He audits classes at the local community college, participates in their Encore program for senior citizens, and has mentored many young children at the local elementary school. When he would arrive at the school, the kids would rush up to him and ask, “Do you have a riddle for us, Tall Paul?”
My Dad likes to put all his ducks in a row. He had a list in his hand when he had the stroke: his lawyer, accountant, physician, accounts and other information. On Monday, when he and I were alone in his ICU room, he looked me squarely in the face asked me to call the funeral home. ” Ok,” I said, tears streaming down my face as I looked at my dad, understanding exactly what he was saying. “I’m done,” he told me, “Enough.” “Yes,” I responded, “I know.”
My Dad had always told us that he wouldn’t want life support or any interventions if he couldn’t be independent. He had had these discussions with his health care providers and he wrote it all down in his Living Will. He wants cremation and for his ashes to be buried with my Mom.
Steve is making the urn. Something simple and mostly blue. He knows what to do.
As I drove home from Hospice yesterday evening, I gazed at the evening sky. Sky blue pink.
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