I should have posted this blog entry back in January 2020. But the emotion of Dad's fall and near death experience with my 10 day visit to Derby Kansas while he was in ICU overwhelmed my emotions and clouded any desire to record my feelings. Now the time is right to record this into my Heaven Board.
The Wednesday Men's Breakfast group meet tomorrow to discuss C.S. Lewis's book "Mere Christianity". We will be discussing Book 3 Chapter 10 - "Hope". It reminded me of the genesis of the "Heaven Board" that I have neglected.
Consider this my backdated Blog for Tuesday January 21, 2020 (almost a year ago):
It was Tuesday morning January 21, 2020 at the breakfast
table in Derby Kansas (a suburb of Wichita) at the Derby Health and
Rehabilitation Center that my 94 year old Dad and I had “the moment”. Just three words would punctuate a master
story that will stay with me forever.
Dad had an Acute Level 2 fall on Sunday January 6th
(Falls are rated 1-4 with 1 being the worst) with bleeding on the brain. The bleeding had increased by Wednesday as he
was bounced back to ICU with mortality in question. Thursday without food and any eye contact,
the Palliative Care consultant was quizzing my sister about the family decision
regarding feeding tubes.
Saturday morning I left Cincinnati and for the next six days
I stayed at the Wichita hospital with Dad to try to nurse him back to life –
feeding him, changing him, and trying whatever loving therapy I could deliver –
praying for recovery, realistically fearing the future and anticipating the
worst. I could pray God’s will be done in my head, but my heart was riding a
rollercoaster. Each day was an up or
down. Yet the trend seemed to point to
Dad at least getting out of ICU. But
where?
Friday Jan. 14th he was discharged (after significant
stressful discussions) to Derby Health and Rehabilitation Center. I kept moving my date to return to Cincinnati
until I could see Dad stabilized and until my sister had come to her difficult
decision to take Family Medical leave from her job and take over Dad’s care and
advocacy. Right or not, I felt without
almost 24/7 attention Dad would drift and die.
At least three times during my eleven day stay, I felt that
Dad might just leave this world – right in my presence. When Dad was removed from Kepra (a drug given
to prevent seizures and stroke) he began to have random seizures --- some
lasting minutes (although my emotional reaction may have made time slow
down). The family had already discussed
Dad’s DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) and his wrist band clearly informed the hospital
staff of that instruction. Would I have the courage not to call a nurse and see
Dad die in my presence?
It was in a similar transfer this November, that a good
friend (Mike Lipp) and spiritual small group member had died. I spoke of his faith and courage at his
funeral. I had visited him in ICU the
day before his transfer and death. Mike
had died in the EMS vehicle on the way to Rehab. My fears were building that Dad would die in
his transfer to Rehab also.
Dad had another seizure just hours before his transfer. It was the longest and worst. His whole body
convulsed as if holding live 220volt wires – eyes shocked, body trembling
feverously with no ability to communicate.
When the prior seizures would stop, I would ask “Dad…. Are you hurt;
what happened; are you in pain?”. Each
time Dad would say nothing and not even acknowledge anything had happened. This long seizure was no exception. Yet it did end without calling anyone in to
help. The transfer would proceed. Adding
to that stress, I would be unable to join Dad in the Van. Could he die in transport like Mike Lipp -
without me there?
My head and “logical” conversation with others tired to
calmly accept a possible ending – “Dad has lived a great life at age 94”, but
my heart and emotions were unwilling to let him go. I struggled internally with my other
priorities - I had a life, family, responsibilities that needed me in
Cincinnati. How could my heart ever be
strong enough to leave Dad and not be there if he should die?
Dad arrived safely at Derby Health and Rehabilitation on
Friday afternoon. Saturday Dad took a
dive and with that my emotions. I just
couldn’t leave – Dad’s condition would go up and down for four more days. Would Dad ever stabilize enough for my heart
to match my head?
My head was trying to program Dad – but more trying to
convince my heart. Yes -
I was telling Dad that my brother would be arriving Thursday. Yes – I was telling Dad I would return Feb.
10. Yes – I was telling Dad that my
sister was there full time for him until Mid March. But even my logic was not speaking truth
from my heart. The real world realities
had now set in. I must leave sometime –
but when? On Sunday, I announced to my
sister I would be leaving Tuesday afternoon. She must care for Dad alone Wednesday and Thursday and then my brother
would arrive to help.
I was dreading Tuesday morning breakfast – the goodbye. How could I stay strong enough and not break
down in front of Dad? How could I get
my heart and emotions aligned with my head – or visa versa?
It was a bright crisp day with little to no clouds - a good travel day versus the snowstorms of
December and January that I had to navigate previously. Dad was served his normal breakfast of
oatmeal but the pancake, eggs and bacon had been pureed (mandated by the speech
therapy nurse to avoid aspiration). Dad was not in the best mood about
that. Yet after encouraging him to eat
for his strength, he complied and then nodded off at the table. This was normal as his condition required
significant concentration and energy to even eat and drink safely. Yet another seizure awoke Dad – this one
slightly different. His facial
expression now less a shock and more just intrigue – he reached his left arm
(his strongest) stiffly out, completely extended in the air, shaking it as if
electricity had control, his fist clenched – for the next 15-30 seconds - he was in a daze. For the first time my reaction was not in
fear. Instead once the seizure stopped,
I asked Dad…… “Dad, What did you
see?” Afterall, he seemed to be
reaching for something. He had just
three words, only three: “IT
WAS BEAUTIFUL”.
Immediately I began drilling him with questions - Did you see a light? Did you see trees? Did you see anyone? Tell me what you saw? Dad had no response. Not unusual because his cognitive ability
beyond three words and short statements for the past 11 days was limited. But three words, for me, was enough. Enough for me to be at peace leaving Dad
that afternoon.
Was it, a glimpse of heaven? Was it, as my daughter the nurse said? ---
“Oh Dad, focal seizures with hallucinations are typical of brain injuries.” Was
it, Dad and the strength of a father assuring his son, even in his end journey,
that I could go? Was it God delivering
the benediction of 11 days of JOY?
When we are born there is little self-awareness; when we are
at the minutes end, I wonder how much self-awareness we will have then. Yet, as adults, we can see and/or experience
births of our children and we might see and experience the end of life journeys
of our parents. Why should one be happy and the other sad? After these three words from my Dad, I think both experiences are bounded in
JOY.
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