"If this is dying, it ain't half bad"

As usual, he is outside sitting on the bright yellow bench in front of this house that has been his home for 59 years.  He is partially hidden behind his beloved roses and a few shrubs and trees that need a good pruning   His home is red brick with big areas of single paned windows bordered by white shutters.  I wasn’t born in this house, but we moved in when I was a year old. It is the only home I remember.

Today is Tuesday, April 22, 2014.   Our family has been taking turns spending days and nights with Dad since he made the decision, last month, to live out his days with hospice because of a heart valve that is barely functioning.  He is actually doing so well right now that hospice is visiting just once a week. He loves people being here and we make sure he eats, take inventory of his weight, mental clarity and mutually appreciate this time we have together.

He sees me arrive and slowly shuffles over to the car.  In his usual deep booming voice he says, “Hello dear, how are you today?”  “I’m good, Pop,” I reply, “and how about you?”  He meets me and we share a hug. 

For a while now, this man who prided himself on being a “sharp” dresser, hasn’t really cared much for the less important things that take up precious time.  Today he is in a threadbare white undershirt; jeans that need a tighter belt, and slippers that his feet swim in.  His white hair is quite rebellious; although I’m sure it had no opposition.  His smile is genuine and he’s upbeat and happy to be sharing time with me.

We sit on the yellow bench together and he begins telling me about his roses.  “That one there,” he points, “is a Barbara Streisand and it has the most amazing lavender roses.”  Barbara Streisand is one of his favorite singers, his favorite song being “People”.  He continues sharing more about each rose and who gifted them to him, then he tells me about the ones he bought special for my mom, who passed away in 1997.  He gets emotional today, and I feel the weight of these details being shared and the need to become the keeper of the roses, and make sure this information is preserved.  He has a much loved book titled “Roses – How to Select, Grow and Enjoy” on his coffee table, sharing space with many other books, unpaid bills and keepsakes. “Dad, could you draw a diagram of your rose garden, and place the different roses in it with their names and how they came to find a home there?”  He laughs, “You want me to do that?”  “Absolutely, Pop, I would love to have that information”.  I can tell that pleases him.

My dad is of the opinion that “more is better” and you get the picture when you enter his home.  Every inch of wall space is filled with decorative plates, pictures, beautiful paintings, and fake flowers.  There isn’t an inch of space left.  I gifted him a sign several years ago that reads, “Elegant Clutter”.   He has surrounded himself with everything he loves.  Statues of little kids take up space on the floor, decorative plates of pugs and roses adorn the walls, and pictures of his children, grandchildren, great grandchildren and knick knacks cover every flat surface available.   He loves his home.  This is where he wants to live out his days.

Today he wants to take me to Applebee’s, and have his favorite meal – their delicious oriental chicken salad and French onion soup.  But we will need to eat at home today, because he has had a 3 pound weight gain since yesterday.  This is a red flag, so we are waiting for a special medication to be delivered, for edema.

 We go into the kitchen to eat at the cozy table for two, as the dining table is covered with address books, stamps, and cards in response to the “farewell” letter he sent to over 100 friends. He loves getting the response mail and hearing from dear ones, some he has known for over 80 years.  In his letter he tells about his condition, his choice of hospice, how his children and grandchildren and other family members are with him 24/7 and ends it with “If this is dying, it ain’t half bad.”

He eats a good lunch of chicken noodle soup, two slices of toast and two cups of day old coffee heated up in the microwave.  Dad has always been a coffee drinker and it doesn’t really matter if it is old, fresh, weak or strong, as long as it’s hot!

 We have a good conversation.  “I’m not scared of dying, you know.”  I feel he says this for my benefit even though I know he would like it to be true.  But I don’t believe it.   This from a man who has always been known for his infectious laugh, his voracious appetite for reading, his great love of people – especially his family, his green thumb, his singing and love of music, his great joy of celebrating anything with family, his role as mentor and friend to many in his neighborhood, his published words, but mostly his zeal for living…for life. 

“Well, that is a good thing, Pop, but it’s OK to be scared.”  He starts to cry.  “I just love all these little great grandchildren so, and I’m going to miss seeing them grow up and I want to be able to see Asher read.”  

After lunch we go into the living room and he sits in his favorite chair; a blue overstuffed worn recliner.  We start talking about the past and I decide to find some picture albums to aid our reminiscing.  They are in a closet in his room, he says.  There is shelf after shelf lining every wall in his room to somehow accommodate the 2,000 books he owns, stashed, shoved, stuffed and piled wherever is possible.  His closet is packed with memorabilia, and all his clothes: beautiful ties,  the most colorfully patterned shirts, dress pants and expensive shoes that he now has no need for or interest in.  At the top of the closet are all his picture albums piled high.  I bring down the ones with the most worn and frail covers, indicating their age.

I sit on the couch across from him and open the dusty albums showing him picture after picture.  What a great time we have talking and laughing about photos and sharing memories that have faded but are recaptured with an image.  As time goes by, I glance over to see that Dad has dozed off, only to open his eyes a moment later and act like he has not missed a thing. 

I need to leave soon, to pick up grand kids. Bryan, my husband and Dad’s only son-in-law, will be coming over to spend the rest of the evening and over night.  Dad loves Bryan.  He didn’t always feel that way, but that is another story.  “I need to be leaving soon, Dad,” I tell him.  “Oh yes, you have to get those grand-babies, don’t you?”  With great effort, he unfolds himself from the recliner and begins to cry.  “I just want you to know how much I love you.” 

“I know Pops, and I love you so much too,” We give one another a long lasting, teary embrace. 

He walks me out to the car and stands at the end of the driveway.  My dad, unkempt, fragile,  sweet, and filled with love, stands there waving until I drive away and can no longer see him in my rear-view mirror, just as he has always done.

Jessamyn, our youngest daughter, stays overnight with Dad Wednesday, the 23^rd.  They have a wonderful time together.  He shares with her the kindest of words from his friends and later he sings her a hymn in the kitchen while she makes them dinner. 

In remembering that night, Jessamyn says: it was a night of storytelling to the point of tears…some brought on by tenderness, other ones absurdity. She loved how they moved from talking about death, Grandma, religion and beliefs to making up silly songs about Depends all in one long, heartfelt conversation.  “I wanted to stop time at one point because he cracked himself up so hard and his laughter filled every tiny thing up.  Nights like this are the truest kind.”

 Sometime during the night she has a dream.  Someone is knocking at the door and as she struggles to rise, she hears Dad telling her, “I’ll get it, it’s for me.”  So she goes back to sleep.

It was for my dad.  He got his wish and passed peacefully in his sleep that morning, in his bed, in his home where he has lived a full life for almost 60 years.