This is The Rural Iowegian’s daughter. I write this, on what would have been Day 509 for my dad.
On Wednesday, after spending 16 long hours in the ER, where I did not hesitate to have some very stern conversations with anyone within earshot to advocate for his needs, he was moved into a room.
Those 16 hours in the ER were mostly a nightmare. Partly due to the overwhelming number of people there vs staff, partly due to waiting for a room, and partly due to medical staff unable to understand that the current medications were why he was in this current state. Again, I watched a man who was well spoken, wise, loving, empathetic, protective, creative, and someone who would lend a hand to anyone, suffer far more than anyone ever should. He was in pain, became hardly capable of uttering more than a word, and became completely washed over with confusion. It was like watching a non-verbal child, who could not express his needs, no matter how hard he tried. The moments of clarity, where his beautiful blue eyes would light up and he’d respond in his chipper voice, were far and few between.
It was shortly after moving to an inpatient room, when he finally received a sufficient and effective cocktail of medications to relieve his pain and anxiety.
He spent an additional 31 1/2 hours as an inpatient. We took turns sitting by his side, holding his hands, and telling him how wonderful and strong a person he was. Most of that day, we listened to thunderstorm sounds, as he loved thunderstorms. Eventually, my brother and my mom went home to rest. I stayed behind, assuring everyone I would sleep.
His medication waned a bit after seven and in his confusion, he tried to get out of bed. I couldn’t reach the call button and keep dad in bed, so I stayed next to him, and I told him that whenever he’s ready, he can rest and leave his earthly body. I told him we would all be ok, and he didn’t have to worry anymore. Though we weren’t being loud, someone happened to pop their head in, and I said we needed help. His nurse came swiftly and helped him get settled and in his most comfortable position.
After his nurse made her hourly rounds at 11 pm, she told me his vitals were waning a little bit. I agonized whether to wake my brother and mother or not, they were so very tired, and the little bit that his vitals went down did not necessarily mean anythingwas eminent. As I sat next to him, unable to make a decision, his breathing suddenly became far quieter and less labored. It seems that, he took it upon himself to make the decision for me, so I wouldn’t have to fret over it (so typical for him). I pressed the nurse call button and held dad’s hands and told him how wonderful he’d been and told him to say “hi” to those that have gone before.
On January 28, 2022 at 12:03 a.m., he took his last breath. He had been sleeping comfortably, even snoring, and at ease. My mom and my brother came down, and we said our goodbyes and had a wonderful conversation with the chaplain. My mom worried about him being alone, so I told her I would stay with dad for a while longer. I stayed until about 5, talking to him some more and rearranging the pillows and sheets so he’d be more comfortable (irrational, I know). Then I did the most heart-wrenching thing I’ve ever had to do; I said goodbye one last time and walked out of the hospital.
508 days, he fought the good fight against cancer, joking and doing his best to make those around him happy.
In these hours after his passing, it seems impossible to envision a world without him as it is so difficult to see through the fog of grief. But, we don’t have a choice, and must figure out how to navigate a life without him here, and with only the memories of him, his words, and the full life he lived.
P.S. Dad was not at the VA as I refused to allow him to go there, where I had watched him get ignored so many times before.
The Rural Iowegian 