My dad was sort of “one of a kind”, you know? After my mom passed, he lived alone for 20 years. He golfed pretty well until about three years ago when balance issues got the better of him. He was still driving his car at 99 - just short distances, mind you - but was still able to get around. Unless he was at work, he drank two beers a day for probably the last 80 years, solemnly swearing they aided in his good health. His blood pressure was still okay, his breathing and pulse rates were still okay. But then, back in February, he fell. Nothing would ever be the same for our dad – or any of us - again.
He hit his head and developed a brain bleed. Just as its name suggests, his brain started to bleed and began clouding his everyday functions. At first, we thought he might recover - get some rehab and live another couple of years. My brothers, sister, and I tried for a few weeks, watching as things were possibly, slowly (like turtle-crawling-slowly), improving. However, about two weeks in, his progress stopped, and he seemed to reverse, and went downhill fast.
A final CT scan showed that the bleed was spreading and taking with it his ability to stand, walk, feed himself, and more. There would be no more rehab. Hospice is what they recommended. Within two days, I was signing the paperwork. We knew the day we’d thought about was now inevitable. Our 100-year-old dad was going to die.
At first, we watched his every move. “Is that normal? Does he always do that? Is he talking the same? Is he happy? Is he angry? Does he know what’s happening at all?” We didn’t know, but he didn’t pass. My siblings and I read two books about hospice care, and the information they provided made us see that indeed, some of his behaviors seemed like “end of life” signs. 
Early in the hospice process, during one of his brief moments of alertness, he told me, “Kate, I feel like something is happening to me.” I perked up, and encouraged him to continue. “I had a dream where I saw the Lord – not his face, of course, but it was him.” Intrigued, I told him it was okay if he needed to go, and actually told him to “walk toward the light”. But he said, “No, the Lord’s not ready for me yet.”
Dad’s dream was so clear to him, like nothing had been since his fall, or ever was again. If the Lord wasn’t ready for him yet, then what was all of this about? There had to be another reason this was happening to him. I watched him closely for every possibility, but I don’t think I’ll ever truly know, at least on this side of Heaven.
Another week began with us asking the same questions. Two weeks. Three. “Did we do the right thing by admitting him to hospice? Maybe the bleed will clear. Could he ever live alone again?” Oh, how naiive we were. Maybe, maybe, maybe… We kept wondering. Week four, week five. We didn’t know if we should get our hopes back up or leave them abandoned on the ground. It seemed as though every time we encountered something positive, the next day, afternoon, or hour, his situation changed again. Nothing was certain. No timeframe seemed to be present. Week six, week seven… visit after visit… holding his hand, saying good-bye. Sometimes he’d respond coherently, appropriately. Those were good days. Many times, we’d think it was the end.
His pain became more and more evident - not just verbally saying so, which were some of the most heartbreaking sounds I’ve ever heard – but visually, too. Lines on his face, furrowed brow, clenched jaw, visible weight loss. By week eight, we seemed to have no more choice. It was time for heavier pain meds. With that, he seemed more restful, more at peace. Then finally, during week nine, the inevitable happened.
It was a Friday morning, exactly three months to the day since his fall. Todd and I got up and started our morning routines, planning what time that day to go visit Dad. My cell phone rang, interrupting our schedule-making. It was a woman from Hospice. She explained to me that earlier that morning, my dad had passed away. I blinked, not knowing what to say.
My siblings and I cooperated pretty well, and planned a beautiful funeral. Ten years ago for Father’s Day, I had written a short essay for my dad about his and my relationship. Back then, he asked me if someday I’d read it at his funeral. I told him I would… so I did. Tony was able to come to town and sang/played guitar for the service – How Great Thou Art, Beautiful Savior, and Abide with me. My daughter and her family drove up from Tulsa, Oklahoma to say “good-bye” to their grampa. Dad would have loved it, had he been there. 
Our father was a retired fireman, so the city for which he’d served, provided him/us with an honor guard ceremony. As the visitation time began, about every 15 minutes, three guards ceremoniously rotated in and out of their post near where our dad lay, one of them always at attention, near him. I’d never seen that before. It was really cool… and emotional.
Dad was a WWII vet, so he received a military honors burial, complete with the three gunshots. After they folded the flag that had draped his coffin, they handed it to me. Such a somber moment. My jaw quivered and my eyes misted. I swallowed hard, trying to be brave. Then, after 100 1/2 years of living, our dad was gone from this earth and out of our sight.
He had been a Christian throughout his life. We know he is now at rest with the Lord. some of dad’s favorite scriptures are in John 14. There, the disciples are told that Jesus is going away to prepare a place for them. As much as we’ll miss our dad, we know he is now pain-free and perfect, living with the One who prepared his place. Oh, how that vision brings me peace.
Three months doesn’t seem like a long time, yet it felt like an eternity. My siblings and I each had time to say what we wanted to say to our dad, even if he wasn’t always awake or comprehending. I hope they each took those precious moments and used them. I know I did.
And so… we now move forward. Here I am, blogging about the experience, hoping that someone who is reading these words will know that they’re not alone - that our family has also endured something hard.
That said, we do know our dad’s okay. Better than okay. Actually, he’s finally home.
Both in good times and hard, I wish you God’s every blessing,
Katie
Katie Kolberg Memmel has written three books: “Five Fingers, Ten Toes – A Mother’s Story of Raising a Child Born with a Limb Difference” (Ten-year anniversary edition, now with photos); “Silly Stories and Sentimental Stuff”; and “From This Day Forward…” All three are available through Amazon - paperback or Kindle edition. Visit her website at: www.katiekolbergmemmel.com for more information about her, and for links to her books.
