Last Call

My Dad died....... July 2. A few hours after I left him.

Daddy. That's what I called him. Or Father....when I was being sarcastic. I was also fond of calling him Chuckie White Shoes.....on account of his fondness for a pair of white, point-y toed shoes, circa 1967. He had his own style, my Daddy did.

It's a horrible thing to watch someone you love die. In the moment, you feel helpless. In the aftermath, you are overcome with grief......and relief. And therein lies the struggle. You desperately miss that person you loved and yet it's a blessing to know they are no longer in pain.

Congestive heart failure wins.

My Dad was in and out of the hospital for the last nine months of his life, almost every two weeks; his lungs would fill up with fluid and he couldn't breathe. "It feels like I'm drowning", he'd say. In January, my brother (Nick) flew in from Florida when Chuckie landed in the cardiac unit at OHSU. The situation was grave, but our Dad rallied and was ultimately released. Nick flew home and we all said a little prayer that this was it.

It wasn't. In and out; in and out of hospitals he was. "Tune ups", he'd call them. He'd stay for a few days, they'd pump the fluid off his lungs and he'd go home. For about 2 weeks. In May, he landed in the hospital for 21 days. He was intebated twice, coded once and when the dust cleared we were told by the doctors that they'd exhausted all medical interventions. His heart was too weak...... it was now time to make him comfortable.

We brought him home the first weekend in June and for the first 2 1/2 weeks, he seemed to be doing well. He was on oxygen, which he hated, but he could walk on his own & take care of his own needs. Mark & I had a family vacation planned for mid June and Daddy made me promise we'd go...... he'd "never forgive me" if I didn't.....and so I did. I called him everyday to check in and we'd visit for about 10 minutes and then he'd get tired and we'd end the call. "I love you, Daddy", I'd say. And then I'd hang up and cry for 1o minutes. I knew he was failing. He was losing his speech and short term memory. Mo, "his sweetie", told me he was sleeping alot and would "fade in and out" during the day. She said when he heard my voice on the phone, he'd immediately perk up....but the minute we hung up, he'd go back to sleep. Three days before my family and I were to return home, Mo called and said I had to get Nick to fly out. Dad was asking for him. "I need to see my boy", he said. I knew when I left that there was a good chance my Dad could die while I was gone, but I was ok with it. I'd spent every spare minute with him that I could and we had said the things that we needed to say to one another. "We're square", he'd said. But I knew that wasn't the case with Nick, and so I made the call. "It's time to come home, Nico..... he won't be able to let go until he sees you."

Nick flew in on a Saturday and stayed four days. He spent all day with Dad, who was by now in a hospital bed in the living room. He wasn't eating, but for a few bites here and there; and he slept most of the day. But he still recognized his family and he and Nick were able to say their final goodbyes.

I arrived the following Tuesday. Mark and I hit the state of Oregon and drove immediately to my Dad. We stayed for 3 hours, gathered up Nick and his belongings and took him with us back to Salem where Gina was waiting to take Nick to Portland to catch his flight out. I don't ever remember seeing my brother cry like he did when he walked out of Dad's house and climbed into our truck. The magnitude of knowing he'd never see our Dad again struck a might blow. He cried the entire drive to Salem. I cried right along with him.

I continued to call Dad the next two days and by Friday, while sitting at work, I was overcome with the feeling that I had to see him. It was a pull.....like a magnet. The Monsters were with Mark's parents, so from work I drove home, changed and headed straight for Dad & Mo.

I was not prepared for the next 12 hours. Daddy had completely deteriorated. He was combative and only had flashes of recognition. My first three hours were spent struggling to keep him in his bed. He wanted out but didn't understand that he had no strength to support himself. "Daddy, NO!" I'd say, using my body to block him and my weight to practically sit on him to keep him from getting up. At one point, after about 5 minutes and me thinking he was done, he began to struggle up and against me and I said in my best smart ass tone: "I swear to God, Dad......I will knock you out if I have to! And I weigh more than you now!!" His face flashed with recognition and his response was: That's my Baby.

As the night wore on and the struggle continued and the meds had no effect, Mo called for the hospice nurse and I called Mark. Mo didn't want to be left alone, and I didn't want to be without Mark. So Marky jumped in the truck and came to our rescue. Daddy immediately recognized his "Sweet Lou" and about an hour later, the drugs kicked in and he was peaceful.

We stayed through the night and into the next morning; enduring another three hour struggle in between. At one point all three of us were keeping Dad in bed. No one said it aloud but I know we were all thinking it: If we could just give him one big dose of morphine.......

That thought. It's not just to end the suffering of your loved one. It's to end yours as well. Watching death take it's time, slowly robbing your loved one of their dignity;inconsiderate to the fact that you are helpless to their pleas for help. "Just kill me", Daddy would say. And he'd look at Mo and ask, "Does my daughter know? " And I was sitting at his bedside the entire time. "I'm here, Daddy....I'm here". And right before the drugs took effect, he saw me one more time. "Love you, Baby".

Those were the last words he said to me.

My Dad died at 12:20 p.m. on Saturday, July 2. Mo called us at 12:30 p.m. The last thing Mo had said to us when we left her just a few hours earlier was: If there is a God, He better show himself soon.

Amen.

There was no funeral. I promised Daddy I wouldn't let that happen. When we are all ready, the family will head to the coast and give Daddy back to the ocean. I promised him I would make that happen.

We are now in the process of going through his belongings. Samuel has been wearing "Poppa Charlie's" t-shirt that has Yosemite Sam on it. Daddy loved Yosemite Sam. The t-shirt is so big on Sam, it looks like a nightgown. He doesn't care. It smells like Poppa.

My Dad never bought into the idea of music cd's. It was hard enough for him to transition from vinyl to cassette tapes; he wasn't about to convert all his music to cd's. So Mo gave us the biggest of all Daddy's boom boxes.....oh yeah. Boom boxes. And every night, Mark & I choose a new cassette tape and listen to Daddy's music. I cry. Sometimes we dance. But we always remember the man.

He loved the Blues and Merle Haggard. He taught himself how to play guitar when he was a teenager and besides his kids, his guitar was the constant love of his life. He joined the Army at 17, missed his high school graduation for boot camp and was a Paratrooper in the 181st Airborne Division. He served his country in the Vietnam War and was honorably discharged after he broke his ankle on a jump mission. The Army wouldn't clear him to jump again and so they parted ways. He was a garbage man, a mill worker, a logger, a construction worker and a bartender. He was blue collar. He was born in New Jersey, was raised by foster parents and spent his entire life wondering where he came from. He was married twice. And divorced twice. He spent the majority of my adolescent years high on cocaine. He entered rehab when I was 18 and he was clean for the last 23 years. He loved ice cream, duct tape and vice gripes. He shopped at the Goodwill and had a fondness for fine point pens. It took 7 days to make his secret spaghetti sauce. He used to walk around the house, half singing-half yelling a song he made up about "baby chicks and baby ducks". And he could stand in front of the mirror while wearing 70's flared bottom trouser pants, paired with what can only be described as the male version of a peasant blouse, and pointy- toed boots and know that he looked good!

I miss him. And Nico misses him. We all miss him. He was a giant in our lives. Nick & I were talking on the phone last week and I said something about wandering through my house; too antsy to sit down but unable to focus long enough to accomplish anything. And Nick responds with: Yeah....you got Dad's personality.....always wound up!

I should be offended. And yet, I find it comforting. Daddy always said: You are your father's daughter.

Yes. Yes I am.