9:17 am: Morphine injection. It pains me to push the button everytime he moans.
9:34 am: Morphine injection.
9:49 am: Bedsheets changed due to my father's bowel movement. They shift him to relieve any pressure on his back.
10:20 am: Dad's eyes crack open. I read him a birthday I card I brought with me.
I used to think I knew it all
Which seems so funny now
In younger days, I thought
I had life figured out somehow.
Yet all along you understand
Far more than I could see
You offered patient guidance
Leaving choices up to me...
You'd cheer for my successes
With deep and honest pride,
And when I made mistakes
You'd always say, "I'm glad you tried."
And though I have still have more to learn
One thing I know is true --
I'm luckier than anyone,
Because my dad is you.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DAD!
10:55 am: I talk with Dr. Nemani. He says to keep pushing the morphine every time he stirs in pain to keep him "comfortable."
11:05 am: Another morphine dose.
11:15 am: The breathing has become shallower. I can feel my father's hand get colder each passing minute. My mother is on his left side stroking his face while talking to him in a soft, soothing voice.
11:19 am: As I hold my father's right hand and as my mother embraces my father, he takes his last breath. There is an eerie silence. My mother looks up at me for just a split second as I mouthed the words, "He's gone." I go outside to the nurses' station to find Dr. Nemani to tell him what happened. I am sobbing my eyes out in the hallway. The nurses try to comfort me. I go back into the room and Dr. Nemani is comforting my mother. My father lies flat on his back on his bed. His mouth agape as if he were screaming. Is this the death face?
Did I kill my father with every push of the button to release the morphine? Is this what they call Palliative Care?
My mother and I gather our personal belongings. I take the suitcases down to the car. We gather dad's effects and place them in a plastic bag. We kiss dad good-bye.
We stop at Taco Bell for a late lunch before driving home.
The long hours, the sleepless nights, the worrying, the long drives to and from are now over for my mother. Driving dad to his other doctor appointments...over. Pacemaker checks...over. Prescription refills...over. Oxygen bottle deliveries...over.
I wish my father did not have to die this soon, but it was his decision and we honored it.
The only regret I have is a question I never asked...Dad, why do stars shine?
