The Last Visit

The sun rose on another Saturday much like the last few, except I made a last minute decision to change up my routine. I was going to visit my dad in the nursing home prior to spending the night with my girlfriend. For 6 weeks I had little concept of time. Was it day or night? Was it Tuesday or Sunday? From the day my mom called to state he fell getting out of the car, I had no clue how my life would be turned upside down.

On that cold January morning, I remember hearing a sound from my dad I had never heard before. The wail and subsequent moaning was heart-wrenching. I hoped it was a bruise, but feared it was worse. Upon his arrival at the hospital, worst fears were confirmed and we found out that it was a broken hip. For a 75 year old man, not in the best health, and also not always with the best attitude, I knew it was going to be an uphill battle.

We thought after surgery, recovery would be the obvious next step. Instead, what he faced was setback after setback after setback. Instead of moving quickly into the physical therapy side of healing, he instead developed C.diff., a blockage, and I believe he had a small stroke among other issues. This poor man was miserable. We had to wear a gown, mask and gloves every time we entered his room as he was on isolation protocol. That did nothing for the mental health of him or myself, mom, his brother, his grandson, and my girlfriend.

It was one step forward and two steps back every single day while he was in the hospital for those four weeks and rehab facility for the next two. I was lucky if I saw my mom in passing. She got there first thing in the morning as I was unable to get there until after work. There wasn’t a day within those six weeks that I was able to relax or take a day off. That sounds so selfish in retrospect. So what if I had to drive more than usual. So what if I was away from home 12 hours a day. So what if I was putting triple the miles on my car.

On that beautiful, sunny Saturday at the beginning of March, I decided to surprise my mom and dad and visit him at the nursing home rehab while it was morning. There had been glimmers of hope weaved throughout the past few days as he was trying to make an actual effort to do things he needed to do to get better. After all, he was in the short-term side for rehab so that in itself gives one hope for going home. He was his usual ornery self when I walked in. Throughout those six weeks, he was able to still find some moments of joy and laughter. Both of them were happy to see me during daylight hours.

Dad decided he was going to prove he was getting better by doing one of the activities they had been trying to get him to do. The staff got him transferred from bed to his wheelchair. He had his little, yellow grippy socks ready to do this ride down the hallway with him using his feet to move him. He got himself to the door while making fun of us feeling confident that he would beat us if we were to have a contest going down that hallway. I was so excited for the progress he was starting to make.

I looked away and then back down and during those three seconds, he slumped to the left. I immediately tried to talk to him and wake him up. I yelled for staff and they came, got him back into bed and called for the fire department. I started shaking as I watched them perform CPR on him. This was real. This was really happening. There was no waking up from this nightmare. I called his brother. I called my girlfriend to come and get my son at work. I called his work and told them that she was getting him because his grandpa was having a medical issue. A medical issue. Talking to them and the people around me was a blur. But someone had to do it.

When I noticed that the fire department brought in the LUCAS machine, my own heart stopped. I knew just enough to know that if they put on a LUCAS machine to perform mechanical CPR, that the likelihood of recovery had just dropped. When I was a volunteer EMR on our small town ambulance service, I once had the displeasure of witnessing one on a patient who died while we were present. I immediately shifted mom into a position so that she couldn’t see how barbaric and traumatic it was. No one needs to see that in action. Just as they were transporting him out of the room to go the 10 minutes to the hospital, my son, uncle and girlfriend arrived to see the trauma unfolding. My poor son was eighteen now, but was also the light of my dad’s eyes and still that little boy sitting on his lap flashing the peace sign while riding around the yard on the lawn mower. They were two peas in a pod. All I could think is this can’t be happening. But it was and we had to pull ourselves together enough to drive and meet them at the emergency room.

I kept thinking he would hate all of this attention. He would hate that we were suffering. Waiting makes time stop. We waited for the doctors to tell us anything at all. They came and described a blockage and need to get him stabilized to move to a hospital across the river with better ability to help. That’s hope. Hope can be so wonderful and so dangerous. We were in this ridiculously small room waiting on next steps from the doctor and I hear an alert come over the speaker for STEMI in the ER. I started hyperventilating as I knew. I knew how bad that was for him. I felt the hope leave my body as the doctor solemnly walked back into the little family consultation room. Except there wasn’t a consultation. This was news. News that was not good. News that no daughter, wife, son or brother ever wants to hear. They no longer could find his pulse. Mom and I went into the room and each of us said our goodbyes while the LUCAS machine continued to torture his chest, crying out for just one more beat. The machine stopped and he was no longer alive.

I walked back to the room to get my son and he was sobbing. It was so hard to take him into the room with his grandpa and witness his grief. It is truly inconceivable how difficult it can be to provide comfort to someone else when you are feeling broken yourself. It was devastating to no longer see him breathing. Knowing we would never hear one of his stupid dad (also bad) jokes or get another hug.

My heart broke that day. Little moments in the past three years have helped me make it through. My son wears his camouflage coat because it was his grandpa’s, not because he likes it. I can now sit in his chair while visiting mom without hyperventilating. I can look at pictures and smile, focusing on the good and remembering him as a loving man. I will always feel like I should have spent more time or said I love you more. You don’t know it is going to be the last time until it is actually the last.