Just finished watching the latest episode of "Grey's Anatomy" on my DVR. One of the story lines particularly struck a chord with me. A young girl, barely 18 had to decide whether or not to take her father off of life support. It reminded me that my brother & I had to make a similar decision regarding my dad. A decision that is so difficult to reflect on. But one that needs to be brought to light. Funny thing is, for as much as I use writing as therapy, I don't think I have ever written about that night...
Just 24 hours prior to his passing, our family was elated and celebrating the fact that Dad was going to get his lung. It happened! The little black pager that had been so closely and carefully guarded (batteries frequently checked) finally sounded--and it was not a drill! This was just days after Dad made the decision to come home to die. Almost a year had gone by and no donors in sight. That beautiful buzzing sound was such music to our deprived ears. We couldn't help but dance a happy dance to it! Immediately, we contacted the surgical transplant team and my dad was transported to the hospital he had just checked out of, but this time it was for a helicopter ride to UCLA.
Immediately, the phone & prayer tree began. I called cousins Tim & Amy, who had earlier volunteered to inform the family. Now when I speak of family, I'm talking a HUGE percentage of the tiny towns we grew up in. And let's not forget the ones in various states across the country. Aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, third cousins--all who knew and loved my Dad in some capacity. We drove the seemingly endless rout discussing all of the wonderful things we were going to do with Dad, once the surgery was done and he had time to recover. We recalled how in recent months, some of his close friends would joke with him about taking out vagrants on the street in hopes that they would be suitable donors. And how when cousin Amy's sister and niece were killed in a car accident, the family had the grace to request that they be considered as possible donors for my dad. They, sadly, were not compatible donors for him, but were able to help other families.
Once we got to UCLA, we were given VIP treatment. We had our very own waiting room and my mom was whisked away to see my dad as he was prepped for the surgery. After waiting for some time, a nurse came to get the family members there (me, my brothers & sisters & grandparents) one at a time to say goodbye and wish him luck before the surgery. I was called in first. But when I walked in, I immediately noticed a heaviness in the air and a sense of dread. Instead of seeing my mom's smiling face, I saw her in tears. She somehow found the courage to tell me that the 'donor's lung' wasn't accepted and that there would be no surgery. It still echos in my head... '... there will be no surgery'.
Nothing could be more sobering than to realize in that moment, that Dad was not going to make it. Doctor's had already told him that he was lucky to have made it this far. I reluctantly returned to the waiting room, where I assumed the staff had informed the family about the situation. When it was apparent they had not been informed, I asked my cousin (also one of my dad's closest friends) if she would please help me tell my family (she was a registered nurse and had a way with soothing people). Suddenly our happy tears turned into distraught sobs. Another family in the room (also waiting to see a loved one) quietly left the room to give our family privacy to grieve. The ride home that night was a tearful reflection of our years spent with our father.
Mom stayed the night with my dad and rode home with him the next morning. I learned later from her, that she and my dad had a long discussion and reflection and barely slept. They professed their love for each other. My dad expressed that he was sorry that he rarely spent time at family gatherings. He reflected on the surprise 50th birthday fundraiser party we gave him and how much fun he'd had. He told her that he wished he'd been present more often because our family had so many happy times at those parties. "When I'm gone, I want you guys to have a party for me every year. Like the one for my 50th. I'll be with you there." He also told my mom that the person's face that he wanted to see most when he got to heaven, was her mom. She was such a wonderful, loving, saintly woman.
My sisters and I tried to make his room as comfy for him as we could. The medical suppliers left oxygen for my dad, but we could tell it wasn't going to be nearly enough. They had left 3 and he was accustomed to 6, so we had to straiten that up by calling the local fire department to transport more in. (they knew my dad's situation with the oxygen and had an emergency plan just for accommodating him in the event of a natural disaster) Once he arrived home, he began to panic. There wasn't enough oxygen, there weren't enough meds, there wasn't enough time...
He decided he didn't want my grandmother present when he died, only my mom and us kids (and his best friend Paul and his wife (my dad's close cousin--the RN). It was a long, long night. After calling the local pharmacist at home (around midnight) to please fill my dad's prescription to calm his nerves, we met him at the pharmacy and expressed our gratitude for helping to ease my dad's final hours.
We all gathered around Dad to say our goodbyes and more importantly, tell him that it was O.K. to leave us. He first asked to see J.J. (my sister's son, who was his namesake), then J.J. was handed over to Carol & Paul after they said their goodbyes. Then it was just my mom and the 5 of us. He kept saying, "I need more air, I can't breathe." My brother and I looked at each other in an understanding, as all 6 of his oxygen tanks were turned up to maximum output. We said, "O.K. Dad, we'll turn it up a couple of notches." Then we proceeded to carefully shut down his tanks, one by one... "How's that Dad? Better?" "Yes." he replied, "better..." We all touched him, held his hands, said our "I love you's".
"I love all of you." he gasped... before he began speaking about his 'crossing' we can only assume. With glassy eyes, he looked in the area of his window, and asked, "How do I look?" Then, he said, "Which way do I face" and then finally, "O.k., I'm ready." And that was it. My brother and I shut down the last of the tanks, and Dad left us for a better place...
"... And suddenly, the life we knew before, was over. Forever."
That morning, my mom, and sister and I drove the 10 miles to deliver the news to my grandparents. On the ride over, (about 3:30 am) we saw the brightest, most beautiful shooting star cross our night path. It was as if Dad was saying, "Hello! I'm home!" And now and forever more, we will think of him when a shooting star crosses our path.
I used to be afraid of death. Now; not so much. I am completely content and prepared if I should die tonight, or tomorrow, or next week. Because I know that he will be there to help cross me over, as I'm sure my grandmother was there for him. I feel blessed that I was present to help his crossing from this plane, as he breathed his final breath and crossed into the next...
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