Where I have been

The Last Walk

After Christmas, I sailed from Japan for the Philippines.

I took my boat up the coast of Cebu Island to Zeke’s boatyard. The rent was something like a dollar a day, and when I explained to Zeke that I would be there only a week or two, he said I could forget about rent, just pay his guys for handling the dock lines.

That was the plan.

I only wanted to repair my sails, paint the deck, and look at some means of alternate propulsion—like an outboard engine bracket. To the south of the Philippines is some to the most windless sea on earth.

But plans change. . .

I received an email from my sister saying that our father was diagnosed with leukemia. Being 80, he refused Chemo- and chose to die at home with his family. Even though my dad was always an extraordinarily healthy person, his illness somehow wasn’t a surprise to me. I don’t know why.

I told Zeke that I would perhaps not be leaving with my boat in a week or two, but would instead be leaving without my boat and could not be certain of the time of my return.

Zeke was more than accommodating. He assisted in helping me find the best tickets home. He assured me of the safety of Araby. We agreed that he would pay my friend Malou to swab the inside of my boat once every two weeks (for mould). (This would cost me a dollar.)

I spent a day in boat prep and left the following day. I flew to Portland, rented a car, picked up my brother Will and his two dogs and drove back to South Carolina in two days nonstop.

I find it rare to be in a place and in a time where there is no doubt. . . no doubt at all. . . that you are exactly where you should be, doing exactly the thing that you should do. So much is hidden from us in life that we must constantly wonder, ‘what if. . . ?’ To not have that question is special.

I’ve only felt so grounded in my life once before, and that was the time of the death of my mother.

And yet this time is so very different, nearly diametrically opposed in certain respects, to the last time:

My mom was young, my dad was old; my mom was in an accident, my dad had a disease; my mom’s time in the hospital was short, only two weeks; my father never went to the hospital, his time of dying was two months; my mom’s spirit blew out like a candle, my father’s lingered, savoring the time to make peace.

They felt very different to me. I rarely thought of my mother in this time unless my father mentioned her. If you haven’t experienced the dying process, it is interesting to learn the patterns carried on by those moving on. And it is surprising to learn how eerily universal the patterns and behavior can be.

Blondell is my ‘other’ mother. She has raised me since I was born. She has been caregiver to the passing of both of her parents in the last two years.

She said this: “When they start talking to the dead, it won’t be long.”

Blonny was my guide through this process. And Susan Ueling, the hospice nurse, who was more wonderful than I can possibly explain. They taught me what to expect and what to be aware of, what would matter down the road.

He ate. He occasionally had company. He was weak and slowly grew weaker. First he would sit in his chair for much of the day, but after a month, he more and more rarely moved from the bed.

He ate well. Friends and family brought food daily. It was a tough (but wonderful) job for me to eat the myriads of leftovers. He woke every morning thinking he was four miles from home. “I think we’ll go home today,” he’d say. Then he’d laugh at how impossible his mind was. “I’m confused. I’ve never been so confused.” Everyday.

As the weeks passed he spent more and more time in some degree of delirium. And his body slowly withered with his mind. He was still determined to go to the bathroom on his own and this was the greatest risk to his health. We had to set up a baby monitor in his room and listened to it intently for the squeaking of his chair or the rustling of his bed. If he was confused he may choose to ignore his walker.

My mandate was to keep him home, to keep him safe. To let him fall and injure himself was my greatest concern. He was in little pain and was sparsely medicated. He was comfortable, well fed, and surrounded by family. A fall could ruin that.

For the last two months of my father’s life I slept in the bed next to him. He would regularly get up twice in the night to pee, but he was also most confused in the night, and had a mild propensity for nocturnal ventures.

Before I came home, my sister found him in the kitchen wearing a suit at three a.m. He scolded her, “why aren’t you ready? We’ll be late for the dance.” Another time he was found, well dressed, sitting in a chair waiting peacefully.

“Dad, what are you doing?” he was asked.

“What time is it?”

“It 2:30 am, dad.”

“Damn, I was supposed to be dead half an hour ago.”

We tried to log his more memorable saying in a small notebook.

On a sailboat, you become accustomed to sleeping lightly or waking up to any change of sound. Therefore, the night watch was mostly mine. As the weeks passed, I was more regularly called Burwell at night. Burwell is my dad’s dead brother.

He was an incredible patient from start to finish. He never would tell you when he wanted to get up, but he was always kind, always accepting of the care we gave him. He’d take his pills without a fuss, he’d let me bathe him, clean him, change him, all the control we find so difficult to release. My dad died gracefully.

There were luminous moments. He was living mostly in dream and memory. One morning I asked him about his favorite pony—polo being his undying passion. He took me through years of polo and Argentine ponies named, Pistol, Vanessa, Poker Chip, and of course, the one that got away. And how his face would light up in the telling. . .

One morning he woke up and said, “I was not aware that I owned the whole world.”

Other times he’d wake up and ask to call Leila, or my mother, Bootsie. Both are long passed away.

Or ask me to call Jeff and tell him that he was very sorry but they’d have to reschedule and play 18 holes next week.

I’ve never spent more time with my father. I’ve never felt closer to my father, never had the opportunity to give so much back to him. He’s always provided so much for me. He told his girlfriend that he was afraid to die alone. Our whole family was determined not to let him.

After nearly two months of slow decline, he woke one morning markedly different. He hardly opened his eyes; he could only mumble. At this point he had already declined to such a place that we guessed his time to be within two weeks. I had the day off of work and was going to the farm to bury my brother’s truck in a pond and then see if we could excavate it. My sister Mary Locke was with Dad.

When we returned we were amazed at his change. His lips had become so chapped that they cracked against his teeth and bled. He was unable to drink water.

That same day, a friend came from out of town to see her grandmother (who wasn't well) and invited me over for a dinner party. I went.

At the party was a family friend named Becky who had just lost her husband to cancer in the last few months. We sat alone and talked for an hour. It was amazing time and I felt so grateful for it. It instilled in me the sanctity of this time of life. . . and death.

“Do all you can do, now. You never want to think, ‘if only I had done more,’” she said.

Later that night my brother Will called and said I may want to come home. I hugged my friend’s goodbye and drove home.

Dad was really struggling to breathe now. For the first time, he was fighting. He swung between being too hot and sweating, and the chills. Mary Locke had to cover him with towels to catch the perspiration and was changing them regularly.

It was amazing to see how fast he had declined. Susan Ueling said to administer morphine each hour. It was more for our comfort that his, however. He had less than two days now.

I relieved Mary Locke and, the tv being on already, thought I might watch a movie. I flipped a few channels and then realized that the room had gone quiet. I looked at my Old Man and he was breathing quietly. I quickly turned off the tv and swung around to sit next to him Indian-style on the bed. I held his hand and told him that it was okay (Beckie McCutchen had said this was so important). “It’s okay Dad. You can let go. We’ll be fine. If I could, I’d walk down that path with you, but I can’t. It’s only for you. My time’s not come.”

His breathing was so soft. And then it stopped.

I smiled. . . amazed. There it was. He was gone.

And then he took a deep long breath again. . . and once more started breathing softly. I laughed to myself and told Dad that he had tricked me; I had thought he had taken the last walk.

. . . and then he stopped breathing once more.

I wasn’t going to be so easily fooled this time, however. I waited, quietly holding his hand. Once again he breathed deeply. . . he took a few peaceful shallow breaths. . . and was still once more.

And those were the last breaths he ever took.

I figured I’d wait to be sure. Death apparently wasn’t so black and white as I had thought. He had no pulse that I could find. I could hear nothing from his lungs. After ten minutes I called my sister and brother. It was 12:45am.

An hour later Susan Ueling came over and we dressed him and called the morgue. They agreed to come in the morning for his body, after the family could have a chance to view him. I cleaned up all the medical things, all walkers, wheel chairs, oxygen tanks, towels, ect. I made his room look like it always had.

He was wearing his white slacks, black belt, and a pink Brooks Brothers shirt (and his bedroom slippers).

My dad took a nap every single day after his lunch. Dressed and laying in his bed, he looked just like he was napping.