Faith is no longer, nor has been for a very long time, enough to get me through the day. Faith, to me, is an optimistic lie you tell yourself to feel better about something that you desperately need to be true; having faith means you know what you are telling yourself can not be proven. Otherwise, we would not need faith.. we would just know. I realize that faith is a wonderful tool for many people, but I need fact. I need proof. I need a sign that what I am believing is real. My mind identifies faith as a coping mechanism; my mind also needs to deal with life as it is, not what I tell myself it is. My mother tells me that faith grows stronger with age, and I do desperately hope that is true for me. My mind has always questioned what I have been told and sought to find answers that make sense to me. I am not certain that I will ever find the answers that I am looking for, but I will never stop trying.
I would give anything to turn back time and take away the disease that took everything from you; since I am unable to do such a thing, I am simply thankful for the precious time that we spent together and how much I learned about life. Watching you slowly lose all of the things I take for granted taught me a lot about what’s important in life. Even when you lost the ability to speak, eat, or drink, the love for your family was something that couldn’t be taken. Until you had no strength left to move, you always let me know that you love me. The last month of your life that we spent together showed me what I need to do with my life; you showed me my calling. Every one of us has to die, and we should all feel as loved and cared for as you did; we should never have to leave this earth feeling alone or abused. For you, daddy, I’m going to try and help as many old souls and their families as I can; I want to offer words of experience, of compassion, and of hope. Thanks to you, and all that I learned, I know that I can do this.
My father passed away on December 1, 2015 at 1:38pm only a moment after I had read “My sweet father,” aloud; my mother was holding his left hand, and I was holding his right. He went peacefully with the two people who meant the most to him, his “girls.”
Over a week later.. This still isn’t real. I built a very strong emotional wall while caring for my father the last month and a half of his life; I had to focus 100% on his needs and had no time or energy to deal with my emotions on the matter. That wall is refusing to come down. Saying “your father is dead” is no different than saying “the sky is purple;” it isn’t real. I don’t believe you. My dad can’t be dead, because I’m only 24. I need him. He has to give the guy of my dreams permission to ask my hand in marriage. He has to walk me down the isle. He has to see me graduate from college. He has to see me be successful. He has to remind me to rotate my tires and change fluids that I don’t even know exist. He has to meet his future grandchild. He has to tell me that he loves me and that he’s proud of me. He has to fuss at me for being stubborn. He has to tell me not to get anymore tattoos. He has too much left to do.. He can’t be gone.
I need you, daddy.
When words have lost their meaning,
When the light can no longer reach your eyes,
I hope you know that I am with you;
I hope you know that I have never left your side.
Mother Nature has mourned your passing;
Rain has fallen for days.
The sun is hidden behind a thick sheet of clouds.
She refuses to smile; she will not show her rays.
When God has made your final arrangements,
He will lift you up in his gentle hands.
My sweet father, you’ll no longer be in pain.
You will find happiness and peace in a magical far off land.
One day, we will be together again;
Until then, know that I love you with every fiber of my being.
You are not only my father, but also my best friend.
You will always be a part of me;
Our bond will never end.
I am sitting by my father’s bed listening to his labored breathing. His vitals are no longer good; his heart is working over time, he’s feverish, clammy. He can’t eat or drink. He hasn’t opened his eyes at all. His nurse said he has a couple days, no more than a week. My mother and I are giving him morphine around the clock so he remains comfortable.
A chaplain stopped by today to talk with me and my mom; we all stood and prayed over my dad’s bed.
I’ve learned a lot about life the past month that I’ve been home with my father. I’ve learned who cares about me and who doesn’t. I’ve learned to make sure I let my emotions out in a healthy way. Mostly, I’ve learned what’s important in this life: love. As my father is lying here dying, the only thing I can give him is my love. I can no longer feed him, give him a drink, bathe him, talk with him, laugh with him, or even watch TV with him. All he can accept from me at this point is my unconditional love for him. I could be offered a million dollars to leave his side, and I wouldn’t.
Watching a parent die, especially being as young as I am, is one of the hardest things I’ll ever go through. Dementia has stolen everything from him over this past year; the father that I grew up knowing has been gone a long time. I feel so many emotions. I’m sad that I’m losing my father. I’m angry, very angry, that I’m losing my father. I’m thankful that I’ve had him in my life this long, but I hate that I won’t have him longer. I’m anxious. I’m nervous. I don’t want him to stay in pain, but I also don’t want to let go. If I ever get married, he won’t be there to walk me down the isle. He won’t be at my college graduation. I won’t be able to give him a grandchild. He can’t answer questions I have about my car. He won’t be able to make sure the first house I buy is in good shape. He won’t be able to do any of the things that I need from him. The most terrifying of all is that he can’t ever tell me that he loves me again.
Yesterday, my dad would barely open his eyes. He ate a little, as long as it was soft (pudding, applesauce, mashed potatoes). He drank quite a bit. His blood sugar stayed very low, so my mother and I gave him sugared soda to keep it up. He was clammy for most of the day and his body temperature felt cold to the touch. He had many hand tremors that would sometimes spread to his face. His hands stayed busy for a majority of the day: rubbing his face, scratching his head, touching his lips, feeling the blanket. Vocally, he wasn’t very responsive; he could muster out “yeah” or “no” most of the time when asked a question. My mom and I got a smile and a laugh out of him once when we were telling him how handsome he is. During the evening, he kept reaching his hand out like he saw someone standing at the foot of his bed; my mom and I asked him several times, “Who do you see? Who are you reaching for?” but he could never respond. All day, he seemed peaceful, but very busy at the same time. I believe there’s a lot going on in his mind that I can’t comprehend. From what I’ve read online and from talking to the hospice nurse, this is a time of transition for him; his soul is between his physical body and the afterlife. Maybe he’s seeing passed loved ones waiting for him on the other side, or maybe angels or messengers are talking to him about what’s happening. All that I know is, what he has in the physical world is no longer of much importance to him. As much as I want him to open his eyes and tell me that he loves me too, I’m afraid he will never be able to do that again.
Today, my dad hasn’t opened his eyes at all, nor will he eat or drink. He has woken a few times earlier in the day, but only for a brief moment. He is less responsive than yesterday. His nurse stopped by this morning to take a look at him; all of his vitals are good. She told us that if he doesn’t want to eat or drink, don’t force it. If he needs something, he will let us know. Usually when I go over to his bed to hug and kiss him, he will wake up and I can tell that he knows I’m there; a few moments previous to writing this, my presence no longer woke him up.
Dementia is a roller coaster of a disease; one day, someone can be alert and understand what’s going on around them, but that can quickly change. Every day, even every hour, can be different from the last. In my dad’s case, I don’t think he will have anymore good days. From the signs he is showing, his body is trying to shut down. This process is different for every person; sometimes it takes days, and sometimes it takes weeks. It’s important for my mother and I to stay with him so he knows he isn’t alone. It’s important for us to tell him we love him, even though he can’t respond. It’s important for me to thank him for being a wonderful father and letting him know how important he is to me. It’s important to me that he leaves this earth feeling as admired as a king.
If you find yourself taking care of someone who is ill and/or dying, these tips may help you:
If pills become too hard to swallow, don’t buy a plastic pill crusher because they are more trouble than they are worth. Order a mortar and pestle (I got mine off of Amazon for cheap with free shipping) and your pills will be completely in powder form.
If blood sugar is low and needs to be quickly brought up without food, a sugared cola with a couple tablespoons of simple syrup works wonderfully. Glucose tablets can also be crushed up and put in a sweet drink.
If the person who is sick will not open their mouth to eat or drink, try gently touching the straw or spoon to their lip so they can sense that something is there.
While taking care of someone who is ill, to avoid getting them anxious or upset, talk them through everything that you are doing; while changing their diaper, tell them every step as you are doing it. When feeding, always say “here’s a bite/drink” before putting the spoon or straw up to their mouth. Even if they can’t comprehend what you’re saying, a familiar voice may be comforting.
Never argue or debate. Never.
Try to avoid showing any negative emotions in your voice if at all possible, whether it be anger or sadness. Talk slowly and gently.
As blood flow slows down, a person is more likely to get cold; make sure you keep enough blankets around.
If something isn’t absolutely necessary, don’t do it. It puts more work on yourself and adds to their level of discomfort.
Don’t hesitate to call your hospice nurse, home health nurse, primary care doctor, on-call nurse line, etc. If you are every scared or have a question, that is what those people are there for. This is a scary time, but being informed can make it a lot less scary.
Your body feels cold.
My mind is on fire.
You don’t open your eyes.
I can’t keep my eyes off of you.
The rumble in your throat doesn’t seem to bother you.
For me, it’s death reminding me of this fate.
Although you are still, I can tell you are busy.
Your mind is crossing over between here and your soon to be home.
You have loved ones on both sides.
You will never be alone.