10

November 14

Washburne Court, Paynesville

Tucked in a corner room smaller than most living rooms, Mass at Washburne Court assisted living facility with Father Glenn was absolutely as reverent as if held in a proper church, so it was especially meaningful that in this intimate space the gospel, Luke 17:21, told us that The Kingdom of God is among us. Unlike most kingdoms, it does not demand fanfare, and many completely ignore it as it is unseen. We might want to see more, but must live in hope and trust our faith in his power. Dad’s faith and hope was a testament to this power. I know that as a little girl I consciously looked for Christ in others, peering into their eyes when Dad would instruct us to look more deeply, but since this often was followed by a full-on hair-pulling, shoving, brawl with my sister, I was too literal. Eventually, I realized the depth of his message and it made the end of his life even more meaningful.

Dad’s Forever Nap

During Mass, I had the pleasure of exchanging the sign of peace with Mary, who had survived breast cancer longer than anyone else in Minnesota, living 51 years since diagnosis. At eleven years, I would need another 40 years to get to her 51. Yes, please! I also felt a special connection as she lived in the apartment my parents had rented. There were a few residents from 2016, but most of the rooms had changed occupants, quite a literal connection to the gospel which stressed not waiting for the Kingdom of God, but to find it here now. The sense of time is different in assisted living; there is both a slowness in activity and yet a white-knuckled holding on to time as it is so dear.

I try not to dwell on my timeline, not to set up events I wish to see before I pass “if I could only….” I decided my lifetime hourglass has finer sand that is running more quickly than before. Perhaps it could get clogged in the middle and slow down. When my heart was racing, I tried to visualize the sand tumbling slowly and then reduced to a mere trickle. When I explained this to a dear friend, Sister Ruth, she said, “I think God is adding more sand,” with a twinkle in her eye. Well, I hoped He orders his sand by the truckful!

For six or seven years, Scott’s coworkers in the rehab department and their spouses had participated in an annual bowling fundraiser for Rice Memorial Hospice. The original escapades included prizes for best dressed and we went all out: 80’s prom, heavy metal band and even blue suits like the Blue Man group. The blue suits zipped up the back and were just thin enough to see through. My sorry bowling game was not hurt by the suit but it was a challenge to eat and drink with my rayon-covered hands and the process required to go to the bathroom made me limit my intake.

In the Fall of 2015, after decades of remission, Dad’s cancer returned with a vengeance. He chose not to fight it. The drugs available were very expensive, listed pages of side effects and offered only a few weeks of survival. Instead he napped it out.

Good thing Dad had always been a championship napper. After the morning milking and chores he’d come in to “listen to the markets” at 10 am on the radio and take his first nap of the day. In the summer he’d lay on a rug in the kitchen near the refrigerator, the white noise of the appliance lulling him to sleep.

Like a pharaoh, he often slept now on his back with his arms crossed on his chest and the most peaceful look on his face. With the recurrence, the cancer cells were consuming a lot of calories plus his appetite waned so he was losing weight. And he wasn’t as sharp mentally. After the day he opened his mouth to show me his missing tooth–a pill he’d kept in his cheek–we had the onstaff nurse set up and deliver all medications. His systems were all starting to fail. In mid-December while I was chatting with Mom in the main room, he said from his bed, “I want that hospice. I don’t want to miss it.” We knew the day hospice was needed was inevitable, so I had the director’s number ready in my phone. I knew Judie well from working with her at ROCORI for many years.  She was encouraging and helpful, with just the right comforting personality we needed.

Within three hours the hospice nurse appeared to start the process. The slim nurse with arms full of supplies took one look at me, closed her eyes for a bit, opened them with raised eyebrows and said, “I know you!  You’re from the Blue Balls group.” All that fundraising and carousing really paid off. Suffice to say, we got along famously.

First and foremost, hospice helped coordinate medicine so Dad’s pain was always managed. They brought a commode, helped setup bed railings, and provided everything from adult diapers to social visits from volunteers. Even with hospice help, Mom was dealing with her own medical issues from chemotherapy. During her chemo infusion a perceptive nurse, Fuschia, asked Mom how she was doing. Mom confessed that she was tired and a bit overwhelmed. It was Christmas Eve so the nurse sprung into action and made calls and arrangements for hospice respite care. Respite care meant Dad could stay in the hospital for a week and give Mom time to recover. Hospice was an amazing resource that took in consideration the needs of everyone including the caregivers.

Of course, I really don’t want to need hospice, but when I do, I am all in. Everyone involved in the system had such an inner lightness to them. It is such an amazing experience to witness the transition from all the effort medical staff provided and measures used to keep a patient alive to consciously choosing comfort cares only. And for us family members to transfer from fighting the cancer with everything medically possible to focusing on not wanting to see them suffer any longer. What a shift from cancer as adversary to ally. Accepting death is different for everyone involved, but thankfully our whole family dealt with the process with a united front.  Dad’s acceptance was the linchpin. Within days of asking for hospice, he was no longer able to make his wishes known and it was a great source of comfort that he was able to make the last decisions.

In only a few hours after Fuschia’s call, Dad was moved to a large room right next to the nurses’ station. He was so sweet to the nurses, but was not able to answer their questions. Once he was settled in, he sang Christmas carols with the radio, KASM, polka station of the nation, but rarely opened his eyes in a peaceful limbo between sleep and awake, the painkillers creating a soft cocoon of consciousness. Family visited often. Mack spent time with him while on break from college. Grandpa held his hand and said, “You’re a precious, precious little boy.” Later he prayed some of the rosary with Mom and me, chiming in loudly and strongly with the Our Father, but refusing and agitated when we got to St. Michael the Archangel. Mom and I assured him that everything was in order and he could go, follow the light. Without opening an eye he replied, “God’s not ready.” We looked at each other with surprise that turned into smiles and never tried to nudge him to heaven again.

When his week in the hospital drew close to an end, the social worker helped find him a nursing home bed at Hilltop in Watkins as returning to Washburne Court was not an option. Dad was very agreeable throughout the transition. I drove their SUV into the ambulance bay so we could stay warm. At first I thought it was unnecessary as it was not that cold, but soon understood the wisdom as the process took a long time. Scott used all his patient skills helping us get Dad into the car and the charge nurse crawled into the back seat. As they cajoled him, Dad would nod and agree to move an arm or a leg, but seldom actually complied. Just as I began to wonder if we’d need to use an ambulance to transfer him, he finally shifted from the wheelchair to the passenger seat.

As we drove to Watkins, Dad slept on and off. A few miles down Highway 55, he pointed to the hilly horizon and asked, “Are we in the Valley?” The Valley was how he referred to his childhood home on the farm in White, South Dakota. He was so hopeful that I semi-lied. “We are close to the valley, Dad.” I replied and when he nodded off again I  whispered to Mom in the back seat,  “Eden Valley.” She nodded her approval.

Within seconds after we pulled up to Hilltop, three nursing staff members were outside the car to help transfer Dad, who moved quickly to a wheelchair probably because we were outside. While He was getting settled and Mom unpacked his little collection of comfy t-shirts and plaid flannel pajama pants, I met with the receptionist to complete paperwork. It was an arduous process of  admission papers, insurance forms and promissory notes. I might still be there? Shifting from Washburne to the hospital took just ten minutes as they were in the same system, but this was another facility and it seemed we needed to start at his birth to complete the process. On the bright side, it gave Mom time to be with Dad and pray by his side.

His end days were long naps until there was no time awake. We visited often and often when we visited a priest who was residing there too would come to Dad’s room and pray with us. Dad was mostly non-responsive, but we soaked up our time with him. His breathing was labored and Scott noticed his jaw was set funny, more attuned to the signs of death than me. On New Year’s Eve we left him around 8 pm. Less than ninety minutes later, “Hilltop” appeared on my phone and I knew he was gone on his forever nap.

Instead of calling Mom, we drove to Washburne Court to tell her in person. Tears were streaming down her face as soon as she saw mine. When we got to Hilltop to say goodbye, the hallways were dark and his room lit by a nightlight. He looked so peaceful and was still so warm. I held his big old hand for the longest time. Those hands that  had done so much work. I recalled holding his hand as a little girl as we walked in town, half-running to match his long strides.

Even in the middle of the night, the resident priest comforted us and offered prayers again. I knew he was dealing with his own prostate cancer and found his prayers to be especially earnest knowing the sceptre of death was a bit too close for him. “Yea though I walk in the Valley of death,” meant more to me too, recalling Dad’s hope to be back in his sweet childhood valley. The funeral director arrived and quietly offered us as much time as we needed. A cheery home-made quilt softened the sight of the ominous black bag on his gurney. In silent respect, the staff lined the hall as we wheeled Dad out.

Our next bowling for hospice theme  was Farmer James. Everyone wore  jeans or denim overalls, sweater vests, bandanas, work boots and stocking caps or seed corn company hats, accessorizing with duct tape and twine.  My dad was certainly an original and embodied what St. Francis De Salles spoke of:  “Be who you are and be that well” (De Salles).