1. Truth: I went to Oregon. I went to check on my dad, whose health wasn’t great. I needed to see for myself. Not too long after I made my travel plans but before I arrived, my dad fell, got pretty beat up from it, maybe had a seizure too. Then he agreed to go to the doctor, even though he hadn’t gone for the past six years, since he had a stroke and was in the hospital for at least a few weeks. He went the day before I got there, and the doctor diagnosed heart disease, said that the fall was likely a result of or caused by a heart attack, and that his blood oxygen levels were really low. He wanted him to go straight to the emergency room and get checked in to the hospital for more tests. Anyone who knows my dad understands that he’s not going to go, probably only went when he had the stroke because he was so out of it he couldn’t really refuse. When I got there the next day and saw him for the first time in a year, I was shocked by how frail he looked. We took him that day to get more bloodwork, and the doctor called later and said he was severely anemic and in kidney failure. Again, they wanted him to go straight to the hospital. And again, he said no.  

2. Truth: My trip did not go as planned. While still in Colorado, I’d made reservations to stay two nights at the beach in a tiny house in the middle of my trip. My brother and his girls and grandkids were going to come spend the day and I was going to visit with my aunt who lives there, get donuts from Depoe Baykery and eat some seafood, walk on the beach. I also thought while I was in the valley, I’d visit my aunt and uncle who just bought a new house and my other aunt who is living in the restored farmhouse that was originally owned by my great grandparents that I haven’t seen since the remodel. Instead, at the end of that first day, we were planning to get my dad in to hospice care. The next day, hospice put him with their “Team Seven,” which is the group of nurses and procedure they implement if they think a person isn’t going to live more than seven days. 

3. Truth: Hospice is a gift, a blessing. It gave my mom (and the rest of us) so much comfort to have them visit, and they were able to provide extra care we either couldn’t or Dad refused to accept from us.

Hospice nurse: “Do you understand what’s happening to you?”
Dad: “Yes.”
HN: “Are you scared?”
Dad: “No. I just want my family to be okay.”

4. Truth: When someone is dying, every feeling and experience leaves you except for the love. Any grudge or hurt, any hope for an apology or for the difficult or complicated parts of your relationship to change, any unfinished business disappears. That first night, I went in to tell him goodnight, that I love him, and when he goes, I want him to come back and haunt me, and he smiled a little and reached over and held my wrist. The hospice nurse said with such a low blood pressure, not eating, and sleeping most of the time, it would most likely be just a couple of days.

Three years ago, we lost Eric’s sister, Angela. Apparently, August is a cruel month for us.
Dad loved his primary hospice nurse. Since he doesn’t like much of anybody, that was a real gift. He’s was mostly sleeping during the day, only eating a few bites of food, and started to get a little confused at times, but was still there, still with us.

One of those first days, when I went in to tell him good night and that I love him, he said, “I love you.” He looked at me, held my gaze, and I leaned in, said, “You are a good guy.” I misheard him when he responded, thought at first he said, “fuck yeah” but it was actually “thank you.” What else is there to say, really, ever: I love you. Thank you.

5. Truth: Things can change so fast, and there comes a point when you can only do so much. These roses are from what’s left of my mom’s garden. They had to let it go this past year, as it was getting too much for them to maintain. And yet, even without attention or supplemental care, this particular bush was producing the most gorgeous blooms.

My intention when I planned this trip, made all my arrangements, was to see for myself how my dad was doing after hearing about some concerning symptoms he was experiencing. Between when I made my reservations and when I got here, it had gotten worse, but it wasn’t until the day before I left and then the day I got here that we knew the full scope of just how bad. By my second day, we were meeting with hospice. It all happened so fast.

And yet, after that, time slowed down. It sometimes felt like one really long day. I had only planned to stay a week. Instead I stayed longer, did my best to help him die the way he wanted, at home with his family, not in a hospital. I extended my trip to add some extra time but the hard reality is I don’t live there, have a life that was waiting for me, missing me, needing me, and sadly, I knew in a much bigger and more permanent sense my mom is going to have to figure out how to live on her own, without my dad, and the longer I stayed, the more I was in the way of that. 

6. Truth: Waiting for the death of someone you love is a particularly strange liminal space. One night, Dad got up, by himself, and made himself a plate of ice cream and grapes. Mom woke up to him sitting on the side of the bed munching away. We have no idea how he managed it, as he hadn’t been out of his room for a week. The day before, he was talking a lot about needing to have his pants and even shoes on, telling Mom, “We need to get ready to go.”  

Hospice checked in every day and came if we wanted them to. We had Jenny come one day because he likes her best, but he didn’t really recognize her, and she had a hard time waking him up. He really just wanted her to go away, let him sleep. She did notice (and Mom had the night before too) that he was having pauses in his breathing. Jenny counted up to as long as 19 seconds. The next day, he was more alert for his other nurse. When she asked him how he was, he said, “I want to go home.”

I made sure in those last few days, while he was awake and alert, to tell him that what day it was and that I was flying back to Colorado on Saturday morning, that I’d miss him, that I love him, and that he’s my favorite dad. With what little voice he had left, he said he loved me too. 

7. Truth: Practice continues to save me, AND yet I can’t save anyone else from their suffering. I can only hold space for it. There is a quote I heard once (that of course I can’t locate now) about how we practice when we can for those times when we can’t. Every day once I arrived in Oregon, I could feel the years of practice, all the time I’d spend holding space for other people, and all the study I’ve done around dying and grief and working with big, difficult emotions — I could feel all of it supporting me when I needed it the most.

This picture is of my dad’s end of the couch, where he sat for the last time the morning after I got there drinking a cup of coffee and reading the paper, the last time he came out of his room (except for the night he got the ice cream). In the 30 years Eric and I have been married, this was the longest we’d ever been apart. I missed my dog, my own bed, my person. And then I’d think about what my mom is about to lose after 58 years with my dad, that as much as I’d been able to help, this was something that I couldn’t fix, couldn’t do for her, couldn’t get her out of.

And on top of all that, I’m losing my dad. He felt part of the way gone already, a little more every day I was there, but sometimes he was so present. He told me one day, “I go to sleep, then I wake up again. I can’t figure out why I’m still here.” Hopefully, whatever is left is easy for him. Leaving before he was gone, leaving my mom there was so hard. And yet, that’d be true no matter how long I stayed or when I left.

8. Truth: Once I got home, I was so tired, and the full measure of things started to sink in. I sent this selfie to Eric to let him know I’d made it on to the 5:40 pm airport shuttle, and he could come pick me up in about an hour. I got all the way home about 7:30 pm, called Mom to let her know I made it back, ate something, took a shower, and went right to bed.

The next day, even my bones were tired. As glad as I was to be home, to sleep in my own bed, see Eric and Ringo, because I’m not there, close by what’s happening as it happens, being able to help directly, and no longer limited to just dealing with what’s right in front of me, the full measure of it is hitting me, hard. 

We have a late bloomer in our garden, a rose I never expected to come back, to flower so late in the summer. Now that I’m back in Colorado, I’m attempting to do the things one does — go to the gym, get groceries, do laundry, walk the dog — but none of it feels “normal.” He, like me and all of the rest holding space for this, is existing in this strange liminal space, luminous and empty, here but also not, in transition but going nowhere, just as likely to drown as to float.

This is terrible. Keep going.
Being human is hard. Don’t give up.
Life is tender and terrible, beautiful and brutal — keep your heart open.

One wish: By the merit of our practice, may suffering be eased — in ourselves and in the world. May we offer what we can to ease the suffering of others. And may our deaths, all of ours, be easy, and if we must linger near the end, may we be surrounded by love and care, be comforted and supported by whatever form or shape our family and community takes.