Uh-Oh, Dad Is Coming Back

Tonight I went to bed, in the way I normally do. I turned the channel on our T.V. from my husband's show (something political) to something comedically nonsensical. It has become an unofficial agreement that "us" time not include debates, pundits, spins, or childishness in suits.

Step two of the going-to-bed process requires me to set the alarm and check/respond to messages on my phone, including the online ones. Yes, I know the arguments against such screen time so close to trying to sleep. Whatever, it's not the point.

The online message-checking inevitably leads to article-reading. Tonight, for example, I browsed past about a dozen presidential race articles who's titles already had my blood pressure rising, to a local news story about an officer involved shooting. That link led to an article about the justice (read lack thereof) for a local child rapist convicted recently and now facing his so-called sentencing. I skipped the second article in my feed of the day about a set of parents who inflicted abuse on their toddler, breaking his ribs and one of his legs. They are finally having their day in court... Looking for something less icky, I tried swimming for safer bed-time-reading waters. I found a Jen Hatmaker link. She's usually funny and light. Nope, not this one, not funny or light. Reading Jen's article  and the opinion articles that published it, brought me to a related Matt Walsh blog link. I read both with open-hearted and intellectual interest, trying to reconcile the seemingly opposed views from members of the same family. I recalled the wisdom of Jesus, who responded to these types of direct and complicated questions with broad answers, aimed at the heart of the questioner, who only meant to trap him legally or religiously in a response. Then, unfortunately, I read on. I nearly drowned in the waters of a billion shouting opinions and accusations, while I dodged missiles that were aimed by Christians, at Christians, in the comment sections of each link. And now I can't sleep. My heart hurts, well screams out in agony really.

Initially, as I shut everything off and closed my eyes, I visualized one of the noisy eight-kids-still-at-home, everyone feeling needy, days of my childhood. Often I was the lucky one who was assigned as the free babysitter. It didn't always go well, I'll admit.

QUIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIETTTTTT!!!! I would scream at the end of the day, trying to be heard over the noise- the blaming and the defending, the crying, and the mocking. I just needed to hear nothingness; to feel some sense of calm and a presence of peace. Tonight I remembered what it meant to hear my father's cowboy-boot footsteps as he came up the walk at the end of one of those days. I had a healthy fear of what we'd all have to answer to once the door opened. I also felt a sense of relief because as the biggest sister, I always felt helpless to resolve all that need or the error that lay in front of me. Only now do I realize that never really was my job as the big sister babysitter anyway; it was Dad's.

Chances are on a chaotic day like that, we had all been naughty to varying degrees. Some of us were always antagonists, because personality dictated it. A few of us were stubborn enough to learn every, single, dang lesson the hard way. Now and then a few of us triiiiiiiied to be self disciplined, but lost our focus because of immaturity or distraction. We were hungry, tired, unheard, selfish, fearful; we had hurt feelings, we were annoyed and overwhelmed and needy.

My father usually got it all sorted out before dinner was served. Of course the method of correction was a varied as the crime; age mattered, cognitive ability mattered, heart attitude mattered, the number of infractions mattered...

So tonight I lay there trying to darken the blue-screen imprints behind my eyes and dull from my mind the sound of the shouting words I had read. I mentally embraced the oddly nostalgic flashbacks of those chaotic battles from my youth as well as the sometimes-bitter-sometimes-sweet fatherly parenting I was blessed to receive. I whispered for Jesus to come. I searched for thoughts of my Savior to help me drag my distracted mind back to a real hope and continued to whisper into the dark:

"SSSSSHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..."


Can't you hear them? The "footsteps" of our Father as he walks up to the door on His return? Tonight I'm feeling that same big sister sense of dread as I view online proof that we have all been naughty since He left.

Some of us are antagonists and liars and pot stirrers because we like to see people squirm. Some of us just scream to be heard by someone, anyone. Some of us are arrogant and proud and always know the answer to every dang situation. Some of us know we are unseen and that we don't have answers or feel that we don't deserve them anyway. Some of us are quick to be defensive; some of us lead with offense. Some of us fear being forgotten or unloved. Some of us want to ignore the suffering of the others because it's just plain inconvenient. Some of us haven't gotten our way... or justice... we haven't gotten justice. Some of us love the law, but not the spirit of the law. We loathe the lawbreaker, altogether forgetting that we are one too.

In the mess, we've taken on a role we weren't assigned, to bring attention to a problem as we perceive it to be, with no understanding of the other viewpoints, the other hearts, the other abilities, the other ages, the other experiences, the other brokennesses. We have been desperate or immature. We have lacked self discipline and some of us just plain insist that we learn best in the deep pain of the mistakes.

I have gay friends, lesbian friends, straight friends, bi friends, friends who have had abortions, friends who have picketed abortions, police friends, minority friends, transgender friends, cross-dressing friends, city friends, country friends, addicted friends, recovering friends, theologically educated friends, theologically uneducated friends, friends who have been or are currently being abused, friends who have never been abused and couldn't possibly understand why someone would stay. I have divorced friends, widowed friends, married friends, forever single friends, incarcerated friends, correctional officer friends, parole officer friends, republican friends, democrat friends, pastor friends, atheist friends, angry friends, passive friends, rich friends, poor friends, gossipy friends and tight-lipped friends...

...and every single one of us has something to answer to for how we conducted ourselves while our Father was gone. How can Jesus be pleased with a single one of the agendas that our voices have been promoting, when we have promoted them with anger or when we have been quick to speak and slow to listen? What about when they have been detached from any personal relationship and have merely been used as weapons to be lobbed across world-wide-webbed-waters at faceless, fleshless enemies, who will only listen to respond, but not to hear? Did He personally and directly bring us trepidatiously under this spotlight for the promotion of those agendas through His truth-with-the-deepest-of-loves perspective? I'm guessing the majority of us would have to say our trigger fingers aren't that well guided most days. Lord help us, we're launching attacks out of our own injuries and that is a dangerous and misguided and unwinnable kind of war. Also, it occurs to me that it's not our job to resolve or correct all of that need or error that lies in front of us anyway; It's His.

All of us need some fatherly correction and all of us need Him to look us in the eye and tell us of His LOVE. We need to be reminded that "no" is sometimes protection and "don't" is sometimes "don't hurt yourself". We need Him to pick us up from our pit, wipe our tears and sort out our mess. We need our thirst and our hunger quenched. We need to be heard. We need to be humbled, or carried. We need help to put away the missiles and to clean out the shrapnel wounds and then for Him hold us while we cry. We need to rest in His embrace until we fully trust and respect this perfect God.

Oh, and a house divided against itself cannot stand. Jesus, we're going to need a lot of help working this out with each other too.

Mark 3:25

If a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.

2 Corinthians 104-5

The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

Five of the eight, before we got to a real kind of crazy!

Documentation of a Death Well Done- The Passing

Today is my first Father's Day without him. Last night in the shower, as I was going through the mental to-do list, I mentally noted "call Dad for Father's Day". It makes me suck in a little, but the tears are still reluctant... In honor of him, I'll try to finish his story tonight.

In the early afternoon on Wednesday, April 6th we settled with Dad into his new home at the hospice center in Cottonwood, AZ. The room was spacious and light, with enough room for another bed for Mom to be moved in next to his. There was also a large transforming recliner that would serve as my bed if we were there long enough to need it... On the far side of the room, there were floor-to-ceiling windows that filled the entire wall. The windows held a view of the desert at the base of the Sedona mountains. There were hummingbirds, squirrels, rabbits, foxes and deer making their homes near Dad's private patio. Wild flowers spread themselves over the long prairie grasses, making his "yard" pop with spring colors. There could not have been a more idilic Arizona "Louie L'Amore view", yet Dad was unable to wake up to see any of it.

Anyone leaving Dad's room and turning to the left, would find a chapel room with a bible and devotional-type materials. Across the hall from the chapel, there was a gathering room used for community meals, parties or entertainment. In the corner of that room, my brother John discovered an electric piano. For hours he filled the hospice center with the music that his hands were writing as he played.

To the right of Dad's room and down the hall was the nurses station, main entrance and check-in area. There was a spacious, vaulted ceilinged, living room. A large kitchen with gorgeous counter-tops, sinks, beautiful appliances, most importantly, a commercial coffee station stocked with ground beans and filters for months of use...

The living room and kitchen area led outside to a covered patio, complete with cushioned furniture, porch swing, coffee tables and fireplace. The view held the same view as Dad's room, a spacious panorama of the Sedona mountains.

Beyond the main entrance and living room areas, there were two smaller private family living rooms for use by people, like us, who needed to be together but were not interested in mixing with other patient's families in the common areas. There were two bathrooms with showers available for family members of patients as well.

After a quick tour of the facility, our family gathered in Dad's room and settled in around his bed. The staff had brought enough chairs for everyone. Even with thirteen of us around his bed, there was a spacious, light and airy feel to the room. The mood was somber; on the air hung exhaustion. Dad seemed to be hovering between life and death again, immediately following his ambulance ride. Breaths were again very shallow and unpredictable in their rhythm. Whispering, sobs and softly blown noses were the only sounds as the afternoon minutes turned into evening hours. We spoke our love over him as he labored to live. I asked him "why won't you let go?" Almost as soon as I asked, I heard his voice in my mind reply "well, Little Girl, I'd like to enjoy my family for a little while now that I have you all together." I laughed out loud as I thought it. My brothers and sisters, I'm sure, thought I was crazy, so I explained. "Is that it Dad, you just want to hang out with us?" He hadn't moved a muscle since arriving in Cottonwood, but with that he squeezed my hand and purposefully nodded in the affirmative. What a relief! Dad was still Dad, even when his body was trying to quit.

Eventually, people came and went from the room, unable to continually watch Dad work so hard to breathe for the entire day. John kept finding himself at the piano or walking the grounds outside. Susan, who hadn't been feeling well since she landed in Phoenix a few days before, made herself a bed on one of the couches in a private family room. An aunt found a place to read near the fireplace on the patio. My uncle found a spot to sit in the Chapel. Brian and his wife, Hannah, took a walk around town. Deborah and her son alternated, with me, between patio, kitchen and Dad's bedside. Mom curled up next to Dad on the bed they brought in for her, sleeping fitfully off and on. Gary wrestled with what to do...

My brother is precious to me. He had worked hard on the logistical details needed for Dad to be moved to Cottonwood. He had driven the two hour round-trip drive, twice, to the facility. He had paid the initial deposit and signed all of the paperwork. He then found a nearby hotel and made arrangements there for all of our siblings to stay. He arranged for Mom and I to stay with Dad in his room. He thought of every detail. Now he was stressing. Weeks, even months, prior to this first week in April, Gary had made a promise to help a friend in California on April 7th. The appointment was not flexible and there was no one Gary knew that could stand in for him in there. He HATED the thought of leaving with Dad like this, but he also knew that Dad would expect him to keep his word with his friend. Although Dad was unable to wake up or speak, Gary explained the situation to him. He told him he'd have to leave soon to make it back to California in time. He promised Dad he'd turn around immediately following the appointment on Thursday and make the five and a half hour drive back to Cottonwood. Dad gently nodded with one quick nod, seemingly approving of what Gary was saying. With that, he reluctantly said goodbye to our father.

As April 6th waned, my aunts and uncle took Grandma back to their hotel. At 87 years old, she was in no condition to hold round-the-clock vigils. I had been wondering if Dad was being given choice as to when he would breathe his last. I wondered if he was waiting for alone time, not wanting any of us to watch his passing. Maybe he just wanted it to be my mother by his side... now it was too late to ask, we would simply have to start living out those options for him... Despite all of our efforts to make him comfortable enough to "let go", he continued to hang on to life.

As the thick, heavy, night settled in, I asked the nurse where I could do my laundry. I had only packed enough clothing for my three days in Washington over the Easter weekend, and now I had been gone from home for nearly two weeks. The clothes I was currently wearing had been the last of my clean ones, when I put them on four days before. Now that we had moved from Flagstaff to Cottonwood, my belongings were with me, rather than at a hotel. The night staff set me up with detergent and their "staff only" laundry facility. I put on a robe and found a dark corner to collapse in.

I no longer had the emotional ability to be strong and the reality is, Dad wasn't looking to me for anything anymore. Regardless of that fact, I felt defeated. I had promised not to leave him, and although I was physically in the building and often at his bed-side, I was mentally detaching from the entire situation. I was annoyed at everyone else's process around me, especially those who were still feeling desperation that Dad would die. That was old news, and I just wanted him to get on with it. I could only think of me. I wanted to cry. I wondered if I would ever laugh again. I was annoyed that Dad was dragging this on and on... or was Dad even in control of it? I tried to think graciously about the situation, knowing that not everyone was "ready" for the inevitable like I had become. I craved sleep. I craved clean hair and skin. I wanted new clothes. I never wanted to see that purple and grey bicycle sweatshirt again... I thought about petty, emotionally immature things and then marveled at my childishness.

I must have slept some. I awoke, confused as to where I was, with my sister's update. She had changed over my laundry and had hung things that weren't dryer-friendly around our father's room. There was at least one outfit ready to wear, did I want a shower? A few of our siblings had gone to the hotel as had her son. Susan was still asleep in the family room. She was taking the "awake shift" in Dad's room while Mom slept fitfully next to him. Deborah was now my care-taker as she found a towel, soap, shampoo and conditioner. I accepted my little sister's mothering and obediently slipped into the shower. I stood there crying, scrubbing and re-scrubbing my filthy hair. I wanted to be anywhere but in Cottonwood, Arizona.

While the shower made me feel new on the outside, I was still lacking feelings beyond hardening numbness on the inside. Dad was sleeping, or at least rhythmically breathing, when I got back to his room. Mom was still holding out hope that he would wake up and be ready to leave. She was alternating between silence and perkiness and desperation and despair. It was horrible for me. Months before, while our family was in the car, my five year old, deep in thought, broke the silence with this statement: "Mom, I don't want my grandpa to ever die. I don't want him to die mostly because that means my grandma will be alone. What will happen if she is alone?" That day the thought had moved him to a puddle of tears as he imagined her plight. On this day, the burdens I felt for him and for her and for me and for them, all of them, was more than I could process. I couldn't handle the sounds of my mother's desperation, and with that, I broke my promise to my father. I deliberately and with forethought left his side for what I believed would be the last time.

The shower, the coffee breaks, the laundry, the one hour naps, none of those were a "leaving" in my mind- I knew I'd be back and half expected to drop everything and run to him if they should call me. This time, I had no intentions of returning to his side. I knew I just didn't have anything left to hold myself together for another minute, much less to be strong for anyone else. My body drifted left down the hall as I left his room. The chapel would be peaceful I assumed. I couldn't pray. I couldn't cry. As I curled up in the fetal position underneath a chair next to the coffee table, I imagined a dozen years of bible studies and visits to my parents friends' homes, in which I tapped out too soon as a child and found a place to nest under a piece of furniture. I felt like a preschooler in every way. I needed a mother, but I didn't have one I could access. I needed a daddy, but it was too late. I imagined myself orphaned as I drifted off...

I woke up to my phone buzzing next to my carpet imprinted face. I have no concept of how long I slept and once again, I woke up confused. My sister Deborah was calling. "Collene, Mom needs you in here. Dad needs you. Where are you?" I didn't even remember where I was I told her... "Besides, I can't."

"You have to. It's almost time."

I might have walked, or crawled, but in obedience to my little sister I found myself on the floor outside his door, sitting on the floor, unable to go in. Mom found me there, sat down and curled up next to me. "Please come back in with me," she begged. I tried to explain how I couldn't lose her and him and my whole sense of security in the same desperate breath. I wanted to leave. We lay crumpled in a heap in the hall for awhile, until I realized that I couldn't live there forever...

When I re-entered my Father's room somehow I felt rejuvenated. I found his pink sponge mouth swab and gently gave him water on his lips and tongue. He bit the sponge with surprising strength. His strength had always amazed me... I felt guilty as it became obvious that he had been thirsty while I slept. I reaffirmed my commitment to be there until the end as I sat holding his right hand. Mom invited me to join her on the bed next to him and for the last time, I snuggled next to him and felt once again like his "little girl". I may have stayed for 30 minutes, or 45... People were starting to return from their various hotels for the morning shift at the center. The sun was rising over the red desert. Dad was missing it again, but I took the time to describe everything I was seeing out his window.

As the busy buzz of the building started to pick up, we became aware of my sister Susan's overnight decline in health. She had been feeling under the weather since she arrived a few days before, but now she was fighting a high fever. The head nurse, Debby, checked on her and insisted that we take her to the emergency department of a nearby hospital. My sister Deborah and I decided to keep the information on the down-low, at least until we had answers. Mom didn't need that kind of worry. John, Brian and Hannah would keep her pre-occupied as we slipped out the front of the building. Our nurse Debby was concerned enough about her situation to follow us to the ER to make sure we got seen immediately. Knowing that our father had hours to live, made the entire trip that much more stressful. Susan's fever was around 102 degrees and her blood pressure and heart rate were both high. After several rounds of tests, the doctor found nothing conclusive and prescribed an antibiotic anyway. A few of the tests would take a couple of hours at the lab and our doctor was sensitive to the fact that we needed to be back at Dad's side. They promised to call if anything came up on the lab work... (As a side note, because this blog post won't include the following days, the hospital in Cottonwood never did call. At around 3:00 a.m. April 8th, we left Cottonwood to take my sister back into Flagstaff. Her fever had spiked to 104 degrees overnight and her breathing had become laborious. Back at FMC, she was admitted into the hospital with a case of H1N1, or Swine Flu. Her room at FMC was on the same floor as our father had been for a week and a half, just around the corner...)

We arrived back at the hospice center in the early afternoon on Thursday the 7th. Susan spent some time saying "good morning" and "good night" to Dad, then went back to lay down. My aunts and uncle, along with my grandma took themselves to the patio to read and rest. John found the piano. Brian and Hannah left for a short walk. Deborah searched her phone for music that Dad might like. I sank into the chair at Dad's feet, snapping pictures of things around the room. Mom wandered around the room looking for something useful to do; her worn bible on the edge of her bed. She had been reading scripture out loud to Dad for much of the night. He always appreciated her loving and encouraging him in that way over their lifetime together.

I saw Dad's shaving kit nearby. My mind flashed to the numerous times over the years that, that kit had made an impression on me. Dad NEVER went a day without a proper shave, even if he was in the wilderness camping. I thought about the day before; in the hubbub of leaving the hospital, I realized he hadn't had his shave. I thought about how he would have hated that had he been given the opportunity to lucidly object.

Almost as if she was reading my mind, Deborah asked "Mom are you going to shave him today?" Mom looked a little surprised. She was almost excited at the idea of having something useful to do with her hands.

"I guess I could, although I'm not sure he cares anymore" she replied as she glanced at his unconscious body. I said as gently as possible, "it would be easier now, than it will be later." She was already at the sink warming the water.

As I watched her line out his shaving cream, razor, warm wash cloth and water bowl, I asked "are you going to leave on his oxygen or take it off?" I was aware of how resistant she had been to allowing him to remove it only 24 hours before.

"Oh, I usually take it off to shave him" she replied.

As she began to lather his cheeks I started snapping pictures. Deborah was at his right side playing music softly near his ear. Mom slipped off his cannula and cheerfully shaved his right side. Her tender hand traced his jawline to ensure she hadn't missed anything. He was meticulous when he shaved, she knew every stroke of the razor mattered. As she turned to rinse the razor I noticed Deborah's face change. She had been watching his chest, watching him breathe. Snap, snap, snap... I simultaneously had been documenting frame by frame... Deborah looked at me. "He stopped breathing," she mouthed to me. In the same millisecond, I had already been searching for signs of breathing. There were none.

"Mom" I said.

"Yes?" She asked cheerfully.

"He was waiting all night, just so you would shave him."

"What do you mean?" She wasn't following me; she didn't see Deborah's face. She hadn't noticed his still chest. She began to shave his left side.

"Mom. He's gone. He stopped breathing. He just waited around all night so you could shave him one more time." I repeated.

She jumped into action at my words. "Oh, I'm sorry Larry! Here, take a breath..." She had quickly replaced his nasal cannula.

With that, at 2:35 p.m. Arizona Time, my father obediently took his final, shuddering breath.

Peace covered the room. My sister left to find our nurse. Mom finished carefully shaving his jawline. I took pictures of his hands, his ears... of him. I watched as my mother was wrapped in an invisible blanket of protecting peace. Acceptance washed over her as she carefully and purposefully removed all things "medical" from him. He wouldn't be needing any of that where he is, she explained.

I'm not sure how the others knew to come back in. I just know that as I found myself at the foot of my father's bed trying to remember how to unlock my phone, I was surrounded by family. Daniel would need to be called. Gary would be heading back to Arizona any minute and would need to know. Charles would need a call. I remember seeing the time on the screen, 2:36, then the phone rang in my hands. It was my husband calling to check on things as he left work.

I slid the screen to take the call. "He's gone," was my greeting. "What?" Coul wasn't sure he heard me right. He immediately went into action. "Okay, I'll call your kids and we'll be on the road in a couple of hours...

The rest of the afternoon was a blur. My brother-in-law, Matthew, had made prior arrangements with the funeral home in Montana- where Dad would be buried and Gary had relayed the information to the hospice center. The Montana home was contacted and they, in turn, made arrangements with the funeral home in Cottonwood. Within the hour, the hearse had arrived to collect my father's broken earth suit.

Mom and the nurse had already dressed Dad in his maroon, snap-button shirt when the mortuary arrived. I remember them introducing themselves at the door. Well, Steve, the shorter of the two gave us his name. The taller one didn't mention his. I pressed him for his, explaining how important it had been to my father to know the name of everyone who touched him these last weeks. "My name is Lurch" he said. With that, my mom said, "Okay, well we'll leave you to do your job. He's in there, I'm sure you can tell which one he is." Ahhhhhhhh, I love my mom. We both have the same "gift" of saying crazy, stupid things in stressful moments. I immediately followed her goofy statement with, "Oh good, Dad is being carried out by two guys named Steve and Lurch. I think he'd appreciate that." Delirium made us giggle for an inappropriate amount of time...

We finished cleaning out his room at the facility and checked into our hotel. I think our Dad would have been happy to know we crammed the entire lot of us into the room shared by his wife and three daughters, for an incredibly randomly eclectic grocery-store-acquired dinner. Reluctantly, the others eventually found their own rooms as we all reached our limits of exhaustion. There would be so much to do in the following days, but for now my Mom needed me to hold her while she faced through her first night as a widow...

Larry Gene Sears

August 11, 1948 ~ April 7, 2016

Documentation of a Death Well Done- April 6th Dawns

Two months ago yesterday my strong, resilient father breathed that final, gravelly, deep breath of death. I'm not sure what my resistance is to finishing this story. Maybe it's because, in a specific way my dad will disappear again, with new kind of finality. Maybe I feel like if I finish telling the story, I'll have to finish the grieving, to be "over it", to "move on".

The reality is, my dad has been gone for an eternity already. He has missed a thousand would-be phone calls from our home- both his grandchildren's initiation and mine. He hasn't heard me relay the detailed account of how God is answering his own specific, earnest, prayers for our family; he already, no doubt, knows the end of those stories- as we are only starting to watch them unfold...

I left you, the observer, at bedtime Tuesday, April 5th. Everyone was physically and emotionally bankrupt.  Along with a few of the others, my youngest brother Brian and his wife, Hannah, had chosen to join Gary and I at the hospital, quietly gathering in the family waiting room; everyone else determined to embrace the exhaustion by putting themselves to bed at their hotel.

Dad had become less and less alert as evening settled into deep night. As the wee hours of Wednesday began, we were increasingly aware that things were changing, although I'm not sure any of us acknowledged the facts with each other for the first few hours. I had been blessed to be allowed the time and space to care for my father's physical needs for a little over a week; I recognized the therapeutic nature of having an element of "control" in a situation that was out of my control. As I watched the helplessness I still felt, mirrored on the faces of my siblings, I consciously began inviting them to help reposition and roll our dad every 15 or 20 minutes. As I was explaining our repositioning routine to Brian while he assisted me, I noticed Dad's skin had become wax-like and his limbs were heavier than ever. I kept my thoughts silent, wondering if Brian saw what I saw.

Now there was a group of us chatting quietly around Dad's bed. The emotional atmosphere in the room was peaceful and light, stitched together by exhaustion and a quiet, low, hum of seriousness. It was good to be together. By 2:30 a.m. the final carload of siblings left, electing to resign themselves to a few hours of sleep. Now I had the opportunity to check in with Gary about his observations... Because we had been there the longest, we had the benefit of seeing the patterns of energy and pain, highs and lows, develop.

Gary and I agreed, His breathing pattern had seemed to become increasingly erratic. We vigilantly watched each movement and every breath. We knew there would be no sleep for either of us. Shallow quick breaths were compensated for by deep, desperate, rattling breaths. Eventually Gary and I verbally acknowledged that things were most definitely changed in the hour since the family had left. I started thumbing through my contacts list. Who wanted to be called if this was really the end? Who would feel like I was being dramatic and be annoyed by being awakened mid-sleep? Who had expressed emotional inability to experience Dad in any state other than living? Should I awaken my 87 year old grandmother? Would crying "wolf" make everything harder for her, or for or my mother? I was exhausted and not confident in my assessment of my father's situation.

Gary was, again, invaluable to me. As a team we seemed less likely to fail our family. We made the decision to call siblings, we hovered over the idea of calling mom- we just weren't sure, and we decided against calling aunts, uncles and Grandma. Honestly, it looks so organized as I type it, but it felt far less so. I forgot the names of two of my siblings- or at least, how to look them up in my phone. There were missed calls, missed rides, mixed messages, people who tried, but couldn't, wake-up. It's any wonder anyone came, but before I knew it, my siblings and my mother were at our side as we prayed and cried and hovered over our father. A brother, who had initially elected not to be there at the end, found himself restless at the hotel and posted himself instead in the waiting room. Eventually, even he found a wall to lean on in Dad's room.

Now his breaths were nearly too shallow to see. Eight sets of peeled eyes watched for each slight movement of his chest. I started silently counting seconds between breaths, 28, 29, 30, 31.... then a shallow gasp started the count all over. Mom begged God, cried softly, told Dad to wake up. April 6th, I was convinced, would be the second date inscribed on his headstone... I sat on the filthy hospital floor, clung to familiar fatherly fingers, and fell apart. I could visualize my heart being shredded inside my chest. I ugly cried for what felt like months, unaware of anything except my own brokenness. Eventually I became numb, uninterested in everything and everyone around me. I found myself getting off the floor, searching for a seat, aware only of the feeling of total apathy. A million miles away I could still hear people talking, crying, begging next to me as they participated in this process with my father.

The phone rang. The pastor was returning my Mom's call. She had left him a message that "this is it". He wanted her to know that he and his wife were already in the car, on their way to Flagstaff. Mom hung up the phone and said, "Larry, Danny is on his way here". With that, Dad erupted into a sitting position, his eyes were huge. "I'm not dressed!" He shouted. I snapped back into action, numbness would have to wait. Dad was climbing out of bed. I was in awe at his strength! He hadn't been able to move his own legs to adjust himself for comfort's sake in days and now he thought he could walk?

Things were happening so fast. Everyone stood there in disbelief. He had been barely taken two slight breaths a minute for the last hour, but now he was demanding his pants and telling me to "bring the car around" so we could "load up". He jerked his nasal cannula off his face and refused to entertain our requests to re-establish his oxygen flow.

Mom had the sound of excitement in her voice, "ok Larry, I'll get you dressed, we can go home." Our mom was clinging to the hope that this was all a bad dream and the they would very soon awaken to a miraculous and complete healing. I could see that he was still incredibly frail and that nothing was healed. All I could visualize was him falling from the bed thereby shattering his femurs. I shot over to the  bed and jammed my thumb into the call light to call for his nurse. I told her to bring at least two strong nurses to help us.

The sound in Dad's voice was desperate, angry, and scared. He kept saying, "I can't go like this, I'm naked. Don't you understand I'm embarrassed? Please help me get ready to go. I just want to at least wear pants, pleeeeeeaaaasse." None of us were moving fast enough for him and none of us knew what to do.

He had a determination I had not seen in years; it was a tone that was familiar to any one of his rebellious children who met their match with his much stronger, fatherly determination for respect and immediate obedience. The nurses arrived in the nick of time. I was on the wrong side of the bed, reaching across to try to block Dad from standing. I climbed across the bed and got in my dad's face. "YOU NEED TO STOP," I shouted. "Your legs are going to break and you need to sit down," I said in a calmer, but still-direct, voice. His blue eyes searched my face for understanding. "Don't you understand?" He cried desperately. "I can't go like this, they can't see me in a dress!" I wasn't sure who "they" was. Danny and his wife had been to the hospital several times and the hospital gown situation had not been a problem for Dad before. To me, it was obvious he was referring to a different "they".

Mom had found his underwear and asked the nurses to take out his catheter or to at least help her navigate the Foley so he could at least feel more secure in his underpants. One of the nurses then scooped him into the recliner chair on wheels. He instantly starting fighting to stand again. I jumped over equipment, bedding and people to take charge. Dad had told me days earlier that he needed me to make decisions for him, to not leave him. I held his face in my hands and placed mine inches away from his. We locked eyes and I got my "mom voice" out. "Dad, you told me I was in charge now. You told me you needed someone else to make decisions and to take care of you. You trusted me and you still do. I hear you saying you want to go, and we are going to, but you absolutely need to sit down now. You are not allowed to get up again. Your body cannot handle what you are trying to do and you are going to get really hurt. Now trust me and sit down." Whether it was my tone or the promise of "going", my words seemed to satisfy him and he reluctantly obeyed. I had quickly decided that taking him "on a trip" around the darkened halls of the hospital might make him feel as though he was being validated in his need to "go".

With traumatic fanfare, the ten of us wheeled him down to the closed skybridge. I know we woke up every patient on the floor with the commotion. As we left his room, I had no plan. I hoped I would be able to navigate this trauma and lead my parents well. It felt like the whole world was falling apart and nothing was rational any longer.

Dad's panic subsided only until we parked his chair on the skybridge. He responded as though we had scammed him as soon as the chair stopped rolling. "NO!" I'm supposed to be wearing my pants and I told you I need to GO. You need to understand I have to GO!!!" He was disgusted with us and desperately discouraged. We decided to try putting on his button shirt, the one he had worn when he checked into FMC a week and a half before. A brother and my Mom ran to get it while we tried to calm our father. As I crouched in front of his chair to try to reason with him again, he suddenly saw his watch on my wrist. He snatched my arm up and pulled off his watch. Before I could respond he shoved his swollen wrist through the band, snapping in into place. He gave me a defiant, satisfied look- as though he'd won a small battle. I knew the watch was going to hurt his swollen wrists, but I also knew not to fight that unnecessary battle. I'd wait and slip it off again after we got him back to bed. He stared at the watch for a few moments and then asked me to tell him again what time it was. I knew he didn't want the literal answer. "It's almost time Dad, you have to be patient. You have spent my entire life telling me to be patient; now it's your turn to wait."

A white undershirt and Dad's cranberry colored snap-button shirt were produced on the skybridge and within minutes his gown had been replaced by his own clothing. Mom asked him, "Larry could we please go back to the room and get you on your oxygen?" He nodded and settled back into his chair, ready for his "trip". I obliged, hoping that by the time we returned to his room, he'd be ready to let it all go. As we rounded the corner at the nurses station, just outside his room, he asked "did anyone ever find my fire pants?" He hadn't specifically requested "fire pants" before, he had only asked for "pants". I latched onto the distinction and promised that we'd look again. As we headed into his room, I looked over my shoulder and asked the group of siblings behind me, still in the hallway, if they still needed "Larry" on the fire. Deborah caught on: "Nope, the fire is out, besides I thought it was Larry's week off."

"Yeah Dad, the fire is ready for mop up already, your guys did a great job. They want you to take the week off" I told him.

He replied, "oh, good. Yeah, they are good guys aren't they? I'm glad they don't need me, I'm pretty tired."

We helped him back into bed. Knowing that there would be no way to safely remove his undershirt over his head, I asked the nurse for her medical shears and cut it off him. I then spent a few extra minutes tucking him in, stroking his cheeks, giving him a sip of water and, finally, removing his watch. He gave me a meaningful hug, which communicated complete dependance and trust. He was now peaceful and relaxed into a normal sleep with a normal breathing rhythm. A minute later he forced opened his eyes and looked at me with a grin, "what's going on here? Were you trying to pull something over on me or did I just have a dream?" "No Dad, you were pulling something over on us!" He laughed at my assertion and shook his head with a weak grin. "Alright" he said as he re-settled his head on the pillow. He was suddenly aware of each of us, acknowledging Deborah and Chevvy, nodding at me as I thanked him for listening to me and for trusting me. With my hand on his forehead, he drifted off to sleep. Gary reminded us, "Dad always said he'd be a firefighter until the day he died."

We all stayed for another hour to watch him sleep. The April 6th sun was just now rising and we had already been to hell and back. I was incredibly thankful that we had not called our Grandmother to the hospital in the middle of the night. However, as it turns out, when we relayed the nights events to her later that morning, she told us she had woken up suddenly just before 4:00 a.m. and paced her room. Whether it was a dream or a feeling, she knew something was wrong. For the remainder of the dark hours she obsessively checked her phone, waiting for my call. It seems like a mother always knows...

As it became clear that Dad's breathing would maintain a healthy rhythm for the morning, people headed back to the hotel for a shower or a few more hours of sleep. Because Daniel would be flying out of Flagstaff in a few hours- headed back to work on the East Coast, he chose to wait with me in Dad's room for Dr. Kennedy, our palliative care doctor, to do her morning rounds. She had already heard the report of the night's events from the night nurses at the shift change meeting. Daniel and I relayed our concerns in low whispers. Dr Kennedy was an amazing listener. She drew out every detail of events and emotions from each of us before she responded.

"What your father experienced this morning was very normal in the dying process. Some people seem to hover between life and death, aware that their body no longer serves a purpose for them and yet there is something beyond this world that they seem to want to experience. Often they struggle to physically exit their broken body, which in reality, sends adrenaline into their blood stream. Your father was trying to "go on his trip" by attempting to force his way out of himself. It's a "soul" separation he craves and is attempting. These types of moments will likely keep happening until his organs and body shut down completely. It is much more traumatic to watch for families than it seems to be for the patient. If this is simply too much for your mom or your family, I can prescribe an anti-anxiety medication which will alleviate your concerns of future episodes. However, if you feel like you have more to say to him, or if you aren't ready for him to stop attempting to communicate, I will hold off on the prescription. He isn't likely to be awake again once we administer the medication."

Daniel and I shifted our attention to another concern without making a decision on the anti-anxiety medication. It was difficult to tell if Dad had injured himself in his attempts, or if we had injured him in the dressing and undressing. I was increasingly stressed about keeping track of the pain medication and was even less confident that Dad would ever be able communicate his needs again. I reminded her that he doesn't ever want us to "max him out" with the narcotics. I would honor that until the very end, but I needed to know what would be appropriate to do now. We agreed to double his dose, which was still half as much as his "max". The doctor wrote the prescription in a way that it would not be optional, but a regularly scheduled dose that no one needed to babysit. What a relief! April 6th was day four for me without a bed and day three without a shower;  I felt my mental competence dropping. I was fearful of failing Dad in such an important area.

Dr. Kennedy took several minutes to give Daniel and I some advice on how to support our mother during this time. She even told us about a store downtown that made custom blends of teas. While we were unable to find the time to go there before Daniel flew out, we appreciated her thoughtfulness and attention to every detail. After much consideration and discussion, my brother and I decided that the safest option for our father, and the least traumatic for our family, would be to sedate Dad with the anti-anxiety medication for the duration of his life. The first dose would be administered directly prior to his ambulance departure from Flagstaff Medical Center to make the transfer most comfortable. We knew that we had all had one or more "last conversations" and the legitimately coherent conversations had already naturally dwindled. Daniel then left the hospital to pack up his hotel room. I have always appreciated his low-key, common sense attitude. He always appears un-ruffled. I love these strong men leaders that I am blessed to have been raised around.

Now that the hospital's day shift was in full operation, the palliative care team went right to work organizing an ambulance transport. There had been some concern as to whether or not Dad would be too fragile to be transported to the hospice center in Cottonwood, and hour away. Dr. Kennedy wanted it to happen in the morning. Dad wouldn't be getting any healthier as the day progressed.

Things were a bustling blur. I tried to feed Dad breakfast, but he was uninterested. He nodded in agreement when we suggested he take another ride to the skybridge to spend time in the sun. Overnight a forest fire had started near Lake Mary. The thick mushroom cloud was visible from the skybridge and I was confident that Dad would be interested in watching it, especially considering his "fire pants" request only hours before.

As we settled him in his chair, positioning him in full view of the fire, he disinterestedly turned his head away. He was outright refusing to look at it despite our encouragement to do so! Instead he had chosen to gaze at Humphrey's Peak behind him. We laughed and repositioned his chair, his oxygen, his blankets. What a process! In typical Dad style, he immediately fell asleep. Our family lined the skybridge, each of us lost in our own thoughts. It was a comfortable silence as we watched a bustling hospital, a city unaware of our pain, a peaceful wilderness just a stone's throw away, a growing forest fire, our sleeping daddy, brother, son, grandpa, husband... There were coffee runs, phone calls from friends and grandkids and in-laws; even a friend of Dad's, who had just been checked into FMC because of an infected dog bite, stopped by the skybridge for one last visit. Dad slept through it all. Morning was turning into afternoon, yet Dad remained stable. Transport plans were moving forward.

After a couple of hours we decided to return Dad to his room. The staff had already started preparing for a new occupant to use the bed. The cafeteria brought lunch. We tried to send it back, knowing Dad was unlikely to ever have another meal. The compassionate kitchen worker encouraged Mom to eat it. It was a strange time. I suddenly felt like an outsider in the room that had been "home" to me for the last 8 days. I was afraid to touch the sheets or pillows, to use the freshly emptied trash can, or to walk on the just-mopped floor. Mom cleaned out the closet which had been shoved full of medical paperwork, Dad's cane, clothing, snacks, the photos grandma had brought... We were really leaving. It was the first time I've ever dreaded leaving a hospital. As we carried loads to the car and nibbled off of Dad's lunch tray, Daniel announced it was time for him to head to the airport. Almost simultaneously, the palliative care coordinator dropped in to let us know the ambulance was on its way. Dad was still un-stirring in his chair, wedged in by pillows and buried under blankets. His skin was starting to look strange again. Although he had yet to receive his anti-anxiety medication, it was clear he had naturally declined to a much less communicative state over night. I was relieved about our decision regarding the drug.

Daniel, needed the correct keys to a usable car. Wait, he needed a ride instead. Where was Gary? Would they be using one of Mom's cars? Daniel knew he still had things at the hotel on the opposite side of town. There were nurses present to finally administer the first of the anti-anxiety meds and another dose of the new pain meds. There was check-out paperwork being delivered and phone calls coming in. In the stress of the moment, Daniel rushed by our sleeping father, afraid of missing his flight and distracted by logistical things that needed to be lined out before he left. It would be the last time my brother would see his father...

Then ambulance crew was working to get my sleeping and newly sedated father from his recliner chair to the backboard and gurney. He let out a painful yell as they settled him on the gurney. It was the last sound he ever made and rings still in my ears. There was a rush to give our purses and odds and ends to my sisters as Mom and I followed Dad to the ambulance. They would have room for both of us. I was relieved to be able to continue to keep my word not to leave Dad until it was over.

Aside from his rhythmic breathing, Dad didn't move a muscle for the entire hour in the back of the ambulance. The EMT riding in the back with us asked a few questions about Dad's career and life, but chit chat was laborious for mom and I. A lump built in my chest and I no longer trusted my voice to respond. I stared at the waxy skin again developing on Dad's face and hands. Would he survive the trip? Maybe transport was a mistake. I was only comforted by the perfect rhythm of his breathing. What was mom thinking about? I didn't have the energy to ask. I took a few pictures and responded to a welfare check text from my sister. I sat in disbelief. How were we at this moment? I no longer felt anything. A heavy, soaking, numbness fully engulfed my being, inside and out.

We arrived at the hospice center in Cottonwood just after 2:00 p.m. Wednesday. We were immediately greeted by several of the staff members at the ambulance. Most of them were named Debbie or Debby or Debi. It seems like all the good people in my life have a name that sounds like that, I remember thinking... Somehow my body made it to his new room, at his new bedside. I was aware of nothing except my need for a change of clothes and a shower. Everything I had just been through for the last week and a half seemed like a waste of time. I had already been poured out and this process could take another week or more, they cautioned. I knew I didn't have the physical or emotional ability to keep my promise to my dad. I knew I'd "let him down" by leaving his side now that we were here and while I knew that no one else would hold that against me, I would know and hold it against me. I hated myself for being human and needing sleep. It had been four days since I had changed my clothing or slept more than sixty minutes in a row, sitting up in a chair. Although I knew enough to have grace for myself, it didn't stop my own internal, critical voice from mocking my deep longing for a shower. I felt selfish and foolish at the same time. I was cracking up inside, imploding, fully coming apart. I knew this only as a fact, not as an emotion. I felt like I was watching myself crash and burn from a front row seat.

The view from Dad's room at the hospice center; looking towards Sedona.

No sleep, no shower for days. It's good there are very few pictures.

Dad's last morning at FMC was spent sleeping in the sunny window.

Silence.

Dad kept wrestling with his clothing and oxygen. He just wanted to "go".

Transport to the gurney.

His final painful cry. Even his nurse cried as she hugged him goodbye.

The one hour ambulance ride.

Documentation of a Death Well Done- The Final Week Begins

As I work mentally to try to formulate the right words to assign to the final days and moments that my father, Larry G. Sears, spent on this earth, I am reminding myself of the chronicled details in the texts I had sent to my brother Charles during those days. He was the only one of us who ultimately would find it impossible to make the trip to Arizona. Although he had multiple "last" phone calls with our dad over the course of his last weeks, he found it impossible to make it in time for one final handshake or hug. I knew this was excruciating for my brother for a variety of reasons and did my best to share the random details of each day with him. Dad knew the reasons why Charles was absent; he understood, and in fact, encouraged him not to come.

I LOVE reading through our conversations now. I am, in a strange way, thankful to have had the opportunity to text someone who wasn't there, knowing he desperately wanted to hold on to our dad too, for in that fact we now have a record of things, that have already slipped my memory, like:

"Earlier today I was feeding dad is vegetable soup. He took a small sip and asked me 'what kind is that, atomic bomb'?" The soup was a bit (temperature, not spicy) hot still when I put it to his lips... That was my cue to start tasting everything, like I used to with my children, before I fed him.

and,

"He's cute on his meds: He just told me he 'needs a little bit of Q'. I love him, he's so sweet. It's hard no to smile when he dreams out loud. We are doing our best to hide our giggles so he doesn't get frustrated though."

I did ask him what he meant by "a little bit of Q". Did he need us to be quiet? No. I went through every "Q word" I could think of; nothing resonated with him. I never did figure that out...

Also, although I didn't text this story to Charles, I found it in an archived text I sent to Deborah:

At one point he called Gary over to the bed and asked, "Did you finish that report on Harry Holt?" Gary said, "Um, no Dad I don't know who that is, but I don't write reports anymore."

Out of curiosity, I googled Harry Holt today. It's and interesting story; you can read about him here. Apparently, Dad wrote his own report about him in High School.  It's an interesting thing, this process of dying and the blending of past, present, and future realities...

Monday April 4th

This was Dad's long-anticipated day: My brother John would be arriving. After he learned that Dad had been hospitalized, John was easily prodded by Mom and I to take a few days off from a shoot he was on in Texas and book a ticket to come see us. It seemed reasonable, regardless of whether Dad was released within a few days or not. John's home is in New York, so a quick flight from Texas seemed practical.

By the time Monday dawned, Dad had been asking if he would "get to see John again" for days. Once John had booked his flight, Dad seemed to be satisfied for only a day or so. He kept asking "is John here yet?" He would check the clock or his watch every few hours and each time he woke up from a nap. We would repeatedly remind him "no Dad, it's only Thursday. He comes Monday, remember?"

It had occurred to Gary and I over the weekend that Dad, who is meticulous and a goal setter, had seemed to set a goal that would be accomplished with the arrival of John.

In addition to John's arrival, many of the other siblings had rallied to come. My youngest brother Brian and his wife, Hannah as well as my sister Susan, would be flying into Phoenix from Anchorage, Alaska on the same flight. They would land around the same time as John and would all share a rental car. The drive to Flagstaff was only a few hours from there.

Monday was also the day that initially the doctor had suggested he would release him to go home. How quickly things had changed. I couldn't imagine how we would get Dad into their little car now, or how he would survive the long drive home.

The morning started with a before-school phone call from my daughter Hannah, who had been afraid of "bothering him" the week before. She was worried about him and wanted to hear his voice for herself. Although he was tired, he had a very clear and normal conversation with her, only to be interrupted by shift change nursing activity. It would be the last time Hannah would get to hear her Grandpa's voice.

In the early afternoon my sister Deborah called. She had already been planning to bring her eldest son to Arizona on April 5th. She and her husband had just officially adopted him and he was about to graduate from high school. Deb was a little desperate to make up 18 years of experiences for him. He had never been to Arizona, or to the Grand Canyon. He hadn't had a grandpa like our dad either. She wanted him to spend some time over his spring break sitting, learning, being with a man like his new Grandpa Sears.

Deborah, being unable to change her tickets once Dad was hospitalized, was trying to rest in the hope that she would get there in time to see him at all; she was very aware that her vacation with her new son would not be what they had been planning for weeks.

When Deb called late Monday morning, she wanted me to relay a message: She was trying her hand at homemade cinnamon rolls and would be attempting to bring them to Arizona the following day. Cinnamon roll dates to Deb were like coffee dates to me. Dad grinned and nodded his approval. He then said, "well, I'll need to be nutritious and well done." He then patted my leg in the fatherly way every Sears kid knows very well. He didn't make verbal sense, but he was still behaving like himself and made total sense with his facial expressions and mannerisms. I showed him a texted photo of the rolls she was making, which he approved of. "Oh wow! I might be able to wait for those."

Later, in the early afternoon, Dad woke up from a nap and gazed at each of us surrounding his bed. There had been no less than 7-9 visitors in and out of his room most of each day since people had starting arriving. He seemed mildly panicked, "where's my sister?" I had been standing in front of his sister Charlene, so I stepped aside and said "she's still here, behind me". He stared dead-on at her, pointed, and said sternly, "my snake is bigger than yours." Charlene was a little dumbfounded. "Okay Larry," she replied. She had no idea what that meant. We all giggled and wondered at the dreams he must be having. Later conversation with his other sister revealed that he was making reference to a snake catching contest they had between the two of them for a summer. The longest snake always won and Dad wasn't about to go out on a loss...

In late-afternoon our Hawaiian transporter friend came to take Dad in for another the installation of his lung drain. He had already donated more than a gallon of fluid in procedures meant to temporarily offer relief for the building fluid, yet lab results from earlier tests had found no cancer cells. At this point in his hospital treatments, Dad had completed the heavy duty IV antibiotics for his pneumonia and early hopes that cancer wasn't the issue causing fluid build-up had completely faded. Even without the lab work to prove it, there was no question: prostate cancer that was metastatic to his lymphatic system and had fully engulfed his entire skeleton, was now making a final home on the outer lining of his lungs.

While Dad was in surgery, our entire family gathered in the nearest waiting area. My grandmother, who is 87 years old and a professional worrier, was remarkably quiet. Her son Kevin, his wife Danita,  Aunt Charlene, Gary, Daniel, Mom and I watched down the hall for the doctor, while checking our phones for news of the arrival of the car-load of siblings on their way up from Phoenix. Finally, John, Brian, Hannah and Susan joined us.

While we waited I noticed Yolanda, the nurse who had done the other lung drain procedures with the radiologist, walking towards us. She smiled with recognition at me and asked if we needed anything. We needed tissues. Tears had finally caught up to all of us. She quickly complied and then went on her way to her next patient. Then, another hospital staff member passing by, noted that we were several chairs short. No problem, they quickly and silently placed enough for each of us to sit. Again, I cannot say enough about how the FMC staff went above and beyond in every way for our family. We cried and sat waiting, thanking each other for being there. I have never been more proud of our family, all three generations. We experienced a nearly supernatural bonding during these precious days...

Dad was out of the procedure and quickly returned to his room on the third floor of Humphrey's Tower. We were told to expect him to wake up in about an hour. An hour came, then two, then more... He just wasn't waking up. We stayed by his bed, talking, crying, pleading with him to just wake up once to see the carful of kids that had just arrived. John reminded him multiple times that he had heard he needed to talk to him...

Gary and I made our way for the four millionth time to the nurses' coffee station, where we grabbed a few minutes to anchor ourselves to our new reality. Dad might not wake up. He had set a goal, and now, John was there. The conversation may not have been as important to Dad as meeting his goal was. We decided then that if Dad were to wake up, it was essential that each family member be given five minutes of time alone with him. The group time was fun, but the truth was clear, these would be our final conversations with him and some of us had sensitive things to say or hear.

When we got back to the room with our coffee, we became aware that Dad seemed to be snoring. This was a good sign in my opinion; it seemed more like a natural sleep than a medication induced sleep. We discovered that if Mom would call "Larry" as though something was urgent, he would try to open his eyes. What a sweet relief! We all took turns saying his name. It worked every time. "Dad" was not effective, but "Larry" was. I am so thankful I videoed a few of these moments. Ugh, I miss that man...

Because Gary and I had been there all week during the overnight hours and had multiple one-on-one conversations, we pushed for everyone, including Dad's absent sister, my sister, brother, sister-in-law, husband, and a few of the grandkids, to have five minutes of time face to face or via phone. Fifteen or twenty people times five minutes each, absolutely wiped him out. Tuesday would bring more visitors and hopefully more time with our hero. Gary and I were positively emotionally drained as we settled into our separate miserable chairs on opposite sides of Dad's bed. It would be another long night of monitoring pain management and babysitting the coffeepot...

Brian and Hannah Sears

Mom, John, Susan, Hannah, Daniel waiting for Dad to wake up post-procedure.

John requesting Dad wake up for their much anticipated conversation...

Susan giving Dad a hello kiss.

Tuesday, April 5th

Although everyone had been looking forward to seeing Dad with his eyes open post-procedure, travel and emotional stress had made the $54/night room at the Quality Inn feel like a palace for most of the family sometime after midnight. As Monday eased into Tuesday, it was clear we had worn the man out five minutes at a time, so Gary and I began our Tuesday anchoring ourselves on either side of the bed in those miserable hospital recliners hoping for a few minutes of shift sleep, one of us at a time.

About the time the sun came up, Dad's flip phone started buzzing on his bedside table. He was alert enough to know it was for him and tried to reach for it. In Dad's healthier days, it was his joke to announce whenever his phone would ring in its holster on his hip, "I'll get it, it's probably for me." I could imagine his little joke that morning too. Because he was slow moving, I answered the phone for him so it wouldn't be sent to voicemail. It was my daughter Rose. She had been in bed the night before when I called my husband to give him his five minutes alone, and she was worried she would miss him forever.

During this phone call, which was on speaker because Dad was too weak to hold the phone, Dad was working hard to participate. Unlike the morning before, on his call with Hannah, Dad was a little confused and extremely weak. "Is this the same Rose I'm thinking of?" She said, "yes, Grandpa, this is Rose." She asked normal questions about his well-being that Dad had a difficult time focusing on and responding too. 

Finally Grandma chimed in: "Rose, your grandfather is in danger of falling asleep, if you have something you'd like to tell him you should do it now." 

Rose said, "okay Grandpa, I just want you to know I love you VERY much."

Dad, with strength in his voice, and conviction as strong as ever, replied, "Well, I love you too Rose." Rose later commented, "I love that I got to hear that again. He said it like he meant it. He always said it in a way that I could believe him."

I took the call with Rose out into the hallway to finish checking in on her day and life. When I returned to the room Dad was asleep, but Mom was giggling. "Do you know that I really messed up?"

"How's that?" I asked. 

"Your father asked if he was in danger after you left. I was confused, but then he told me 'they keep saying I'm in danger of falling asleep; is it bad for me to sleep?'"

She reassured him that he'd be okay to nap and Mom and I found relief in our giggles. Dad was becoming very childlike and innocent in some ways. It was both adorable and sad.

After that Tuesday morning nap, Dad woke up and talked about eating a banana. Mom and I both had one, so we each offered them to him. He said "okay, but I'm going to need a lot more information before I actually take a bite." The goofiness bantered back and forth for a minute, then Dad said "banana, banana" in the same rhyming voice you used to say "Hannah, banana" when she was a toddler. He kept repeating himself and laughing while he held is banana. Then he stopped and said, "did we ever figure out why she called?" Ohhhhhhhh, it was sweet and devastating. His days were blending together and he was melding the conversations with Rose and Hannah into the same memory. I LOVE how my dad had turned into a gushy grandpa the moment his first granddaughter was born. The grandsons were, and are, all very special, but those girls had my dad wrapped tightly around their fingers, whether they were a day old or eleven years old when they finally met. I hate that he won't get to see them graduate, marry and become mothers.

Medically speaking, while the medications and anesthesia from the day before played a role in his emotional state and confusion immediately following the procedure, the palliative care doctor informed me that his body was producing less urine than before. This meant that he was also starting to become toxic, which was now the cause of his confusion. Things were starting to shut down and his body was starting to swell.

By mid-day he started tugging on his hospital bracelet, which I was alarmed to see had started to become embedded in his wrist. Just hours before it had been loose, now getting scissors under it to cut it off was a challenge. I chose to remove his watch as well. The deep groove it left on his arm did not disappear for hours. 

We took off his wedding ring. This was the first time since June 26th, 1971, that his left hand's ring finger was empty. Forty Five years is a long time and it was exceedingly important to him that, that ring never come off. It was a blessing that he never noticed it missing, unlike his watch, which he became very upset about.

Deborah and her son arrived in the late afternoon. By the time she texted that she was less than an hour away, I wasn't convinced that Dad would still be with us. I told her to HURRY. The afternoon was a difficult one for those of us watching. Dad was very clearly experiencing visions of some kind. They weren't dreams, because he was interacting with me at the same time he was interacting on the other side. When he would be fully present in our realm, he would try to talk about "our trip" as though I was with him there. He was overwhelmed with being unable to find words to explain what he wanted me to know. This "trip" came up multiple times in conversations throughout the day. He kept insisting that I should remember, "yeah, you know, remember how they kept turning out the lights on the other end?"

I tried to confirm with him that he was referring to going under anesthesia. I reminded him I was in the room yesterday when they were about to put him to sleep. "No, that's not it, because they left these lights on here and turned out the ones on the other side." He was insistent. He then transitioned his questioning to be along the lines of "time". "What time is it? Is it time? Will you tell me when it's time?" 

He would be desperate to get his watch back from me in these moments. It was hard for me to resist his pleading blue eyes and the desperation in his voice. I reassured him, "I'm not leaving you and I'm going to keep your watch right here. You can look at it anytime, but you cannot wear it because it is hurting you."

Our mom was having a very difficult time removing herself emotionally from the decision-making regarding home hospice care, a hospice center, etc. She, understandably, wanted to be HOME and back to normal, with her husband and without the invasive process of dying and medications, and foley catheters. She invited Gary and I to spearhead a conversation with our siblings and the other present family members. She would trust us to do what was best for her as well as for him. The majority of the day for my siblings was spent researching, touring and discussing facilities and options. We left no stone unturned and referred frequently to conversations both Gary and I had with him before he started losing consciousness and clarity.

By the end of the day on Tuesday, the decision had been made. Dad would be transferring from hospital care at Flagstaff Medical Center to hospice care at the Valley View Care center in Cottonwood, Arizona. The transfer would take place on Wednesday, April 6th- if Dad survived the night...

John serving Mom with one of many back rubs while she prayed over Dad.

Dad was happy to be able to sit in the skybridge for an hour or more on more on Tuesday. He was able to see Humphrey's Peak from this vantage point.

Brian and I greatly lacking sleep. We all still had each other- oh, and coffee. We had coffee.

I sat on the side of Dad's bed to free up a chair for a visitor. Dad seemed to be sleeping, but he was just listening with his eyes closed... He grabbed me for a side hug and wouldn't let go. His grip was still strong enough for me to comply.

My hero brother, Gary, was diligent to carry out most of the "business" work & planning required during the entire process. 

My brother Daniel was able to join us for a "long weekend". His presence is always strong, silent and comforting.

Brian and the every present cup of caffeine.

Susan hadn't been to Arizona in nearly ten years. What a blessing that her husband was able to hold down the fort for her to be there for Dad's final days.

John snagged a few days away from his job in Texas to be at Dad's side. He never had "the conversation" Dad had eluded to, but he was able to be with him while he was awake and alert. Dad lacked strength and clarity to say everything he was formulating for each of us...

Mom updating their friends via text and receiving much love and support in return.

Mom, a diligent intercessor.

The men assisting Dad's nurse, Andrew, with a transfer from bed to his recliner for a trip to the skybridge. Dad felt more comfortable with a "strapping male nurse" as he got weaker and heavier. He was afraid he'd "break one of those tiny female nurses." He was SO SWEET to that staff, even on the worst of days.

Grandma and her niece enjoying time on the skybridge.

My amazing sister in law, Hannah. She is such a precious mix of intelligence, compassion, comedic relief & spiritual strength.

My precious Aunt Charlene. I think I look most like her. 

Dad's sister-in-law, my Aunt Danita.

My Uncle Kevin.

The cannula drove him nuts! He was always pulling it off, especially towards the end. The Palliative Care team advised that it's all a part of the process of dying; we were not to fight him on it.

Mom and Dad's hand had held each other A LOT over 45 years.

Deborah arrived late afternoon on April 5th. There was some concern that she'd miss him.

What a sweet moment when he woke up and saw her! She lectured him for "making her worry so much". I have the beautiful moment on video.

My new nephew Chevvy didn't get the vacation with Grandma and Grandpa that they had planned for that week, but he experienced so much rich family love in those last few days. I hope he knows just how special he is to all of us.