Life and Death

My parents died when I was in my 40’s. They both died of cancer and spent their last days in hospice care. Mom lived in Florida and while I was able to fly down to visit her while she was ill, because she lived only a short while once she entered hospice I did not see her after that point.

This was the first time I ever knew what “going into hospice” was. Her burial was to be arranged. We were all to understand that “this was it.” She was not going to hospice to get better. While in some rare cases people walked out of hospice, we were to face the facts: She would not come out of this alive and her death would be soon.

During the days she was in hospice, I called every day to see how things were going. Each day her condition was a bit diminished than the previous. Finally, on Friday evening, October 5, 1996 I phoned her room the hospice care center. Dad answered the phone, as usual. He said that mom was not well at all and that her death was imminent. He put the phone to her ear. I told her I loved her and she, with labored breathing, told me she loved me very much. That was the last time I spoke with her. She died the next morning.

Five years later, my father ended up in hospice care. In order for us to be closer to Dad when his cancer overtook his body, we brought him back to the Chicago area. We found a care facility in Wilmette after the hospital in Evanston could do no more for him. Caleb and I visited every weekend. David and Alan stayed in Chicago in order to be there when Dad died.

When he entered Manor Care Dad still looked pretty good. He was still fairly strong, had good color, was still being dressed daily. He ate, spoke, got up to use the bathroom. He attended physical therapy for about a week and then the therapist stopped coming.

Not too long after he entered Manor Care, Dad lost his appetite due to various afflictions – urinary tract infection, upset stomach, most likely depression. It wasn’t too much longer when hospice entered the picture, or rather he entered hospice’s picture.

We were well-versed in the ways of hospice by the time Dad entered it. We remembered everything they told us about Mom. We knew that this was the end for Dad. We knew that at some point – sooner than later – Dad was going do die.

One thing I did not know what to expect from Dad. Every weekend from May through Dad’s death in early July we drove to Wilmette from Iowa. We never knew when we left on Sunday if he would still be alive the next Saturday when we arrived. I phoned every day to get the report. Sometimes I would get a call from Dianne that “this was it” and then he would pull through again.

Finally, as his body deteriorated and he could take no food, could not breathe without oxygen, could not function, Dad died on July 7, 2001, a Saturday. Just like Mom. We all had said our good-byes and he finally said his.

Now, my mom’s sister Lee has entered hospice care and is not expected to live much longer. I cannot believe me how this event has stirred memories of my parents’ final days. More so, it has made me understand their death.

This event has perhaps helped me understand the process of death. It has also generated metaphors and philosophical thoughts that may or may not make sense, but they help me get through.

One thing that keeps running through my mind is that we spend so much time waiting for, almost anticipating death. In some ways it seems vile, but really, it is part of the process of closure. When a parent is dying and the children are all gathered around waiting, siblings from out of town phone, relatives phone. Everyone wants to know how the dying person is doing, and how the spouse and children are doing. I think about what was going on 82 years ago when Aunt Lee was about to be born. Wasn’t the atmosphere the same? Family and friends were waiting for a baby to be born. Every day everyone had the thought, “this could be it.”

It is ironic that in the same way that a family awaits the birth of a newborn they wait for the death of a parent. The same feelings that Aunt Lee and Uncle Mike had when they were waiting for their children to be born – the waiting, anticipation, anxiousness – are all happening now with their children as they await their mother’s death. But there is sadness now contrary to the feelings associated with anticipation of birth.

I thank Aunt Lee for helping me see the circle of life. She doesn’t even know that she did that, but I am happy that she as my godmother is the person that has helped me with this.

Being a part of someone’s death – either personally or through someone else’s eyes, feelings or phone calls – is a special thing. It truly is something to treasure and be thankful for. It speaks volumes to what life is and where it takes us. It is as much a gift as being part of someone’s life.