At a quarter of noon the announcement interrupted the talk in the waiting room. It was a temporary hold on the scheduled noon visitation. Everyone was silent. The intensive care waiting room veterans looked around the room, knowing the inevitable outcome for some family was potentially, an outcome of loss.
With the announcement neither mom nor I said a word. I don’t even remember looking her in the eye. I reached out, as did she, and our hands were joined looking toward the entrance of the ICU area. Mom and I knew the end was very likely near. We had tried to talk about how we disliked seeing dad suffer. We were weary of his suffering. He was weary. We knew this visit would be even more difficult than the 8 o’clock visit.
A nurse’s voice came from behind us, “ Mrs. Mills?” We both spun around. “Would you come with us?”
One of dad’s doctors stood a few feet away beside a consultation room near the ICU hallway. We arose as the nurse held my mom’s arm and ushered us respectfully into the comfortable, but small room. As the nurse closed the door the doctor relayed what we knew, already. Dad had been very, very sick. The cancer was not one that could be treated effectively. He had valiantly fought the fight for a month. He lost the battle a few moments ago. I’m sorry.
I remember a few tears. My lips were pressed together in an effort to squelch some of my emotion. I held my mom’s hand. She asked a few more questions. I wondered what the loss of my father at 24 years old would mean for me. I wondered how many children of mine, he would not ever hold, or laugh with. I had so wanted him to see me fully recover from my adolescence. (I still remember the day I told him I was going to study ministry. I thought he was either going to laugh, because he thought it was a joke, or reprimand me for not thinking through my decision.)
After a few moments we were invited back to the ICU where the flesh that once held the spirit of my father lay, now in peace. IV’s removed, still like a sleeping child, the body of my dad. We cried … as I do even today.
No set of days in my life have shaped me as those in the three months of February to April of 1980. My father surely shaped me all of my life and even today, some 28 years after he left his body behind.
Thanks dad! I love you!
Monday, April 14, 2008
Remembering while I can (part 4)
At 7:45 a.m. on April 15 my mom and I had readied ourselves for our visit. I remember us both taking deliberate deep breaths as we prepared to go for a visit. We knew this visit would be difficult. As the doors opened we made our way through the now familiar white hallways leading to the ICU. A center island of nurses stations, computers, doctors making notes, and IV carts were unaffected by our entry. It was business as usual. All around this square room were cubicles of rooms with glass fronts and sliding glass doors facing the center nurses station (dad’s room was on the south, fourth room on our left).
We entered to see a very tired man infused with oxygen through that dreaded ventilator and his trecheotomy. He could not speak. At first his eyes barely gave indication that we were present. After mom had checked on his comfort and carried her smile as far as she could carry it, she stepped back and urged me to the front so she could gather herself. I gently held my father’s swollen left hand. I wanted to squeeze it to indicate my concern and love, but didn’t dare in his fragile and pain filled state. I let the strength of his squeeze determine mine. His right hand came across his torso. He turned my hand face up in his. Then with his right hand he made a sign, then another. Two simple signs. At first two fingers and then three fingers. He repeated the signs gently landing the back of his hand into mine. My brow wrinkled as I tried to figure out what he was trying to communicate to us. Over and over as my mother looked on he continued. Knowing that my dad knew a little sign language I thought “VW”, but that made no sense. Maybe 2 plus 3, that made no sense, either. He could have just said “5” with a full hand of fingers. Was he hallucinating? Then my mom with great clarity asked my dad, “Lester, do you want him to read the 23rd Psalm?” Immediately, he squeezed my hand and then relaxed but did not let go. My mom asked me to read the psalm. Obviously I wasn’t carrying a Bible. And at that moment I wasn’t capable of quoting Mk 11:32 (“Jesus wept.”) My mother prompted me with, “The Lord is my shepherd … and I took it from there. I know it wasn’t perfect but with all I had I worked my way through those words. My shirt soaked with the tears of what was now my Psalm, I finished. My dad released his gentle grip and turned his hand over mine, as to comfort me. You see, I thought I was reciting it for him, but now I’m sure he had me recite it for mom and me. The visit was soon over. The little bell gently tolled for us to return to the waiting room. Mom and I told dad that we loved him. He responded with a small squeeze. With tear filled eyes we retreated until on next appointed time.
We entered to see a very tired man infused with oxygen through that dreaded ventilator and his trecheotomy. He could not speak. At first his eyes barely gave indication that we were present. After mom had checked on his comfort and carried her smile as far as she could carry it, she stepped back and urged me to the front so she could gather herself. I gently held my father’s swollen left hand. I wanted to squeeze it to indicate my concern and love, but didn’t dare in his fragile and pain filled state. I let the strength of his squeeze determine mine. His right hand came across his torso. He turned my hand face up in his. Then with his right hand he made a sign, then another. Two simple signs. At first two fingers and then three fingers. He repeated the signs gently landing the back of his hand into mine. My brow wrinkled as I tried to figure out what he was trying to communicate to us. Over and over as my mother looked on he continued. Knowing that my dad knew a little sign language I thought “VW”, but that made no sense. Maybe 2 plus 3, that made no sense, either. He could have just said “5” with a full hand of fingers. Was he hallucinating? Then my mom with great clarity asked my dad, “Lester, do you want him to read the 23rd Psalm?” Immediately, he squeezed my hand and then relaxed but did not let go. My mom asked me to read the psalm. Obviously I wasn’t carrying a Bible. And at that moment I wasn’t capable of quoting Mk 11:32 (“Jesus wept.”) My mother prompted me with, “The Lord is my shepherd … and I took it from there. I know it wasn’t perfect but with all I had I worked my way through those words. My shirt soaked with the tears of what was now my Psalm, I finished. My dad released his gentle grip and turned his hand over mine, as to comfort me. You see, I thought I was reciting it for him, but now I’m sure he had me recite it for mom and me. The visit was soon over. The little bell gently tolled for us to return to the waiting room. Mom and I told dad that we loved him. He responded with a small squeeze. With tear filled eyes we retreated until on next appointed time.
Remembering while I can (part 3)
I grew up a lot in those three weeks. I was the baby, afterall. What did I know? For years I had tried to grow up, to gain influence and maturity with marginal success. Now I sat with my mother making what were possibly life and death decisions concerning my father’s health. After each discussion she and I would attempt to communicate al we knew to both my brother and sister over the phone. It was incomplete at best. I tried to be strong for mom and attempted to appear mature for my siblings. Inside I was shaking like a leaf.
The vigil wore on. Once dad was moved from a regular room to ICU the levels of care for him and our concern about him both increased. In those days family visited the ICU on 4 hour intervals for a 15 minute visit each interval. Each day on an 8, 12, and 4 o’clock round the clock rotation we would visit. In an ICU waiting room a family evolves. They are strangers thrown together by their need for the highest level of medical care. You get to know one another very quickly in that place. A new family arrives and takes an open seat and immediately they are asking about the way things work in this sanitized city of couches, blankets, and soft lighting. You become accustomed to the faces of happiness as a family packs up to move to a “regular room” and also to the faces of silence as a family walks out of the hospital forever without the company of the one they brought in for care. It was a holy place. Mom and I would plan our time with dad carefully. She would always check to see if he needed anything. We would confirm what he had heard from doctors and he would confirm what we had heard from outside the ICU about his condition.
Fifteen minutes before each visit to the ICU they would quietly announce the upcoming opportunity. People would begin to gather belongings, use the restroom, sanitize their hands, and scurry about in quiet activity before being allowed to enter the ICU. From time to time there would be a much different announcement. If as the time for visiting came and there was difficulty with a patient or a “code blue” the visitation would be postponed and in rare cases cancelled until the next appointed time. Those were silent times, filled with prayer. No one knew whose family was to be touched by the delay, but we shared the time in prayer knowing it was one of “us”.
One of the most difficult decisions my mom and I wrestled with was about a ventilator. Even in the offer to place my dad on a ventilator was the inference that he would likely not ever come off of it. His lungs were filling with fluid. His breathing was labored. He would soon either die or have to recover, if we did not consent. He was drowning. To this day I question our decision. With each visit the hope in his eyes was waning. His strength was diminishing. It became obvious that he was holding on for our benefit.
The vigil wore on. Once dad was moved from a regular room to ICU the levels of care for him and our concern about him both increased. In those days family visited the ICU on 4 hour intervals for a 15 minute visit each interval. Each day on an 8, 12, and 4 o’clock round the clock rotation we would visit. In an ICU waiting room a family evolves. They are strangers thrown together by their need for the highest level of medical care. You get to know one another very quickly in that place. A new family arrives and takes an open seat and immediately they are asking about the way things work in this sanitized city of couches, blankets, and soft lighting. You become accustomed to the faces of happiness as a family packs up to move to a “regular room” and also to the faces of silence as a family walks out of the hospital forever without the company of the one they brought in for care. It was a holy place. Mom and I would plan our time with dad carefully. She would always check to see if he needed anything. We would confirm what he had heard from doctors and he would confirm what we had heard from outside the ICU about his condition.
Fifteen minutes before each visit to the ICU they would quietly announce the upcoming opportunity. People would begin to gather belongings, use the restroom, sanitize their hands, and scurry about in quiet activity before being allowed to enter the ICU. From time to time there would be a much different announcement. If as the time for visiting came and there was difficulty with a patient or a “code blue” the visitation would be postponed and in rare cases cancelled until the next appointed time. Those were silent times, filled with prayer. No one knew whose family was to be touched by the delay, but we shared the time in prayer knowing it was one of “us”.
One of the most difficult decisions my mom and I wrestled with was about a ventilator. Even in the offer to place my dad on a ventilator was the inference that he would likely not ever come off of it. His lungs were filling with fluid. His breathing was labored. He would soon either die or have to recover, if we did not consent. He was drowning. To this day I question our decision. With each visit the hope in his eyes was waning. His strength was diminishing. It became obvious that he was holding on for our benefit.
Remembering while I can (part 2)
Over the next four weekends mom and dad traveled a little and otherwise worked at getting their house in order for the stay at the hospital. They talked about all the things they wanted to do now that dad was retired. He wanted an RV. One he could drive from coast to coast. A buddy of his in California had one and he thought it was just the thing. My dad loved to travel, especially my car.
The family all made plans to gather pre-surgery to rally hope and push optimistically through the difficult silences. We wanted mom to feel our support and to show our father that we had learned well from his most important lessons on family responsibility. My siblings and I spent the night together at the hospital-run motel. We told stories and stayed up way too late. Not sure if we couldn’t sleep or just realized how behind we were in catching up on one another’s lives. I don’t remember much of the day of the surgery, just taking turns staying and leaving. I remember the optimism we all regained when dad came through the surgery and was walking, albeit gently, up and down the hall with mom at his side, IV pole in tow. For seven days he seemed to improve. Siblings returned home, as did I. Our lives were all busy and dad appeared to be on the road to recovery.
On what I remember to be the seventh morning mom arrived to my dad’s room to a very different picture. Several doctors had been called in. His thin weathered skin had turned red. His face had begun to swell. Mom called me (I was the closest geographically) and I returned to Little Rock mid-day. The doctors relayed that they weren’t sure what was happening but there would be a battery of tests to discern the origin of this new anomaly. It was not long before the gravity of the diagnosis required a call to both siblings and a quick return to Baptist Medical Center for them.
The next three weeks are a blur. The cancer had moved to his blood stream. Medical professionals fell short of answers. There were optimistic hopes, but no ideas for healing. In my mind the ups and downs of my father’s physical demise are uncharted. As the days turned to week’s we shared the role of being optimistic. Alone, it was more than any one of us could bear. I remember one poignant call from my brother as he talked of this dilemma of time off. He was pressed to decide whether he would potentially come and see dad again, now, or save his few remaining days for the looming potential of a funeral service. I still remember the silence after those words were first spoken.
The family all made plans to gather pre-surgery to rally hope and push optimistically through the difficult silences. We wanted mom to feel our support and to show our father that we had learned well from his most important lessons on family responsibility. My siblings and I spent the night together at the hospital-run motel. We told stories and stayed up way too late. Not sure if we couldn’t sleep or just realized how behind we were in catching up on one another’s lives. I don’t remember much of the day of the surgery, just taking turns staying and leaving. I remember the optimism we all regained when dad came through the surgery and was walking, albeit gently, up and down the hall with mom at his side, IV pole in tow. For seven days he seemed to improve. Siblings returned home, as did I. Our lives were all busy and dad appeared to be on the road to recovery.
On what I remember to be the seventh morning mom arrived to my dad’s room to a very different picture. Several doctors had been called in. His thin weathered skin had turned red. His face had begun to swell. Mom called me (I was the closest geographically) and I returned to Little Rock mid-day. The doctors relayed that they weren’t sure what was happening but there would be a battery of tests to discern the origin of this new anomaly. It was not long before the gravity of the diagnosis required a call to both siblings and a quick return to Baptist Medical Center for them.
The next three weeks are a blur. The cancer had moved to his blood stream. Medical professionals fell short of answers. There were optimistic hopes, but no ideas for healing. In my mind the ups and downs of my father’s physical demise are uncharted. As the days turned to week’s we shared the role of being optimistic. Alone, it was more than any one of us could bear. I remember one poignant call from my brother as he talked of this dilemma of time off. He was pressed to decide whether he would potentially come and see dad again, now, or save his few remaining days for the looming potential of a funeral service. I still remember the silence after those words were first spoken.
Remembering, while I can (part 1)
I guess April 15 will always loom vividly and large in my memory. I keep waiting for the year when it will pass without turbulence. I also dread the day the significance wanes enough to allow that date to be unnoticed. Each year, as the day grows nigh, I begin to recall stories from my past. Some make me smile, while others remind me of regret and sorrow. Each recurrent memory brings additional clarity for my life.
I have to back up a little.
My mother called me one morning in early February of 1980. Odd because my dad was usually the one who called. I don't remember her words, just that dad had been diagnosed with a lung tumor that would require surgery and the prognosis for that potential surgery and his recovery was not good. I could tell that she had told me all she knew. I did not ask for more.
She encouraged me to come and see him ... soon. I remember the urgency in her voice. For the first time in my life I realized my father was a mere mortal. That one day I would lose him. It hit me like a brick. I tried to "be a man about it" and suck it up, but I had no context on which to lean for this experience. I began to make plans to go see my dad. It started with a phone call to him later that same day. I often called my dad. Now, I realize how often I was asking for something when I called. This time I asked that we just get together and hang out, do whatever he wanted. "Heck, why don't we go fishing". I had NEVER said those words. I hated fishing. Still do.
Early February in north Arkansas is not typically ideal fishing weather. My dad saw through my words, giggled under his breath and said sure. Also, note that if its not fishing weather, its most likely not motorcycle weather, either. But off I went on a sub-30° Saturday morning on a 100 mile ride. I remember seeing thick frost on the car's windshield as I backed my bike out of the carport. The ride was brutally cold. At one point I stopped at a country store in Strawberry, Arkansas to stand next to a potbelly stove to encourage my blood to move again. The flannel and overall crowd at the store was amused at my idiocy. I got to my family home about 8:30 a.m. to find my dad ready to talk me out of my fishing plan, due to the weather. But for all the times he had asked me, and I had turned him down, I felt a deep yearning and obligation to be on the water with my dad on this day. After a brief discussion we loaded the car, pulling the familiar red and white 14 ft Alumicraft boat (dad had customized the boat over the years with many personalized featured) and we headed off for a nearby lake (Lake Hogue, south of Jonesboro and near Wiener, Arkansas) with the frigid winter wind howling. Dad asked me to drive. The two tone blue cadillac hummed down the road in style. Conversation was sparse, but extremely cordial. I think we were both nervous about today meant for us.
At the lake, dad didn't have to ask me to jump out and ready the boat for launching. Not this time, anyway. I braved the cold and helped nurture the boat into the choppy water. Neither did he criticize of try to improve upon my ineptitude. Shortly, we were on the water. Bundled up like eskimos we tied off to a big tree and through a line into the fog resting atop the water. Plop. Now, only the sound of the wind was breaking the silence. We made several attempts to make small talk. It wasn't working. My dad offered more than once to head back to the shelter of the shore and the heater in the car. I was saddened and even a bit angry that my ill-fated plans were disintegrating before my watering eyes. I gave in. My dad chuckled (quietly and respectfully) as we headed back across the waves to the shore. The ride home was filled with laughter punctuated with silence. Several times I apologized for the foolishness of my winter fishing expedition idea. I also found places to interject apologies for some of my greater sins and disrespect from my adolescence. He was more than gracious to receive my confessions and apologies. I thanked him for going with me. He thanked me for asking. We laughed about the weather. I felt childish and innocent. I welcomed the comfort of my father's acceptance. It had been a long time since I had allowed myself to experience his warmth. Once we were home I quickly began to transition for the cold and lonely ride home on the bike.
While the chill in the air numbed my toes on the way home, the ride proved to be cathartic. I longed for the warmth of my home and my father. The scream and chatter of the two-stroke engine revving up and down provided an uninterrupted backdrop for my thoughts as I negotiated the hills and corners of rural Arkansas. I remember nothing of the ride home except a patch of ice encountered in a shaded spot as I crested a knoll. I had thirty more days before the surgery would take place. The silence of somber consideration would be my companion till then. (more tomorrow)
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