Dear Dad,
You were always teaching. It was in your heart, your calling. All the rest was just the "stuff" you had to do in order to pursue your heart's desire.
You were teaching...whether actually sitting down and explaining, or just by doing the right thing in front of us, it was important for you to show your "boys" what being a man was all about.
I remember you as a young man, just a young father, with 3 little boys, the youngest only a year old. I remember sitting at the dinner table, we all had our place, and yours, "daddy's seat" was the one we all aspired to sit in, but dared not.
I remember learning to whistle at the dinner table, then learning NOT to whistle at the table!
What I remember most was your ability in crisis. When the youngest suffered a terrible injury at 18 months old, I remember you, a young 28 year old father, springing into action, and perhaps saving his life.
We lived in a small rent house, just outside of Fort Hood, and there was a large dog house in the back yard, probably for a dog the size of a great dane, or some other large dog. We, the other children were playing "carpenter" in the back yard, with little rubber hammers, pretending to "build a house."
The youngest was inside the house hammering on the roof, so young he was still in a diaper. Suddenly, the roof of the house caved in, and a jagged piece of wood struck him in the side of the head, right in the temple. He collapsed and we began to scream. I was 4 years old, my older brother was 6, and the neighbor boy was 8. You ran out of the house, saw what was happening, picked up your baby, saw the horrible wound, and immediately grabbed a cloth to put pressure on the bleeding.
By the way, it was 1964.
You used a handkerchief, and later I learned the wound was so large you were able to fold the handkerchief and insert the entire cloth into the wound, packing it to add pressure to slow the bleeding.
There was no 911, no time to call the operator and ask for an ambulance, just you throwing the keys to our neighbor and telling him to drive while you held your infant son in your lap on the way to the hospital. You told us how you held him and cried out to God to keep your baby alive while you kept applying pressure to the terrible wound in his head.
Later, we learned your quick action saved his life, the doctors applauded you.
He was going to be okay.
The next time I saw you, you were bringing your baby home, it was several hours later and you were older than before you left.
You were tired, shirt still covered in your child's blood, but he was okay.
I remember that night, it was just the 5 of us, your 3 boys, our mother, and you.
The baby was lying in his crib, sleeping.
You were holding me and my older brother, we were watching television, and we were a family.
Even after a crisis, the most important thing to you was to keep the family intact, to keep the structure, the routine, the safety and the peace.
It was good...even after a crisis, it was good.
We knew you were strong, smart, and braver than any man alive.
Nobody could do anything to us that our dad could not fix. The family was eternal.
Through years, there were more situations when your quick thinking and action saved us again, automobile accidents, injuries from sports, injuries in the front yard (we were VERY active boys - and liked to play HARD!).
You were always there.
You always made the wrongs right, you always took care of us.
We learned real men step up to the plate and deliver what is needed, when it is needed, and move back into the shadows, allowing the world to continue on its path.
We learned real heroes are just regular guys that make the right decisions in crisis.
We learned to prepare for a crisis we had to spend time learning the right things. It was a lot of discipline, but the right stuff is never easy.
So now, when hard times come, we do the right stuff.
There are no other options available.
And when it is over, we hold our families close, and when no one is looking, we cry, remembering the man that taught us by example, and wonder if it felt bittersweet to you also when the crisis ended.
For a moment, we are no longer standing as men, but we are little boys, in the arms of our hero father, and it feels good.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
One week later
Dear Dad,
It has been one week since the funeral.
I cleaned up the DVD a little, added a menu and a portion of the message to the family.
Now I have time to feel everything...
It has been a quiet week around here.
I cannot say I miss the man lying in the hospital bed, struggling with every breath, but I miss the healthy man that had dreams and hopes, the man whose thirst for knowledge was unending, the man that loved his children and grandchildren.
The patriot that would be proud of his final ceremony.
Somethings just take some getting used to.
It has been a relief to not have to make the drive to the hospital or the nursing home, and I have found my focus returning, but I still find times when I feel like I am supposed to be doing something, I am supposed to be worrying about you, trying to help you.
I have a little extra time that is getting filled with life without you, and it feels sad sometimes.
I am sure it will pass, it has only been a week.
I remember some of the funny things you said, like last year when we were working on the old house and I had to go out of town when some contractors were coming over. You stayed at the house and took care of our dog while we were out, and just watched over things.
During that time, our dog, Angel, became pretty attached to you. You always liked dogs, and enjoyed her company.
I remember one day you called me and told me, "I think I have been spending too much time with your dog."
I asked you why, and you said, "I think I can read her mind, she just sits and stares at me and I know what she wants!"
You were joking of course, Angel does that when she wants to go outside, and she finally trained you to respond!
Perhaps it is not as funny as I thought, but at least I am not crying.
I would rather remember the good times, the fun times, the times we were laughing.
Yes, I miss you and I hope that never changes. You left so much of yourself in us, all of us - not just your sons, but the entire family. When we are together as a family, there is enough of "you" here, it is good.
Not too much to say, I am tired and I don't want to ramble...too much.
Thanks Dad for doing the right stuff.
It was worth it.
It has been one week since the funeral.
I cleaned up the DVD a little, added a menu and a portion of the message to the family.
Now I have time to feel everything...
It has been a quiet week around here.
I cannot say I miss the man lying in the hospital bed, struggling with every breath, but I miss the healthy man that had dreams and hopes, the man whose thirst for knowledge was unending, the man that loved his children and grandchildren.
The patriot that would be proud of his final ceremony.
Somethings just take some getting used to.
It has been a relief to not have to make the drive to the hospital or the nursing home, and I have found my focus returning, but I still find times when I feel like I am supposed to be doing something, I am supposed to be worrying about you, trying to help you.
I have a little extra time that is getting filled with life without you, and it feels sad sometimes.
I am sure it will pass, it has only been a week.
I remember some of the funny things you said, like last year when we were working on the old house and I had to go out of town when some contractors were coming over. You stayed at the house and took care of our dog while we were out, and just watched over things.
During that time, our dog, Angel, became pretty attached to you. You always liked dogs, and enjoyed her company.
I remember one day you called me and told me, "I think I have been spending too much time with your dog."
I asked you why, and you said, "I think I can read her mind, she just sits and stares at me and I know what she wants!"
You were joking of course, Angel does that when she wants to go outside, and she finally trained you to respond!
Perhaps it is not as funny as I thought, but at least I am not crying.
I would rather remember the good times, the fun times, the times we were laughing.
Yes, I miss you and I hope that never changes. You left so much of yourself in us, all of us - not just your sons, but the entire family. When we are together as a family, there is enough of "you" here, it is good.
Not too much to say, I am tired and I don't want to ramble...too much.
Thanks Dad for doing the right stuff.
It was worth it.
Monday, January 25, 2010
We are still here
A lot happened last week.
I can hardly believe it really took place. We knew it would, but the motions of the funeral home, the casket, the flag, it was so surreal, like a dream and not reality.
A bad dream.
We are still here.
The battle appears to be over, the dust has settled, and we are still standing.
Is it the Military upbringing?
Maybe.
Probably not.
I believe it is what we have inside, the faith, the knowledge of our history, the hope for the future, and the incredible desire to make bad things good.
We are still here.
As I told my 2 brothers, "We are now our father (Dad) to our families, we can no longer count on someone else to fill in the gaps. It is now our job."
We have moved forward one space on this gigantic board game of life...
So...we are still here. Life continues, and like the Silent Movie, "The Crowd" - eventually, we will slip back into the hustle and bustle of life, and our limp will become less noticeable every day, until it is gone.
I can hardly believe it really took place. We knew it would, but the motions of the funeral home, the casket, the flag, it was so surreal, like a dream and not reality.
A bad dream.
We are still here.
The battle appears to be over, the dust has settled, and we are still standing.
Is it the Military upbringing?
Maybe.
Probably not.
I believe it is what we have inside, the faith, the knowledge of our history, the hope for the future, and the incredible desire to make bad things good.
We are still here.
As I told my 2 brothers, "We are now our father (Dad) to our families, we can no longer count on someone else to fill in the gaps. It is now our job."
We have moved forward one space on this gigantic board game of life...
So...we are still here. Life continues, and like the Silent Movie, "The Crowd" - eventually, we will slip back into the hustle and bustle of life, and our limp will become less noticeable every day, until it is gone.
The Celebration
(Written on the day of the funeral)
Dear Dad,
Last night, we had the "family visitation" at the funeral home. So many people came. It was amazing!
And you looked GREAT! You were in your uniform, you looked like an older version of the dad I remember, like your picture in the foyer.
It was so good...Kennedy, my grand daughter, said the greatest thing - when we were standing by your coffin, teary eyed, she said, "Why are you sad?"
I looked at her and said, "What a great question!" Why are we sad?
This is not about mourning, but the celebration of your life, of your legacy, who you were, who you are, and the fact that we will see you again!
The sadness left and we enjoyed talking about you, sharing stories about you, and before we left, we gathered n a circle, held hands and gave thanks for your life.
I know this sounds crazy, but I could have sworn you were smiling.
Today, was the real job. I was up visiting with friends and family until midnight, worked on the DVD until 2 am, then back up at 430 am to finish it.
Between the DVD and my own opportunity to talk, I was exhausted, but the military ceremony was incredible.
I have your hat, the flag draped over you, and one of the 3 cartridges given to the family.
It feels really good right now.
Everything you ever wanted happened.
You retired from the Army, graduated college, retired from a second career, enjoyed your family and friends, and now, you were buried in the National Cemetery with full Military Honors.
You are a rare man Dad, you achieved everything you set out to do.
Back in July 2009, you dictated a message to be delivered to the family upon your death. I hope you don't mind that I had it printed in the leaflet we handed out. Who better to receive the family message, but your "family" from the church, your community, your life?
By the way, it was good to see you again.
If you are okay with it, I think I am going to write you for a while longer, maybe help clear up some of those lost emotions that seem to run amok at times like this.
"If you are okay with it"...I am not foolish, just looking at this as it really is, you are gone, and I haven't let go yet.
I will.
It just may take a little time.
In the mean time, I will continue to express feelings in the form of a letter to you, and eventually, about you.
So, like I said on the DVD at the funeral...We will miss you, but we will see you again.
Dear Dad,
Last night, we had the "family visitation" at the funeral home. So many people came. It was amazing!
And you looked GREAT! You were in your uniform, you looked like an older version of the dad I remember, like your picture in the foyer.
It was so good...Kennedy, my grand daughter, said the greatest thing - when we were standing by your coffin, teary eyed, she said, "Why are you sad?"
I looked at her and said, "What a great question!" Why are we sad?
This is not about mourning, but the celebration of your life, of your legacy, who you were, who you are, and the fact that we will see you again!
The sadness left and we enjoyed talking about you, sharing stories about you, and before we left, we gathered n a circle, held hands and gave thanks for your life.
I know this sounds crazy, but I could have sworn you were smiling.
Today, was the real job. I was up visiting with friends and family until midnight, worked on the DVD until 2 am, then back up at 430 am to finish it.
Between the DVD and my own opportunity to talk, I was exhausted, but the military ceremony was incredible.
I have your hat, the flag draped over you, and one of the 3 cartridges given to the family.
It feels really good right now.
Everything you ever wanted happened.
You retired from the Army, graduated college, retired from a second career, enjoyed your family and friends, and now, you were buried in the National Cemetery with full Military Honors.
You are a rare man Dad, you achieved everything you set out to do.
Back in July 2009, you dictated a message to be delivered to the family upon your death. I hope you don't mind that I had it printed in the leaflet we handed out. Who better to receive the family message, but your "family" from the church, your community, your life?
By the way, it was good to see you again.
If you are okay with it, I think I am going to write you for a while longer, maybe help clear up some of those lost emotions that seem to run amok at times like this.
"If you are okay with it"...I am not foolish, just looking at this as it really is, you are gone, and I haven't let go yet.
I will.
It just may take a little time.
In the mean time, I will continue to express feelings in the form of a letter to you, and eventually, about you.
So, like I said on the DVD at the funeral...We will miss you, but we will see you again.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Maybe it's not the end...
Things are different...
We are going through the motions of preparing for a funeral.
As I assemble pictures for a DVD to be played during the service, I learn so much more about my father.
Dear Dad,
I found pictures of you the other day. It was funny, you were a young man, an old teen, and there you were - it was at least 1954, and you were stylishly dressed, in front of your car, and what I can't figure out is...
Who were all the girls in the pictures? Each picture had a different girl!
Here I am, mourning you, and I find out you were quite the ladies man in your younger days!
What a great way to take away the tears!
I saw so many pictures, you as a young man in the Army, a young married man, a young father, your military years, the times in Viet Nam, your college years, and finally - the happiest years, the ones with your children and grandchildren.
So many smiles, so much laughter...it was really you.
It was good to see you again.
Tomorrow, we have the family visitation at the funeral home, and the next day is the funeral.
For some reason, it doesn't really feel like goodbye...but a celebration of YOU.
This will be a great gathering of family and friends, the people that love you and share memories of you, what a time of joy and laughter we will have!
I found the message you dictated in July, the one to be read after your death, and decided to put it in the leaflet we are distributing at your celebration.
You really did well...you prepared for the end, and allowed me to be a part of it.
I realized today what a special moment I had, to be with you and see you as you entered eternity, How much God must love me and trust me to allow me to see your face as you saw the one that was taking you home.
It was good.
I struggled at first, did I do enough? Could I have saved you? Should I have tried to give you a lobe from my liver (if I matched) and try to force a transplant?
It is so easy to second guess ourselves when looking backwards. Hind sight...is it 20/20?
Not really, we just think it is.
You raised me. You prepared me for the moments when I had to step in for you.
You knew what you would need, and you trained me to be that man.
It changed me.
I cannot stop being who you made me.
It's not the end...just a new beginning.
We are going through the motions of preparing for a funeral.
As I assemble pictures for a DVD to be played during the service, I learn so much more about my father.
Dear Dad,
I found pictures of you the other day. It was funny, you were a young man, an old teen, and there you were - it was at least 1954, and you were stylishly dressed, in front of your car, and what I can't figure out is...
Who were all the girls in the pictures? Each picture had a different girl!
Here I am, mourning you, and I find out you were quite the ladies man in your younger days!
What a great way to take away the tears!
I saw so many pictures, you as a young man in the Army, a young married man, a young father, your military years, the times in Viet Nam, your college years, and finally - the happiest years, the ones with your children and grandchildren.
So many smiles, so much laughter...it was really you.
It was good to see you again.
Tomorrow, we have the family visitation at the funeral home, and the next day is the funeral.
For some reason, it doesn't really feel like goodbye...but a celebration of YOU.
This will be a great gathering of family and friends, the people that love you and share memories of you, what a time of joy and laughter we will have!
I found the message you dictated in July, the one to be read after your death, and decided to put it in the leaflet we are distributing at your celebration.
You really did well...you prepared for the end, and allowed me to be a part of it.
I realized today what a special moment I had, to be with you and see you as you entered eternity, How much God must love me and trust me to allow me to see your face as you saw the one that was taking you home.
It was good.
I struggled at first, did I do enough? Could I have saved you? Should I have tried to give you a lobe from my liver (if I matched) and try to force a transplant?
It is so easy to second guess ourselves when looking backwards. Hind sight...is it 20/20?
Not really, we just think it is.
You raised me. You prepared me for the moments when I had to step in for you.
You knew what you would need, and you trained me to be that man.
It changed me.
I cannot stop being who you made me.
It's not the end...just a new beginning.
Monday, January 18, 2010
January 17, 2010 - The journey ends
At 4:40 pm, at the Presbyterian Village North in Dallas, Texas, SFC (Retired) Daniel Howard Wallace departed this earthly abode and joined his family in Heaven.
I received a phone call earlier in the afternoon from the hospice nurse, she said my father's breathing was so labored and his vital signs were such that she was ordering critical care, 24 hour watch on him. She said she felt like he had less than 24 hours to live.
My wife and I left soon afterwards, calling his wife first and driving to the nursing center.
His wife, Marion was there when we arrived, as was the nurse.
His breathing was not for the faint - the horrible sound of the "rattle" could be frightening if you let it, and he strained with each breath.
We went to his bedside, he was nonresponsive to sound and touch, and his pupils were fixed.
We told him we were there and we loved him.
For awhile, we told each other (the "visitors") funny stories about family, and me in particular, about my dad.
He received a dose of Morphine at 2:45 pm, the nurse noticed he was straining to breathe again.
He began to breathe easier.
We would talk with him a little, let him know we were there and we loved him, touch his hand, his shoulder.
His breathing became labored again at 4:00 pm, and he received another dose of morphine.
About 4:25 pm, I leaned over and told him,"Dad, this is Don...I just want you to know I am here and I am not leaving you. A lot of people are in heaven today because of you....(he was a lay minister in the church, many times speaking, and preaching, involved in many lives changing)...You have completed your call...You can go to be with Jesus anytime now....I love you Dad, and I am proud of you."
Around 4:30 pm, I was texting my son, telling him about my dad.
At 4:36 pm, I quoted the scripture "to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord."
At 4:38 pm, I sent the message, "He is almost with Jesus."
At 4:39 pm, his breathing became labored again, and it slowed significantly.
At 4:40 pm, he jerked slightly, opened his eyes and appeared to look towards me, and died.
It was over.
He won.
This race he has been running, this marathon of marathons we call life, was over...my father, with every strained breath, every painful move, every step was taking him closer to the finish line, and he crossed over, victorious, arms held high, tears of joy, as he entered the winners circle shared by Saints and martyrs.
He won.
The journey ends.
I am 9 years old once again, standing at the airport, watching my father leave. I know it is only temporary, but a year is forever to a child. I wonder how I will be without my dad, will I be the man he intended me to be, what will happen while he is gone, will I see him again?
Yes.
In my heart, in the deepest part, the area we dare not look into ourselves, that place so secret we are afraid to speak of, that part of my heart knows I will see him again, and I will be the man he raised.
I am my father's son.
Goodbye Dad, I will miss you, but every time I share your story, every time I show mercy, I know you are here, your legacy will live forever...
"...His mercy endures forever..."
In memory of my father, Daniel Howard Wallace. Born in Butler, Alabama March 3, 1936. Took the hand of his Saviour and stepped into eternity on January 17, 2010 in Dallas, Texas.
I received a phone call earlier in the afternoon from the hospice nurse, she said my father's breathing was so labored and his vital signs were such that she was ordering critical care, 24 hour watch on him. She said she felt like he had less than 24 hours to live.
My wife and I left soon afterwards, calling his wife first and driving to the nursing center.
His wife, Marion was there when we arrived, as was the nurse.
His breathing was not for the faint - the horrible sound of the "rattle" could be frightening if you let it, and he strained with each breath.
We went to his bedside, he was nonresponsive to sound and touch, and his pupils were fixed.
We told him we were there and we loved him.
For awhile, we told each other (the "visitors") funny stories about family, and me in particular, about my dad.
He received a dose of Morphine at 2:45 pm, the nurse noticed he was straining to breathe again.
He began to breathe easier.
We would talk with him a little, let him know we were there and we loved him, touch his hand, his shoulder.
His breathing became labored again at 4:00 pm, and he received another dose of morphine.
About 4:25 pm, I leaned over and told him,"Dad, this is Don...I just want you to know I am here and I am not leaving you. A lot of people are in heaven today because of you....(he was a lay minister in the church, many times speaking, and preaching, involved in many lives changing)...You have completed your call...You can go to be with Jesus anytime now....I love you Dad, and I am proud of you."
Around 4:30 pm, I was texting my son, telling him about my dad.
At 4:36 pm, I quoted the scripture "to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord."
At 4:38 pm, I sent the message, "He is almost with Jesus."
At 4:39 pm, his breathing became labored again, and it slowed significantly.
At 4:40 pm, he jerked slightly, opened his eyes and appeared to look towards me, and died.
It was over.
He won.
This race he has been running, this marathon of marathons we call life, was over...my father, with every strained breath, every painful move, every step was taking him closer to the finish line, and he crossed over, victorious, arms held high, tears of joy, as he entered the winners circle shared by Saints and martyrs.
He won.
The journey ends.
I am 9 years old once again, standing at the airport, watching my father leave. I know it is only temporary, but a year is forever to a child. I wonder how I will be without my dad, will I be the man he intended me to be, what will happen while he is gone, will I see him again?
Yes.
In my heart, in the deepest part, the area we dare not look into ourselves, that place so secret we are afraid to speak of, that part of my heart knows I will see him again, and I will be the man he raised.
I am my father's son.
Goodbye Dad, I will miss you, but every time I share your story, every time I show mercy, I know you are here, your legacy will live forever...
"...His mercy endures forever..."
In memory of my father, Daniel Howard Wallace. Born in Butler, Alabama March 3, 1936. Took the hand of his Saviour and stepped into eternity on January 17, 2010 in Dallas, Texas.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
January 16, 2010 - acute care
Dear Dad,
Yesterday was Saturday, the day you were moved from your room in the Rehab center to the room in Health/Acute Care.
We moved your personal items, while the center had to call an ambulance to take you across the campus, your condition was too extreme to stay where you were, and you could not go by wheelchair.
After the move, Marsha and I walked into your room, another semi private room, you are next to the window.
It is like you are not really here.
Just a shell of a body, sleeping (?), labored breathing, the "rattle" is so incredibly disturbing when you breathe, I am not sure how visitors would take it. Your color has changed, perhaps it is the labored breathing, you were flushed in your face, but your legs and hands are starting to feel cool.
The nursing staff were very nice, very compassionate. I am glad you are here, even if you don't realize where you are. They appear to be concerned not only with your healthy, but your dignity.
Marion (your wife), Marsha, and I talked about the funeral today. I picked up several boxes of pictures to put together a DVD to show at the funeral.
It is easier now.
I lost my feelings somewhere, and I can't find them anymore.
None of this seems to bother me. It is just a job that needs to be done. I can't really understand when people ask how I am doing, I feel like screaming at them and asking, "How do you think I am doing? My father is dying, and none of us were ready, and his personal business was a wreck!"
But I just say, "I'm okay."
It's just a job.
I don't remember when it started, I don't know when it will end, but in the mean time, we keep walking in circles, running in the dark, and hoping we find moments worth remembering in this starless midnight hour.
I plan to write something for you and read it/speak at your funeral. I want people to enjoy a few memories of you, I want them to see the Army Sarge that was "abused" by his terrorist sons (you were such an easy target for practical jokes), the strict disciplinarian that became a man of mercy, the immovable rock whose faith could never be questioned, the regular guy that was happy with simple things, the educated man that loved learning, the frustrated musician. This is who you are.
I hope as I write, the feelings will come back, and Spring will return.
Right now, it feels like Winter.
It's cold out here, and I am waiting on a ride that may not arrive.
Yesterday was Saturday, the day you were moved from your room in the Rehab center to the room in Health/Acute Care.
We moved your personal items, while the center had to call an ambulance to take you across the campus, your condition was too extreme to stay where you were, and you could not go by wheelchair.
After the move, Marsha and I walked into your room, another semi private room, you are next to the window.
It is like you are not really here.
Just a shell of a body, sleeping (?), labored breathing, the "rattle" is so incredibly disturbing when you breathe, I am not sure how visitors would take it. Your color has changed, perhaps it is the labored breathing, you were flushed in your face, but your legs and hands are starting to feel cool.
The nursing staff were very nice, very compassionate. I am glad you are here, even if you don't realize where you are. They appear to be concerned not only with your healthy, but your dignity.
Marion (your wife), Marsha, and I talked about the funeral today. I picked up several boxes of pictures to put together a DVD to show at the funeral.
It is easier now.
I lost my feelings somewhere, and I can't find them anymore.
None of this seems to bother me. It is just a job that needs to be done. I can't really understand when people ask how I am doing, I feel like screaming at them and asking, "How do you think I am doing? My father is dying, and none of us were ready, and his personal business was a wreck!"
But I just say, "I'm okay."
It's just a job.
I don't remember when it started, I don't know when it will end, but in the mean time, we keep walking in circles, running in the dark, and hoping we find moments worth remembering in this starless midnight hour.
I plan to write something for you and read it/speak at your funeral. I want people to enjoy a few memories of you, I want them to see the Army Sarge that was "abused" by his terrorist sons (you were such an easy target for practical jokes), the strict disciplinarian that became a man of mercy, the immovable rock whose faith could never be questioned, the regular guy that was happy with simple things, the educated man that loved learning, the frustrated musician. This is who you are.
I hope as I write, the feelings will come back, and Spring will return.
Right now, it feels like Winter.
It's cold out here, and I am waiting on a ride that may not arrive.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Getting Closer
Dear Dad,
Today, I met with hospice and we discussed the comfort care plan to help you in your final days.
We are nearing the end.
I spoke with the nurse, she said if you were coherent, it would be good to let you know what is going on, so when we walked in your room, you were awake, and we talked. I explained we had followed your wishes and there was nothing left except to make you comfortable in your final days. I introduced you to the new nurse from hospice, and asked you to cooperate with her, as she would help you to rest and be comfortable.
When I asked if you understood what I was saying you replied, "Yes."
I am tired.
I have been tired for a long time, I am not sure if it is everything you are going through or from my own holiday upper respiratory issues, both, or who knows. I am just tired.
I have been balancing keeping family out of state informed and keeping peace locally while juggling my own life...
Sometimes life just kicks you where it counts, and you have to take a couple of breaths, shake it off, and get back into the fight.
The fight...what an analogy...comparing life to a fight.
No rules...the "other guy" (we never see the other guy) cheats...all you can do is do right, sometimes take a few punches, and when you see the opportunity to get your own licks in, fight like a madman with nothing to lose...that is the way it really is...we have nothing to lose, everything to gain.
I think your fight may be nearing the end...
Flash forward a day - this letter has been in process for a couple of days now.
Yesterday, you were very agitated and restless. Your chloride levels are considered critical, your breathing varies between irregular and eratic, it is a strain to breath sometimes, then sometimes it is not.
You consume very little, and your recognition of others is slipping.
The other night, your swallow reflex came and went until you had "the rattle". We are dealing with that with atropine.
It is difficult watching you waste away like this, but we are helpless. Even though we provide medical care, you have chosen to refuse life saving methods, and at times clamp your lips shut and refuse food or drink.
I am still tired...
Last night we went to see you and you had pulled yourself out of bed, but were too weak to walk, so you collapsed by your bed. The nursing staff found you before we did, sitting on the floor leaning against your bed. They were in the process of getting you back into bed and cleaning you up (accidents happen) when we arrive.
This has got to be tough on you.
Dad, we are still here, standing with you, helping you all the way to the end. Sometimes when we talk, I don't know if you are really there anymore (in the last couple of days), you have a faraway look in your eyes, and you keep looking over my shoulder, sometimes I turn around to see what you are looking at, and there is nothing visible...I am not going to get all mystic and spiritualize things I am ignorant of, but who knows what you are seeing...
Well Dad, another day is beginning, let's see how you are doing today.
It really seems like the next "level" is getting closer...
Today, I met with hospice and we discussed the comfort care plan to help you in your final days.
We are nearing the end.
I spoke with the nurse, she said if you were coherent, it would be good to let you know what is going on, so when we walked in your room, you were awake, and we talked. I explained we had followed your wishes and there was nothing left except to make you comfortable in your final days. I introduced you to the new nurse from hospice, and asked you to cooperate with her, as she would help you to rest and be comfortable.
When I asked if you understood what I was saying you replied, "Yes."
I am tired.
I have been tired for a long time, I am not sure if it is everything you are going through or from my own holiday upper respiratory issues, both, or who knows. I am just tired.
I have been balancing keeping family out of state informed and keeping peace locally while juggling my own life...
Sometimes life just kicks you where it counts, and you have to take a couple of breaths, shake it off, and get back into the fight.
The fight...what an analogy...comparing life to a fight.
No rules...the "other guy" (we never see the other guy) cheats...all you can do is do right, sometimes take a few punches, and when you see the opportunity to get your own licks in, fight like a madman with nothing to lose...that is the way it really is...we have nothing to lose, everything to gain.
I think your fight may be nearing the end...
Flash forward a day - this letter has been in process for a couple of days now.
Yesterday, you were very agitated and restless. Your chloride levels are considered critical, your breathing varies between irregular and eratic, it is a strain to breath sometimes, then sometimes it is not.
You consume very little, and your recognition of others is slipping.
The other night, your swallow reflex came and went until you had "the rattle". We are dealing with that with atropine.
It is difficult watching you waste away like this, but we are helpless. Even though we provide medical care, you have chosen to refuse life saving methods, and at times clamp your lips shut and refuse food or drink.
I am still tired...
Last night we went to see you and you had pulled yourself out of bed, but were too weak to walk, so you collapsed by your bed. The nursing staff found you before we did, sitting on the floor leaning against your bed. They were in the process of getting you back into bed and cleaning you up (accidents happen) when we arrive.
This has got to be tough on you.
Dad, we are still here, standing with you, helping you all the way to the end. Sometimes when we talk, I don't know if you are really there anymore (in the last couple of days), you have a faraway look in your eyes, and you keep looking over my shoulder, sometimes I turn around to see what you are looking at, and there is nothing visible...I am not going to get all mystic and spiritualize things I am ignorant of, but who knows what you are seeing...
Well Dad, another day is beginning, let's see how you are doing today.
It really seems like the next "level" is getting closer...
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Back on Track
Dear Dad,
The past few days have been another roller coaster ride. First, I get the call to sign a do not resuscitate order, then you make a "comeback", then you go back to where you were.
I guess we just need to enjoy the good days, even if they are short.
Last night, my wife and I went by to see you. As we walked in, I did not know what to expect, but my hopes were up, considering the most recent events where you appeared to be improving.
Unfortunately, you were "back on track."
When we walked in, you were sleeping and I tried to rouse you. You never really woke up enough to talk more than a few words. I helped move you in your bed, your feet were hanging off the end. When I grabbed the sheet to move you, I realized how much weight you have lost.
So frail.
So tired.
So weak.
Back on track.
Sometimes, we venture off the path designed for us. When we are in the middle of our lives, we have the opportunity to roam, we think there is always time to get back on track. As we near the end, if we believe God is in control of everything, and our days are truly known and numbered, those options must be minimized, we are drawn back to the course designated for us, hopefully with no regrets.
We start, we wander, we end. Hopefully, we stay in touch with the designer enough to know our purpose and stay on course.
The times of reprieve are getting less.
Back on track.
I hate this.
Helpless, all we can do is watch and try to make you comfortable. All efforts are truly temporary, no matter what we do, you are drawn to the same path, the same motions, possibly the same timing.
Back on track.
I'll see you again soon.
The past few days have been another roller coaster ride. First, I get the call to sign a do not resuscitate order, then you make a "comeback", then you go back to where you were.
I guess we just need to enjoy the good days, even if they are short.
Last night, my wife and I went by to see you. As we walked in, I did not know what to expect, but my hopes were up, considering the most recent events where you appeared to be improving.
Unfortunately, you were "back on track."
When we walked in, you were sleeping and I tried to rouse you. You never really woke up enough to talk more than a few words. I helped move you in your bed, your feet were hanging off the end. When I grabbed the sheet to move you, I realized how much weight you have lost.
So frail.
So tired.
So weak.
Back on track.
Sometimes, we venture off the path designed for us. When we are in the middle of our lives, we have the opportunity to roam, we think there is always time to get back on track. As we near the end, if we believe God is in control of everything, and our days are truly known and numbered, those options must be minimized, we are drawn back to the course designated for us, hopefully with no regrets.
We start, we wander, we end. Hopefully, we stay in touch with the designer enough to know our purpose and stay on course.
The times of reprieve are getting less.
Back on track.
I hate this.
Helpless, all we can do is watch and try to make you comfortable. All efforts are truly temporary, no matter what we do, you are drawn to the same path, the same motions, possibly the same timing.
Back on track.
I'll see you again soon.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Not yet...
Dear Dad,
Well, here we are. A week into the New Year, and you are still "lingering." Actually, lingering does not describe it. After being called to the nursing center the other evening (3 days ago) to sign new DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) papers, and your breathing was labored (down to 4 breaths per minute), the next morning arrived and you showed some improvement.
You ate a little cream of wheat, drank quite a bit of juice, and started a new uphill battle. Ate lunch, and wanted to feed yourself dinner.
Yesterday, you talked on the phone several times, and even wanted to go home.
You are receiving some pain medication and muscle relaxers to ease things for you, and the nurse said that is allowing you to tolerate the days better.
It is literally day to day with you and I just don't know what to think anymore. I am glad you are still here, I just hope as your health changes, the quality of life will do the same, I would hate to see you improve enough to recognize how helpless you are, you have always been too independent to be satisfied with that.
Not much to write, perhaps iy is also from my own condition. I ended up very sick with bronchitis and have been to the doctor twice, I think I ran myself down over the holidays, trying to do too much. Second trip to doctor, second set of meds, feel a little better today.
We are having an incredible cold spell here in Dallas. The wind chill is in single digits, fortunately, no precipitation. It affects the ability for us (all of us) to visit, and I hope you do not realize it.
I know this is far from spiritual, but I am reminded of one of my all time favorite movies, "Gladiator", starring Russel Crowe. I know, it is a "guy" (violent) movie, but there are some real hidden truths in the movie. The one I like most is when Russel is talking with the African man and the African tells him he will be with his family soon, "but not yet..."
Sounds like one of our talks recently. I told you this race is almost over, and you win. I described it as if I was a spectator, this time your sons are watching you from the stands, instead of you watching us. We are cheering for you, along with "that great crowd of witnesses." This time you are alone, having outrun your enemy, your competition, and you are about to cross the finish line...a winner.
Soon...but not yet.
Well, here we are. A week into the New Year, and you are still "lingering." Actually, lingering does not describe it. After being called to the nursing center the other evening (3 days ago) to sign new DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) papers, and your breathing was labored (down to 4 breaths per minute), the next morning arrived and you showed some improvement.
You ate a little cream of wheat, drank quite a bit of juice, and started a new uphill battle. Ate lunch, and wanted to feed yourself dinner.
Yesterday, you talked on the phone several times, and even wanted to go home.
You are receiving some pain medication and muscle relaxers to ease things for you, and the nurse said that is allowing you to tolerate the days better.
It is literally day to day with you and I just don't know what to think anymore. I am glad you are still here, I just hope as your health changes, the quality of life will do the same, I would hate to see you improve enough to recognize how helpless you are, you have always been too independent to be satisfied with that.
Not much to write, perhaps iy is also from my own condition. I ended up very sick with bronchitis and have been to the doctor twice, I think I ran myself down over the holidays, trying to do too much. Second trip to doctor, second set of meds, feel a little better today.
We are having an incredible cold spell here in Dallas. The wind chill is in single digits, fortunately, no precipitation. It affects the ability for us (all of us) to visit, and I hope you do not realize it.
I know this is far from spiritual, but I am reminded of one of my all time favorite movies, "Gladiator", starring Russel Crowe. I know, it is a "guy" (violent) movie, but there are some real hidden truths in the movie. The one I like most is when Russel is talking with the African man and the African tells him he will be with his family soon, "but not yet..."
Sounds like one of our talks recently. I told you this race is almost over, and you win. I described it as if I was a spectator, this time your sons are watching you from the stands, instead of you watching us. We are cheering for you, along with "that great crowd of witnesses." This time you are alone, having outrun your enemy, your competition, and you are about to cross the finish line...a winner.
Soon...but not yet.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Changes - New Year
Dear Dad,
There are a lot of changes taking place. Yesterday, you were moved back to the skilled nursing facility, your hospital stay accomplished all it was meant to do.
So here we are, almost back where we started.
The families are all here, some will be here through the weekend, others are leaving town, you need the rest, this is good.
When my brother arrived this morning, you were eating in the dining hall, it appears the caffeine (coffee) and the sugar (orange juice) gave your a perk and you did okay for awhile. The slight "rush" ended and you were tired and started to rest again.
Not much to write about today.
A few changes, earlier this morning, about 2 am, when I was still awake, I realized the important things for now.
You know, we have been with you for 50 years (not me, but my older brother), and we know that we have had the privilege of having you with us for all these years. It occurred to me that we need to recognize this time as a change in our family, not a loss, as we are stepping up to the plate you are vacating as you are "promoted" to your new position in this life.
I believe there are people that know you and love you, that need to be touched with the kindness and generosity you stood for. We, your sons, have made the choice to continue this and for our lives to be your legacy.
I was reading some scriptures last night, it seems I do not do enough of this, but at times like this, even the heathen are comforted by God's word. I read Psalm 136, and noticed a recurring theme, "his mercy endures forever."
Wow...
I finally understand you...as I realize mercy is undeserved kindness at a time of need, and to endure means effort is involved, Forever is eternal.
You have chosen to be kind to those in need, even when it requires extreme effort, with no timetable.
I know your choices have cost you, but the rewards I see are incredible. The people that have stepped up to say how much you mean is unbelievable. The mercy of God endures forever, and you have been a vessel to share His mercy to so many.
This is what is is all about, what you are all about. This is how you could endure, because His mercy endured through you. Your kindness and generosity go outside of the family, to others in need, many times in desperate situations...isn't this what being a Christian...being an American...being a Man is all about?
We will not let your legacy die.
His mercy will endure forever.
Thanks Dad, it took along time, but I finally get it.
There are a lot of changes taking place. Yesterday, you were moved back to the skilled nursing facility, your hospital stay accomplished all it was meant to do.
So here we are, almost back where we started.
The families are all here, some will be here through the weekend, others are leaving town, you need the rest, this is good.
When my brother arrived this morning, you were eating in the dining hall, it appears the caffeine (coffee) and the sugar (orange juice) gave your a perk and you did okay for awhile. The slight "rush" ended and you were tired and started to rest again.
Not much to write about today.
A few changes, earlier this morning, about 2 am, when I was still awake, I realized the important things for now.
You know, we have been with you for 50 years (not me, but my older brother), and we know that we have had the privilege of having you with us for all these years. It occurred to me that we need to recognize this time as a change in our family, not a loss, as we are stepping up to the plate you are vacating as you are "promoted" to your new position in this life.
I believe there are people that know you and love you, that need to be touched with the kindness and generosity you stood for. We, your sons, have made the choice to continue this and for our lives to be your legacy.
I was reading some scriptures last night, it seems I do not do enough of this, but at times like this, even the heathen are comforted by God's word. I read Psalm 136, and noticed a recurring theme, "his mercy endures forever."
Wow...
I finally understand you...as I realize mercy is undeserved kindness at a time of need, and to endure means effort is involved, Forever is eternal.
You have chosen to be kind to those in need, even when it requires extreme effort, with no timetable.
I know your choices have cost you, but the rewards I see are incredible. The people that have stepped up to say how much you mean is unbelievable. The mercy of God endures forever, and you have been a vessel to share His mercy to so many.
This is what is is all about, what you are all about. This is how you could endure, because His mercy endured through you. Your kindness and generosity go outside of the family, to others in need, many times in desperate situations...isn't this what being a Christian...being an American...being a Man is all about?
We will not let your legacy die.
His mercy will endure forever.
Thanks Dad, it took along time, but I finally get it.
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