Part I: Approaching Doom
As I drove along the meandering country road the sun was setting in long golden rays, almost horizontal, as they glistened through the scrub oaks. I had driven past these same oaks and berry bushes at sunset many times before on my way to facilitate a teambuilding retreat. But today was different. And that sunset would become the closing curtain on beautiful sunsets I would notice for many weeks to come.
The beauty and peacefulness of this drive to the bay usually transported me mentally into my own goals and my prayers. Soft music in the car and the picturesque scenery moving by as I traveled along through California back roads usually focused my thoughts and was great mental and spiritual preparation for leading inspiring retreats.
But this trip the road and the landscape felt like an interruption in some frantic episode. It felt as though I was going the wrong direction. The road itself seemed to be taking me away reluctantly from something gravely important. My mind kept drifting back to Dad and how sick he had been as I left town. My prayers for two and a half hours of driving had centered on this sweet man.
As I got to the beautiful ocean-side retreat center a sense of doom had taken residence in my soul. I greeted participants one-by-one and tried to keep a happy face, while choking back tears. As the meeting began, I was distracted. I had to keep reminding myself to listen as seemingly meaningless business conversations swirled around me.
My mind kept replaying the scene as I left town, when I dropped by to take Mom one of my medical reference books. She wanted to read about inner ear infections, which was what the doctor had diagnosed for Dad, based on the dizzy spells he was having. But, as I walked in, I could see that this was more than the little dizzy spell she had described to me on the phone. He was down on all fours in the living room and couldn’t get up. He was rocking and moaning with nausea. I just wanted to do something, anything to make him feel better.
My Mom was on the phone with the doctor again who told her to take him into the Emergency Room, where they could cut through a lot of scheduling red tape and get him in for more diagnostic tests right away. I felt this sense of urgency and helplessness sweep over me all at once. Something seriously wrong was happening here, and I was expected in Bodega Bay, a two and a half hour drive away, in just four hours to lead a team planning retreat of 25 people. The clients had already worked for four months to get their collective calendars cleared, specifically for the next two days. They had paid several thousand dollars as a deposit for the facility. There was no one to send in my place at this late notice.
I felt as though something inside me was being torn apart, as my mother assured me that everything would be just fine, if I could just help her get Dad into the car. I helped him to get up and lean on me, half carrying him down the porch steps, out to the driveway and almost dropping him into the back seat of the car where he could lie down. I kissed them both good-bye as they took off for the tests, and I took off for Bodega. But something deep within me knew that things would not be just fine, ever again.
For the next 36 hours I kept calling home frantically, whenever I got a break. I had not been able to connect with my mother. I just kept getting that cheerful answering machine message, ”We’ll call you back real soon.” My sense of doom was growing darker with each hour. I eventually learned from my grandmother that Dad had been admitted to the hospital, but, as usual, Grandma didn’t know any details.
Finally, the retreat was almost over! What a relief! In just one hour I could take off and get home and find out what was going on.
Suddenly, my daydreaming came to an abrupt halt as the desk clerk opened the meeting room door, scanned the room and came in cautiously and handed me a note. She leaned over and whispered, “This is a message from your mother. She sounded upset. I think it it’s urgent.” I opened the note and read, “Come home right away. Dad seriously ill!”
My heart sank and ached, and I felt as though a part of it just broke off as I read that note. Mom was big into denial and generally kind of a macho John Wayne type of woman. This was a serious distress signal, coming from her. I must have gone pale, as my client immediately leaned over and told me to go home, they would handle the wrap-up themselves.
He didn’t have to tell me twice. One quick call to make sure my girlfriend knew what was going on and that I would probably be late in picking up my kids, and I was in the car on my way to the hospital.
Part II: The Long Drive Home
For some reason, I have never been one to do denial. Reality hits me very quickly. Before most people around me realize what’s going on, I am feeling all the details, even before they happen. At times like this I wish I weren’t quite so intuitive. I began to grieve my Dad’s death on the drive home. Tears streamed down my face off and on throughout the drive. At times I could hardly see the road through my tears. Even as I prayed, I felt God preparing me to let go of my sweet Dad.
As I wound around through the back hills, roads and vineyards, memories of this wonderful man and all he had meant to me came flooding into my mind. He had adopted me when I was 13. My real father had abused and abandoned me. So had my grandfather, for that matter. In fact, I didn’t generally see much usefulness in men until Dad came into my life. He changed all that.
I remembered how he would lug me around to football games and dances with all my girlfriends, and never complain about playing chauffeur. And then there were all those long afternoon talks about life when I was doing my homework and he was home from the office doing his paperwork. Neither one of us got much done, but it sure was nice to have an adult who enjoyed hearing what I thought about things that mattered. He’d also drop by my work at a local store, where I was a cashier during high school and college, just to pull some joke on my friends and me. Everybody loved him! He was kind and loving and had truly redeemed my opinion of the male form of our species.
Then I flashed on my wedding, and how handsome and proud Dad had been walking me down the isle, and how lonesome Mom said he had been for me after I left home. And then I smiled faintly as I remembered when I got Crohn’s Disease and was hospitalized and in intensive care with life threatening diarrhea, internal hemorrhaging, and a fever of 104. He would come into my hospital room nervous and shaky. His speech would be hesitant and halting, as though he couldn’t find words to say to me without crying. Then he would just blurt out something gross like, “How ya doin’ loosey goosey?”
I didn’t have much sense of humor just then for his usual funny antics, but I knew his heart, and where this best friend of a Dad was coming from, and I loved him for it. I always believed that God had sent him just when I needed him. He was my special delivery gift.
As I drew nearer to Sacramento, my mind shifted to the present situation. I began to think of how much help he was to me all the time, especially since my first husband, Bruce, and I had separated. Dad made it his business to take my car in for servicing, bring me a bag of groceries every now and then, and do repairs around my house. He would also come over and just play with the kids from time to time and send me out to have a little break at the mall. These were all things that warm the heart of a single mom, struggling desperately to start-up her own small business and keep her sanity. I never had to ask him for help. He usually seemed to anticipate ways to be helpful before I asked, though I knew I could ask anytime. That was such a rare and priceless quality in his character.
And he would brag about me to everyone, and clip and save my newspaper column and all the trade journal and newspaper articles he found about my work. He started a retirement business called The Clip Joint. I think my little business was the only one he ever clipped for, and he never charged me!
Part III: Cruel Realities
As I drove up to the hospital, it looked so big and imposing. I had seen it a hundred times and had even been a guest. But somehow, today it looked like a monster; an enemy I was afraid I couldn’t defeat. As I got out of my car, I looked to the top of the four-story structure with a balmy gray summer sky behind it. I resented it. I heard birds singing in the trees and I knew that my Dad would not be able to come out of this building to be free again like those birds. I knew that this building was going to swallow him up and I would never again be able to walk out here among these trees and birds with him. This was where I would have to say good-bye to him for this lifetime. I began to thank God for Heaven and the promise of new bodies and joy beyond measure. I grabbed onto that faith, as my spirit witnessed to me of the truth I would face in the next few days!
There’s a place in the hollow of my neck that hurts like crazy when I/m choking back tears. And it was starting to hurt like crazy as I prepared myself to be strong for my parents.
When I arrived at the intensive care unit, my mother was waiting for me outside the door. She looked gray and shriveled and her eyes were puffy and red. When she saw me, she breathed a sigh of relief and came to hug and be hugged. She began to sob quietly as I held her. I didn’t yet know what was wrong with my Dad, but I didn’t really need to know. I knew that this was death. It looked like death, felt like death, and smelled like death.
My mom and I had been very close. We lived alone for many years when I was a kid. My brother lived with my father a lot, and then in and out of juvenile detention centers. I was the good little girl who tried to hold mom together emotionally through it all. That’s why I knew how very dependent she was on my Dad. I could remember when she would cry herself to sleep at night from loneliness before they met and married. We only had one bedroom and I slept with her through 6th grade. So, I also knew when she brightened up and got happy. That was when she met my Dad. She was absolutely transformed by his love. And that never waned over the years. He was always her hero, and mine too!
Now here she was, coming to grips with losing her hero. And here I was again, her emotional support, a role I always fell into so naturally as a codependent kid. But I never imagined how hard it would be to play that role this time, or how desperately she would need it.
She pulled her wadded Kleenex out of her pocket and regained her composure long enough to get out the words, “Brain Cancer. He has an inoperable tumor.” My mind just reeled with panic. I wasn’t so composed after all. Was he conscious? Could I talk to him? Could I talk to him ever again? Does anyone really know how awful the reality of a loved one in a coma could be? Suddenly I did!
My mom reassured me that I could talk to him. She said that he was on a lot of pain medications. She stammered on about a lot of things, but the bottom line was that they were going to have to take him into surgery right away to see if they could relieve some of the pressure on the brain. The tumor was growing so rapidly that it was creating pressure that was causing even more pain and brain damage. But he still knew who I was and he wanted to see me. He had been putting off the surgery for the last few hours in hopes of being able to see me before they took him in.
I asked, “Does he know he has cancer?” She shook her head, “No,” and began to cry again. “He’s afraid of cancer, since his mother died of it” ,she said, “I couldn’t tell him. He just knows they are going to relieve pressure and try to figure out how to make him better.” Ok, now I just wanted to see him.
As I walked up to Dad’s gurney, he was lying there prepped and ready to be rolled out at any minute to surgery. I took his hand and rubbed his arm. He looked at me with his watery blue eyes and tears welled up and rolled down his cheeks. Just then his surgeon, a guy very good technically but about as warm as the fish I left behind in Bodega Bay, came hurrying into the room barking orders. “Nice to meet you. We’ve got to get your Dad into surgery. Time is very important in limiting damage from the pressure.”
As I looked into Dad’s sweet eyes I said, “I love you, Dad”. . I think we both knew that this would be the last time we would look into each other’s eyes, fully certain that we were connecting. “ I’ll be right here waiting to see you when you come out. They are going to make the pain go away.” He managed a weak smile and squeezed my hand lovingly, obviously struggling for words. He managed to say, “Love you too. See you later!”
With that they whisked him off to surgery. It was six hours before we saw the surgeon again. Somehow I thought that might be good. Even I was hoping against hope that the obvious wasn’t true. I was thinking that maybe they got in there and found that they could remove the tumor after all and that he could recover with some kind of therapy. Maybe that’s what was taking so long?
But at last, the surgeon was out to brief us. The truth was that the tumor was much larger than it looked on the scan and growing aggressively. They even had a brain scan from three weeks ago when they first started treating him for inner ear infections, and there was no sign of a tumor on it. The new scan showed a tumor growing into 25% of his brain. The surgery revealed it to be even larger than that. All they could do was to put in drains to keep some of the pressure off so that he could be kept comfortable. But he was going to die in the next few days. So if there was anyone who wanted to see him, they should be called.
This didn’t feel like an illness. It felt like a sudden and tragic disaster. Like he had been hit by a truck, or injured in an explosion. And then the worst thing of all, we were told that he might not regain consciousness. They would treat him with medications and try to continue to reduce pressure on the brain, and that might help him wake up. But there were no promises. And by the way, he was now on a breathing machine, and that would be removed as soon as he was able to breathe on his own.
Part IV: Conversations with the Comatose
This all just seemed so impossible. My Dad, who talked to me about everything, might slip away without even one more chat. Every muscle in my body ached with grief as we began to stand vigil over the last days of Dad’s life. I had never even seen anyone in a coma before. Now, I would find myself talking to him hour after hour, trying to wake him up. It was a very sad time, but a time that would come to have deep spiritual impact on my Dad, my family, and the rest of my life.
My mother was paralyzed in a way I had never seen her. She cried most of the time. She didn’t sleep for days. She looked like she would have to be admitted to a room herself, as she grew ashen gray, weary and weak. Even the doctors noticed it and talked her into taking some sleeping medication. One of the nuns came and showed us to a small room with a bed for my mother. I’m sure she would have collapsed without that help.
My stepsister, three stepbrothers, my own brother, my mother, my cousin, and parts of all our families began camping out in the waiting room. The tiny 8 foot square room was just next to the door of the intensive care unit, and had only one tiny loveseat and two lounge chairs.
Then the McIntosh family showed up. They were a family of six adult children standing vigil with their father while their mother died in the bed across from my Dad. So this whole crowd of grief-stricken family members took turns sharing the couch and chairs with us. When none was available, we would just pace up and down the halls past each other. When someone thought it was our turn for a chair, they would get up, offer the chair and join others pacing for a while. If a McIntosh came in looking for a family member who wasn’t there, we would take a message like a secretarial pool. They would do the same for us.
For the next week, my days were also filled with calling home and coordinating arrangements for my six year-old daughter and eight year-old son. I would try to tell them as much and as little as I knew, hoping against hope to be able prepare them somehow for losing the Grandpa they loved so much. Somehow I foolishly felt I might save them some pain if I told them in just the right way. I have since come to believe that those who have loved us deserve our pain when they die. If a person has contributed something special to our lives, we ought to experience a pain when we lose them to be sure we ourselves are alive.
The nurses were trying to get Dad to respond to us. I now know, that was partly their effort to get him to a higher level of consciousness, so that they could get him off the breathing machine. This would keep us from having to deal with the painful dilemma later of having someone brain dead hooked up to a breathing apparatus. If he could breathe on his own he could be removed from the breathing machine and enabled to comfortable die on his own. We would be spared from having to face any hideous decisions.
So, the nurse asked us to come in one or two at a time, to talk to him. We would talk like we expected a response. We’d ask him to move a leg, squeeze a hand, or open his eyes if he heard us. Mostly he would lie completely unresponsive. But for some reason I will never understand, he nearly always responded to my voice. Self-doubt would tell me I was just imagining things. But he was so consistent that I knew it was real. He responded with me in a way that made me, and the nurses sure that he was hearing me, and trying to communicate with me too. It wasn’t like chats we had had before, but it was thrilling to feel a squeeze or see him lift a leg. I got so much reassurance that he knew I was with him. And he would always respond when I told him I loved him.
This did not exactly endear me to the rest of the family members who couldn’t get a response. My mom was hurt because she couldn’t get through to him. I really felt it was because her normally soft voice had grown so weak. Since I was so successful, I spent a lot of time at his bedside with the nurses. One time one of my stepbrothers came in when I was chatting with Dad, and just blew up saying, “Would you just stop talking to him! He can’t hear anything you say! Can’t you see? He’s in a coma!” He turned and stomped out. I knew he was grieving, and wished and prayed that he could get through to Dad, just once before the end.
Then there was Gary, my very favorite stepbrother. He was so much like Dad. He was always sweet, fun, supportive, and expressive. He and I were close pals too, because we were close in age (he’s actually much older, in case he should ever read this) and we were both single parents. He didn’t live far from me and would come and repair my car anytime I needed him. Or, he’d fix anything if he found out I needed help. One time he just showed up with his tools and bolts to put bolts on my sliding doors because a rapist had been reported in our neighborhood. We would talk for hours like Dad and I did, and he would get down on the floor and wrestle with my kids. He even had, still has, most of my Dad’s mannerisms.
I was just a baby Christian, and knew just enough of the Bible to get by. But I had had such a huge encounter with Jesus in my own life that I was really steadfast in my faith. Gary had just begun attending my church. Sitting for those long hours in the hospital, he began talking to me about his faith and his grief. He had actually gotten some small responses when he talked to Dad. At one point he began to cry and tell me that he just wanted to tell Dad he loved him. He couldn’t remember ever telling him that. And now, in this circumstance, it was incredibly important to him. They had fooled around together and he had done lots to always help Dad out when he needed help. I told him I was sure Dad loved him. But that wasn’t good enough. Gary needed to tell him.
I had been on quite a personal journey with God for several years beginning with my own sever illness and I realized, talking to Gary, that I too needed assurance that Dad had indeed heard and understood all the things I had told him about Jesus, God and Heaven. If I could just make sure that he knew how to get to the loving arms of Jesus, so he could get to Heaven and be waiting for me someday, I would feel much better. So Gary and I went to the hospital Chapel and prayed together for all these things, and for my Mom and all the rest of our family, and for all the MacIntosh clan, as well. We were there for quite a while. The Chapel was such a peaceful place. The Lord was surely there! And, there were plenty of places to sit. The Chapel wasn’t crowded at all.
That afternoon, Dad stopped responding to anyone. For two more days there was no sign of life, as the breathing machine pumped away for him. The doctors felt that there was probably just too much brain damage for him to respond any longer. It was a dark, ugly time. He remained completely unresponsive. I was so discouraged. I sat by his bed one afternoon, just being there while he lay lifeless. I felt there was very little chance left that we might ever have a chance to talk to him again.
As that thought overwhelmed me, I just broke into huge hot tears and sobbed with grief. How would I possibly get by without this man in my life? The Dad who God himself had surely sent to me when I was a damaged abused little girl in need of some hope. He had been so perfect for me and had redeemed my trust in men generally. His impact on my life was as though ordered up for me by a great physician somewhere. So, how could that Great Physician be taking him away now? I still needed him!
The same nun who had helped my mother with a bed came by and began to comfort me. She had the sweetest, most melodic voice I had ever heard. As she spoke I felt she had been sent from Heaven from the Lord, Himself. She said the wisest thing anyone had ever said to me before, or since. She said, “Take this very special time with your Dad to help him and to help yourself adjust to this change in your lives. Cry if you feel like crying. Spend all the time you need. Laugh if a funny memory comes to mind. But most of all tell your Dad anything you want him to know. Just quietly talk into his ear and tell him what you think he wants to know about, or needs to know about. And give him your permission to let go if it is his time. He is working very hard here at staying alive, and maybe it is time to let him go. Just think about that and tell him whatever is on your heart. Don’t worry about whether or not you think he can year you. Just do it.”
Just then my Mom came in and asked if I wanted to go to lunch. A friend had dropped by and was taking her to a restaurant down the street for a break. I declined and decided that this would be a good time alone with Dad to do just as the Nun had suggested.
So I began to chat with him, quietly and prayerfully into his ear. I cried alligator tears, but told him not to worry about me because I was going to be OK. I thanked him for all he’d been in my life. I reminisced about all the good and fun times we had had together. I finally told him he was dying of a cancerous brain tumor and that he probably was not going to get better. I promised him that I would always make sure that Mom was taken care of. I told him that he had been a wonderful husband and father. And finally, I told him that it was time for him to let go of all his responsibilities here and prepare to go on to a more beautiful place Christ had prepared for him in Heaven. I told him that he could just confess anything he had ever felt was sinful and accept the loving arms of Christ. I told him he needed to die, because I knew he wouldn’t want to keep living in this state. It was hard to say some of these things, but it was what I thought he would want to hear. At one point I looked up and saw a pool of water in the corner of his eyes. I wondered what that was and dabbed it dry with a Kleenex.
Before I finished, I couldn’t help myself; I made a request of him. I said, “If there is any way you can possibly pull together enough strength to wake up just once before you die, it would mean so much to everyone. Gary wants to tell you he loves you. And Jim Jr. is really upset. I think it would help him a lot to know for sure that you know he is here. Joyce wants to tell you she loves you too. And Mom feels so badly about you not being able to hear her. If you could just open your eyes long enough to smile at folks and lift your legs or squeeze hands as a signal, you wouldn’t have to say anything. If you can’t do that, it’s OK. It would just mean so much if you could.”
I looked again and his closed eyes were both filled with tears. As I dabbed them dry again I thought to myself, “Is it possible that he is crying? No Don’t lose sight of reality here, Cheri. He is in a deep coma and all that was probably just good therapy for YOU. That’s just a little water accumulating in is eyes.”
I had been there talking into his ear for over an hour, so I told him I was going out for a stretch and a drink of water, but that I would be just outside the door. I made my way through the usual crowd in the waiting from and strolled the hall for a while. I was just bending over the water fountain getting a drink when I heard a lot of commotion coming from the ICU. A nurse had come running out in a panic yelling, “Where is Cheri? We need her in here!”
My first thought was “O no, I killed my Dad. I told him to go ahead and die and he did.” But then the nurse caught up with me. “He’s awake,” she said, “Come quick!”
I ran past and over everyone in the waiting room, who were probably also sure he had died. As I reached his bedside he turned his head and looked at me. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I felt a warm lifting joyous rush race throughout my body. In disbelief I said, “Dad, you did it! You really did it I love you so much!”
AS I looked at him his eyes looked a little dazed, as though he was trying with all that was in him to stay with us for the moment. And yes, he was crying. Tears were streaming down his face. He lifted first one leg and then the other, and then squeezed my hand, like a kid showing off how well he could do exactly what he had been asked to do.
Gary had heard the nurse and raced in with me. He was now on the other side of the bed with Dad squeezing his hand. Tears were rolling down Gary’s face as he kept saying, “I love you Dad, I love you Dad.” And each time Gary said it, Dad squeezed his hand.
I ran over to the door and yelled to everyone to come in, that Dad was awake. The scene I recall next will be forever etched into my memory banks. Here was this hero of a man, in his bed surrounded by all his kids. He would move his head slowly and focus with intent on each one of us while he showed off by lifting his legs and squeezing every hand. All at once it seemed like this little ICU was filled with adults all yelling, “I love you Dad! I love you Dad!” and really meaning it, like a bunch of exuberant five-year-olds. Thank you God was racing over and over again through my mind as that warm rush just seemed to lift my feet off the floor and the peacefulness and joy of this beautiful moment overwhelmed me.
O my gosh! It suddenly dawned on us that Mom was down the street at the restaurant. This was the first time she had left the hospital in over a week. I am not sure now who left, but someone said, “I’ll go get her,” and took off running two blocks down the street. Dad was starting to look very tired, so I made it my job to keep him awake until Mom got there. “Don’t go to sleep yet, Dad. Mom is on the way. She really wants to talk to you!”
So everyone took their turn at his side, talking to him, while we prayed Mom would get back in time. Missing this opportunity would just crush her. At last, she came rushing in saying “Jim? Jim? I love you,” and we all moved quietly back into the waiting room to give them some time alone. There was joy in that waiting room that day. Real celebration and rejoicing was happening. Thanksgiving came early that year!
Mom came out, obviously relieved that she had been able to talk to him. She said that he was awake enough and strong enough that they were removing the breathing machine. They were sure he would be able to breathe, they just didn’t know how long he could keep it up. The joy began to fade as we began to realize that this was really the beginning of the end.
Mrs. McIntosh died that day. We hugged and grieved with her family too. We all felt related by this time.
Dad died the next day. It was sad for all of us to be sure. But the gift he gave us by waking up is a bright spot of joy that lives in all our hearts. Even the non-believers knew they had seen the hand of God that day. I have missed him a lot, but always felt indebted to that wise Nun, for that last chat I had with him. I was blessed with the chance to help Dad die with such dignity and heroism, encircled by a spontaneous eruption of the unrestrained love of his family, that he so richly deserved.
©Cheri Douglas/When Heaven Comes to Dwell/ all rights reserved 2009
Matthew 19:14