Saying goodbye to Dad

By Jeff Becraft

 

I know my last article talked about my Dad moving on to Higher Ground, but while it is still fresh on my mind, I’m going to delve into the process of saying goodbye.  Perhaps it will resonate with someone who has already been down this path… or maybe someone who will be going down this path. I know that many people have been on a longer road than what I am going to describe. I won’t try to cover everything and there are some very significant things that are left out because of space; I will be simply giving my perspective on the overall experience of the last days.

My Mom passed back in 2022. She was the first parent we had to say goodbye to.  She had had alzheimer’s for 14 years and the last two years of her life she was confined to bed.  We were having our first ever Gala for Our Place of Hope that evening and I got the phone call in the morning that Mom was going on hospice. I immediately packed and headed towards Maryland. The next day would be the last time I saw Mom alive. I wrote about that experience three years ago.

For Dad, it was more of a process. He, too, had been bedridden for the past two and a half years, mostly from the first time he had covid.

Several weeks ago, I got the call that Dad was heading to the ER with cold-like symptoms.  I started to pack but didn’t leave until the next day – our daughter, Hannah, went with Dad to the ER and my brother, Ed, and his wife, Sue, came over later that night.  While in the ER, Dad was diagnosed with covid.  Ed and Hannah both picked up covid from Dad.

Several weeks earlier, I had covid in South Carolina. Because I had already had covid, I could freely and easily go visit Dad in the hospital (although I still wore a heavy-duty mask).  Who would ever have thought that getting covid would be a good thing? But because I had already been down that path, I could visit Dad in the hospital. God has His timing.

Amazingly enough, Dad started to bounce back some from the covid about a week later. But that was short lived. The next day Dad was not as well.  Hannah and Ed and Sue were now back in the mix. Dad started going downhill. On one morning, I thought that this was it and was calling various family members and telling them they had 30 seconds to say whatever they wanted to say to “Grandad” over the phone. Brenda, my wife, drove up from South Carolina. They discovered that Dad had also developed sepsis.  Even though they started treating that, Dad was mostly sleeping and pretty much stopped eating.  In looking for what was causing the sepsis, they found another major health problem with Dad.

In meeting with Dr. A (who was phenomenal), we knew it was time to call in hospice.  Even though Dad was on hospice, he remained in the hospital and they simply moved Dad to a different wing of 3^rd floor.

The doctors and nurses were all fantastic and there is not room here to list each of them. In Dad’s new room, there was a lot more space.  The first night on hospice, Ed, Sue, and Hannah spent the night in the room. I tried to lie down on the floor for a while but decided I would head back to Dad’s house to try and get some sleep. An hour and a half later, I got a phone call from my brother saying that Dad had gone downward and so I headed back to the hospital at 3:00 a.m. Sue was asleep in the recliner and Hannah and Ed were positioned in chairs on both sides of Dad’s bed. I slept on this couch turned to flat bed.  Each day we thought was going to be Dad’s last.

It was certainly a time of changing emotions.  Dad was no longer talking or responding at this point. It is difficult to watch someone who was so full of life and love for others simply lying there. With one set of emotions, there was the hope that each breath would be Dad’s last. And then a nurse would come in and take Dad’s vitals and I would look at the screen and for a split-second think, “Alright… those are some great numbers.” And then I would catch myself and think, “What are you saying?… That you want Dad to just keep hanging on?”

Every day for the last several years, my brother and I would talk to Dad on the phone. In each conversation, we would tell him what he meant to us and that we loved him. My brother particularly emphasized this. At various times over the years when we weren’t sure if “this was it,” we could rest assured that we had already said to Dad everything we wanted to say.

Several times I stepped out of the hospital for a “window of refreshment” (something I wrote about several weeks ago) but each time I would get a call, “Dad’s breathing has changed… you better get back here.” For the last four days and nights, I joined Hannah in never leaving the room.

For those four days, Hannah held her Grandad’s hand day and night. The only time she let go was to use the restroom or stretch her legs for a few minutes and with each of those times, she would get someone to take her place so that someone was always holding Grandad’s hand.

Brenda would run back and forth to Dad’s house to take care of Hannah’s dogs. Each morning she would bring breakfast (two egg McMuffins and coffee creamer… I’m not a real coffee drinker). I would get a coffee from the nurses. I would eat one of the egg McMuffins and then eat the other one for lunch.

We never stopped talking to Dad, even though his eyes were closed and he was unresponsive. We are a big believer (and so was the hospice nurse) in that the person is fully aware of what is going on around them and that they can hear someone speaking to them. Hannah had instrumental hymns and hymns with words (songs that Dad would like and enjoy) playing around the clock, even through the night. We would talk to Dad, pray with/for Dad, sing songs, and read verses from the Bible. Hannah would often touch Dad’s shoulder and say, “Hey Grandad, it’s Hannah. It’s OK Grandad, everything has been taken care of.” (I referred to this when I spoke at Dad’s memorial service but it would need an email all by itself to list all the implications of those words.)

Each afternoon and night, Sue and Ed would come over. Sue would go out and pick up dinner for all of us. We would sit and eat dinner, tell stories about Dad, talk about family adventures… and laugh. Sometimes there was deep sorrow (and tears)… and other times there was deep joy and laughter. I would lean over and say to Dad, “Dad… we’re sitting around telling stories about you and laughing and enjoying being with you. That’s the atmosphere that you and Mom created in our family, Dad. Thank you for all that you and Mom did for us. We’re carrying on the tradition you all started.”

I slept in my clothes every night. I took a shower once.

On the fourth day, I was getting ready to eat some lunch and I looked over and saw that Dad looked very different. I mentioned this to Brenda. She reached over and felt his pulse and said, “His pulse is really weak.” Hannah had fallen asleep in the chair (still holding her Grandad’s hand) and we woke her up and said, “We think this is it.” I called my brother on the phone. Even though he had already said everything he wanted to say, one last time he reiterated how much he admired Dad and loved him.

And then my Dad did not breathe anymore. I went to the nurses’ station and informed them. After checking him, they contacted the doctor. If I had to do it over again, I would have stepped out of the room while the doctor did his examination. Dr. A told us how sorry he was for our loss. I spoke to the nurses and said, “I don’t want to be in there when you all clean him up… but I want to be with him until you can come in. I know he is no longer here… it is simply an issue of honor. I don’t want his body left alone.”

Hannah was physically and emotionally spent and she left. Brenda and I started packing up everything that was there that had been part of “base camp.” It was more than just packing up from the four days… it was the closing of a chapter. I stood one last time at the end of Dad’s bed and wept.

The nurses came in and I turned to leave. I said to Dad, “Dad, I know you are no longer here. But you are a great Dad and I love you. I look forward to seeing you one day.”

As I headed out of the room, it seemed almost surreal. I was carrying several bags – my diabetic bag, my backpack (which had just about anything that can be imagined stuffed into it), and another bag that had snacks and clothes stuffed into it.

As I walked down the hallway of the hospital with the bags slung over my shoulders, I felt like I was walking down the corridor of an airport heading to a gate. Except I wasn’t the one going anywhere… it was Dad who was changing addresses.

 

Jeff Becraft is the Director of Our Place of Hope and the Director Emeritus for Youth Corps and has dedicated much of his life to helping shift the vision of people’s lives. Our Place of Hope is a paradigm shift for people living with mental illness that encourages them to regain meaning, purpose, and hope for their lives. You can connect with Jeff at  jbecraft4TN@gmail.com.