Home Before Dark

I started to text my Dad the other day to tell him we had made it home safely from our trip to California. It felt like a punch to the belly remembering he wouldn’t be there to receive my message. In fact, I have his phone. I call it sometimes to say what’s in my heart. It’s not weird if I’m erasing the messages, right?

It mattered to my Dad that he knew where I was. He especially wanted to know that I’d made it home safely from work and road trips. It felt silly checking in with him all the time, especially since I’m a middle aged woman. So, at one point, I kind of stopped sending him updates. A few months ago, during one of our visits, he made it clear he wanted the texts. He said it wasn’t fair for him not to know that I’d gotten home. I understood. A parent’s heart never stops wondering or worrying. Dad was especially anxious over road trips. He had grown to hate driving. He knew highways could be dangerous; the back roads to Las Vegas undoubtedly so. And he was always especially concerned if one of us was out on the road after dark.

A couple of days into my hospital “shifts” with Dad, he tried to send me home at 4:30pm. “I don’t want you driving back up the hill (how we described the drive from Palm Springs to Yucca Valley) in the dark.”

“I know, Dad,” I replied. "It’s only 4:30, though. We’ve got more time.” We looked at the weather app on my phone to verify that sunset wouldn’t happen till 7:49pm.

“See,” I said, “I’ve got at least a couple more hours with you. I want to make sure you eat dinner and get comfortable before I leave.”

Thank goodness for long summer nights. If this had happened in December, he would have kicked me out after lunch!

Truth be told, I didn’t mind leaving the hospital before 8pm. Once I knew my Dad was stable and settled for the night, I really wanted to get back to our little place to eat and cry and regroup for the next day. My brother lives closest to the hospital, so he was the contact on record if anything happened. Dad was doing remarkably well by Sunday (almost a week after he was admitted). He had gotten out of ICU. But, still, we knew his body was dealing with a lot. I felt comfortable enough to leave him, but not comfortable enough to relax. If that makes any sense. I slept with my phone under my pillow and the ringer volume on high. I would wake up often to check it. Things were quiet, which was a good sign. By Sunday evening when I left the hospital, we were prepared for Dad to be discharged sometime the following day. I woke up early Monday to get back to him before breakfast. It was my turn to take the morning shift.

The second I saw my Dad, I knew something had changed. He had been making so much positive progress. I chirpily told everyone that he’d be settled at my brother’s home soon. But, something wasn’t right. He looked gray. He had been vomiting for hours. The guilt I felt- that I still feel- over leaving him overnight is like an elephant camping out on my chest. I made the best decision I could at the time- a decision a lot of other people would have made- but it wasn’t the right one. My Dad was aspirating. The mass on his lung had insisted that his breathing start to fail. I hovered over the nurses asking them what could be done. They were stoic. It is their job to be. So, no one panicked. At first. And then they did. And I did. And I stood in the corner helplessly crying as a team of eight medical professionals started pulling blood from Dad’s lungs and working on his heart and saying over and over again, “He has a DNR. He has a DNR.”

Dad and I had been talking. Then suddenly his oxygen mask made it impossible to talk again. We had been laughing. Then suddenly his condition made it impossible to laugh again. We had been hoping to get out of the hospital. Then suddenly it became impossible to hope again. I thought we had months ahead of us. Then suddenly I realized we had very little time left.

Hours passed after that. I wrote about it last week. We saw family. We actually shared good, lucid moments with Dad to exchange final words. We sat vigil at his bedside for 36 hours. We cried. We prayed. We prayed some more.

What you pray for in those moments is so completely foreign to your heart. You no longer pray for recovery. For more time together. For more memories. For more chances to say and do all the things you want to.

Instead you pray for peace. You pray for your loved one to pass easily. You pray for your Dad to get home before things get too dark.

By Tuesday evening, it had grown quiet. Dad was in a morphine haze. He wouldn’t be waking up again. But it didn’t seem like he would be passing soon either. His breaths had kept the same pace for several hours. I felt like we had some time ahead of us. Everyone did. So, most of the family went home. My brother was about to leave as well. I promised I would stay right my Dad’s side and try to call if something changed with his condition. Then, I noticed Dad’s hand had grown cold. The color had left his body. His breaths slowed to a near stop. “It’s time,” I said to my brother. He knew it as well.

A few minutes later, there were no more breaths. No more life. No more Dad this side of Heaven. I told my brother that I was going into “task mode” until I made it home. I was going to talk to the hospital staff, notify the mortuary, and take care of all the terrible administrative stuff so the family returning to the hospital could have the mourning time they needed.

With family gathered around Dad’s lifeless body, I stepped into the hallway to hug and thank the nurses who had cared for him, and for us. I signed what I needed to, said my goodbyes to family, and walked out toward the parking garage trying to remember where I had placed the car a lifetime ago.

As I drove, I called my husband and my daughter to tell them I was headed home and that Dad’s passing was peaceful. They needed that information. Everyone did. Then, I made the 30-minute drive amidst an everlasting sunset. Truly, it went on forever. Almost as if Dad requested it just for me. He didn’t know that I had struggled during previous drives home. The emotions, the high winds, the exhaustion. One night, I even screamed as loud as I could in the car, “Whhyyyyy, God? Whhhyyyyy? Whhhyyyy now? Whhhyyy is it so hard?”

On that last drive home, I didn’t feel like screaming. I wasn’t ready to cry either. I just wanted to feel the peace of Dad’s passing, and the joy of knowing he had made it home. Home to my Mom. Home to his Mom. Home to his Best Friend and so many others who left before him. Home to Jesus. Home.

I turned on the headlights, but barely needed them. It’s just something my Dad and husband both insisted on for safety. I pulled up to the our little place- our home away from home- right before 8pm. As I stepped out of the car, the sunlight surrendered to total darkness and I was greeted by my sweet husband and dog. It was then that I let go.

I texted my brother and sister: “I love you. I made it home before dark. Just as Dad would have wanted.”

And now, looking at us from his Heavenly viewpoint, Dad will always know when I’ve made it home.

Xoxo, B