In the Shadows of the Football Stands

Dad dances with his mom at his sister Ann's wedding...and years later with his daughter at hers.

On September 25th, Dad was supposed to be up in Albuquerque, enjoying our mountain view, eating my husband Jory’s gourmet cooking, being entertained by three of his youngest and silliest grandkids. 
 
On September 25th, I sit at Dad’s bedside in Tucson with my sister Pauline, as his body slowly cools. 
 
My dad is a good man. 
He was, and always will be. He has transcended time now, so past, present and future all apply.
 
When Dad canceled his trip to visit us, I planned to drive down for a routine visit on Monday. However, on Sunday, Pauline emails, later texts, that Hospice confirms he has taken a serious turn for the worse. Panicked, I throw way too few clean pairs of underwear and clothes into a bag and hit the road. I call Marilyn, one of Dad’s best friends for the last 60 years. “Get a priest for Last Rites,” she urges me.
 
By the time I complete my seven-hour drive, I am stricken to learn that Dad has already been unconscious for five of them.  
 
His eyes are closed, mouth open. “Dad, I’m here. I’m here,” I tell him. His eyes roll in response and he twitches, as if confirming that hearing is the last sense to go.  
 
Exhausted, Pauline plans to go home. “Wait – what??”  I stop her.
​I’ve never been with anyone when they’ve passed away, and the thought of it scares me. I’m a product of my society, the one that has largely sanitized death and marginalized dying.
 
She looks at me.  
“He could die,” I say lamely.  
“That’s the plan,” she sighs. “There’s nothing to do but be here.” 
Isn’t that ultimately our challenge: not to do, do, do but just to BE?
 
Dad has a strict DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) order so he has eschewed hospital aid. The caregivers at his facility have permission to give him morphine every two hours as needed, and they do.  I recline in his chair, then make a bed from the couch cushions, as I greet the caregivers at midnight, 2am, 4am, 6am.  
 
I am by Dad’s bedside at 7:31 AM when he opens his eyes and focuses on me. “Dad!”  He knew I was coming, and he waited for me.
All I can think to say is, “I love you! I love you!” I see him acknowledge this, then he clearly tells me, “I love you.” This. This here is why I rushed across the desert. To see and hear him tell me this one last time is everything.
 
I tell him it’s OK to go, but he has already lapsed back into unconsciousness.  Convinced he can hear, I call his sister Helen and give her the chance to say goodbye. Then I FaceTime my brother Jake, still on the East Coast. The priest arrives, a soulful Nigerian who had just visited Mom in Memory Care. It is a beautiful ritual, these Last Rites.
 
Then, it's time to get Mom from Memory Ward. 
 
The sedative we had been waiting for has arrived. Mom is unaware that Dad is leaving us.
 Our family friend El advised (on my drive down) that we let Mom deduce (or not) what is going on with Dad.
 
Hunched in her wheelchair, Mom looks smaller, but is delighted to see me. I start to cry.
 
Upon seeing Dad, eyes closed, mouth open, stretched out, Mom says, “He’s not eating very much, is he?” 
Pauline had told me earlier that Dad had stopped eating on Wednesday, five days ago.  
“He’s not,” we agree.  
She studies him further. “He seems very tired.”  
“He is, Mom.”  
“He’s ready to go, isn’t he?”  
“Yes. He is.”
With this, she takes a breath. She looks at him, his eyes still closed, and tells him, “You did a good job, John. You can go now.” 
 
We sit in silence. Then Mom asks for the phone. She wants us to call one of her best friends from high school.  
“Um – Mom?” Jake asks from my phone on Facetime. “Don’t you want to talk to Dad instead?  I mean, while you still can?” 
Mom considers this. “No. I want to talk to Cathy.”
 
She goes on to request prayers from Cathy because, she explains, “John is in the shadows of the Football Stands now”.  I don’t know what Cathy makes of this, but since Dad was Captain of the Amherst College football team his Senior year, I find Mom’s assessment both poetic and accurate.
 
Later that afternoon, I sit alone with Dad for hours, putting cream on his feet and hands. I share last thoughts about the past, present and future. But mostly I just want to thank him. Over and over again. Despite classic growing pains, we forged an unshakable trust and devotion over the years. 
 
I have zero personal experience with death, but I’ve read that at the end, breathing gets more raspy, and there’s a dramatic death rattle with the last breath. 
 
I’ve also researched the fascinating phenomenon called “Death Bed Visions”, which is when the dying are greeted by beloved predeceased family and friends, who have come to escort them on. It's compelling because these apparitions are ubiquitous, transcending religion, culture, nationality and eras.  
 
In 1926, Sir William Barrett, a Professor of Physics at the Royal College of Science in Dublin, conducted one of the first measured studies with the dying, publishing his findings in a book titled "Death Bed Visions."
 
While Barrett was a colorful figure, three of his findings remain inexplicable, to him and everyone else: 

1. Many on their deathbed called out the names of loved ones. At the time, some of these loved ones were thought to still be alive, both by the dying and those in the room. However, communication in the 1920s was slow, and it was later discovered that every single loved one that was seen on any given death bed had previously passed away. Every. Single. One.
2. Several Catholic children on their death beds were surprised to find that the angels they were told would be greeting them had no wings, but looked like ordinary people. Photos were not common, so it’s likely these children didn’t recognize those predeceased family members who might have known them.
3. None of the dying showed any signs of fear when seeing these “ghosts” or apparitions.  

There’s been a boatload of research since, done by everyone from physicians to hospice care workers. None of it contradicts the above. 
 
Not knowing Dad would be in a coma, I had brought old photographs of Dad with his family, as a portal for him to launch into stories. But I now realize that on a subconscious level, I did this in the event of a deathbed visitation. I place these photos around Dad’s room: his mom on her wedding day, his Dad at his office.
 
There’s a photo of his sister Ann, the aunt I was closest to. Ann had a wicked sense of humor, and her phone calls often helped me through the tumultuous years of having two babies 18 months apart. (“You need a boy”, she would advise sleep-deprived me, while knee-deep in diapers, giving the toddler her pacifier, while burping the infant).
 
Classic Ann: two days AFTER she unexpectedly died, I receive a letter from her in the mail, which pretty much freaked everyone out. She was preparing to travel from New Hampshire to South Carolina for the winter. Mailing it must have been one of the last things she did.
 
Of course, being Ann, it contained a recipe for Foolproof Standing Rib Roast : “This is THE recipe!!” she emphasized. And then she wrote: “I’m off to warmer climates – one day more and I’d be a basket case. Looking forward to meeting new people and eating the ultra-ultra Carolina oysters”.  
 
Off to warmer climates and looking forward to meeting new people..??? I can hear Ann laughing from the grave as I read this. Like Dad, when they got laughing, their entire bodies would shake with mirth. Boy did she love life. This too, I learn, is a huge part of death: remembering the good times.
 
Later that night, I am alone again with Dad. Pauline has gone home, hospice has just given him his morphine, and I lie down, both tired and wired. I notice Dad’s breathing has changed. It is more ragged. I rush to his side. Nothing else seems different.  
 
I text Pauline: “May not mean anything but Dad’s breathing is more labored.” 
 
Her reply: “Hmm. Might be the beginning of the last stage.  Is it rattly?”
 
“Yes. I could hear it from the other room. Then it goes back to normal.”
 
“Thanks for letting me know. This is quite a journey.”  
(You think?!?!  In case you haven’t noticed, my sister tends to be understated).
 
Dad is working so hard to keep breathing. Something once taken for granted is now a troublesome chore, even a burden.
 
I text again, scared: “We’ve entered a new phase of ragged breathing – more consistent”
 
Her measured reply: “Seems like the end is closer, but I don’t know by how much. Hang in there Steph. Hope you can rest. I just took half a Benadryl, so I’d like to sleep for a bit but I can come up there if you want me to.”
 
Sleep? Hell no. I text: “I cannot rest with him working so hard. Hopefully it won’t be much longer.” 
 
No reply.  I don’t know how I know this, but I know this with certainty: she will miss his departure if she doesn’t come now.
 
I text, “I don’t think he will make it thru nite.”  I put down my phone. Nothing more to say.
 
The room is dark, lit by only the closet light. It is oddly peaceful. 
 
Dad suddenly opens his eyes. 
 
I gasp. “DAD!”
 
But he is not seeing me. This is not like when he opened his eyes before. He is lying down, gazing above, focused on something I cannot see. He is beyond the room.
 
I think of the Death Bed Visions. 
 
“Dad? Are you seeing them? Has your family come for you?” 
 
As if in response, he shuts his eyes and opens them again immediately. He has spent most of the past 29 hours with his eyes shut, no matter who was with him or what they said. Now he can't stop looking at something.
 
It is clear that whatever he is seeing, he likes, and is very focused on. 
 
I close my eyes in the darkened room and hold his hand. The room feels serene. All the fear I had been gripped with inexplicably drains away. In its place, I feel comforted. I can't exactly tell you why, but I start a roll call. Ann is the first I summon, because her I know. I have witnessed time and time again how much she loves her little brother. 
 
I open my eyes, and see only Dad, but can actually feel that we are not alone. I greet Dad’s mother and father, my grandparents I have never met. All those who have gone before Dad, I now call by name, remembering each of them: his sister Mary, Uncle Walter, Aunt Grace, Henny and Carmel, Aunt Mary, friends Paul, Jack, Mike. I am crying so hard the tears are pooling at my chin and dripping on to Dad.

“Come!” I tell them. “Come get your boy. Come. We love him, but he wants to go. So take him. Take him to God, to Love, to the Afterlife….” I sob. After awhile, drained, with nothing more to say, I whisper “Thank you, Thank you.”
 
During this, as if in participation, Dad keeps opening his eyes, gazing upon what I feel is with us in room softly lit by the closet light.
 
Now (and again, I can’t tell you why) I feel the urge to sing. To Dad, to our family, to all the Love I feel in the room, a love that is deeper than me, older than Dad, bigger than the sum of us. I look at his parents’ photos and the song that comes to me is Amazing Grace. Again, why this song?  I have no idea.  I haven’t heard it in years, but as if engrained in my cells, every word of every verse comes to me clearly. I’ve always wondered how singers can sing at emotional times without crying, and now I know. It just comes to you. I take my time as I sing: amazingly past tears, pitch perfect, the beautiful a cappella voice that is mine fills the room, caressing my Dad, who is leaving us.  
 
As I reach the song’s end, as if on cue, my phone rings. Pauline. She has come. 
She had texted me, but so engrossed was I in my song, I never heard the notice.
 
“Dad”, I say. “Pauline has come. I have to go and let her in downstairs. So I’ll be gone for five minutes or so. If you want to leave in privacy, we respect that. I hope you wait for her to be here. But you do what you need to do.”
 
With that, I race to the stairwell. My sister has brought a pillow and blankets. She does not understand that he might already be gone by the time we get back to the room, just as I did not understand that he would be in a coma when I arrived in Tucson. He is leaving us, and we know it, but we do not somehow understand it.
 
The night shift worker sees us and asks for an update. All I manage is, “He’s leaving us.”
 
But thankfully, he has not yet left. His breathing is still raspy. His eyes are closed, then open, to gaze on those he once again belongs with.
 
We sit on either side of him in the darkened room, my sister and I, each holding his hand.  
 
Again, when I rushed from my home I packed a scented candle, never never thinking of death. It was to write with. Now, I calmly I instruct my sister to light it. The flame gives the peaceful room a hallowed glow. 
 
From my iPhone, again – I don’t know why this song, or why the urge to still sing – I call up Cat Stevens’ Morning has Broken. Pauline and I sing along. As we sing, I start to remember how Dad loved this song. We sang it almost weekly at St. Joseph’s Church in Paris. Memories of us young, healthy and vibrant flood my mind. I see that (again, unaware) I have brought the 19th century stained glass window panel they purchased from St. Joseph’s Church right next to Dad’s bed. It is as if I am running on primal intuition, with no conscious planning. Other songs that Dad loved come to me, and we serenade the Room with them.
 
Pauline has been with us for about 40 minutes now.  Dad is still gazing fixedly on something, still struggling to breathe.
 
“What’s remarkable,” I muse, “Is what a long lifespan every one of his relatives (him included) had – except his parents.” 
 
She nods her head. 
“His dad died in his 40s” she recalls.
“His mom was about your age when she passed,” I realize.
 
“His Dad died of ulcers. Did his mom just give up?” she asks.
“No, Dad said kidney failure,” I tell her.
 
“Really? You know, Dad’s kidneys were never the greatest. Remember he used to get gout when we lived in Paris?” she recalls.
“Oh yeah!” I do remember, and never thought of kidneys.
“He never drank enough water. Ever,” she says.
“That’s true,” I agree.
“Not just when he was older. Even when he was young,” she muses.
 
“Wait - Oh my God – wait – did he just leave us?” I ask.
“No” she reassures me. “Hold on. He’ll start breathing after a beat. Just wait.”

Again, I don’t know how I know – I’m holding his hand which is still warm. But I know.
“Holy shit. There’s no wait.” I freak out, announcing, “He just died. Dad is gone. He’s gone!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah! Yeah…..”
There’s no pulse. 
 
“Ugh!” I groan. “Please tell me we were NOT discussing his kidneys and poor hydration when he left!! I mean, I was expecting this dramatic death rattle or  - but like – he just - – “
 
My sister gives me a half-smile. “Just like Dad. To slip out the back door unnoticed.”
 
She’s right. Anyone who knows Dad knows that he was very low key.
 
I suddenly start to laugh, “I feel like this has Ann’s humor all over it – once again. I can hear her say, “John – You gotta be kiddin’! They’re talking about whether you drank enough water???! Let’s go! ”
 
On a deeper level, I know Dad was content to leave while we were comfortably prattling on about something, no tears, no drama, just us together.
 
Three days later, Pauline will share her thoughts in a beautiful eulogy entitled We See Ourselves in our Parents. 
 
She closes it by remembering that one of Dad’s favorite quotes is by Robert Browning: “Come Grow Old with Me – the Best is Yet to Be”.  
She is spot on. Dad would quote this often, even in his Amherst Reunion books over the years.
“Now,” she continues, “it’s time to hear the last verse.”
(Huh, I realize. After all these years, I never bothered to actually read the poem – how DOES it end?”)
 
So, take and use Thy work: 
Amend what flaws may lurk, 
What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! 
My times be in Thy hand! 
Perfect the cup as planned! 
Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! 
​