It took a few days for a decision to be made about what to do with, or about, my dying father. The doctor was no help, as doctors often aren't. He gave us options but nothing really to hold on to, which was the only thing those of us involved really sought. Dad was too far gone and I think we all knew it. I could see hope fading on the family faces gathered in the theater. I think we were all seeking different paths to the end, and things like hope and expectations were manifesting in many different forms in that hospital room. There's no harder moment to face in life I think. The one where you know your loved one is going to die and that you have to decide whether to fall apart or pull back the curtain and expose the wizard.
Sadly, our grandmother was there to see her second child of five die. We were glad she was there to be the pillar we needed. But it was sad that she had to witness another of her dearly beloved struggling for life. She had buried her husband 2 short years earlier, and her youngest son had died long before that. That is, it seemed long ago to me, I think I was about 8 or 9 years old. But I'm sure that for a mother something like that freezes time and the agony of burying a child lives in your bones until you pass-on yourself. And my grandmother now had to do it for the second time. (She would do it a 3rd time just a few years later.) My grandmother Franks is an absolute rock of a woman, a Matriarch in every sense of the word. I will always regret not knowing her better. The distance between us caused by my parent's divorce was an unfortunate obstacle to that end. But now, bless her heart, when faced with her son's impending death she stayed in the background and let the natural order of things take its course. She could have stepped in at anytime and made her will as "The Mother" known, but to her credit, she did not. She helped when she could, consoled when needed, and found how best to grieve in such a way that never once showed that I could tell. And so that meant my step-mother, my brothers, and I needed to take the lead and make decisions. My step-mother, Sharon, despite her best qualities and love for my father, wasn't much help. She was still waiting for Dad to sit up and say hello. So that left "The Boys", which was fine I suppose. If it weren't for my inability to cope with Dad's life, much less his death, I'd have felt much better about this responsibility. But as it stood, I just wasn't ready.
There is shame here that I haven't been able to reconcile, and it isn't in my deathbed shortcomings. I think when the end comes for parents it is only natural for children to flounder and meander through the tough decisions. So on that point I am willing to give myself a rare break. No, for me there was shame in having felt relief that my dad was going to soon be gone once and for all. There was no longing for his life to stay behind "just a little bit longer" so that I could spend another precious moment in his company. I actually wanted it to be over, which I realize now means, (in hindsight), that I anticipated his passing as some form of respite. Maybe a final liberation from a lifetime of free-flowing pain was finally going to be shut off at the source. Maybe I just wanted instant gratification from the lingering sorrow that had been haunting me since I first stood at his deathbed and looked into his dying dolls eyes. I can't be sure today because this is the first time I've ever forced the thoughts from my mind onto something that I could actually see. But since I'm being honest now, and won't have the benefit of afterthought until tomorrow, I must say that it was probably all of the above. Shame has a way of emptying out the drawers and forcing all your dirty laundry onto the washboard. It gets clean or stays stained, but either way it all gets done.
My brothers and I decided after a few days of tears and anguish in the ICU that we were going to exercise some control over our father's final moments. It seemed ridiculous that he should breath his last breathe in that horribly sick fishbowl. I can't express how vile I felt there, (I believe we all did.) There was never any peace in that place and I, for one, wanted Dad to have a chance to die with some dignity. Or, I suppose it's more likely that I wanted to escape from those confines and find a safer place to grieve and process what was inevitably about to happen. Again, I can't be sure. So we decided to take him home to die in his living room. The doctor, of course, had nothing but dire warnings for this idea and took every opportunity to remind us that an ambulance ride at that point could have proven deadly. His stance here only served to anger me. For days we had been asking him what was going to happen and all he would ever state were "options" or "scenarios." He covered his ass by making sure to state in legal-speak that what he had to say was just opinion and could no way be expressed as fact due to the advanced nature of Dad's condition. In other words, the chickenshit son-of-a-bitch knew Dad was going to die but wouldn't say it out loud to us. I know he had a responsibility to the hospital, but just once I wanted him to acknowledge his responsibility to his patient's family. Needless to say, I was not pleasant to the man after a while and had to leave the talking to Joe and Sharon. As Dad's wife she had the final say anyway, and so it was through her that my brother's and I made the final call to take Dad home. She was scared at first because in some faraway place she was holding out hope that he was going to pull through. She didn't want to take a chance and have the ambulance ride result in a cardiac arrest and kill him, which is what the doctor warned could happen. But I give Joe more credit here for being able to calmly talk to her about our real options and then what was best for Dad and the entire family. He has a real gift that way, my brother. I was glad to let him take and keep the lead here because his words were soothing to me as well.
And so it went. The family prepared for what would be Dad's long last ride home. We talked to the Hospice people and signed all the papers. We cleared the living room of furniture and prepared other rooms for those living loved ones that would stay with us until the end. My brothers and I did a lot of talking at that time about plans, people, and pain. I think it was good for everyone involved to have a purpose and to feel like we were all part of something bigger and more important than just waiting for death to dictate to us. It's been hard after all these years to find a good part in this story. But walking out of that ICU for the last time and taking Dad to die in his home was certainly one. There's something to be said for the power that lies within gaining control over that which would normally overwhelm you. That's not to say my brothers and I thought we could cheat death on our father's behalf. But it was damn important that we did our best not to let the sorrow of it sweep over our lives, or the last bit of Dad's, completely.
-Jim Franks
