In Texas homes have to be designed to keep their occupants cool. That's not a statement about social status; it's a fact of practicality. It gets really hot there. Having grown up in Southern California I was accustomed to stucco and forced, swamp cooler air keeping the heat at bay. But in Texas they use lots of brick and sunken floor plans that are void of sunlight to help keep cool. It is a design that lends an almost subterranean existence to the way people live in order to escape the heat. It was in a Texas house like this where we brought Dad to die. It was made of brick and the living room was sunken and dark. The carpet was thick and smelled of every cigarette Dad ever smoked over it. The sofas were comfortable and inviting and the view from them was of family photos, shelves of books, and a TV that was too small by current standards. It was a good room to die in, at least I thought so. It was an appropriate place for the end. Death could come and wait for his charge in the cool comfort of Dad's living room. It would be OK because this was home.
The amount of anguish I feel when writing these events amazes me. It explains why there are months between them. It takes me that long to build courage, recover, and then build again. And they frighten me. I wish I understood why. I am trying to understand now.
Hospice delivered a big hospital type bed to Dad's house. We moved the furniture around and the living room became a rest home, an ICU, a chapel, and a bit of a nut house. The bed was on wheels and could be raised or lowered so we could move him around easily. I honestly don't remember the time between leaving the hospital and arriving at the house and laying him on that bed. I must have blocked it out. It's odd to me how some things are so vivid about the whole affair and then others are so vague. I believe Sharon and Joe rode with Dad in the ambulance. Or maybe it was just Sharon. I honestly don't remember. It wasn't me though. That I'm sure I'd recall. It must be the gray hairs on my head causing the loss of memory. More likely though it's the trauma of the event that's wiped moments from my mind and added more grays than my years warrant. Regardless, I can still see that big bed in my mind. It was empty, and then it wasn't. He was all of a sudden there swimming in those white sheets that would soon become his death shawl.
When he left the hospital the catheter that had been helping keep him alive was left in his neck. I'm only understanding now that the reason they left it in place was because they knew there was no reason to take it out. He'd be dead soon so why bother. I didn't like it and wanted to wipe away any remnant of the ICU Death House that I could. So I decided that I'd take it out myself...because I was qualified to do that, totally. I guess I thought it would make him look less sickly, or maybe more dignified. Hell, maybe I was just morbidly curious. I don't know what I was thinking. Then I was stunned...by the length of the plastic tube, as I pulled it kept coming, and coming, and coming out of his neck. Then by the amount of blood that began to pour out of the hole I had created. There was so much blood; dark, rich blood. It was coming out of him like a faucet had been opened up. And it wasn't the bright red fluid of my conscience thought either. No, it was an iridescent black color that shimmered as it fell through my fingers like some strand of wet dark pearls. It spilled onto his sheets and painted an ugly tapestry that reminded me of Death's terrifying presence. The difference between a little blood and a lot of it can be choking to the senses. I had seen blood before. I once saw a man that had his throat viciously slashed open. There was a lot of blood then but I felt none of the fear or panic that I felt at this moment. I thought I had just killed my father. I was certain that he was going to bleed to death because of my ignorance. The perverseness of that moment is oddly humorous now. I am not laughing as I write this, but I sure I wish I could. Then the panic and dread I felt was quickly eased by my grandmother. She came to my side and calmly instructed me to just place pressure on the wound. It was so simple. After a few minutes the bleeding stopped. Oh, my grandmother, the saint that she always seems to be, helped me overcome a fear I hope to never experience again. But it's unjust, almost offensive, that she had to be there at all. No parent should have to watch their child die. But in a moment, one of her own certain grief, she had the presence of mind to be calm and think clearly and help me. I am such a selfish man.
Along with the bed, the hospice nurse that came with it brought morphine. She sat down with everyone present and instructed us on how to best care for Dad during his final hours. Before we left the hospital his doctor explained that once removed from life support he may only live a few hours in our home care. I don't remember the exact time given, but I think 8 hours or so was expected. The hospice nurse wasn't exact either but generally concurred with the assessment. So for the time being she explained how we should simply keep him comfortable and administer morphine orally to him as we best saw fit. She left a small bottle of it with a dropper cap and when we thought there was pain we could give him the liquid ease in metered doses. She also explained that we'd have to change his bedding as his body expelled its contents and soiled them. Then finally she advised that we, the living, should take care to comfort each other during what she described would be a traumatic and emotional time.
So our vigil began. There was family there; Dad's wife, his mother, his sister, and one of his brothers. To the best of my recollection there were extended family and spouses there too but I honestly can't recall. And then, of course, there were "The Boys." I had never before been as acutely aware of my role as one of "Jim's boys" as I was during this time. My brothers and I were always "The Boys" to our Texas family. Maybe it was a southern thing. Or maybe the label grew out of some kind of disassociation they had with us because we grew up apart from them. I don't know. I had never felt like it was a burden to be his son before and Lord knows I was trying my best to fulfill my destiny and responsibility during those final days of his life. But today I feel a little resentment for having been labeled that way then. I felt branded and who were they to coral me into that pen? I feel like I'm coming to terms with the weight of it now, but at the time I didn't know how heavy the burden was. I didn't want it. And today the honest truth is that he didn't deserve it. Who were they to tell me of responsibility? Did they ever make him feel the weight of his lack of accountability? Did they remind him about all the missed birthdays and holidays? Did they label him with some other name as he sped passed our lives in his Cadillac or Corvette but couldn't be bothered to send our mother a check? How did they brand him for being the King of Broken Promises? I dare say they never did. They never called him father because they didn't have to. They were enablers one and all. No...he was always just "Jim" to them. And so not only did I have no choice but to be his son, I also had no choice now but to bare witness to a living nightmare and then also help ease its passing. I felt marked and helpless and forced to watch my father die, when all I ever wanted...ALL I EVER WANTED was to see him live. It wasn't fair, but then when is it ever? I'm glad today that I have finally purged some of the resentment. It feels good, and I have no regret. I said it, and like the bloodletting image burned into my mind of those last days, I can't ever take it back.
I think I've digressed a bit. I will forgive myself considering the circumstances. But let me get back to it. Now comes the really hard part, the images and moments that I've buried away for almost ten years...The Death Throws.
-Jim Franks
The amount of anguish I feel when writing these events amazes me. It explains why there are months between them. It takes me that long to build courage, recover, and then build again. And they frighten me. I wish I understood why. I am trying to understand now.
Hospice delivered a big hospital type bed to Dad's house. We moved the furniture around and the living room became a rest home, an ICU, a chapel, and a bit of a nut house. The bed was on wheels and could be raised or lowered so we could move him around easily. I honestly don't remember the time between leaving the hospital and arriving at the house and laying him on that bed. I must have blocked it out. It's odd to me how some things are so vivid about the whole affair and then others are so vague. I believe Sharon and Joe rode with Dad in the ambulance. Or maybe it was just Sharon. I honestly don't remember. It wasn't me though. That I'm sure I'd recall. It must be the gray hairs on my head causing the loss of memory. More likely though it's the trauma of the event that's wiped moments from my mind and added more grays than my years warrant. Regardless, I can still see that big bed in my mind. It was empty, and then it wasn't. He was all of a sudden there swimming in those white sheets that would soon become his death shawl.
When he left the hospital the catheter that had been helping keep him alive was left in his neck. I'm only understanding now that the reason they left it in place was because they knew there was no reason to take it out. He'd be dead soon so why bother. I didn't like it and wanted to wipe away any remnant of the ICU Death House that I could. So I decided that I'd take it out myself...because I was qualified to do that, totally. I guess I thought it would make him look less sickly, or maybe more dignified. Hell, maybe I was just morbidly curious. I don't know what I was thinking. Then I was stunned...by the length of the plastic tube, as I pulled it kept coming, and coming, and coming out of his neck. Then by the amount of blood that began to pour out of the hole I had created. There was so much blood; dark, rich blood. It was coming out of him like a faucet had been opened up. And it wasn't the bright red fluid of my conscience thought either. No, it was an iridescent black color that shimmered as it fell through my fingers like some strand of wet dark pearls. It spilled onto his sheets and painted an ugly tapestry that reminded me of Death's terrifying presence. The difference between a little blood and a lot of it can be choking to the senses. I had seen blood before. I once saw a man that had his throat viciously slashed open. There was a lot of blood then but I felt none of the fear or panic that I felt at this moment. I thought I had just killed my father. I was certain that he was going to bleed to death because of my ignorance. The perverseness of that moment is oddly humorous now. I am not laughing as I write this, but I sure I wish I could. Then the panic and dread I felt was quickly eased by my grandmother. She came to my side and calmly instructed me to just place pressure on the wound. It was so simple. After a few minutes the bleeding stopped. Oh, my grandmother, the saint that she always seems to be, helped me overcome a fear I hope to never experience again. But it's unjust, almost offensive, that she had to be there at all. No parent should have to watch their child die. But in a moment, one of her own certain grief, she had the presence of mind to be calm and think clearly and help me. I am such a selfish man.
Along with the bed, the hospice nurse that came with it brought morphine. She sat down with everyone present and instructed us on how to best care for Dad during his final hours. Before we left the hospital his doctor explained that once removed from life support he may only live a few hours in our home care. I don't remember the exact time given, but I think 8 hours or so was expected. The hospice nurse wasn't exact either but generally concurred with the assessment. So for the time being she explained how we should simply keep him comfortable and administer morphine orally to him as we best saw fit. She left a small bottle of it with a dropper cap and when we thought there was pain we could give him the liquid ease in metered doses. She also explained that we'd have to change his bedding as his body expelled its contents and soiled them. Then finally she advised that we, the living, should take care to comfort each other during what she described would be a traumatic and emotional time.
So our vigil began. There was family there; Dad's wife, his mother, his sister, and one of his brothers. To the best of my recollection there were extended family and spouses there too but I honestly can't recall. And then, of course, there were "The Boys." I had never before been as acutely aware of my role as one of "Jim's boys" as I was during this time. My brothers and I were always "The Boys" to our Texas family. Maybe it was a southern thing. Or maybe the label grew out of some kind of disassociation they had with us because we grew up apart from them. I don't know. I had never felt like it was a burden to be his son before and Lord knows I was trying my best to fulfill my destiny and responsibility during those final days of his life. But today I feel a little resentment for having been labeled that way then. I felt branded and who were they to coral me into that pen? I feel like I'm coming to terms with the weight of it now, but at the time I didn't know how heavy the burden was. I didn't want it. And today the honest truth is that he didn't deserve it. Who were they to tell me of responsibility? Did they ever make him feel the weight of his lack of accountability? Did they remind him about all the missed birthdays and holidays? Did they label him with some other name as he sped passed our lives in his Cadillac or Corvette but couldn't be bothered to send our mother a check? How did they brand him for being the King of Broken Promises? I dare say they never did. They never called him father because they didn't have to. They were enablers one and all. No...he was always just "Jim" to them. And so not only did I have no choice but to be his son, I also had no choice now but to bare witness to a living nightmare and then also help ease its passing. I felt marked and helpless and forced to watch my father die, when all I ever wanted...ALL I EVER WANTED was to see him live. It wasn't fair, but then when is it ever? I'm glad today that I have finally purged some of the resentment. It feels good, and I have no regret. I said it, and like the bloodletting image burned into my mind of those last days, I can't ever take it back.
I think I've digressed a bit. I will forgive myself considering the circumstances. But let me get back to it. Now comes the really hard part, the images and moments that I've buried away for almost ten years...The Death Throws.
-Jim Franks
