When Dad left the hospital, not even a week ago, he told my sister-in-law that he was going to die in two weeks. He said God had told him so. Later he admitted to me that it was his own idea, but he thought it was a good one 🙂

He settled into the skilled nursing facility and started rehab. He seemed to be gaining strength, walking halfway back to his room as part of his Monday morning therapy. By the afternoon he was listless and “low.” He had become dehydrated in the cycle of fluid retention and diuretics. On Wednesday, the doctors started a slow drip IV. He rallied briefly, but his body began shutting down.

He spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day gradually declining and becoming less responsive. We opened gifts with our family Christmas morning and left to drive to Detroit. When we arrived he seemed to be noticing who was in the room and occasionally attempting to talk, though never quite managing. His breathing seems labored, though not uncomfortable.

The dying process is an exercise in waiting. At first, there were all the things you (and others) wanted to say. There were scriptures to read, songs to sing, and prayers to be prayed. Then came a long quiet night that was more sleep-like. I wanted to be nearby, to make sure someone was with him for that “moment” but found that the moment stretched into long hours of quiet, cat-naps, and visits from the nursing staff.

The hours have now stretched into days and the valley of the shadow of death seems hard. We are realizing how fortunate we were last year with Mom’s very brief hospice experience (and really glad that Dad did not have to watch his wife go through this or vice versa.)

There are so many sweet moments in this waiting period, but also some that are really, really hard. The hardest part is not being able to understand anything he whispers to us. He is able to say a clear “no” but we can’t know for sure what he is thinking or feeling. He seems agitated at times and we want so badly to help.

I also feel like I am tottering along a precipice. I know that there is great grief on the other side of this journey but though I cry at times, I can’t give in to grief just yet while my Dad still lives and breaths and clutches my hand. I want him to be released from this body, and yet I want to hold on to his presence. I want him to be home with his Savior (and my mom) and yet, I know how greatly he will be missed. The nurse in me accepts this as part of life to be embraced; the daughter in me cries out for relief. Faith sustains me and my heart is full of hope for the future; but the present reality is just so harsh.

Please pray for us.

I literally looked up from writing the last words and saw that my Dad had stopped breathing. There were a few more movements and then a simple peace. Dad is finally home. December 28, 2014, 12:50 AM