My father passed away today at 3:25 PM. Most everyone that has read my posts through the last two weeks (Exactly) has followed this short, desperate, and ultimately, losing battle to Pancreatic cancer. Here are some of the, what I would call odd coincidences of this, just to get it off my chest: 1. He began feeling bad on Veterans Day, Nov 11. He died on December 11. 2. We received the news from the hospital doc at Wake Med on Thanksgiving Day, at 3:15 in the afternoon. His death occurred exactly two weeks and 10 minutes later. Those are just a little strange, but today takes the cake: He was entered into the hospice care facility on Trinity road at 11 AM this morning. There were five of us there with him, mom, my sister, my wife, my Aunt Audrey, and me. My sister and I went out to get some lunch for everyone at 12 or so. My son arrived around 2, and mom, Audrey and Gina left at that time to go home and clean up from being on the all night vigil at Rex Hospital the night before. My son, wife and I sat in the room reading literature they had left us. I was reading details of what to expect as a persons death grows near, and my father laying in the bed was showing ALL the traits the pamphlet was describing. We were lightly discussing the circumstances of the day, when my son noted that his papaw may be waiting to let go till we were not around. That little pamphlet had suggested that this was one of the scenarios that often happens, and I suspected through out this ordeal that my father, being a quiet, private man, would want to die alone, and not have us watch him go. Earlier in the day, we had been discussing with the counselor the particulars of our situation, and I had recounted, (Well, tearingly blubbered) what I had said to my father last night, about letting go because we would be all right. She assured me that he could hear my words, as hearing is usually the last sense that is disabled nearing death. At about 3:10, CJ said he was going to go head home and take care of some stuff. I went to my fathers side, patted his head, and said Dad, I love you. We are going to walk CJ out, and we will be back in about 10 minutes. He had been raising his eyebrows quite frequently today, and as I said this, he raised them again. We walked out, and took CJ outside, then Jennifer and I sat in the lounge there for a couple of minutes just worrying and fretting. We then went back to his room. Jen stopped at the coffee machine area, and I continued down the hallway. I saw one of the nurses go into his room to do a check. I walked in a few seconds after she did, and when I looked at my father, I noticed his chest no longer rising. She was checking him, and then looked back at me. I asked her if he had passed. She said Let me get my stethoscope, but I believe he has. She was back in a few seconds, and then confirmed his passing. I swear to you all, what I have written is the truth. Most of you know what happened next, That initial tidal wave of grief at losing the loved one, some relief that their suffering is over, and then the phone calls to begin letting family know. (I am fighting partial laryngitis, so that was an ordeal as well.) And finally that steady flow of sadness that lasts a while till you can get your bearings again and come to grips with what you have lost. My sister and mom arrived shortly after, and we did our best to console my mom as she stood over my father. We got through that initial wave together. My sister made most of the phone calls to get the things you have to do at times like these due to my voice problem. I cannot thank her enough. I have the distinction of being the last voice my father heard, the last hand that touched his head. That should have been my mother, but circumstances give it to me. I believe, in my heart and soul, that he wanted to spare us all that final moment of his earthly struggle. But especially my mom. He was looking out for her right up to the end. Id like to think that maybe my words assured him he had done his work well to build a strong wife, children, and grandchildren, and helped him let go of this life. I hope to find out someday. I normally use facebook for trivial crap like political cartoons, wishing friends a happy birthday and stuff like that. These last two weeks, I have used it as an outlet to relay this bridge crossing of life that we all endure at some point. If I would try to convey these tales I have of my remembrances of my dad in person these last two weeks, I would have only been able to blubber like a scared 16 year old, trying to explain to his dad how he wrecked the car. I thank all who have read these posts and passed on their prayers and concerns, and now, condolences. Writing all this stuff down has kept me going, as it was a place I could spill it out and not bottle it up, like I usually do. I have many other funny stories of my dad, but I believe now I will keep them to myself, and hold them a little closer, till I can share them with folks is general conversation. Not sure how long that will take. Most of you know that feeling I am sure. My father graduated from High School as class Valedictorian in 1959, a year early. He had just a few hours to go to get a batchelors degree in Chemistry in the late 60s, but stopped because he could not afford it, with a wife and two small children. He was an Analytical Chemist, and was considered one of the best in the world at it at one time. He could also be in a room full of Chemists and Chemical Engineers with PH-Ds and even Doctorates in the field, and be equal to them in knowledge and intelligence, (And there is a difference in the two, he would always say) He found that amusing, as he was a country boy from Quick West Virginia, who, on paper, had only a high school education. He left us with a lot of good memories that will soon replace the horrid memories of the last two weeks. Our family will take him back home to West Virginia for burial. We will put him high on the mountain in the Hoyt Chandler Family Cemetery down the bustling road of Sugarbush Hollow, in Roane County. He wont be wearing a necktie. (He hated them things!) When my day comes to let go and reach out for the light, I am sure my dad will be holding it, ready to give me another The Talk. I kind of look forward to it. Thanks Dad, for all you did, Rest easy, we got it from here. I love you.
Posted on: Fri, 12 Dec 2014 04:50:39 +0000
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