Saying Goodbye to Dad: 6 Unexpected Thoughts On Hospice

You walk the halls with other dazed-looking family members and wonder what brought you to this strange facility called hospice. 

It’s a place of intersections.  On one hand, it’s the world of the living --busy and bustling with plans and schedules.  On the other, it’s the world of the dying, the silent, unknowable spirit world.

Here are 6 things I've observed while saying goodbye to my beloved 82 year-old father... 

They work to make it cheerful – In the hallway, a man sits and plays acoustic guitar.  Care-dogs trot through the halls. My father has a blue hand-made prayer shawl over him knit by a local church group. Brightly-colored blankets cover sofas, giving a homey atmosphere.  

The staff is polite, competent, and soft-spoken.  I wonder how they deal with the sadness each day, knowing none of their patients will walk out.

People wearing “Family” stickers are everywhere.  In elevators, rooms and the cafeteria, there’s much sniffling and crying.

Outside is Long Island Sound – Poignantly, for all the life ebbing away inside, outside the world is teeming with vitality and beauty.  Seagulls swoop and cry.  The water ebbs and flows as the tide washes in.  Brightly-colored sailboats dot the horizon.  A sea breeze blows. Children run toward the sand with pails and shovels, followed by young mothers.  Life goes on. 

All the sights and sounds my father used to love are tantalizingly out of reach.  Because of late-stage Parkinson’s, he can’t sit up.  He can only stay on his side and watch the sky and clouds pass by his window. 

Love is all that matters – I’ve never watched anyone pass away, let alone someone I care about.  I’m struck by how we need each other at both ends of life, to enter and exit this world.  The dying person is as helpless as a newborn baby.

In hospice it doesn’t matter how rich, smart, beautiful, or famous you are.  What matters is who you love.  Who loves you?  Who cares when you go?  Who’s there to help? 

My brother, sister and I take turns stroking my father’s cheeks, holding his hands.  Other families surround other beds.  An Indian-looking man with gray hair and beard lies nearby.   A woman my age who’s always there and looks like him catches my eye as she walks by.  We nod to each other, two daughters united in sadness.

My father’s been lucky – Up till a few years ago, Dad led a good life.  He had a healthy, robust body.  He was surrounded by loving family, living in Connecticut.  He never knew tragedy or loss.  He had three healthy kids and a long, strong marriage to his best friend.  He always worked.  We always had a wonderful home with food on the table.  He has much to be proud of and we tell him every day.

Yet the end is hard.  The man who loved a good sirloin and ice cream can no longer swallow.  He’s only allowed swabs of lemon ice or water.  The man who loved to sit and talk and laugh can no longer speak.  We all listen when he tries to communicate but can’t understand. 

Everything comes full circle -- My mother and I sit on either side of Dad, each stroking a hand.  “Remember when Laurie learned to walk and would come into our bedroom so early in the morning?” she asks him.  My father opens and closes his eyes as if in response. 

I have pictures of my parents holding me, their first child, almost sixty years ago.  Since then, so many conversations, debates and laugh sessions have taken place around the kitchen and dining room tables.

Now we sit together for one of our last times.  I thought it would never end.  But it does.  And I know so many families who have gone through this.  Its simply our turn.

My mother did her best. These last few days are the final act in a romance that began 60 years ago on Cape Cod.  My parents met.  They fell in love.  They lived happily ever after.  And after spending the last three years taking care of Dad full-time, Mom should be proud.  She gave her all.  She made my father’s final years as happy as she could.  She was a good wife.

Today she brings her face close to Dad’s, “We had a good run, didn’t we, Cliff? Weren’t we lucky?” My father opens his blue eyes and tries to speak.  She leans in but can’t understand.   

A seagull flies by the window, calling out.  My father turns his eyes toward the sound.  My mother leans over, adjusting his blue prayer shawl.  “I love you,” she whispers. 

A few days later, my father passed away peacefully.