It’s Poetry Friday, and the talented, gentle, and generous Margaret Simon is hosting us on her blog, Reflections on the Tech. Check here to find out more about what constitutes Poetry Friday. Thank you for hosting, Margaret.
Many of you have followed my journey with my Dad. I appreciate all of the support and kind words more than you’ll ever know. I apologize for the cliche, but it’s true.
The day after I wrote my last post was hard. It was Saturday, February 22nd. Dad was too weak to get out of bed. He’s never spent the day in bed but this is what he chose to do when we asked him if he wanted to get up that morning. We should have known then he was closer to leaving us.
Since the day before he had trouble swallowing his pills and would choke on only water, I used the liquid morphine made available to us by hospice. The trouble with the liquid version of this medication was that it had to be given often, unlike the extended-release version that lasts 12 hours.
So, hourly, I gave him his morphine orally, with a syringe. The dose is small and absorbed in the mucosa of the mouth so he didn’t choke on it. It kept him comfortable. I called my sister to see if she was planning to come in to see him. It had been two weeks since she left his care in the hands of his neighbor. I felt strongly she should see him.
She agreed to come. When she mentioned playing a Lori Morgan song my dad loved, I told her that we were trying not to stimulate him and keeping the house quiet so he could rest. She understood. When she arrived, she sat with him for a few hours, just holding his hand.
I took over at his bedside late that afternoon. Sitting silently, holding his hand, praying, and saying soft words of love to my departing father. It was evident he was losing his cognition, barely responding when I asked him a question or told him to sip from a straw.
It was heartbreaking.
Around dinnertime, I gave him the liquid morphine and a sedative, Ativan, also prescribed by hospice. He had shown signs of agitation during the time my sister and I sat with him, moving his arms, grimacing, and gasping at times. Agitation is common in the time before death.
The medications seemed to do the job and he began to rest more comfortably. I repeated the morphine on schedule but waited to repeat the Ativan until later that evening. As I knew I needed to keep up the medication schedule, I set the alarm on my phone for 11:30pm, and every two hours after that.
My husband checked on him at 11:45 p.m. and found him resting comfortably. I woke at 1:20 a.m. spontaneously. The house was quiet except for the whoosh of the oxygen generator. I went to check on him and found that he had passed away. He looked so peaceful with one of his arms resting on his chest.
I woke my husband to come and check on my Dad with me – he’s a retired ER physician – just to be sure. And, he confirmed what I thought. My Dad had passed away. It was early on the 23rd of February.
In the morning we called hospice who called the funeral home. By nine o’clock that morning, the funeral home arrived to pick up his body which was to be cremated. I fell apart when they took his body from the house.
Our family has shrunk.
My parents were both only children. My sister and our families are what we have left. But there are many memories and photographs, and years and years of love left behind as well.
My dad died in the manner he desired – at home, with family caring for him, in his own bed, while he slept. It was the most humane way he could have gone and we were happy we could allow him these last desires.
I want to believe he’s with my mom. They met in kindergarten, were high school sweethearts, and married for 64 years. It’s time they were together again. Besides his declining health, my dad’s biggest problem was loneliness after my mom died in 2023. They were apart for a year and a half – which must have seemed like an eternity to him. Many of the condolences speak of how they are finally together again – now for eternity.
You know the rest.
My husband, my rock, and I have stayed at my Dad’s home to begin the cleaning process. For the last two weeks, we’ve tossed, saved, laughed, and reminisced about my parents. We’ve given things away to neighbors and taken gently used items to Goodwill.
My parents were fortunate to have a lot of “things” but most important of all they had was love.
Judith Kroll (March 2000) wrote a poem that appeared in the issue of Poetry March 2000 that speaks to this:
Your Clothes
By Judith Kroll
Of course they are empty shells, without hope of animation.
Of course they are artifacts.
Even if my sister and I should wear some,
or if we give others away,
they will always be your clothes without you,
as we will always be your daughters without you.
Lastly, I’m tired. Grief makes one tired as it is tied to emotions both witnessed and left unspoken. We are getting ready to head back to Wisconsin soon. I’m looking forward to being home. My dad’s ashes will be with me. He’ll rest by our lovely small lake in the Northwoods, immersed in the nature he taught me to love.
The Apples in My Orchard 
Carol. I cried with you as I read your words. I hope you take comfort in knowing that you provided flawless, unrelenting care for your father when he needed you most. Sending much love …
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Thank you Tracey. I am grateful for your support during this sad time. I do feel good that I think we did our best for him and he was able to die in the way he wanted – at home.
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Dear Carol
My sincere condolences to you and your family. It’s such a difficult time. Your blog post is heartfelt and hopefully cathartic for you. -Peace
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Thank you, Kathy. I’ve always felt that writing is cathartic. It has helped me to write about it.
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Carol, peace and comfort to you and your sister. I’m glad you were both able to be there with him at the end. That is the way I would like to leave this life–at night while sleeping. I like that his ashes will come home with you. I’m sure that will be a comfort.
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Thank you, Denise for your heartfelt and kind thoughts. We are home and Dad’s ashes sit on my desk in a room with a view of the lake. He’d like it. May we all go into the night peacefully, such as he.
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This goodbye was a hard but gentle farewell, Carol. Thank you for sharing so generously your experience and your grief–it’s an honor to hold your dad’s memory with you. ❤
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Thank you Heidi. I think sharing my grief has been good for me – but hard at times because it was very personal. There are things I want to write about but not sure I will – sibling relationships, hospital and hospice care opinons, people you barely know that step up beyond your wildest dreams to help and support in the most astounding ways. We’ll see. Thank you for your condolesces.
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This was difficult to read. I’ve been there when my dad passed in 2022. Now we are waiting for mom who has end stage Alzheimer’s and is in hospice care. It’s such a difficult time of life. My heart goes out to you. The best advice I have is to be gentle with yourself. Grief is different for everyone. Allow yourself grace and time. Hugs.
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Hi Margaret, I am sorry my piece was hard to read. I’m sure it struck home for many with elderly parents. It is a difficult time of life. Hospice was nothing like I expected it to be. I’ll write more on that later. I will take your advice and try to be gentle with myself – giving myself some grace to heal. Thank you for your kind words and concern. I’ll be thinking of you as you go through your mom’s end of life stages with Alzheimer’s Dz and hopsice care. I’m hugging you back. ~ Carol ~
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Condolences to you and your family. I am an adult orphan, was there with mom when she passed, cleared out the family home with my brother, sharing gales of laughter and plenty of tears. You are not alone.
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Thank you Mary Lee. I know in my heart I’m not – and my husband is my rock. But, without either parent left, I do feel somewhat like an orphan – it’s an odd feeling. I will greatly miss my Dad but and grateful I got to spend so much time with him this past year.
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Carol, what a terrible and tender time. I’ve done the hospice thing with my Mom. It’s rough. I’m so sorry for this loss. Please take care of you right now. Let every memory be a blessing.
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Thank you, Linda. I am taking it slow. I took several naps this week. Finally, I’m starting to feel “normal” again. I’m not sure how I feel about hospice – I wasn’t involved at the outset and never met any of the staff – but at the end – they were noticably absent. It was odd. My sister only heard from the social worker at the end and that was several days (5) after dad died. I’m still processing it. But, I had the “tools” hospice left and used them to ease my dad’s discomfort. I am grateful for that.
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Sending hugs to you and your family. I know the grief of losing parents. It is so hard, but your memories will live on. xo
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Thank you, Linda. I am grateful for your kind words. My dad was a good man and great father – his memories will always comfort me.
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Oh, Carol, I’m sending you deepest sympathy, and hugs too. I’m so sorry for your loss. You cared beautifully and selflessly for your dad. May he rest in peace.
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Thank you, Karen. I did my best. He knew I loved him. I do believe he is at rest and with my mom – I appreciate the virtual hug, too.
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