21 "I know Lord, I know."

Day 21 - February 9

Jerry, father’s care pastor, promised to arrive at 7:30 this Saturday morning with helpers, to disassemble his king-size bed. They knock on the door, on time with power tools. I walk father down the hall to Marie and David’s to keep him out of the demolition and removal activities. Propped up on their living room recliner, while I scurry back and forth, he asks, “Marie, when is breakfast being served?” She offers to make him anything he desires. They settle on two poached eggs and toast.

The night before, arriving home from dialysis, we discovered a church member left a huge bowl of potato soup for us--with father's Polish background, easily one of his favorite dishes. Realizing he wasn’t strong enough to lift the spoon, I sat next to him on the sofa, helping as he relished the creamy delight.

This morning, with poached eggs, I sit once more offering up each spoonful. I think to myself--how smooth and unspoken this transition! I don’t ask him if he wants help. He doesn’t ask me to help him. We both accept and understand our roles with no hesitation or discussion.

A friend stops by to talk with father at Marie's. Melinda, with the exuberance of youth is studying the three Boston Cream Pie recipes father found, ready to choose one and begin baking. David and Marie field phone calls and cart casseroles to their van in preparation for a winter outing in Mendon Pond’s Park. Harold checks in on the bed operation and I speak on the phone with Steven. Both apartment doors remain open while sections of his bed march by and all of us walk back and forth for one reason or another.

Father looks up, and speaking loudly enough to be heard above it all, insists, “Who’s in charge here?”

We laugh, and though not feeling in charge, I answer, “I guess I am, Dad.” Steven, on the other end of the phone line says he's surprised father has to ask.

The laughter trails off, “Cher, what’s on the schedule today?”

I fill him in, "The hospice nurse at ten, then you can rest," echoing our past early morning exchanges.

She examines father, then fills our plate with a plethora of instructions and narcotics I am very hesitant to administer. He has only one question, “Does this mean I can eat anything I want?”

His diet has been severely restricted for years. “Yes, you can have anything you want. What would you like?”

Quickly he replies, “A bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich."

The nurse recommends we at least try the very smallest dose of medication for father’s discomfort, after which he sleeps the rest of the day. Awaking in early evening, his first words are, “May I have that BLT now?”

Melinda calls out from the kitchen, where not one, but two freshly baked Boston Cream Pies sit on his counter, and she is preparing dinner with special hors d’ourves for all of us, including the neighbors, “I’ll make it for you, Grandpa!”

She walks to the sofa where father sits against the pillows, nodding in and out of consciousness. “Here, Grandpa, I cut it in triangles for you, so it will be easier to take a bite.”

He smiles, but doesn’t waken. We try again, and with pleasure he bites down on one corner of that BLT triangle…then falls asleep again. Melinda surmises he will have a nice surprise in his mouth when he wakes up... and he does.

While he sleeps, we eat our grilled bacon-wrapped dates and aged cheeses sitting in the living room with father. He always loved entertaining guests, preparing special foods and serving them in fine style. We drink our juice in fancy wine glasses from Germany--Bobby, David, Harold, Melinda and I, celebrating father’s presence with every morsel and sip.

His words are few today. Mostly, he sleeps on the couch. In the afternoon we hear him speak from his sleep, as if in conversation, “Yes Lord, I know Lord, I know.” I wonder if God is telling him it's time to come home.

Melinda’s flight to Chicago is scheduled for 6 a.m. tomorrow morning. Before she turns in for the night, we walk to father's bedside.

“Dad, Melinda is leaving to go back to Chicago,” I speak loudly next to his ear. No response.

“Dad, can you wake up for a minute, Melinda wants to say good-bye?” Again, nothing. We stand by his bed for awhile.

Finally, Melinda says, “Grandpa, I love you.”

He opens his eyes, wide, looking up at her. With clarity, conviction and a tender smile on his face, he tells her, “Melinda, I love you too.”

“Bye, Grandpa.”