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Day 20 - February 8
Randy joins us for the trip to dialysis, his good-bye visit with father. We rest at the foot of the stairs before heading out into the cold. Father says, “It’s hard to imagine this might be one of my last trips to dialysis.”
"What do you mean, Dad?"
"Maybe next Friday will be my last treatment," he answers. We wonder how he can possibly continue making this journey for another week.
The plan is for father to ride with Randy, but I cannot part with such fragile cargo. At the last minute I call out, “Randy, father will ride with us, we’ll see you at dialysis.” Harold, father, Melinda and I fill the silver Marquis with father’s paraphernalia and our family presence.
We make our entrance at the dialysis unit, handling with care, buoying father up past his fellow patients to his chair. We lower him down, and as we extract ourselves, the nurse steps over. From his recliner, father whispers up to her, “Today is my last dialysis.”
No one thinks they heard correctly. Did he really say that? We thought we had another week! His nurse leans in asking him to repeat. “Yes, I’m sure today is my last dialysis.”
This is one grave announcement in a dialysis unit. A spiked awareness courses through all observers, whether doctor, nurse, technician, office staff or patients in the middle of their treatments down all four rows of chairs. The quiet words travel over the next hour to every ear. His nurse summons the practitioner in charge of the unit. Father tells her he would like to speak with Dr. Kaplan.
Though he started father on dialysis one year ago, Dr. Kaplan no longer works in this unit, he hasn’t for many months. Hearing father’s request, Michelle says she will do her best to get Dr. Kaplan there for him. At the time, even I think it's an unreasonable request.
As father talks with Randy, we leave to meet Steven and Leslie at Jay’s Diner. We need to talk about what to do next. The medical staff at the unit are willing to discharge father directly to the hospital, or into our care. I do not want father to go to the hospital which he has grown to dread. However, there are still no openings at a hospice house. Getting nowhere in our discussion, we return to his side.
Randy utters a simple prayer out loud, “God, give guidance, so Cheryl and Steven will understand what to do.”
"Maybe next Friday will be my last treatment," he answers. We wonder how he can possibly continue making this journey for another week.
The plan is for father to ride with Randy, but I cannot part with such fragile cargo. At the last minute I call out, “Randy, father will ride with us, we’ll see you at dialysis.” Harold, father, Melinda and I fill the silver Marquis with father’s paraphernalia and our family presence.
We make our entrance at the dialysis unit, handling with care, buoying father up past his fellow patients to his chair. We lower him down, and as we extract ourselves, the nurse steps over. From his recliner, father whispers up to her, “Today is my last dialysis.”
No one thinks they heard correctly. Did he really say that? We thought we had another week! His nurse leans in asking him to repeat. “Yes, I’m sure today is my last dialysis.”
This is one grave announcement in a dialysis unit. A spiked awareness courses through all observers, whether doctor, nurse, technician, office staff or patients in the middle of their treatments down all four rows of chairs. The quiet words travel over the next hour to every ear. His nurse summons the practitioner in charge of the unit. Father tells her he would like to speak with Dr. Kaplan.
Though he started father on dialysis one year ago, Dr. Kaplan no longer works in this unit, he hasn’t for many months. Hearing father’s request, Michelle says she will do her best to get Dr. Kaplan there for him. At the time, even I think it's an unreasonable request.
As father talks with Randy, we leave to meet Steven and Leslie at Jay’s Diner. We need to talk about what to do next. The medical staff at the unit are willing to discharge father directly to the hospital, or into our care. I do not want father to go to the hospital which he has grown to dread. However, there are still no openings at a hospice house. Getting nowhere in our discussion, we return to his side.
Randy utters a simple prayer out loud, “God, give guidance, so Cheryl and Steven will understand what to do.”
I call the hospice nurse to tell her father has ended his treatments. She inquires if I want to start hospice care at home the next day. How soon can they deliver a hospital bed? She replies, “Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” A nurse can arrive by ten, to give us instructions.
Steven and Randy say their good-byes. I start talking to one of father’s friends two chairs down, when I look back and see Dr. Kaplan sitting at his side.
I walk over in disbelief, and listen. Father asks him, "Does it matter if I quit on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday?" He asks if the doctor thinks he's doing the right thing. He thanks him for this extra year of life and all the good things it has held. Dr. Kaplan assures father he is absolutely doing the right thing. Father asks , “Would you mind if I pray with you?”
They hold hands while father thanks God for Dr. Kaplan, for the wonderful gifts God has granted him--the skills, the knowledge and the wisdom-- to carry out this most difficult work in people’s lives. He thanks God for Dr. Kaplan’s family and asks for continued grace in their lives. When he finishes, the doctor says under his breath, “I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.” They both say what a pleasure it has been to know each other, and he is gone.
As I talk on my phone to father’s sister Anne, I observe father praying for one nurse, then another, and another, as they come to say good-bye. At one point his nurse tells him he doesn’t have to stay till the end of his treatment, there really isn’t a need to. But father wants to stay till the end. The unit’s doctor comes to say good-bye and father prays yet again. Each time he prays, it's as if he knows each one intimately, though he couldn’t have.
I notice Mrs. Boyd’s treatment has ended and she's heading father's way. She teased him every week about driving his walker by her chair too fast, saying he should get a speeding ticket. In the past, she also told him about her A.M.E. church and how she sings in the choir, inviting him to join her congregation one Sunday.
She stands by father’s side and reaches for his hand. Quietly and slowly she begins to sing.
I’m gonna lay down my burdens
Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside.
I’m gonna lay down my burdens
Down by the riverside,
I ain’t gonna stu-dy war no more.
In his weak voice father joins her on the chorus with strong determination in his eyes and the shape of his mouth as they sing…
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna stu - dy war no mo-r-re...
I walk around to place one hand on both of theirs and the other around her waist as her tears wash down.
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna stu - dy war no more.
Father prays, thanking the Lord for Mrs. Boyd, thanking him for bringing her through many toils and snares, and thanking him for giving her the strength and courage to continue singing God’s praises. They hug and part ways.
Near the end of his treatment, two young women from the office come to talk with father. They make him laugh. He makes them laugh. Melinda and I smile watching him have some silly moments with the young girls.
His nurse cleans off the ports in his chest and wraps them with gauze for the last time as we pack his bag. He doesn’t need to weigh himself at the end of this treatment. There will be no comparison on Monday to see if father drinks too much Dr. Pepper over the weekend. The nutritionist brings a wheel chair.
Steven and Randy say their good-byes. I start talking to one of father’s friends two chairs down, when I look back and see Dr. Kaplan sitting at his side.
I walk over in disbelief, and listen. Father asks him, "Does it matter if I quit on a Monday, Wednesday or Friday?" He asks if the doctor thinks he's doing the right thing. He thanks him for this extra year of life and all the good things it has held. Dr. Kaplan assures father he is absolutely doing the right thing. Father asks , “Would you mind if I pray with you?”
They hold hands while father thanks God for Dr. Kaplan, for the wonderful gifts God has granted him--the skills, the knowledge and the wisdom-- to carry out this most difficult work in people’s lives. He thanks God for Dr. Kaplan’s family and asks for continued grace in their lives. When he finishes, the doctor says under his breath, “I’ll remember that for the rest of my life.” They both say what a pleasure it has been to know each other, and he is gone.
As I talk on my phone to father’s sister Anne, I observe father praying for one nurse, then another, and another, as they come to say good-bye. At one point his nurse tells him he doesn’t have to stay till the end of his treatment, there really isn’t a need to. But father wants to stay till the end. The unit’s doctor comes to say good-bye and father prays yet again. Each time he prays, it's as if he knows each one intimately, though he couldn’t have.
I notice Mrs. Boyd’s treatment has ended and she's heading father's way. She teased him every week about driving his walker by her chair too fast, saying he should get a speeding ticket. In the past, she also told him about her A.M.E. church and how she sings in the choir, inviting him to join her congregation one Sunday.
She stands by father’s side and reaches for his hand. Quietly and slowly she begins to sing.
I’m gonna lay down my burdens
Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside,
Down by the riverside.
I’m gonna lay down my burdens
Down by the riverside,
I ain’t gonna stu-dy war no more.
In his weak voice father joins her on the chorus with strong determination in his eyes and the shape of his mouth as they sing…
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna stu - dy war no mo-r-re...
I walk around to place one hand on both of theirs and the other around her waist as her tears wash down.
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna study war no more
I ain’t gonna stu - dy war no more.
Father prays, thanking the Lord for Mrs. Boyd, thanking him for bringing her through many toils and snares, and thanking him for giving her the strength and courage to continue singing God’s praises. They hug and part ways.
Near the end of his treatment, two young women from the office come to talk with father. They make him laugh. He makes them laugh. Melinda and I smile watching him have some silly moments with the young girls.
His nurse cleans off the ports in his chest and wraps them with gauze for the last time as we pack his bag. He doesn’t need to weigh himself at the end of this treatment. There will be no comparison on Monday to see if father drinks too much Dr. Pepper over the weekend. The nutritionist brings a wheel chair.
We wheel into the night.
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