Dad Update #5

A.M. / P.M. …meh

Sorry. I’ve never sent a post at 4 a.m. before. I’m either tired or time isn’t mattering much anymore. Or both.

Actually, a little of the first (if I’m being honest, though having Trevor here the past week has been priceless); more like the second. On Dad Standard Time right now, time has no meaning. Especially when one among us is staring squarely at their next eternity.

Because I made that mistake, I thought you would forgive me sending this brief update this afternoon at the regularly scheduled blog post time. Your second from me of the day.

Dad’s taken more steps toward his threshold. He is tired. A kind of tired from him I’ve never seen before. Dementia, and the accumulation of the wear and tear of age and living for the past 30,853 days has taken a toll on a body that was built out of clay and hops and twine and steel (with a few blue Ford tractors thrown in for good measure).

All…Dad is VERY tired. He’s ready. When we asked him this afternoon if he’s still praying, he whispered “Yes, for all of you.” No surprise. Typical of the kindest man we know. I also think he’s praying for his Lord to take him. And THIS time, I think Dad finally has God on the line. All indications appear to show that his Lord is finally answering. And preparing Dad’s way. Maybe God’s been busy getting rid off all the weeds Dad may have encountered along that trip.

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This picture is for Uncle Paul. Uncle Paul, Dad’s beloved younger brother who still lives in Yakima, texted Trevor today and said the only pictures he’s seen of Dad recently have been ones where Dad is eating. Uncle Paul wanted to learn “the real story” behind those pictures. Of course, just showing those might seem to indicate Dad is doing better then he actually is. He’s not. But he has had bursts of energy that have allowed Trevor and me to shower and shave him, place him in his favorite recliner in the family room, and to give him his request for some food (nachos and hotcakes!!! And yes, don’t ask…veganized.) But those bursts are becoming shorter in duration. He didn’t eat much at all.

And I think our days of showing Dad in the manner we have are coming to a close as well. Dad’s endurance and strength is compromised to the point were the safety of each of us, that’s three now because I can no longer do that only by myself, is compromised as well in a wet and potentially slipper shower. Dad has NEVER fallen under our care here. Not once! And he won’t ever. We are proud of that too. (Not to mention we turned the man into a full-fledged vegan!).

Last night, Thursday night into this morning, Dad had a very rough night. The kind of night when you might be at your own highest level of exhaustion where even though every cell in your body is begging for sleep, you can’t. Ever been that tired?

Dad’s is way beyond that level of tired. Even when he’s awake with that burst of energy, he’s putting a lot of effort into keeping his eyelids open.

Dad can no longer stand on his own. He is not able to walk. When we have him standing for various things, which aren’t much, his body is slumped, his eyes remain closed. And when we seat him, he’ll go right to sleep. He was not able to abide by a command to lift one leg so that I could slide something under him—we had to lift him to accomplish that.

We’re having to feed him most of the time now, and only when he asks for something, because he is having more difficulty using a fork; he can no longer find his mouth consistently. He is still taking liquids (lesser amounts) and this afternoon only by drops from a wet cloth; he is losing the sucking ability. It’s been days since he’s asked for strawberry ice cream.

And this afternoon at 1:30 p.m., he called out to us to make sure we were by his side. All four of us, Trevor, Kristin, me, and then Sammy laying nearby as well, in the room with him. We held his hands, we told him we loved him, we told him we were going to be okay, and that he had our permission again…to let go.

This afternoon, we also met Tatek or “T” for short, the newest member of Dad’s family from EvergreenHealth Hospice. We are now enveloped fully in their loving arms too. Dad was accepted and admitted into the Hospice family and things are set to move very rapidly to support him and us with additional services and resources. Starting tonight as a matter of fact and then tomorrow when a hospital bed will arrive—Trevor and I will set it up in his bedroom which will make him more comfortable and provide a better foundation for serving his growing needs.

We are breathing so much easier now that our Hospice friends are joining the family. But we were also left to feel very proud of our own efforts of the level of care we’ve provided to Dad up to this point—in fact, it is a source of pride. THAT man gave his quiet and hard working life in devotion to his farm and his family, and in his own introverted and quiet way, we know the depth of his love and pride in us. Our top priority now is to provide our Dad with comfort, dignity, compassion, and love. And as much oatmilk strawberry ice cream he can stand. Which, as I type this, I just overheard him on the walkie place the order with Trevor.

The Universe responds, exactly when we need it.

(Except we gotta go get more oatmilk strawberry ice cream now. The Universe only goes so far in it’s support—but it did provide the oats and the strawberries. We’re really not gonna complain).

I just want to briefly remind people why I share this kind of personal, some might think things that should stay private, information about Dad. Remember, we hold his dignity and integrity in the very highest regard. There are things I’m not sharing with you, and would never share with you, but the things that are being shared are a part of Dad’s Eldering for all of us. THESE are precious. They help us all to place a name and face alongside Death’s. Shining Dad’s light there, is meant to make Death less scary, less fearful, and less uncomfortable—not completely, just a little less. And that will mean a world of difference.

Death is the companion each of us picked up when we started our own beautiful and unique Journeys with our very first breaths. It’s a companion that for most of us is kept invisible. Most of us never make friends with this companion—this friend who will escort each of us into the manifestation that follows our current earthly incarnations. Imagine that please—Death is our escort into our next manifestation of Soul. We were always going to return to soul—Death take us there when it is our time. Dad is showing us all how he is now working with this companion of his, showing us how his path home is being lit with courage, integrity, dignity, love, humility, and his always characteristic kindness. Even still, Dad remains calm, non-aggressive, willing to do just about anything we ask of him, and, no surprise, kind and appreciative of everything we are doing for him.

We believed we were here in this same place exactly one week ago; so we’ve learned these are new moments, and we are living each moment fully with him, and by his side. There are no past moments right now; and there are no future ones. Just. This. One.

Dad is, again, without pain. He is warm, he is peaceful. He is at peace. We are as well—though a couple steps behind him. He’s walking ahead of us just now. Toward an incredibly beautiful sunset. It is poetic, it is Love, it is Dad.

❤️

Love, always Love,

Kert

🙏🏼