Dad update #7: The King of Hearts

Why indeed.

FYI: There are three different threads of communication from Dad’s path that I’ve been writing since the start of this vigil: to Dad’s immediate family I send two emails a day to keep them posted on Dad—if you’ve ever been in a situation like ours, you know how much you crave information especially when you are not able to be personally present. These emails give more intimate updates on Dad’s wellness, how Hospice staff have been advising us, and other details that are meant, really, to keep family connected to what is happening in our home.

I send a different email to, and I text often with, my two brothers Trevor and Clary. We committed to each other long ago that as we bear witness to Dad’s dying, we would not let any stress, judgments, beliefs, or opinions get in the way of our love for each other and certainly not for Dad. That shared promise has been kept and then some. As should happen in times like these, but all to often, and sadly, doesn’t for many families who experience a death of a beloved, my brothers and I have grown closer as we’ve accompanied Dad on his Journey Home. This has been intentional. And I like to think we’ve done it well. This email to my brothers, because we each have power of attorney in the making of decisions regarding Dad, includes private details, thoughts, and decisions that have to be made, issues that have to be resolved, but also, and most importantly, the most detailed and private updates on Dad’s health. We spare nothing when it comes to sharing exactly what is going on for Dad in all the difficult detail.

And then I send this blog to all of you. I’ll write more later about what this blog has meant to me over the course of my own accompaniment of Dad on his Journey Home, but just know that, whether or not you read them, push play on any of the additional media I include or, heck, even bother to open them in your emailbox (or recover them from you junk/spam folders), it really has been my intent to live this path with Dad, as our Elder, with clear eyes and an open heart without caring at all about the “stats” that Substack can provide on the numbers of readers and open views of posts. On Substack, a writer can also charge their readership for the ability to subscribe/read the posts. I would NEVER charge for the privilege it is to share my Dad with you. Fact is, through this writing, I get to share about Dad from my heart, and that is priceless. And even if no one else is reading, these words serve, ultimately, as my personal journal to capture the memories and Elderings of the most important man in my life. It remains my high honor in doing so.

In providing this update, I wanted to share what I wrote to our family in last evening’s email. It captured a realization we are having here, in our home, about this remarkable man. A poignant Truth that was hidden, but is now front and center in our lives:

Dad is resting/sleeping as of this writing (5pm). This is our aim now. Ironically, now that our pace is much, much slower, things are “easier” in the sense of they are less physically demanding. The emotional and mental demand still exists but every time we approach Dad, he is peaceful and calm and comfortable. So it is, actually, a beautiful time to be present with Dad. As I hoped, though I wasn’t sure it was going to happen like this, Dad is doing this part of his Journey well—just like the body’s wisdom dictates. He remains pain-free, comfortable, dry, and clean. The room is warm, soft music is playing, and fresh flowers adorn the shelves along with some wonderful pictures of Dad. 

Dad’s respirations are slowing down some. And they are shallower. The pauses in between breaths grow longer at times. Each day that flies by, rather each moment that passes, is bringing us closer—in every single way you can imagine, it is bringing all of us closer. 

As I sit with Dad now, and see him in this now comatose state, I try to imagine what Dad’s awareness is. What is his brain allowing his senses, all his senses, to still perceive? The Hospice caretaker workshops I’ve attended indicated that the sense of hearing and then the sense of touch are the “last to leave” consciousness. When Dad might have his eyes open (which is rare now), they are not focused; he no longer wants to eat anything so his sense of taste isn’t active anymore; and because we actually taste with our sense of smell, that likely isn’t present anymore either. We are left with touch and hearing (and maybe whatever the Soul senses—for certain whatever/however the Soul senses). So we still talk to Dad and we offer loving touch. And we bring love into the room—lots of love. 

And then I simply sit in wonder at the magnificence of the human brain; Dad’s brain and how it evolved, along with the companion Dementia, over these 251 days in our home. I’m doing a lot of thinking about that and will post something more soon. For now, I can see, as Dementia progressed, how certain things and certain body functions just simply began to disconnect and shut down—all starting long, long ago with the Dementia diagnosis, but in earnest for us here on Feb. 20 with the beginning of a significant loss of appetite. Dementia is definitely doing its work on his brain; turning off active movement, sensation, and awareness. And things are moving closer to the parts of the brain that are responsible for basic core functions—the very last to be “turned off.” It’s no surprise to us that Dad’s heart, because he was all heart, is still functioning well, though it is now working harder to pump thicker blood (due to the lack of hydration) through the body. His oxygen saturation levels and pulse, when the nurse was here, were normal. His blood pressure was elevated indicative of how hard his heart is working. 

Did you read that? Dad’s heart is working extra hard now—his heart is taking over and leading the way. When his heart begins to fail, as our Hospice nurse Anne reminded us, when we are no longer able to feel his pulse at his wrist, then we will really know we are close. Dad’s heart, is going to let us know. 

And that is exactly, EXACTLY as it should be. And if you think about it, that is actually pretty poetic, right? 

Throughout all this Dementia business, it is Dad’s heart that was the most important part of his being that governed his being all along. Why should his dying, and death, be any different then how he led his life?

Why indeed.

Not only has Dad’s heart communicated his love and kindness, it will now serve us by communicating his Death.

Nothing could be more profound.

As I write this post, it is 5:57 a.m. in the now Daylight Saving Time, still Dad Standard Time, on Sunday morning. In reality my “second shift” started just over an hour ago as I spelled Trevor from Dad’s room—our shifts no longer have the sense of urgency to them because, as I wrote above, our vigil has entered its final, natural, and expected rhythm: aka “The Wait.” There isn’t much else we are doing for Dad other than insuring he is kept comfortable, warm and with fresh air in the room, clean, and dry. Music is still a presence in the room:

(BTW: sometimes we still play classic country but if you want to experience some of the ambiance of this space we’re in, I play Pandora over a JBL bluetooth speaker and tune into “Brian Eno Radio;” and at times “Ludovico Einaudi Radio” or “David Tolk Radio.” If you know how to do this (it’s easy), you can listen to what we are listening to—and to get further connected to the Soul that exists here, may I suggest you listen in a quiet space, with lights dimmed in the room, for about a half hour or so? If you did, you’d be creating for yourself a shared experience with us! I’d love to hear from you if you do that!

And not yet, the strawberry ice cream. Not yet.

It’s now 6:07 a.m. Along with the soft music, in the very early light of dawn coming through the shaded windows, Dad’s rhythmic cadence of breathing is the dominant presence. As I shared in “second shift,” it really is how I’ve been meditating. Whereas zen/buddhist practice teaches to focus on your own breath when you meditate, focusing on Dad’s breath these last three weeks has deepened my meditation practice. I don’t think it will ever be “the same” now.

I know it won’t ever be the same.

And when I touch Dad, because I know touch matters now to him (this man who really didn’t share loving touches all that much when we were growing up but craved them after mom died), I reach for his pulse. Sometimes, in my own private moment when it is just he and I in the room, I’ll also listen at his chest. That touch, and that hearing, the two senses that are last to leave, serve now to bring me as close as I will ever get to the core of who my Dad is and always was:

Heart. All heart.

🙏🏼

Love, always love,

~ kbl

And may the clay beneath your feet this week rise up and dance to keep you balanced and grateful.

Thank you again for your interest in my Dad. I remain grateful to you for this interest and all the love and encouragement you have sent to me and Dad’s entire family. I also love it when you comment so, again, you are invited to do so at your comfort.

I’ll end by sharing a piece of soulful advice that my new friend Lisa just sent me, in the form of a question, that grounded me back to what is important not just now, but always, and that guarantees to bring light into darkness whenever the world you might be living in becomes a little dim. Have a go at answering it yourself right now, it grows your gratefulness muscles:

“What do you love?”