It had been two years since my Mom died. Dad had finally settled into a routine. He was involved in the Loss of Spouse group at church, went to bingo with friends at a local casino on Saturdays and re-engaged in his Catholic fraternity, the Knights of Columbus. But the winter of 2013-2014 set him back.
That was the winter of the polar vortex. With life-threatening wind chills and snow that didn’t melt until June, events were canceled and people hunkered into their homes. Dad reverted to those early days after Mom died being grumpy, sad and difficult to be around. He needed a new project – something he could do indoors.
Dad liked to build things, mostly with wood. Our family home, built in 1961, had a large, tuck under garage where he would tinker away on one project or another. He made birdhouses, wishing wells, adirondack chairs, bookshelves, nightstands and many other things. He would start with a general plan, but often improvise and figure things out on his own.
That winter, I had seen a video on YouTube of a convertible bench/picnic table. I realized that this would be a great project for Dad – and admittedly it was perfect for my deck. Even if he didn’t make it, figuring out how would keep his mind occupied and challenge him. So, I showed Dad the video.
As winter dragged into spring and snow still falling in April, Dad started surfing the internet for plans for my new deck furniture. By the summer, he had an idea in his head and by fall of 2014, he started building – plank by plank and bolt by bolt, Dad built my new bench/table. It kept him going through the fall and early winter. But by the new year, Dad’s motivation started to wane. He would still work on the bench, but not as vigorously. He started to get sluggish and was often tired.
There were other things that I noticed those last months of 2014 and early 2015. Dad wasn’t eating as much, the house was getting messy (Dad had been excellent about cleaning the house since Mom died) and he wasn’t as motivated to be social. I would come to his house, notice he had voicemail, only to find he was missing his normal activities. Many of these signs were similar to what had happened with Mom when she had cancer. With those memories looming in the back of my mind, my stomach tightened and suspicions grew. Something was wrong – medically, not just emotionally.
Dad started to complain about his back and that he was wobbly on his feet. He said he often fell, but had found a way to walk around the house thanks to trim on the walls. He was also complaining he had stomach pains. I kept telling him he should go to the doctor. He thought it was just his arthritis. I said, maybe not…
Dad regularly had morning coffee with a bunch of “old men” at McDonald’s. It was a group of guys who had lost their wives or were retired. He connected with them through a man at church, whose wife was good friends with mom. His wife had entered memory care a few years back and he had formed this morning coffee group to keep him going. Dad liked hanging with those guys, and he listened to them. So when one Friday morning his buddy suggested he should go to the doctor, he went.
Dad’s primary care was given by the VA hospital. Although one of the better VA hospitals, they are still shamefully understaffed. Despite their limited resources, they were able to get my Dad in that day, providing him with genuine and compassionate care. It takes a special spirit to serve those who have served us. And, I am proud that the VA hospital in the Twin Cities was able to provide Dad care.
During his exam, they ran an X-Ray and found a spot on his left lung. At that time, they believed it to be cancer but needed further tests to confirm.
I went to Dad’s per my usual Sunday routine. He was in the living room in his recliner. This was unusual as he typically was at the kitchen table waiting for me. I could tell he hadn’t been sleeping or resting, rather thinking. While I was there, my middle sister called. Dad put her on speaker phone and told both of us that they had found a spot on his lung, it was cancer, it wasn’t curable and that he was dying. It was Mother’s Day, 2015.
That week, I went with Dad to the doctor. His doctor sat with us patiently and pulled up the X-Ray he had from over the weekend. He pointed to the spot on Dad’s lung, which was a large mass. His diagnosis was it was cancer. “We could treat it,” he said. But that would only minimally extend Dad’s life – maybe to four months.
Dad looked at me, with tears in his eyes and said, “You might want to put Joe’s number on your speed dial.” Joe is the director at the funeral home.
There were a couple of exams he needed to go through before insurance would approve hospice care. But Dad had decided – no treatment. Just take him home.
The following week, Dad had a PET scan. Since Dad was going to have a sedative and unable to drive, I needed to take him to and from the doctor. I got him home and he went to bed to lie down. He got up to go to the restroom and while walking back to the living room, he fell down and couldn’t get up. I tried to help, but couldn’t lift him. He was weak and drugged. I ended up calling 911.
When the paramedics arrived, they were able to get Dad into his recliner. They ran his vitals, which were fine. Because we thought he was weak from the drugs, they decided to not take him back to the hospital. He rested that night and I stayed over. When I woke the next morning, he was in the kitchen drinking coffee. He had gone outside to pick up the paper from the end of the driveway and was reading it at the table. He got up and walked around. Everything seemed fine, but I was still worried. I was to leave that day to go to California for my niece’s college graduation and was tempted to cancel the trip. Dad got upset with me and said I would under no circumstances miss her graduation. So I went.
The day after graduation, we were on a wine tour in Sonoma and at the end of the tour, I received a text from my Dad’s neighbor. Dad had again fallen down and she couldn’t get him up. He was taken to the closest hospital, not the VA Hospital which is where it traditionally received care. The doctors ran the same tests and said the same thing. Dad was dying.
Over the next month, Dad was in and out of three different hospital facilities, plus a rehabilitation center. Because each hospital had to run their own tests and could not rely on the results from previous stays, I heard the same story over and over – there was a spot on Dad’s left lung. It was cancer, not treatable, he was dying. Each time, same diagnosis – and prognosis – was confirmed. Finally, after the third hospital stay, we were able to take him home. He entered hospice care.
During that month while Dad was in the hospital, he talked a lot about my bench/table. It wasn’t quite done, one thing he hadn’t quite finished. He told his sisters, his brother, he told my brother what needed to be done to finish the benches. He wanted to get home to work on it. He wanted to finish in time for my 4th of July party.
Dad died on June 12, 2015. My brother, nephews and nieces helped put the final paint and bolts on the benches. They remain imperfect and I cherish the warped table top because those benches, they were Dad’s last project.
