Print

Email story

Comment

Email editor

A parent's final months

The complications can come quickly. Make sure that affairs are in order and difficult discussions are handled before that happens.

By MARTHA JACOBS
Published July 26, 2005

My dad, who had helped predict weather in London before D-day, would have appreciated what happened to our plans for a graveside service for him.

A spring storm rolled into Mississippi from the west, dropping hail, spawning tornadoes and flooding streets.

The service yielded to the forces of nature and was rescheduled for two days later.

I wrote about my father, John W. Burress, and his move to my sister's house in Starkville, in the November issue of Seniority.

When he died March 31, he had been under hospice care for six months because of his congestive heart failure. He had visited with his two brothers and his two grandchildren over the winter. On March 10, he celebrated his 89th birthday with his favorite coconut cake.

During my visit with him in late February, we had readied his 2004 tax kit. When I returned home, I purchased a ticket for mid April to spend a few days caring for him and giving a much-needed break to my sister, the Rev. Sara Burress.

But death, like pregnancy and childbirth, is not likely to follow a planning calendar.

A week after his birthday celebration, Dad had a serious fall while alone in Sara's kitchen. A Presbyterian minister, Sara frequently called, stopped by home or worked from home, so it was not long before she found him. He had hurt his back but somehow made his way to his chair.

The Sunday after his fall, March 20, he was still hurting. Because he was not a complainer, I had to question him before I got any information. It was the last clear conversation I had with my father.

The next day Sara made an appointment for him to see his doctor, who was also the hospice director. Dad was too bent over and in pain for the staff to get clear X-rays. The doctor put him in the hospital for two days for tests.

Dad's decline was rapid. He developed hospital psychosis and was either wandering around or flailing about. He drifted in and out of dementia. No bones were broken, but he wasn't eating and needed around-the-clock care.

Back in the fall, Sara and I had toured care homes in the area and picked three. We had discussed with Dad that once he had difficulty getting out of bed, a care home would be needed.

The move was a rocky transition for Dad. He had daily visits from members of Sara's congregation and from hospice staff. They brought in a gel mattress to try to make him more comfortable and increased his medications for anxiety and pain. He began to eat again.

But his heart was playing out. He would rally briefly, but much of the time he could hardly be roused.

By the time the hospice nurse told us he might last days rather than weeks, my sister Sue overseas had booked a flight and I had changed my flight to arrive April 5. On March 30, one of our stepbrothers spent the afternoon by his bedside and Sara stayed until night. When the caregivers checked on Dad, he was moaning. About 4 a.m. he died.

I will never forget that call from Sara. She was sobbing so I could hardly understand her words: "He's gone."

Nothing really prepares you for the suffering and loss of a parent. It wasn't until a week later, when I had a long talk with Dad's hospice nurse, that I was able to let go of anger I felt that his care and medication weren't all that I had expected. The end was not without pain and discomfort. Dad did not die quietly in his favorite chair at Sara's house. He did not retain his awareness of place and ability to converse during much of his last two weeks. We were not all gathered around his bedside, holding his hand.

But he died without extraordinary measures, as he had requested in his living will. He died in his sleep. I would not have wanted him to suffer until I arrived.

Dad had had six good months of care since he realized he could no longer continue to manage alone.

Years before, he had prepared a will, put his papers in order and given Sara power to oversee his care. He put her name on some accounts and made her executor. But we never sat down and asked a lot of financial questions until those last six months. Nor did we ever discuss his funeral or burial.

Sara and I had to have those difficult discussions the morning he died.

On April 15, we gathered with family members and friends for a memorial service at Dad's church in Tupelo. Sue had assembled a display of pictures from his long life. The kind remembrances of others further affirmed for us how lucky we had been to have him for a father.

At the graveside service, the minister who visited him in those last weeks told this story of one visit: As she prepared to leave him, she asked Dad to pray with her. Dad, always the gentleman, said, "Well, please forgive me if I don't stand."

He was in the hospital bed at the time.

The factors that I wrote about in November - the help of hospice, friends and church members; our research on care options; and keeping a sense of humor - had served us to the end.

And had left us with more good memories of our dad.

- Martha Jacobs can be reached at jacobs@sptimes.com

[Last modified July 22, 2005, 11:20:06]