Processing 2of3: Cracked Foundation

My mom called.  

Her voice was different.  The fear and concern were palpable.  I don’t remember her asking.  I just remember telling her we’d be there.  I talked to my brother and sister immediately, we organized who’d drive with whom, and we were there by my parents’ sides.  

It was surreal.  

I felt the heaviness of that Intensive Care Unit immediately.  There was a cruel sadness and desperation that permeated the floor.  Faint sounds of beeping in between pain and distress.  It was quiet – just a low hum of activity until it was fiercely interrupted by a wail of tears, or the sound of chairs scratching the floor, as they are pushed aguishly aside by someone to quickly find help.  

My dad’s room was at the end of a long hallway. Peaking quickly into each room that came before was heart-wrenching.  A woman lay by herself – her family in the grief-stricken waiting room trying desperately to decide what to do next. A young man, alone, leaves the room of his loved one paralyzed by fear of what could be, tears streaming down his face, trying to figure out who to call on the other line for help.  While another room is empty, waiting for the next patient to borrow it and learn whether inevitability may arrive far too early.  

Walking into my dad’s room was different.  As the door clicked behind us, strangely it felt safe and warm and full of possibility, like the skyline of the city we saw each day from his surprisingly huge bedside window.  My dad was sick – very sick.  Half dozen bags of antibiotics, a machine of pure oxygen pumping with meticulous and constant force down his throat, medicine carts, crash carts, masks and syringes, and screens showing numbers constantly reminding us of my dad’s stability.  It was the last room any of us would have wanted to be in.  But we were there.  And somehow, some way, my dad willed a positive energy into its existence and in doing so, created a positivity around him that was undeniable.  

My dad willed a positive energy into its existence and in doing so, created a positivity around him that was undeniable.  

My mom, brother, sister and I were by his side every single day, for every single hour.  We never talked about whether we’d be there or for how long or who’d be there when.  We just all showed up, every day, every moment, for each other.  It was just understood.  It was exhausting; it was draining, it engulfed us.  There was sorrow and anger, anxiety and sadness, hope and laughter, nervousness, desperation and gut-wrenching heart ache with the most unforgiving force.  It was brutal.

We left each night as late as we could, while mom stayed – never would she disrupt 50 years’ worth of nights by my dad’s side.  At home I’d sneak a quick glimpse of my oldest two in bed, while the youngest two were sprawled in acrobatic-like angles across my husband.  I would sneak in, like a guest in my own bed, feeling the warmth of their bodies transport me out of this split reality.  Thank God for my husband.  He was a saint keeping our family intact at home rounding out the end of their winter break.  He was the first to share updates about their Papa and the last to hold them as they oftentimes cried themselves to sleep beginning to understand what could be.  I asked a lot of him.  I expected a lot of him.  And when it counted – when it really counted, he was there for me, our boys, and my entire family.  He was the reason I could focus all of my energy on my dad and remain consistently present with our foundational five.  I will forever be grateful to him, and to my brother- and sister-n-laws too.  They epitomized what family should mean at our most difficult time. 

Indifferent to the start of the New Year, we were there again.  We had our routine.  Coffee, water and lunches packed from home.  There was minimal TV, a bit of cards and as much conversation as possible through a most powerful oxygen mask.  It was loud, forceful and pure.  It was one step removed from silenced incubation.  It was so hard to see my dad with such absolute dependency on this mask. It was his lifeline and as the days went on, we all understood he was a prisoner to its force.  Ninety started to become the constant refrain.  As long as the number on the screen showed ninety, he felt like his breathing was stable – even though he described its force like that of the wind hitting a dog’s face, who’s hanging out the window of their owner’s car driving 80 miles per hour down a freeway, non-stop, day into night, and over again.  

As long as the number on the screen showed ninety, he felt like his breathing was stable – even though he described its force like that of the wind hitting a dog’s face, who’s hanging out the window of their owner’s car driving 80 miles per hour down a freeway, non-stop, day into night, and over again.  

That was how my dad described the force he felt every day.  He tried alternative ways – he wanted so much for alternat methods to work, but it didn’t.  It was the only way his body would work for him and withstand the treatments the doctors were so desperately trying to make work.  

Before I left that night, I talked again with my dad about my final decision to step out of my twenty-year career to take a personal Sabbatical.  He heard each iteration of my pros and cons list over the many months we talked about it evolve and take shape depending on the day.  He was proud of my path and all of its outcomes.  My dad was instrumental throughout.  He enabled me to remain present near all of the time when my boys inevitably got sick, daycare was closed or I was running behind on a meeting I couldn’t miss or call that I had to take that conflicted with daycare pick up time.  Retired, he was always there, always willing to drop what he was doing to help me, to be with the boys no matter the inevitable blow out he’d have to clean or projectile vomit that would land precisely on his lap.  

I kissed him goodnight and he told me he’d be waiting to hear every detail of the call I’d be having the next morning – the call to step away from a company I started at during its founding year, and felt many times just like family too.  

When I arrived the next morning, now day four into this nightmare, I was emotionally drained.  Just an hour before I told my mentor of fifteen years, my boss and colleague and founder of our firm, that I had two critically important items I had to talk with him about.  I tried desperately to come across professional, as this was the first time we talked since Christmas break nearly three weeks prior.  I glanced at my prepared talking points, sharing gratitude for the professional journey I’d been on and expressing unending gratitude for his specific role in it all.  I was doing ok; I held it together.  But then I pivoted to the point when I had to say the words aloud, that I had come to a point where I needed to pause and was officially resigning.  But I couldn’t do it.  

In 20 years, I recall shedding a tear at work in front of others less than a handful of times – sharing the news of my miscarriage, my grandmother’s passing, the real weight of the pandemic, and now.  I was so emotional; I couldn’t even get the words out.  I froze.  I tried desperately to recenter myself and hold back tears for as long as my body would allow.  But then it just came pouring out.  The weight of the journey towards the decision, the decision itself, and all of it wrapped in the magnitude of my dad’s circumstances.  It was just too much.  

The weight of the journey towards the decision, the decision itself, and all of it wrapped in the magnitude of my dad’s circumstances.  It was just too much.

He knew though.  I didn’t have to say the words – I never did.  He knew what I had to do for myself, for our firm, and for my family.  And then he knew exactly what to say to make it feel just right and validate my decision all over again.  It was important to me I shared all of this first; and it was important he knew that it took a very long time for me to come to my decision.  It wasn’t a rash, emotional choice.  It was a methodical, deliberate and decisive decision. 

Through shared tears he jokingly asked what my second agenda item was.   If only he knew the heaviness to that question.  

He knew about my dad’s journey.  He was supporting me at each big milestone, never promising things would be ok, instead, listening with true compassion and empathy while sharing stories from his own experiences that were so very validating to how we were approaching my dad’s journey too.  I told him about the routine blood transfusion, that uncovered the fever, which led to the ER, that ended in a hospital stay, which turned into our own ICU twilight zone. We shared tears together.  There wasn’t much to say after that.  We both knew the only place I was meant to be was in the hospital room with my dad.   We agreed to talk again when I could, and that my other news could wait.  

That morning, walking again through that hallway was hell.  The desperation from families’ faces, a respectful yet uneasy quiet from the staff, and constant and consistent beeps coming from each room I passed.  That morning in particular I felt an overwhelming dichotomy between those who arrived at the ICU by deliberate choice for work, and everyone else – a category we never wanted to belong.  

After a quick medical update, the spotlight turned to me.  My dad wanted to know every detail, and every last detail I shared.  He was proud of me.  He knew it was hard, but was happy with my choice.  He joked about the timing of my last direct deposit and like only my dad could do, wanted to make sure I had checked my stock vesting schedule and bonus payout timing.  I reassured him I was good, and then we laughed about that very first interview — Yours Truly, breakfast, print portfolios and doubt, which turned into a career journey of a professional lifetime.  

The rest of the details from that day into night were mostly filled with medical updates and weighing various iterations of our new normal. The light was my youngest son though, as he was to turn four the next day on January 3. He was our little baby angel. An angel for whom I didn’t prepare anything to celebrate the occasion.  Not one thing.  I didn’t get a gift.  I didn’t prepare any decorations for him to wake up to.  I didn’t plan a special dinner, nor make a birthday cake.  I didn’t order cupcakes for his class or pick out a birthday outfit for school.  I didn’t even buy his special sugary cereal. Nothing.  

Instead, my husband did.  He came through for me again, for our son, for our entire family.  He made the birthday extra special, even down to homemade whip cream and pancakes before school.  It’s not that my husband should earn a special badge for simply being a good spouse and a good parent – stepping in to create balance when the family is off balance.  But what he does deserve is an expression of heartfelt, pure, unadulterated gratitude.  I never asked; I didn’t have to.  He did what was right, and in doing so, showed our boys what it means to be a good husband and father… roles I hope one day they are fortunate to have for themselves.     

I never asked; I didn’t have to.  He did what was right, and in doing so, showed our boys what it means to be a good husband and father… roles I hope one day they are fortunate to have for themselves.     

We Face-timed that night and celebrated the small amount of time we could together.  It was heavy, but only my husband and I knew that.  It was nice for the boys, and for all they knew, my dad would be back to normal for our son’s sixth birthday just one week away.  That evening I forced a smile.  I forced a bit of light to shine through my soul because I didn’t want to take anything away from my son’s special day.  I felt guilty leaving my dad’s hospital room early.  But I knew I had to, and my dad wouldn’t have it any other way.  My son was so happy.  His smile made up for any dim from mine.  My husband prepared a special dinner, homemade birthday cake and a fanciful presentation of presents; for once I experienced it all like my boys – with wonder and surprise, but for me, lacking any excitement or joy this time.  After the candles were blown out, presents opened and some pictures taken, I fell asleep emotionally and physically exhausted.  Since my dad entered through the doors of the ICU, it felt like one long drawn-out day with brief naps sprinkled between.

Everything about the sanctuary of my dad’s room and his aura felt different the next day – my big work announcement was made, and my son’s birthday celebration was over.  And every single person in our family – the very legacy he created with my mom – had a special visit with him days before too.  

My dad was meticulous with his life.  He was a planner.  He earned every single thing he had, and he planned it out that way.  Life didn’t just happen to him, it was never a foregone conclusion– he willed it into existence and willed it in to happening the way he wanted.  

My dad was meticulous with his life.  He was a planner.  He earned every single thing he had, and he planned it out that way.  Life didn’t just happen to him, it was never a foregone conclusion– he willed it into existence and willed it in to happening the way he wanted.  

Two years battling stage 4 small cell lung cancer; chemotherapy and radiation and immunotherapy that turned out just to be a tease, early-stage clinical trials which were too good to be true, antibiotics that would not work, pneumonia that would not let up, torture chambers disguised as an oxygen machine or brain scan or gamma knife.  It was one thing after another, after another.  But my dad approached each of them head on and he dealt with the outcomes one meticulous step at a time.  He did the same now.  

He willed himself to be okay enough to ensure every single person in our family could spend time with him, and some of his lifelong friends too.  He spoke to his sons-in-law individually, his daughter-in-law, and each one of his nine grandchildren individually and each with their own special and unique message and sentiments from their Papa.  He spoke to my sister, brother and me.  And of course my mom.  He made sure that each of us heard what he had to say, and likely what we needed to hear too.  Even at his darkest hour, his lowest point, he was looking out for us.  He was making sure everyone was okay.  He wanted things organized and buttoned up.  He wanted to make sure things were just right.

Even at his darkest hour, his lowest point, he was looking out for us.  He was making sure everyone was okay.  He wanted things organized and buttoned up.  He wanted to make sure things were just right.

He did the same with the nurses and doctors who were lucky enough to earn a high ranking on his infamous list.  That beautiful representation of who and how he valued the nurses, technicians, doctors and staff he knew could make a disproportionate impact on his health.  

He made sure each nurse transitioning from the shift before learned the new “trick” the prior nurse figured out, or the supposedly rare hospital gadget that worked just right to clot his blood – he had us jot down slang terms to make sure each nurse knew exactly what worked the time before to make it more efficient for them, and less stressful for him.  He had a way of disarming the nurses’ who were clearly stressed going from one room to the next, making fun of how long something was taking to get to him – like Vaseline for his horribly dry cracked lips – essentially putting on a mini stand-up routine about being okay taking the risk that supposedly a miniscule amount of Vaseline and oxygen together could combust and blow up.  Another time he made sure my sister, brother, mom and I each had a chance to push his Morphine button.  After a mini lecture about how legally my dad and only my dad could push the button, he jokingly dared them to tell, and made sure each one of us had our turn at the infamous green button push.  It was silly and absurd, and much needed comic relief showcasing my dad to a beautiful and perfect tee.

Even when his body was at its weakest, he still somehow managed to garner enough strength to sit up just enough to shake all the doctors’, nurses’ and the oxygen technician’s hands.  I was sitting right there; seeing him look straight at each of them square in the eye; daring them to be anything other than perfect at their chosen job.  He didn’t expect a miracle, but they made the list; and when you make the list, he expected you to be excellent.  A strong handshake he wanted them to remember.  It was important to him and important details from those days that I will never ever forget.  

He didn’t expect a miracle, but they made the list; and when you make the list, he expected you to be excellent.  A strong handshake he wanted them to remember. 

Sometimes I wish I would have been brave enough to ask. But asking was acknowledging something to be true before any of us wanted to know the truth.  I wanted to know when he knew.  When did he know and accept the excruciating, unforgivable truth that nothing else could done.  And what went through his mind.  I can’t even imagine how brutal that had to have been for him.  He had so many plans for the New Year, so much more life to live.  He was adamant he’d be ready for the Spring softball season, was gearing up for another championship bocce ball run.  He wanted to get back into the bowling league with my mom, expand the number of grandkids at the fishing derby and silly as it might seem, he was so looking forward to seeing the blooms from the new trees we planted that lined our driveway.  He was so happy we decided to plant the trees and wanted so badly to see them in their full glory.  He wanted to see our third wrestle, our second play ball, and first on the soccer field.  He wanted to see our youngest start pre-K and finally graduate from daycare.  He wanted to see all of his grandchildren thrive in school and sports…and life, for all its twists and turns.  He wanted to plan another vacation with my mom – a delayed 50th wedding anniversary trip.  There was so much more to do, to give, to be.  Early on he asked his oncologist to give him twenty more years.  I just need 20 more and then I’m good, he would say.  We all desperately wanted that too.  In the end, it’s still hard to accept that we only had two.  Just two more years.  

Early on he asked his oncologist to give him twenty more years.  I just need 20 more and then I’m good, he would say.  We all desperately wanted that too.  

The truth is, I know when he logically knew – but which moment lying there did it really sink in as we sat beside him, playing cards or eating lunch or talking about who knows what to pass the time.  So much must have been spinning through his mind before all of the hard-core meds took over to relieve his eventual and horrendous pain.  Before that, there were clear headed, surreal conversations about the antibiotics not working, oxygen levels prohibiting him from leaving, the continual swelling and buildup in his lungs.  The doctors transitioned from talking through treatment options to talking about ways to keep my dad comfortable.  No longer were there funny remarks about whose turn it was to press the Morphine button because that option was taken away; the button transitioned to a continual high dose drip.  The doctors went from demanding he could only let an ice chip melt on his tongue every several hours to avoid choking, to being open to ordering any food my dad wanted from any restaurant he desired.  There were conversations about Hospice, my dad asking for reassurance that he would be fully dressed leaving the ICU bed.  He restated his intentions for the funeral service, and even the food that would be served.  He told my mom to promise him she wouldn’t live at the cemetery.  He made us promise to be smart about decisions we would have to make and reminded us all not to rush into anything — to take one step at a time.  And ridiculous as it may sound, my dad even made us promise to get rid of our family’s longtime insurance agent because of recent incompetency he showed my dad.  The fact that my dad wanted to talk about home and auto insurance at that time still makes me laugh. 

Days before he asked his doctors to be brutally honest.  To treat him like they would their own dad.  No sugar coating anything.  He wanted to know the truth – no matter how horrendous.  He understood there was no way out.  The heart crushing reality sunk in.  He was never going to get better.  He was never going to leave that ICU.  He was never going home ever again.  It was an unbearable, excruciating truth.  Clear headed, he dictated how things would go.  He knew how the story ended and he was going to ensure every detail went how he wanted it to go, and for as long as he could control it.  

Clear headed, he dictated how things would go.  He knew how the story ended and he was going to ensure every detail went how he wanted it to go, and for as long as he could control it.  

And when he no longer could, he simply asked if he could just go to sleep.  We all knew what that meant, and we all were by his side the entire time.  

No one can prepare you for what it feels like to lay by your dad’s bed side, holding on to his hand for dear life, head on his lap, watching him, feeling him, take his last breaths on earth.  It felt like an out of body experience; I was watching all of us from above while simultaneously being in the present moment.  There were so many images that raced through my mind — all of it flashed so quickly and with such force. I never let go of his hand – what at times felt like hours, other times mere seconds.  I wanted to feel his warmth for as long as I possibly could.  I wanted to feel his hand and the tough skin I’ve felt for so many years.  It felt like if I took my hand away or pulled my head up for even a second, I’d regret missing out on those last moments with him.  The reminder was the screen.  The sound was turned off, but the numbers bright, precise and without emotion.  

The vital numbers slowly decreased.  The slow, excruciating tick down and down again. At first it was slow and then it felt like the countdown to zero intensified and the time between now, and what would be, increased more rapidly than I expected.  The numbers were heartless.   I was acutely aware of those numbers.  My brother and sister were too.  But my mom wasn’t.  

I felt like I lost him twice that night.  First there was the number zero, then the intensely still line, and then his cheeks.  My dad’s face changed.  He looked different.  I don’t know what I believe, but in that moment, I knew his soul was gone.  And then it happened again moments later.  The staff gave us some time to be together, but a doctor had to say it out loud; before she did, she turned off the monitor.  My mom asked why she was turning it off and I think the doctor was just as surprised as we were.  She assumed we all understood what had just happened.  My mom was next to me; she looked at me for a brief second and I said he was gone – dad just died.  She was in shock; we all were. Seconds later, she would hear it from the doctor too.  It was excruciating.

We cried a lot.  We hugged each other a lot.  And even though we knew it would happen, we were in complete and total disbelief. We waited for my dad to be dressed — standard protocols dictating otherwise did not apply to us. We walked behind him until we could go no further, daring any hospital staff to tell us we couldn’t. My dad was never alone — that was simply never going to happen.

We waited for my dad to be dressed — standard protocols dictating otherwise did not apply to us. We walked behind him until we could go no further, daring any hospital staff to tell us we couldn’t. My dad was never alone — that was simply never going to happen.

As we each walked to our cars and drove to our parents’ house, there was such a forceful weight on our hearts. Our family foundation normally so steadfast, strong and deep cracked the instant my dad was gone.  The heartbeat of our family just stopped.  

In the hours, in the days, and eventually weeks and months that followed, we each started to feel the heartbeat come back ever so slightly.  The cadence was different, but its strength eventually began to show itself again.