Thursday, August 18, 2016
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Epitaph - Merrit Malloy
When I die
Give what’s left of me away
To children
And old me that wait to die.
And if you need to cry,
Cry for your brother
Walking the street beside you.
And when you need me,
Put your arms
Around anyone
And give them
What you need to give to me.
I want to leave you something,
Something better
Than words
Or sounds.
Look for me
In the people I’ve known
Or loved,
And if you cannot give me away,
At least let me live on in your eyes
And not your mind.
You can love me most
By letting
Hands touch hands,
By letting bodies touch bodies,
And by letting go
Of children
That need to be free.
Love doesn’t die,
People do.
So, when all that’s left of me
Is love,
Give me away.
Monday, June 13, 2016
How My Dad Dies
I didn't picture it like this.
I pictured a darkened room, shades half-drawn, subdued sunlight negating the need for anything artificial. A neatly made hospital bed, with a single IV line connecting my dad to a single IV pole with a single IV pump and a small, clear bag.
I imagined him sleeping comfortably, and, if he stirred, pushing IV morphine myself and watching him settle back into a satisfying slumber until his breaths rattled thin and irregular and eventually stopped altogether. He would not be awake. He would not be present. He would not be in pain.
Memorial Day at 2pm my mother called me at work, never a good sign. She said he had been in so much pain all weekend he was crying. She wasn't wrong. I left work at 7:30 to come home and immediately call the on-call hospice doctor, at 9pm at the end of a 3-day weekend. My dad has always had a way with good timing. We upped his pain medicine strength and dosing schedule. I woke him up throughout the night to make sure he took his pain medicine. I eventually slept around 10 or 11 and set my alarm for 4:30am for pain medicine. By the time I woke him up, he was in a different place. He was relaxed, awakened easily, aware, and wanted to talk. So we did. For 50 minutes. He smoked a bowl, we watched the sun rise, he ate breakfast, and at last, he took his pain medicine.
It was an incredibly pleasant memory because it was impromptu and genuine. He was himself. So completely unexpected timing, but we take the memories we get whenever they happen. Life never fits neatly into perfect boxes. Sometimes the most lucid, peaceful moments come after 18 hour days and 5 hours of sleep.
I never pictured it like this.
2 weeks later, he is even thinner, if that is possible. His right leg is large and red and his right arm is small and white. DVTs. His skin would be pale if it wasn't yellow. Inconceivably, he still has a watch tan. We match. He twitches a lot, but his pain is better managed. His Hospice RN, and he, surprisingly, too, articulated that his pain is as much emotional as it is physical. When were we supposed to learn that? Because of that, we give him pain medicine for both. I never knew. Our kitchen table has been transformed into a home-cooked controlled substance cocktail lab. Blue morphine, crushed pills, and small syringes lined up methodically, with detailed recipes at the side for each time and dose we administer. The opposite of a locked pyxis requiring a fingerprint, accurate count, and audits for appropriate use. Here we leave large doses of potent opioids in unmarked syringes mixed with ativan and haldol, in whichever concentration is best, whenever we deem best. It is both strictly regimented, ever 3 hours, but also totally up to my dad - whenever he needs it. Today I gave him a morphine syringe and then my mom and I realized we didn't even know who had mixed it or what specifically it contained. This morning, he was crying from pain again, so I unflinchingly doubled his liquid morphine dose, without consulting anyone. Then I stopped to marvel at this foreign system. While polar opposite of the regimented, heavily regulated hospital system, this is no less effective. The nurse sat cross legged in my dad's bedroom on his bed in the dark and stroked his stomach in the direction of his bowels to relieve gas. Bedside nursing indeed.
I never imagined the dark humor. A close childhood friend, whom he's known for 15 years, asked me to tell him she loved him, as he is no longer receiving visitors. I joked to my brother I'd tell her my dad said "Who?"
He has begun dreaming of deceased loved ones, and speaking with people who are not physically present. I woke him up this morning and he looked behind him, mentioning he thought he heard someone. He told my mom this morning, "But I have so many places to go." The hospice RN told us she sees this commonly in people passing on to the next life, and that people from his past have come to keep him company and ease his way. This was a part I did not expect, having never seen the dying process this intimately. It's cathartic, and seems to bring a closure to this life and an invitation to the next. It is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. A journey set in motion, and he is moving on to places where I cannot go with him.
I never imagined letting go would be so difficult. I have always loved him, and I have always wanted a peaceful death for my dad. But after spending so much time and effort on his care, it is difficult to finally see that he is transitioning, and that my part will be less needed, and will end. It is more pushing a boat away from a dock than it is scuttling a tumor-ridden dingy. This does not feel like an end, because he will not be gone. His network of loved ones lives on, as will his memories and impact on so many people. I did not imagine death would feel like a transition, instead of the end.
In one of his last sustained, present moments, he dictated part of a post to family and friends. He ended it with,
"The river's getting rougher, and the support that I am so honored by can only help so much. When you're swimming through a class 4 rapid, it's really just you and the river."
I pictured a darkened room, shades half-drawn, subdued sunlight negating the need for anything artificial. A neatly made hospital bed, with a single IV line connecting my dad to a single IV pole with a single IV pump and a small, clear bag.
I imagined him sleeping comfortably, and, if he stirred, pushing IV morphine myself and watching him settle back into a satisfying slumber until his breaths rattled thin and irregular and eventually stopped altogether. He would not be awake. He would not be present. He would not be in pain.
Memorial Day at 2pm my mother called me at work, never a good sign. She said he had been in so much pain all weekend he was crying. She wasn't wrong. I left work at 7:30 to come home and immediately call the on-call hospice doctor, at 9pm at the end of a 3-day weekend. My dad has always had a way with good timing. We upped his pain medicine strength and dosing schedule. I woke him up throughout the night to make sure he took his pain medicine. I eventually slept around 10 or 11 and set my alarm for 4:30am for pain medicine. By the time I woke him up, he was in a different place. He was relaxed, awakened easily, aware, and wanted to talk. So we did. For 50 minutes. He smoked a bowl, we watched the sun rise, he ate breakfast, and at last, he took his pain medicine.
It was an incredibly pleasant memory because it was impromptu and genuine. He was himself. So completely unexpected timing, but we take the memories we get whenever they happen. Life never fits neatly into perfect boxes. Sometimes the most lucid, peaceful moments come after 18 hour days and 5 hours of sleep.
I never pictured it like this.
2 weeks later, he is even thinner, if that is possible. His right leg is large and red and his right arm is small and white. DVTs. His skin would be pale if it wasn't yellow. Inconceivably, he still has a watch tan. We match. He twitches a lot, but his pain is better managed. His Hospice RN, and he, surprisingly, too, articulated that his pain is as much emotional as it is physical. When were we supposed to learn that? Because of that, we give him pain medicine for both. I never knew. Our kitchen table has been transformed into a home-cooked controlled substance cocktail lab. Blue morphine, crushed pills, and small syringes lined up methodically, with detailed recipes at the side for each time and dose we administer. The opposite of a locked pyxis requiring a fingerprint, accurate count, and audits for appropriate use. Here we leave large doses of potent opioids in unmarked syringes mixed with ativan and haldol, in whichever concentration is best, whenever we deem best. It is both strictly regimented, ever 3 hours, but also totally up to my dad - whenever he needs it. Today I gave him a morphine syringe and then my mom and I realized we didn't even know who had mixed it or what specifically it contained. This morning, he was crying from pain again, so I unflinchingly doubled his liquid morphine dose, without consulting anyone. Then I stopped to marvel at this foreign system. While polar opposite of the regimented, heavily regulated hospital system, this is no less effective. The nurse sat cross legged in my dad's bedroom on his bed in the dark and stroked his stomach in the direction of his bowels to relieve gas. Bedside nursing indeed.
I never imagined the dark humor. A close childhood friend, whom he's known for 15 years, asked me to tell him she loved him, as he is no longer receiving visitors. I joked to my brother I'd tell her my dad said "Who?"
He has begun dreaming of deceased loved ones, and speaking with people who are not physically present. I woke him up this morning and he looked behind him, mentioning he thought he heard someone. He told my mom this morning, "But I have so many places to go." The hospice RN told us she sees this commonly in people passing on to the next life, and that people from his past have come to keep him company and ease his way. This was a part I did not expect, having never seen the dying process this intimately. It's cathartic, and seems to bring a closure to this life and an invitation to the next. It is as beautiful as it is heartbreaking. A journey set in motion, and he is moving on to places where I cannot go with him.
I never imagined letting go would be so difficult. I have always loved him, and I have always wanted a peaceful death for my dad. But after spending so much time and effort on his care, it is difficult to finally see that he is transitioning, and that my part will be less needed, and will end. It is more pushing a boat away from a dock than it is scuttling a tumor-ridden dingy. This does not feel like an end, because he will not be gone. His network of loved ones lives on, as will his memories and impact on so many people. I did not imagine death would feel like a transition, instead of the end.
In one of his last sustained, present moments, he dictated part of a post to family and friends. He ended it with,
"The river's getting rougher, and the support that I am so honored by can only help so much. When you're swimming through a class 4 rapid, it's really just you and the river."
Monday, April 25, 2016
2016 Book List, 1st Quarter
Find a Way
Diane Nyad
Absolutely inspiring memoir about the first person to swim from Cuba to Florida, who happened to be a 64 year-old woman. Her writing style is direct and determined, much like her incredible feat of accomplishment. Her background and childhood story only serve to draw the reader in and contextualize her drive to make this crossing. I had tears in my eyes as she reached Florida, having appreciated every struggle she overcame, every lap she put in at the pool, every 5am open water start to make her dream a reality.
No Picnic on Mt Kenya
Felice Benuzzi
Perhaps the most inspiring story I've read in some time, this WWII POW does the unthinkable: convinces 2 other people to fashion their own mountaineering tools, break out of their camp, and climb a 17,000' mountain using only a picture from a magazine and a can of spam as their maps. His writing style is equally delightful, descriptive, and engaging. I never imagined myself alongside them, but felt clearly his style of climbing and genuine love of mountaineering, despite the adversity which they inevitably encountered. A hidden gem.
A Cure for Suicide
Jesse Ball
Jesse Ball is a young, although already accomplished writer, and his talent definitely shows in this book. The premise is inherently creative, and the reader feels like they've woken from a dream, much like the subjects in this grand government health project. The author never delves into the morality or ethics of the project, instead presenting facts and experiences, which leaves the reader to ponder the larger questions looming outside the idyllic towns the characters travel in between. The ending, too, leaves the reader to finish the story, or leave it open-ended, much like the lives of each character in the book, as their memories are erased and reshaped at the whim of a larger force.
But You Did Not Come Back
Marceline Loridan-Ivens
A very short but very sad memoir about a WWII Nazi Concentration Camp survivor. She walked out alive, her father did not. The book is a sad, sweet, work of grief in which the author tells her story, but full of her unbearable loss. At the end, the reader hopes she has found peace within herself, and a resolution to her years of grieving and loss as she tried to normalize to a post Nazi world without the most important person in her life.
Diane Nyad
Absolutely inspiring memoir about the first person to swim from Cuba to Florida, who happened to be a 64 year-old woman. Her writing style is direct and determined, much like her incredible feat of accomplishment. Her background and childhood story only serve to draw the reader in and contextualize her drive to make this crossing. I had tears in my eyes as she reached Florida, having appreciated every struggle she overcame, every lap she put in at the pool, every 5am open water start to make her dream a reality.
No Picnic on Mt Kenya
Felice Benuzzi
Perhaps the most inspiring story I've read in some time, this WWII POW does the unthinkable: convinces 2 other people to fashion their own mountaineering tools, break out of their camp, and climb a 17,000' mountain using only a picture from a magazine and a can of spam as their maps. His writing style is equally delightful, descriptive, and engaging. I never imagined myself alongside them, but felt clearly his style of climbing and genuine love of mountaineering, despite the adversity which they inevitably encountered. A hidden gem.
A Cure for Suicide
Jesse Ball
Jesse Ball is a young, although already accomplished writer, and his talent definitely shows in this book. The premise is inherently creative, and the reader feels like they've woken from a dream, much like the subjects in this grand government health project. The author never delves into the morality or ethics of the project, instead presenting facts and experiences, which leaves the reader to ponder the larger questions looming outside the idyllic towns the characters travel in between. The ending, too, leaves the reader to finish the story, or leave it open-ended, much like the lives of each character in the book, as their memories are erased and reshaped at the whim of a larger force.
But You Did Not Come Back
Marceline Loridan-Ivens
A very short but very sad memoir about a WWII Nazi Concentration Camp survivor. She walked out alive, her father did not. The book is a sad, sweet, work of grief in which the author tells her story, but full of her unbearable loss. At the end, the reader hopes she has found peace within herself, and a resolution to her years of grieving and loss as she tried to normalize to a post Nazi world without the most important person in her life.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Worth 1000 Words
Cherish the time you have with those you love. I'm not big into social media so I haven't posted this anywhere afiliated with me but as my dad is back in the hospital for the second time with an infection I love this picture more and more.
One of my great humble thanks from this terminal diagnosis is that I have had enough time to grow my relationship further, deeper, and stronger, and that I have time to say goodbye. I know the end is coming, we're two months in and things have mostly settled into a routine, but times like this remind me that he is not somewhere normal or stable and that the way I remember him gradually becomes farther and farther away from where he is now.
So take the time, now, to love the people important to you. Love them and be grateful for your relationships. You never know when they could change.
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