One Final Journey

by Rebekah Barr

Surveys show that close to 90% of us express the desire to die at home; however, this actually happens for less than 20% of us. My father had mentioned several times over the years that he did not want to die like my grandfather did - his last few weeks in the hospital, dying of colon cancer, receiving painful and aggressive treatments, including surgery, right up to the end. I am grateful and honored that I got to help my father have a gentler transition. Here is his story.

I had gone to visit with my father and his wife Dorothy on Saturday afternoon.  He had been diagnosed with leukemia about 8 years before and had been declining steadily for the last 3-4 months. Three days before this visit he had received a double dose of chemo. He acknowledged he did not feel well; something he did not often do. He and I sat on the couch next to each other and I impulsively reached over to hold his hand, which we had never done before. Neither of us said anything, but I enjoyed this physical connection with him and his tight squeeze told me he did as well.

I had moved into a new home about three weeks before and Dad had not felt well enough to come over to see my house yet. “Maybe I will be able to come by next week,” he speculated.  About 2:45 a.m. the next morning, Dorothy called and said that Dad had gotten worse through the night and wanted to go to the emergency room.  She asked if I would go with them.

After arriving at the ER it was rather quickly determined that he was in irreversible kidney failure. The ER staff immediately started making arrangements for Dad to be admitted and put on dialysis.  I was on Dad’s right and Dorothy on his left in the exam room when I gently said, “Dad, you’re at that place that Grandpa was in that you’ve said you did not want to do. There is nothing more that can be done to cure you but there are a lot of procedures that can be done to prolong your life here in the hospital.”  Dorothy indicated, as she had in the past, that she supported whatever decision Dad would make.

Dad said, “This isn’t living. Can you make me half way comfortable at home?” I said, “We can make you all the way comfortable at home.”  He said, “Take me home. I want to go home.”  We brought him home on hospice.  My older brother helped me notify all the siblings, there are seven of us in total, several of which live out of state. Out of state grandchildren were called also. The message for everyone was the same: we do not know how long he has and we suggest you come in as soon as possible.

By 3 p.m. Tuesday everyone had made it in. Dad was on the couch in the living room where he could watch the doorway keeping track of who was coming and going. He was sleeping a lot, weak and tiring easily but when awake he was alert and coherent. Everyone got a chance to spend time with him. People were milling around, deciding who would stay the night to help Dorothy, some left to check into a motel, others went out to bring in food or run other errands. Amazingly and miraculously, everyone arrived back at the house by about 6 p.m. even though, in many cases, this had not been the stated plan.

About 5:45 p.m. Dad started getting fidgety and restless. We brought a single bed into the living room and transferred him onto it. There were almost 20 of us in total, the youngest in his early teens. At first, he was able to communicate some basic needs to us and we tried to work with him, but by about 6:45 p.m. he was no longer able to do this. His restlessness increased and around that time I realized he was going to transition that night. Without many words people circled around the bed and provided safety for Dad as he weakly thrashed his limbs. I gave some brief instructions on energy work and many, at their stations around the bed, put their hands on him. He got a lot of energy work that night.

At one point I bent over him and asked loudly, “Can you see Grandpa?” After several seconds, as if coming back from a distance, he said, “Yes.”  I asked, “Can you see Tom (his brother) and Mary (his mother)?”  Again, he answered, “Yes.”  I said, “They are here to help you. Take their hand.”  Dad moved his left hand away from his torso and opened his palm.  His restlessness gradually decreased and his breathing got shallower and farther apart. We took turns telling him he could go and we would be okay. Dorothy was at his head stroking his face and head and telling him he could let go. As he got closer to his transition we pulled closer around the bed and we all had a hand on him.

His last two breaths had very long intervals in between. In both intervals we thought he had gone, but he surprised us and breathed again. We laughed, and cried. When we realized he had breathed his last, at 7:35 p.m., we stayed around the bed, close to each other, holding hands or arms around each other. Someone would make a joke like, “Isn’t it just like Dad to wear his rattiest T-shirt on the day he would die?” We’d laugh and then we would cry again. We sang a chorus of “You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me Lucille,” one of Dad’s favorites.

It was hard for us to break the circle and leave the energy. When we did finally break, we stayed in the living room together a long time.  All agreed, even the grandchildren, that we had witnessed a life-changing event - the moment when a soul leaves the body. We were unanimous that we were all comforted by being with him as he transitioned and felt privileged to have accepted his gracious (unspoken) invitation to be with him at that time.

The next morning I clearly felt my father’s presence in my home. He HAD come to visit. I felt his warm support and love as I showed him around.

Rebekah Barr provides assistance with understanding and choosing traditional and nontraditional treatment options. You can contact her  at (248) 644-3369.