In The Eyes Of The Dying.
I'd like to think that in our last moments of life that we experience a sort of reverie where we can look back at our lives and enjoy a moment of pride on what we accomplished. We can put all of our mistakes in retrospect so that we can die with some sort of dignity. I imagine a dream-like state, but with an internal clarity where every moment in life can be pulled to the forefront of our thoughts, even those repressed or forgotten. A pipe dream, I'm sure.
If you've never stared into the eyes of someone who is dying, I highly recommend it. Not in some morbid or sadistic way, but as a learning experience. To experience that is a lesson in mortality. I'm sad to say that I've been able to do it twice. Most recently, I lost my Father.
On the morning of December 21st of last year, I brought my wife and newborn daughter Natalie home from the hospital. Within a couple hours, my father had a stroke. Eleven days later, he was dead. My father wasn't a healthy man. In fact, he'd tell you that he should of been dead long before. The man had cancer twice, and life threatening surgeries on multiple occasions. He was a chronic smoker, an Alcoholic and heavy drinker until his last few years. He had kidney failure, emphysema, and congestive heart failure. Despite all this, he still drove his car and was a miserable, grumpy old man. He wouldn't have it any other way, but in those 11 days in the hospital, I saw a changed man.
I stopped by to see him just about every day, but I'd rarely stay very long. You see, even when he was well, he wasn't the type to hold a long conversation or make pleasantries, less so when he was in the hospital recovering. It was much worse when the stroke robbed him of his ability to speak at all beyond a grumbly mumble. In the first few days after the stroke, he understood his situation and at that point he had the possibility for some sort of recovery. I showed him pictures of his new grand-daughter and he acknowledged me with a nod or the wave of his knee, which he kept pulled up to his chest. God knows why.
He got worse as the next few days went on and it took everything in me to visit him daily. The doctors said he had a continuation of his original stroke and then had a subsequent stroke. His external mumblings and ability to respond were becoming less understandable. It became increasingly more difficult to offer my dad words of encouragement on recovery when I doubted a recovery was possible. It was on one of those days that I sat in the chair across from his bed and stared into his eyes. His eyes were wide open looking at me...through me. He wasn't there. Alive, but somewhere else.
I was 14 years old the first time I saw that look. About a year before her death, my Mother was diagnosed with cancer. It was too far advanced for surgery and was treated with chemotherapy and radiation. I literally saw my mother deteriorate in that years time, but as a child, you don't realize and understand the scope of what death is about. Christmas Day, 1990, my mother fell ill after a long day with family. My father rushed her to the hospital. I didn't see my mother for over two weeks, until the day she came home to die. She took a nap in her chair and never really came back into full consciousness. I sat there in the chair opposite hers and stared at her for hours. She kept her eye's open like she was watching children play in the park, with a blank expression on her face. She raised her eyebrow once to let me know she was still there. She died that night. January 14th, 1991. I still cry to this day.
I guess I should find some solstice in it all. Some people never get the chance to say goodbye to their loved ones. I hope in your last few moments, you both had pleasant dreams. I love you Mom & Dad.
If you've never stared into the eyes of someone who is dying, I highly recommend it. Not in some morbid or sadistic way, but as a learning experience. To experience that is a lesson in mortality. I'm sad to say that I've been able to do it twice. Most recently, I lost my Father.
On the morning of December 21st of last year, I brought my wife and newborn daughter Natalie home from the hospital. Within a couple hours, my father had a stroke. Eleven days later, he was dead. My father wasn't a healthy man. In fact, he'd tell you that he should of been dead long before. The man had cancer twice, and life threatening surgeries on multiple occasions. He was a chronic smoker, an Alcoholic and heavy drinker until his last few years. He had kidney failure, emphysema, and congestive heart failure. Despite all this, he still drove his car and was a miserable, grumpy old man. He wouldn't have it any other way, but in those 11 days in the hospital, I saw a changed man.
I stopped by to see him just about every day, but I'd rarely stay very long. You see, even when he was well, he wasn't the type to hold a long conversation or make pleasantries, less so when he was in the hospital recovering. It was much worse when the stroke robbed him of his ability to speak at all beyond a grumbly mumble. In the first few days after the stroke, he understood his situation and at that point he had the possibility for some sort of recovery. I showed him pictures of his new grand-daughter and he acknowledged me with a nod or the wave of his knee, which he kept pulled up to his chest. God knows why.
He got worse as the next few days went on and it took everything in me to visit him daily. The doctors said he had a continuation of his original stroke and then had a subsequent stroke. His external mumblings and ability to respond were becoming less understandable. It became increasingly more difficult to offer my dad words of encouragement on recovery when I doubted a recovery was possible. It was on one of those days that I sat in the chair across from his bed and stared into his eyes. His eyes were wide open looking at me...through me. He wasn't there. Alive, but somewhere else.
I was 14 years old the first time I saw that look. About a year before her death, my Mother was diagnosed with cancer. It was too far advanced for surgery and was treated with chemotherapy and radiation. I literally saw my mother deteriorate in that years time, but as a child, you don't realize and understand the scope of what death is about. Christmas Day, 1990, my mother fell ill after a long day with family. My father rushed her to the hospital. I didn't see my mother for over two weeks, until the day she came home to die. She took a nap in her chair and never really came back into full consciousness. I sat there in the chair opposite hers and stared at her for hours. She kept her eye's open like she was watching children play in the park, with a blank expression on her face. She raised her eyebrow once to let me know she was still there. She died that night. January 14th, 1991. I still cry to this day.
I guess I should find some solstice in it all. Some people never get the chance to say goodbye to their loved ones. I hope in your last few moments, you both had pleasant dreams. I love you Mom & Dad.
posted by Mikey at 9:49 AM
3 Comments:
Very touching, I wish I could make you feel better. We love you.
The Wife
Mike, I enjoyed reading your story. I love your style. The subject was sad, I hope you won't have to witness those dying eyes anytime soon again.
Kristen (Wisconsin)
Mike, I finially cried over Daddy today. I'd built up such a wall against him to keep myself from getting hurt, that he was more of a figure than a person to me. So when I got the news he died it didn't really affect me, then. But you made me see him in a new light, as a loving (although drunk) father and as human and a man. I had dehumanized him, see I didn't get the loving part, just the drunk one. He was never around and when he was, he didn't want me around and let me know it. Can't say whether or not it was the same for our other siblings, I was real young. But I don't think any of us shared the relationship with him that you did.
And then the divorce, I was 9. And pretty much didn't see him again (other than the occasional family gathering) until you were born. I came to stay with ya'll right after you were born, stayed about a week and had a blast. Carole had Ham World and let me work in the restaurant and best of all I got to play with the new baby, you were so cute! I was 15 at the time and that was the last time I ever stayed with my father.
To this day, I don't know why.
Sorry, didn't mean to ramble, I just wanted to thank you. Your writing really touched me and I'm glad he had you in his life. And I'm really glad to know that he finially learned to take joy in the love of his child and to also accept it. He was very lucky to have you and Susan in his life.
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