My Reflections:

It’s the day of Papa’s service.  We leave for Nana’s in the morning.  Extended family are flying and driving in and there’s a lunch planned at Nana’s place where we can all gather before the service.  In awesome-supportive fashion, the food has already been prepared by family and friends so it’s just a matter of heating it up to serve the masses.

 

It’s so good to see all these dear family members in one place, many have traveled many miles to get here and moments like these, where we’re all together like this, are rare and precious.

 

 

 

     

 

Before we know it, it’s time to get ready to head over to Nana & Papa’s church for Papa’s memorial service.  Thankfully, I don’t need to give a second thought to what dress I’ll wear.  Of course it will be the one J already picked out with me right after we found out about Papa’s brain cancer.  Not bought as funeral attire at the time, but it works.  I’ve had to shop for funeral-attire before in the wake of grief and it’s awful.  So glad to avoid that this time around.

Soon it’s time to leave.  The church and the pre-service receiving line await.

That darn awkward receiving line.

When the pastor suggested it days earlier, Mark and I both groaned (yes, audibly).  Receiving lines are awkward for the one “receiving” and the one walking the line, most specifically when you don’t know the person.  My last experience being in a receiving line was when J’s mom passed away.  I had a women I didn’t know shake my hand and say something like, “‘Oh, you’re the one who’s pregnant.”  There was an awkward pause as I corrected her.  “No, I’m not pregnant, my son is 4 months old.”  To which she added, “Oh, it’s okay then.”  I wondered what that was supposed to mean.  Was it “okay” that I still looked pregnant post-delivery, or “okay” that she’d made an already crappy day just a tad crappier?

So all that to say, receiving lines can be awkward.

But the pastor had convinced us it was important, thus why we find ourselves tonight receiving a long line of guests for an hour or more.  In all honesty, it’s actually not so bad this go-around. I get the importance of the whole thing, for the guests as well as for us.  But I also pick up on an important rule of receiving line placement when you’re the one’s doing the receiving:  if at all possible, position yourself at the end.  J & I quite by chance score this spot, and I realize it is indeed the place to be.  No need to awkwardly make small talk with unknown guests while they wait for their moment with the person they actually know in line.  When you’re at the end, and the people in the line don’t know you, they can just say a few short words and bow out as quickly as they like.  If and when this receiving line business is ever required again, you can be sure that I will be vying for a spot at the end.

All receiving line pettiness aside, I’m deeply touched by everyone who is here, the majority being Nana & Papa’s friends from their church, but many of my friends have come too.  Twice I’m almost brought to tears over who I see in line, one, a friend who’s coming could potentially put her in an awkward position due to others she might see here (her selfless act of coming in spite of this means so much to me), and two, the husband of Nana’s cousin who just passed away weeks ago (he flew cross-country to be here for just this service, an event that surely would hold painful reminders of his own recent loss).  People keep coming and the line keeps going and the pastor has to cut it short so the service can begin.  People rush to get in a quick hug before everyone finds their seats.  Yes, the receiving line proved a good idea after all.

The service begins and I’ve given strict instructions to J that there will be absolutely no “screen time” (playing games on our phones) for our big boys during the service.  They will sit quietly and listen to stories and memories about their Papa.  Moments like these are important. Yet I had given absolutely no forethought with what I was going to do with Little M during the service.  Thankfully though, my cousin’s wife had, and offered to see after him so I could focus on the service (I have no idea if she herself is able to do so, but I’m grateful for whatever she does to keep my little guy occupied).

The service is not 10 minutes in when I realize my strict “no screen time” rule is a ludicrous idea.  Yes, it’s a wonderful to think our boys can sit still and stay attentive to people talking for over an hour, but the reality of it just isn’t happening in this present moment.  And I selfishly would like to focus on Papa’s memorial service and not on repetitively “sushing” my boys and telling them to get off the floor.  Obviously there’s room for some training here, but today is not the day.  I relent, and boys and mommy are thankful for the technological “survival” tools this 21st century has provided for such “emergencies.”

While boys are thus engaged and quiet, Papa’s coworker, nephews, and siblings all share stories and memories of Papa.  As I sit and listen, I’m reminded what an awesome family Papa has/had.  What an awesome family I still have.  This is one group of incredible people.  I’m intrigued to hear their stories about Papa’s life, some of which I’ve never heard before today.  Hearing them share their memories is my favorite part of Papa’s service.

Mark’s included a poem on the program insert he’d written and given to Papa previously.  It reads:

We took a truck through a car wash

We shared a green apple in the garage

We played tackle in the front yard

We changed the oil in the white car

 

You shared a love only Christ can share

And through your love we’re all aware

That no one else could fill your shoes

In all the gracious things you do

 

You taught me how to be a man

Though I didn’t always understand

You had in mind the best for me

Even though I did not see

 

You taught me things I did not know

It was from above so I could grow

I’m proud I can say that I’m your son

And for all the things you’ve done

 

No one can ask for the things I’ve had

And no one can ask for a better Dad

I love you more than I can say

Or try to write in this way

 

You’re not only the dad from which I’ve been sown

You’re the greatest man that I’ve ever known

 

Thank you for your love!!!

 

My life-long friend gets up and shares my Papa memories.  She reads what I’ve written:

He was:

The giver of piggy-back and horsey rides.

The killer of spiders and other scary bugs.

The reader of poetry and stories (James Whitcomb Riley’s “The Bear Story” was my favorite).

The teller of after-dinner tales and corny jokes.

The driver of curvy mountain passes and cross-country road trips.

The helper of Algebra and Trigonometry homework.

The planner of family hiking treks and camping trips.

The photographer of milestones and memories.

The singer of gospel hymns and choir numbers.

The listener of the Statler Brothers and Johnny Cash.

The leader of Bible studies and family devotions.

And always the researcher and engineer.

He was:

My dad.

And most recently, he was Papa to our boys & our home project go-to guy.  Several months ago, my friend mentioned that Papa’s fingerprints are all over our home, in all the projects he’s helped with in so many rooms of our house.  I couldn’t agree more.

I still remember Papa’s conversation with me after he’d been present during our home inspection (where the inspector had pointed out the many, many repairs our new home would require).  I’d asked Papa what he thought of us buying this house in light of what we’d just discovered at the inspection.  In standard Papa-fashion, he had a story to tell to get his point across, and his story went something like this:

A man came across a young boy who, happy as could be, was shoveling horse manure. There was a big pile of it and the boy would dig up shovel full after shovel full and toss it aside.

“What a stinky job”, the man thought to himself, “who would want to do that?”  But the boy seemed to get happier with every load he tossed aside.

Finally the man couldn’t stand it any longer and he asked the boy, “what are you doing?”

The boy, with a smile from ear to ear, answered, … “well, with all of this horse manure, there has got to be a pony underneath.”

(source: http://enlightenednetworker.com/homebased-business/what-does-a-little-boy-a-shovel-and-horse-manure-have-to-do-with-network-marketing/#axzz2gu9Vn7fi)

Papa went on to say if we were willing to take on the house with all its issues, then he was sure we could make it into a great place, and then he went on to say “better you than me!”

But the thing is, in the past 2 1/2 years, Papa’s been a willing contributor to many a renovation project at our house.  J kept telling me to stop working Papa so hard, yet Papa kept asking “what’s next?,” faithfully coming once or twice a week to paint, repair floors, build furniture, install light fixtures, and countless other tasks.  I would get a design vision, but Papa would be the one to make my vision a reality.  Ever patient with my wanting it “just so” and a good sport with my sometimes hair-brained ideas.  One of these latest ideas was using a discarded wooden pallet to build rustic shelves for Little M’s nursery.  A pallet?  Initially, Papa didn’t quite catch my vision, but soon enough he was drawing up engineer-style plans with his mechanical pencil for these pallet shelves.  He even joined in on the hunt for give-away pallets left on the side of the road.  In fact, the very day we took Papa to the ER and his brain cancer was discovered, Papa had delivered to our place a pallet he and Nana had found and strapped to the roof of the car.  Who does this?  My dad…… that’s who.

Papa didn’t just say “I love you,” he demonstrated it.  Time and time again, he offered his support, help, and love, tangibly.  To me, and so many others.  He had a genuine heart for serving others.

I’m so grateful for our house project days with Papa these past couple of years, working together to help make our house a home.  I’m so grateful for all the years and memories I have with Papa.  I’m proud of the life he lived in the years he was given to live it.  I’m proud of the man he was, and more so, the dad he was to me.   He will be missed more than words can even begin to express.

 

After my friend shares my words, Papa’s siblings and nephews and niece sing one of Papa’s favorite songs, “Just a Little Talk with Jesus” (yes, they’re musical too; one of those genes that mysteriously skipped right over Mark and myself).

The service continues with scripture reading and words from the pastor and a hymn sung by all.

Afterwards, there’s an array of snacks and desserts  for all our family and guests, all provided by those in the church.  There are tables decorated with mums and there’s lots of chatting and snacking and even laughter.  It’s not an evening of sadness and mourning, but one of good memories and good moments to catch up with friends and family from near and far.  The tears can come later, but tonight is definitely one to celebrate a life well-lived: Papa’s life.

 

Facebook Post:

So proud of the life lived out by my dad.  He was diagnosed with brain cancer just two months ago and passed away this past week due to complications with pneumonia. Grateful he no longer suffers; thankful he’s now completely healed & with our Savior. Missing him here in his absence and blessed by the example he set for me.

 

Facebook Responses:

• Kari, this so exemplary of his life. I have so many wonderful memories with him and the rest of our family. Thank you so much for posting this – it will be so good to see you next week.
• Kari I’m so sorry for your loss. Your dad was such a great man! Praying for peace for you all! Hugs to your family…love you.
• [We] are finding it difficult to say goodbye. So many wonderful memories. 
• Such a blessing he was to all of us Kari.
• Sorry to hear about your dad. He was such a great example of a godly father. I feel blessed to have known him.
• What a friendly, kind, and intelligent man he is in my memory, Kari. Tears and shouts of joy to you and your family as you send him off to meet Jesus face to face.

Texts:

• From me to a friend:

Big thank you to you and the rest of the Bible study group for the fruit bouquet.  Please let the group know we will enjoy it!

• Between a friend & me:

Friend:  Thinking of you and praying for you sweet friend

Me:  Thank you!  Definitely hits me at different times, still a bit numb.  Figure it will be harder once things settle down.  Headed to the gym now to burn off some calories/steam/something!

Friend: Good for you.  Let me know if you need anything  Have friends created a meal drop off schedule?

Me (days later):  Sorry for not getting back sooner.  Head spinning w/ a bunch of annoying, but necessary details for my dad’s service, etc.  Ahhhhhhhh!  Guess it’s good to be busy w/ stuff, but might completely be a basket case next week.  Gak, just feel like a spazz right now.  Anywayyyyyyy, a friend has a website meal list going for me.  I can send her your email if you’d like to be added to it.

Friend:  Ok!  I am hoping to get over in the next few days with a bread/muffin basket.  I am sure when the chaos ends you will grieve.  Just reading your FB post made me tear up.  I am still in shock.  Thinking of your mom too. : )

• From a friend to me:

I’m very impressed with how well you are handling everything and I will be praying this week goes smoothly for you and your family.

• Between my life-long friend and me:

Me:  Would you be willing to read something I wrote about Dad at the service?  5 minutes tops and I didn’t make it too sappy.

Friend:  Yes I would be honored to, don’t make it too sad, or I might cry;)… If I read it a few times before I should be good.. you know get all my tests out.

Tears

Me:  At first I thought I would be able to read it, but figure it might be too hard when I’d actually try to get up there and read it.  So thank you!

Friend:  Anything my sister!

 

Emails:

• From Nana to a friend:

Kari forwarded your email to me.  Thank you for the encouraging words!  I am doing well so far, except for waking up too early every morning  with too much to think about in preparation for [the service].  I’d like to skip the whole thing except that I want to honor [Papa’s] memory and the LORD.  We have incredible support here with our church family–more than I ever imagined.

I am sorry for your uncle and all you are going through.  I trust you are feeling the peace and presence of the Lord also.

Love,   [Nana]

• Between me and a friend:

 

My Reflections:

This week is a busy blur of activity.  Family coming into town, appointments at funeral home and florist and church.  Programs, slideshow, and photo boards to arrange; family meals to organize, help to recruit.  Texts, emails, cards and meals flooding in.

The load is a shared one, the tasks divied up among our family and friends making the week so much more manageable.  We’re in awe and so grateful for the support and tangible help offered up by so many.

Mark and his family stay with Nana and help out enormously with all that needs to be done.  My life-long friend flies in and immediately takes on the motherly duties to my little brood, so I can attend to whatever needs attending to.

 

 

 

 

It’s a jam-packed week with a million little details to take care of, but it’s amazing to see what can be accomplished with so many kind heats and talented hands pitching in to help.

Email: (from a family friend)

Isa. 41:10; 43:1-6 Zeph.3:17

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This email was sent in response to my email about Papa being sick in the hospital yesterday, before he passed.  Later I look up these references.  These verses seem just as much for Papa in his last moments as for us now dealing with our loss:

So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.  I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. (Isaiah 41:10)

But now, this is what the Lord says – He who created you, Jacob, He who formed you, Israel:  “Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name, you are mine.  When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.  When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.  For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior….. ” (Isaiah 43:1-3)

The Lord your God is with you, the Mighty Warrior who saves.  He will take great delight in you; in His love He will no longer rebuke you, but will rejoice over you with singing. (Zephaniah 3:17)

 

My Reflections:

I wake up in a fog, the phone is ringing and I have to remind myself Papa is gone; really gone… it wasn’t just an awful dream I had last night.  I look at my phone still ringing and see who it is.  I answer it.

My friend on the other line is kind of surprised I picked up, and I tell her I wouldn’t have picked up for just anyone, but she’s a fellow member of the DPSG and I know she gets it.  I guess now I’m officially a member too.  We don’t talk long, she just wants to tell me she’s praying and she cares and I know she does.  And I appreciate that she’s called.

She’s not the only one that reaches out today.  There are many others.

Friends and family members reach out via texts:

• Oh Kari, I am so sorry.  Let me know if there is anything you need.  I love you.

• Just wanted to let you know I am thinking of you and praying for peace for your family.  I’m sure you feel like you are waking up in a different world today.  If there is anything you need know I am more then willing to help (my least favorite thing ppl would say to me but I truly mean it).

• Sending from my heart with the passing of your father.  How can we help?

• I just read your email.  I’m so sorry to hear about your dad.  Let me know if I can do anything for you.

• Kari, there are no words to express how sorry I am for your pain & your sorrow.  I just want you to know, I am beside you, you can lean here.  When you are too sad to pray, know I am lifting you up; I am speaking the name of Jesus over you, I am asking for your comfort.  You are not alone.

• Dear Kari, J, and boys, just read the news about Papa’s passing.  We are so very sorry!!  Praying for all of you.  Will leave [ ] first thing tomorrow morning.  Much love and our deepest sympathy.

My life-long friend also texts me:

I know things are crazy but call me when you get a chance.  No rush.  

I call her and she tells me she’s coming; getting a cross-country flight and coming to help out.  She’s got kids and husband and job and she’s dropping everything to “be there,” be here, for me.  I know this is no small thing for her, but she won’t let me argue.  She’s always been more like a sister to me than a friend, she’s close to my parents too, she knows what it’s like to lose a dad and her willingness to come means so very much.

Two hours later I get a text with a screen shot of her flight schedule and a message that reads,

See you [next week].

At some point, late morning, I head down the stairs, still feeling numb, in a haze, life surreal.  I peek down the basement steps to see J (who’s taken the day off work) with C Bear, playing choo-choo trains.  My heart warms at the sight; such a good daddy my boys have.

 

A short time later, Nana arrives as I’m planting flowers along the front walk; the same flowers that have been sitting on our front steps for almost a month now.

 

 

There’s life yet in those weary blooms and today seems like a pretty darn good day to be planting them.

So plant ’em I do.

As I’m planting and chatting with Nana, a friend drops by with lunch for our family – salads and sandwiches and sweet treats from Panera Bread (and we heartily enjoy it all).

Later another friend drops by with homemade butternut squash soup.

And later yet another friend brings butternut squash soup that she’s made for us too.

(In case you didn’t know, butternut squash soup = perfect comfort food).

We definitely feel the love and our hearts are warmed by the kindness, generosity and thoughtfulness of so many.

In the midst of the goings-on of the day, I can’t help but snap a pict as I take in a smile from my baby boy:

 

And I’m reminded how life carries on.  How even in the wake of tears & loss, there can still be joy in these small, precious moments.

Because life is precious.

And at times like this, you realize that to a deeper degree than ever before.

Tonight Nana & I will pick up Mark and his family from the airport.  And when we arrive back at our place, there’ll be plenty of butternut squash soup for all; and it’ll feel  good to have us all together, even though Papa’s presence is sorely lacking.  Good just to be together, and have one another’s support as we sort through this time and the days to come.

 

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Emails: (from family and friends)

Hi Kari,

My heart was heavy when I received the news about your dad. He was a very special man. Your mom and I taught Sunday school together at church and I always loved the way your dad came to get your mom at the end of the hour. It seemed very sweet to me!

Please know that my family will be praying for yours in these days and weeks ahead. Give your mom a tight hug from me until I can give it to her myself 🙂

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I am so sorry. I loved your Dad dearly.

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We are so grateful to have been blessed by knowing [Papa] and to have been able to spend time with him [this past spring].  What an amazing man he was.  Although we feel a sense of loss, and we grieve with you, we also look forward to seeing him again.  What a blessed hope we have!

We love you and are praying that the Lord will comfort your hearts and those of your loved ones.

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Such a wonderful man.  He will always have a place in my heart.

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He was not just a brother-in-law to me, but a good and trusted friend, as good as a blood brother.  I will miss him greatly – his clear mind, his good counsel, his sense of humor, his family leadership and his love.

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Have so many wonderful memories with him.

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Always remember a great big smile on his face.  He never seemed to be in a rush, but enjoyed being around people; taking time to talk with and listen to them.

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Such a blessing to all of us.

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[Papa] was a wonderful man, spent his life in a worthy way, and was a huge blessing to us for these past 30+ years that we have known him personally.  It was always a delight to spend time with him.

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A hero and inspiration to me.

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He was a great man, a wonderful friend, and an inspiration to us all.  We all admired him for his righteous ways, for his clear thinking, and for his unwavering dedication to everything he was touching.

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Heaven has one more really great man!!

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I imagine him looking at us from heaven, smiling and tearful.  And wanting to tell us a story or offer an encouraging and wise word.

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… [Papa] was a true giant in providing love and care both for his family and the extended family.  Far more than anyone else, he donated a great time to our genealogy.  Also, when I arranged our family get-togethers, [Papa & Nana] always managed to attend….  Especially in the last twenty years, I have had the pleasure of extended telephone visits with [Papa] and have become more aware of his significant talents and caring disposition.  He will be greatly missed by many.

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He was a very capable, good and decent man, and I liked him very much.

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Text: (from my life-long friend)

Hi Kari, I just got your dads update, I am so sorry that he is having to go through all of this.  I love you my sister and I am praying for a peace that surpassses all understanding!

My response:  It’s really bad, doesn’t look like he’ll make it through the night – blood in lungs, blood pressure super low.

Her response:  I’m so sorry, he just can’t catch a break:(  please let me know if you need me… Call me anytime day or night.  I love you so much, give your dad a big hug for me.  I’m so sad:(

My response moments later:  He’s gone

Her response:  I am so sorry Kari.  I love you.

 

My Reflections:

(late tonight)

Papa’s gone.

And there we stand by Papa’s bedside… and he’s gone.

What does one do at a time like this?

I mean what does one do, logistically, at a time like this?  Here in a hospital room with our loved one who is no more, but who’s body is still very much here?

A nurse comes over and asks if we have a funeral home in mind to call.

We don’t.

We haven’t lately been in the habit of familiarizing ourselves with local funeral homes… we’d been too focused on helping Papa to live.  Such morbid practicalities of focusing on preparing for his death have definitely not been on our radar.

The nurse suggests a certain funeral home that’s nearby, she doesn’t know too much about it, but is willing to get us the number.  I appreciate her kindness, yet find it odd that the job of calling the mortuary just moments after Papa’s passing falls on our shoulders.

Really, is this the usual protocol for this sort of thing?

And yet who else should I expect to handle this?

While the nurse is gone, I call Mark to let him know Dad is gone.  And I’m met with no static this time, just an automated female voice informing me that my call cannot go through due to service being down in the area in which I am trying to reach.

When does this happen?  Cell phone service completely being kaput in an entire area?  And of all places.  And of all times.  Now?!

Can I really not get through to Mark at a time like this?

With a heavy heart, I do the only thing I know to do.

I text him.

I send a text to Mark to let him know that “Dad is gone.”  And I hope it somehow gets through to him even though a phone call can’t.

Yet I wish I could have called him to let him know.  Because what a freakin’ way to find out your dad’s gone than through a text.

Nana & I briefly talk about what to do next.  I say something about a funeral and Nana looks at me a bit surprised, wondering if we really need to have a funeral.  Papa’s wishes, after all, have always been to be cremated with as minimal expense and fanfare as possible.  He was too practical to desire anything more – he knew where his soul was going, no need to make a fuss over his left-behind body.

But I quickly dismiss the idea of not having a funeral, inwardly shocked that would even be a consideration.  Papa’s wishes or not, of course there must be a funeral for our sake as well as for all our friends and family.

The day, this 63rd day, is almost over, and I feel the need to let our friends and family know now of Papa’s passing, before this day ends.  Somehow in my current state of mind, I determine that the email must go out before midnight so as not to confuse people about what day it is that Papa has died.  And I know people are praying and wanting to know what’s going on.  I know I’d want to know what’s going on.

Before I send the email though, I want to let Papa’s siblings know.  So I go in the bathroom in Papa’s room where I can have a bit of privacy and I make the call to Papa’s brother, Papa’s baby brother (who really is quite grown up by now).  I think I’m doing ok and strong enough to make such a call, until the words come out.  My uncle picks up the phone and I tell him it’s me and then the words “He’s gone” rush out like a torrent, it’s all a mess and my voice cracks and I’m crying and I can only imagine what a horrible way this must be for my uncle to hear that his big brother is gone (although I suppose there is no non-horrible way to find out such news).  I choke out the words asking him to call his siblings and let them know – I don’t want them to have to find out about it via an email.  I can tell my uncle is a bit blindsided by my news and my stellar delivery as well, saying he’s so sorry (yet I can only imagine while also having his own heart breaking).

And I wish there were someone else here to handle such calls.  Calls (or text) to son and siblings and mortician.

Tonight we’ve had attending nurses, and cardiac doctors, and pulmonary specialists, but where’s the morbid-tasks-after-death specialist when you need one?

No where in sight, that’s where.

This sucks.

Badly.

The nurse comes in with the number to the funeral home – that funeral home neither Nana nor I knows anything about.  Thankfully, Nana is willing to make this call.  She does, handling it much more gracefully than I would have at this present moment.  From what I can gather, she’s obviously woken up the mortician with her call (it is quite late, after all).  The first few moments of the call are awkward, to say the least, as the mortician gets his bearings.  But then things smooth out a bit.  Yes, he’ll send out his guys to get Papa’s body from the hospital.  They should arrive in two to three hours.

Two to three hours?!

Is this normal?

We have no idea, but we go with it, what else is there to do at a time like this?

With Mark texted and siblings called, I send out an email to the rest of our friends & family:

Dad passed away late tonight.  His complications with his pneumonia progressed quickly and the doctors/nurses did all they could.  He went peacefully with Mom & me by his side.  Mark had made arrangements this afternoon to fly out tomorrow.

Will let you know funeral arrangements once we know them.

Love,

Kari

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Somehow the line about him going “peacefully with Mom & me (I) by his side” sounds like the right thing to say.  Since Papa was sedated during the most intense moments leading up to his death, he did go peacefully in the end, there was no sign of struggle or pain.  Yet I know “went peacefully” doesn’t begin to tell the half of it, blissfully leaving out the chaos and trauma of the scene leading up to Papa’s final breath.  I wonder how many times I’ve heard similar lines from others about the passing of their loved ones, and how often I’d ignorantly painted a picture in my head of family gathered around a bedside whispering their goodbyes as their loved one quietly took his or her final breath… I wonder how many times this picture was worlds away from the turmoil leading up to death, the family shell-shocked, world-rocked, at what they’d just witnessed.  Yet I understand now why they would word it as such. I understand how, in the moment, it’s best to leave out the hard details.  After all, the news of death is bad enough….

Soon after I send out the email, I receive an email response from a friend:

Oh, Kare, I’m truly sorry for your loss. It’s weird about the time.  Right before then I was praying for him…and had a strange feeling of peace about everything sensing that this might be God’s timing in his life.  I know this is hard and you are pretty private about your feelings. Let me know if you want to talk or get together…even to just escape into a movie or a chore, cleaning, maybe?…I can come by your way and help you clean or watch kids and not talk about it.  Please let me know what you need. 

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Crazy, but I have that strange feeling of peace too, even in the midst of the pain & shock.  As hard as this is, as horrible as it is, if I’ve sensed anything tonight, I’ve sensed that this was Papa’s time, his time to go.

More emails will come, but I don’t take the time to read them just yet.  The cardiac doctor that had been attending to Papa since he arrived in the ICU, returns and lets Nana & I know how sorry he is that they were unable to save Papa.  All night this doctor has been all business, a bit cold, but now I can see a touch of tears glistening in his eyes, I can hear a touch of emotion in his voice, and I can tell he’s truly, sincerely sorry.  That this is hard on him too.  He did all that he could do and he’s lost a patient in his care.  Not an easy part of his job.

After the doctor leaves, one of the nurses follows.  And she tells us that Papa’s attending nurse, the one we’d first met with in Papa’s room when he arrived in the ICU, is very shaken up over Papa’s loss.  How this attending nurse is one of their top-notch nurses in this unit and she’s taking Papa’s death very hard.  That neither she, nor any of them, would ever have imagined that when Papa came in tonight that they’d lose him just hours later.

Nana expresses her thanks to the nurse, as she had to the doctor as well, over how she appreciates all that they had done for Papa that night.  And I agree.  I’m grateful for the sincere concern shown by Papa’s doctor and nurses.  In the no-frills atmosphere of this hospital, there is also warmth, and that’s important in a moment such as this.

And in this moment, I’m also grateful that Papa is home.  In a now-perfect body in his heavenly home, the place in which he was so longing to be.

I’m reminded of this when some nursing assistants come in to “clean up” Papa.  We’re asked if we’d prefer not to be in the room as they do this, but Nana & I choose to stay.  I find it a bit futile to clean up Papa’s body when it’s only being picked up for cremation, but in a way, I’m glad for the respect or dignity or whatever this obviously “standard procedure” adds to the situation.  Nana & I continue to discuss details and such as the two girls sponge-bathe Papa in the background, and I don’t pay too much attention to what they’re doing.  At one point though,  I can’t help but notice when they shift Papa’s body and one of his leg falls off the side of the bed.  They quickly lift his leg back on the bed, but I’m struck with what I’ve just seen.  Papa’s leg falling off the bed… in such a way that it’s obvious there’s not a single ounce of life left in it, just a body part flopping like a limb of a rag doll.  This is just his body left here now, no life, no soul, nothing more.

When they finish, there is no more to be done.  We could wait for Papa’s body to be picked up, but neither of us feel that that is necessary.  So we say our goodbyes to Papa one last time, not really Papa, just his body, and we walk out the door of his room.  As we make our way down the hallway, Nana looks back and comments that if no one knew any better and saw Papa just now, they’d only think he was sleeping.

It feels strange leaving, strange leaving Papa lying in that room as we walk out, but I know it would feel even more awkward to stay.  I offer for Nana to come home with me, but she decides that isn’t necessary, she’ll sleep at her place and come see us the next day (or later today, I should say, as by now it’s in the wee hours of the morning).

I drive home, numb.  When I arrive home, there’s flowers on the kitchen counter along with a sweet note from a friend.  I’m touched by her kindness… for getting these here however and whenever she did.  I walk up the stairs and wake J up off the floor in the boys’ room, and we crawl into bed together.  He asks how it all happened and I tearfully relay the details.  And I think of Nana who is in her own bed now with no one to relay any details to.  No Papa by her side.

It’s closing in on 3 AM and at some point I fall asleep.

 * I feel the need to put one of those “reader discretion advised” warnings at the beginning of this post.  This is the 63rd day, the last goodbye to Papa.  It’s not an easy read; I’ve included a lot of details, perhaps too many for some.  I want to tell this story as completely as possible, so I’ve chosen to do so here.  This day is a big piece of the story for me, but if reading about death is uncomfortable for you,  please feel free to skip over this post. 

 

Text: (from me to a friend)

“Bringing meal to your friend tonight.  Can I get her # to call and let her know when I’m coming?”

 

My Reflections:

I’m in the drop off line for C Bear’s afternoon preschool.  I call a friend of a friend to arrange a time to drop off dinner to her – her premature twins are in the NIC-U and she can use a little extra help.  I’ve never met her before, but my friend asked if I could bring a meal and I’d agreed.

When I get home, I’m in the middle of prepping the black bean chili, not quite started on the corn muffins or salad yet, when Nana calls.

She sounds concerned, more than concerned.  I can tell by her voice that something must be wrong.

I hold my breath waiting for whatever she’s about to say.

Nana explains the situation:

She & Papa were just at an appointment this morning with Papa’s GP to get the stitches removed from his fall last week. Before they left, Papa ate a good breakfast and though weak, was able to get around and to and from the doctor’s okay with Nana’s assistance.  They’d even received a call that morning with the lab results from Papa’s latest blood work for his kidneys – the report was good, the best it has been in years even with all that Papa has been through of late.  When they were at the GP’s office, the doctor removed Papa’s stitches and checked Papa out too, saying he looked to be doing well (as well as possible w/ Papa’s current state of affairs).  On the way home from the appointment, Papa complained of his stomach hurting, something he hadn’t mentioned to his doctor just moments before.  Soon after returning home, he was tired and went to bed to get some rest.  A bit later, he needed to use the restroom and beckoned Nana to help him.  With her help and his wheelchair, they made it the bathroom, but he was unable to move out of the chair to the toilet, even with Nana’s help.  By Papa’s suggestion, Nana called a neighbor for further assistance, but even with this man’s, Nana’s, and Papa’s combined efforts, his weakness was too great to move him.  His GP was then called who advised Nana to get him to the ER and an ambulance was called to assist in the transport since Papa was too weak for them to get him into the car.

And now Nana’s waiting for the ambulance.

She’s not insisting I come, but she’s not urging me to stay home either.  Nana’s not one to worry, but I can hear the worry in her voice now.  And I know I need to get myself to that hospital ASAP.

She says she’ll call me back once the ambulance arrives and she has a better idea of what’s going on.

She hangs up and I’m left to my ground meat, browning on the stove, and my brain whirling with what to do.  I must go, but Little M is napping and C Bear needs picked up from preschool and J Jr. from the bus, and what about the friend of a friend with her NIC-U babies and her expectant dinner of black bean chili?

I call my friend who arranged this meal-thing in the first place, explain to her what’s going on, as much as I know.  She offers to cover for the meal, offers to take the boys too, but even though we try to figure it out, there’s just no realistic way she can be getting her girls and my boy from preschool, her boy from his bus, my boy from his, while juggling her baby and mine, no less.

And then it hits me, as if out of the blue: J.  In the craziness of the moment, I hadn’t even considered calling on him.  Yes, this situation definitely necessitates an early dismissal from work, and when I call him, J is on it, no hesitation, he’s on his way home, and a weight is lifted, no juggling required.

Nana calls back and tells me they will soon be on their way to the nearest hospital, the local “country hospital.”

Oh no, not there!, (I’m thinking, but not saying).

This local hospital wouldn’t be our first choice normally, and especially not at a time like this.  Papa’s hospital of choice, the one with all his records, his doctors, and state-of-the-art, top-notch care is just a bit further away – that’s where they should be taking him now.  But the paramedics say there isn’t enough time, Papa’s blood pressure is dangerously low (low 60s over low 30s), so low that he might not make it if they choose to drive the extra distance to the other hospital.  They must get him to the nearest hospital, and now.

There’s no arguing with that, and I inwardly sigh and raise my hands in exasperation once again.  The situation is out of our control, and not playing out as we see fit…

I tell Nana I will meet up with her as soon as J gets home and I can get myself there.

Ironically enough, as I wait for J, my health coach calls for her scheduled follow-up appointment (one of those get-a-discount-on-your-insurance-if-you-talk-with-a-health-coach sort of things).  I don’t feel like doing this right now, but it’s taken me months to get this thing scheduled in the first place, and I can’t leave till J gets home anyway, so I pick up.

I pace and watch for J out the front window as I mindlessly answer the questions of my health coach (somehow the number of vegetable servings I’m eating daily seems so incredibly pointless right now).  When she asks me if I feel I’ll be able to reach my previously-set goal of exercising 20 minutes, 5 times a week, I mumble something about not being sure about that.

“And why is that?” she asks in a sweet, well-meaning way.

Because my dad might be dying right now.

But I don’t say that out loud.  I’m not sure what I say, but soon the call is over and I see J pulling in the driveway.  Relief & I rush out the door.

I meet Nana and Papa in a room in the ER.  One of their pastors is already there with them.  Papa is lying in a hospital bed, obviously weak and uncomfortable, and semi-incoherent (we can tell he’s only semi-coherent because when they ask him who the President is, he doesn’t know the answer; and normally, politically highly-opinionated Papa would have no problem answering a question like that!).  Every now and then he moans in discomfort and his stomach seems larger than usual under his hospital blankets.  The doctors and nurses are giving him meds to help raise his blood pressure and they conduct various scans, tests, etc.  We know things are serious, but the atmosphere is strangely calm, just a couple nurses coming in from time to time to take vitals or such.  At one point a doctor comes in and explains that they’ve found pneumonia on one of the scans, primarily in Papa’s right lung along with a bit in his left lung.  They will be giving him meds to treat the infection.  The doctor explains that the next 24-48 hours are critical to see how Papa’s body responds to the meds and that if he responds well, there’s a good chance he’ll pull through this.  He further explains that Papa’s condition is too unstable to transfer him to another hospital now, he will have to be treated here and will soon be moved to the ICU.

My heart sinks when I hear this.  I look around Papa’s room in the ER and inwardly cringe.

You mean we’re stuck….

Here?!

I feel like we’re worlds away from where we were just two months ago, in another ER room when this all began, when we found out Papa had a cancerous brain tumor.  I hadn’t given that physical ER room a second thought at that time; but now it’s updated decor and equipment stands in stark contrast to the room where Papa lies now.  Across from where I sit, I notice the old wheeled metal medical cabinets, with their drawers labeled in Dymo tape, and to my left I ponder a mini fridge, complete with it’s faux wood door, sitting oddly atop a circa 1960’s wooden end table, looking more like a set-up you’d find in a frat-house, not an ER room.  I half-wonder what’s behind that faux wood fridge door, some cold sodas for the nursers or vials of important medications and bags of vital fluids?

Clearly this is not where I’d choose for Papa to be right now, but clearly it is out of our hands.  What other option is there, but to hold my breath and hope for the best?

We ask the doctor if Papa’s condition is serious enough to warrant my brother flying cross-country as soon as possible to see Papa.  The doctor is on the fence; saying it’s hard to tell how things will go at this point.

I call my brother, Mark, to let him know what’s going on.  He’s in route to work, but turns around and immediately goes home to make flight arrangements to come out.  I let him know that I’ll call again when I know more.

Someone asks Nana if Papa has an advanced directive, a document listing his wishes for life support, etc., should his condition worsen and deem such.  But in the rush of getting Papa to the hospital, the document has been left at home.  We know what his wishes are, he doesn’t want any heroic measures taken if his quality of life would be compromised, but Nana decides to take a quick trip home to get it, as well as some other things, for what looks to be a long night of waiting and watching in the hospital.  When Nana tells Papa what she’s doing, he tells her not to rush getting back, but to “stay home and get some rest.”  Needless to say, Nana won’t be heeding his advice, but will be returning as quickly as possible.

Nana & Papa’s pastor has been here through all of this, a stable presence reading scripture to Papa and praying with us all and even trying to make small talk with me as Nana has been occupied with paperwork or questions from the nurses.  I appreciate that he’s come, but don’t envy his position.  How odd it must be to be called upon to play a supporting role to the sick and possibly dying, and offering up support for their families as well, some of whom you barely know.  I’m sure it’s not an easy or comfortable position to be in, yet somehow his just “being there” helps and I’m sure this same pastor must be of help to so many families in similar circumstances.

Before Nana goes, the pastor bids his goodbye, and soon it’s just me and Papa left in that ER room.  I sit there and pat Papa’s hand, but there are no profound words to speak, I’m sure I speak some words, but I’m not sure what; Papa is so weak, so clearly miserable and in pain.

Soon the nurse comes to wheel Papa to the ICU and as I follow behind her and the gurney, Papa moaning as we go, I silently pray.  And I’m sure my prayer seems like a horrible prayer to pray about your father at a time like this, but I pray it all the same:

 Lord, please take him soon and take him quickly.

I just don’t want him to suffer any longer.  For there my dad is on that gurney in front of me, a shell of himself, groaning in pain, unable to communicate clearly, weary and spent and discouraged.  He wants to be done with his misery and as I stand there witnessing it, I want him to be free from it as well.  But I know it’s in God’s hands; not mine, not Papa’s; so I keep walking, swallowing past the lump in my throat, and just moving forward, down the hall, into the elevator, out of the elevator, and into Papa’s room with him in the ICU.  Because that’s all… that I…. can do.

Shortly after, Nana returns and meets up with us in Papa’s new room.  There’s one nurse attending to Papa, asking questions, checking monitors, etc.  Again, theres a strange sense of calm, no panic or urgency.  Papa’s room is large, with a couch and a few chairs at one end of it.  Nana asks the nurse if she’ll be allowed to stay the night in the room with Papa, to which the nurse responds that usually they only allow that for patients in critical condition.  There’s a family lounge down the hall that Nana can use.  The nurse adds though, that maybe an exception can be made.  Nana and I are both a bit surprised by the nurse’s response, both of us assuming Papa to fall in the category of “critical condition.”  The nurse’s comment gives us a bit of hope that perhaps Papa is not as critical as we thought.

Mark calls and lets us know that he’s gotten a flight for tomorrow afternoon and we’re glad that he’ll soon be here with us.

Later, the nurse comes in to update us with the results of some of Papa’s scans.  Along with the pneumonia, sepsis has appeared on the scans and there’s also some sort of obstruction to Papa’s bowel.  This obstruction would explain why Papa’s abdomen has been growing more and more distended and why he’s been complaining of stomach pain throughout the day.

When we meet Papa’s attending ICU doctor, he explains that due to Papa’s fragile condition, he’s hesitant to put an NG tube down into Papa’s stomach to relieve the growing pressure Papa is experiencing.  After some deliberation between the doctor and nurses though, it’s decided that this is indeed the best course of action for the moment.

Nana & I wait in the hall outside of Papa’s room while the tube is being inserted through Papa’s nostril and down into his stomach.  From the groans we can hear coming from Papa, we can tell it’s not a pleasant procedure for him to go through.

1. I call Mark again to give him the latest.  I tell him about the sepsis and the bowel obstruction and the NG tube, but for some reason the reception is staticky and I can barely hear what he’s saying on his end and I can tell that he can’t fully catch all that I’m saying either.  I try calling from my phone and Nana’s, even trying from different locations in the hospital in hopes that the reception improves, but it does no good.   This is no time for static!  But yet again it’s out of my control despite my best efforts.

I send out an email to update family & friends and ask for prayer:

Dear Family & Friends,

This afternoon Dad was taken to the ER with very low blood pressure.  Pneumonia was found in his right lung, which is most likely a result of aspiration.  Sepsis was also found (this is a whole-body inflammation caused by the body trying to fight off a severe infection).  The sepsis has progressed to toxic shock and he is being treated for this and the pneumonia with IV fluids and several antibiotics.  If that weren’t enough for him to deal with, he also has some sort of bowl obstruction and was given an NG tube to help relieve the pressure and pain in his abdomen.

Dad is in the ICU of the hospital.  This is not the hospital where Dad is usually treated and where all his doctors are, but it is the closest hospital to their home and it was necessary to transport him there to get him medical attention as soon as possible.  We have been pleased with the care they’ve given him here thus far.

Right now Dad is in critical condition.  The next 24-48 hours are crucial as we see how his body responds to the meds.

Will keep you posted as things progress.  Thanks for your prayers!

Love,

Kari

 

Texts from friends start to come in response:

Oh Kari I’m so sorry saying lots of prayers

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Praying so hard!  Keep me posted as you can…

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Hi, Kari, praying for you all now… may God’s grace & love sustain you, & be everything that you each need in this moment.

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Soon after the tube has been placed, while Nana & I are still waiting in the hall, Papa’s oxygen levels drop dangerously low.  Since he’s been admitted to the hospital this afternoon, his pulse had been challenging to detect, with probes needing to be placed on his head rather than his finger.  But now things are getting worse, much worse.  Nana & I are still waiting outside of Papa’s room when a nurse rushes by calling to another nurse that if they don’t act quickly they will have a “code blue” on their hands (since then I’ve learned “code blue” is used to indicate a patient requiring resuscitation).  So Papa is hooked up to a DPAP machine in hopes to bring his oxygen levels up.  Nana & I return to the room to see Papa in quite a miserable state. A nasty brown liquid is draining from the tube coming out of his nose from his stomach, and it’s obvious he’s in considerable discomfort.  We watch as the doctor & nurses keep monitoring his oxygen levels and such, but things seem only to be worsening.

The doctor asks if we’re willing to have Papa intubated.  We both know Papa would probably consider this a “heroic measure,” but Papa has given Nana final say and both Nana & I feel it’s important to try to keep him with us at least until Mark can arrive to see him.  We give our permission for Papa to be intubated.

They ask us to wait in the family lounge while they do the procedure for the intubation.  They inform us Papa will be sedated.

We wait for what seems like forever.  When we’re finally able to return to Papa’s room, there is no encouraging news.  At this point they can no longer get a reading for Papa’s blood pressure except for pricking his finger for blood and testing that to determine his blood pressure.  A nurse lets us know that Papa’s lungs have started to fill with fluid, especially his right lung, and they are calling in a pulmonary specialist (from his home) to scope Papa’s lungs and drain the fluid.  She goes on to warn us that soon things will be getting pretty intense and she gives us the option to leave the room if we would be more comfortable with that.  Nana & I look at one another and both agree that we want to stay and so that is just what we do.  Papa remains to be sedated, seemingly asleep and unaware of the tubes, beeping monitors, probing nurses, and breathing machine causing his chest to steadily rise and fall.   I’m grateful that he’s seemingly unaware of just how bad off he is right now.

I try to call Mark again, but all I get is some message about phone service not being available in his area at this time.  My heart hurts and I want to scream,

Why now?!  Why now of all times is there no way to reach my brother and let him know that our dad could be dying?  

I text him hoping that that will somehow go through.

Nana & I are sitting there in two chairs, a couple yards from Papa’s bed when the pulmonary specialist arrives and there’s suddenly a group of 8 or so doctors and nurses surrounding Papa’s bed, a medical cart wheeled between us and them.  We can see what’s going on, but can’t see Papa very well with the flurry of people and activity going on around him.   But I can see well enough to see the “fluid” being drained from Papa’s lung via a tube coming out of his mouth; and I must admit that I’m horrified when I see all the blood passing through it (for some reason I’d imagined “fluid on the lungs” would be some sort of clear fluid).

The doctors and nurses are working feverishly, and it’s apparent they are literally doing all they can to help Papa survive.  But as Papa’s levels continue to drop, I can visibly see the worry in both the doctors’ and the nurses’ faces.  They look at the monitors and look at one another and I realize in that moment that they are unsure of what to do next.  I realize that there is only so much they can do and that that might not be enough to save Papa.

And Nana and I sit there and watch in silence, grasping each other’s hand and looking from time to time at each other, wide-eyed.  I’m blinking back tears, some spilling down my cheeks, and my heart is racing and my breath is caught in my throat… and in my head I’m thinking,

This is it.  This is Papa’s time to go.  It’s out of our hands.  It’s out of these doctors’ hands.

The pulmonary specialist comes over to Nana & I and explains that Papa’s lung is filling too fast, so fast that the right is spilling into the left, so fast that Papa’s heart can’t keep up.  He says that there is nothing they can do to stop it at this point.  That it’s too hard on Papa’s heart and it will soon stop beating.  He says that when it does, they could try to start Papa’s heart again, but he wouldn’t recommend it.  That if they did, Papa would need to be on machines to survive and would most likely be in a vegetative state and need to be in a nursing home for the rest of his life.

We know that’s not what Papa would want.  It’s not what we want for Papa either.  We let the doctor know that no heroic measures are to be taken.

Shortly after, a nurse comes over and says that we should come over to say our final goodbyes, Papa will soon be gone.

The machines are turned off and suddenly the frenzy of just moments earlier has turned into a surreal stillness.  From what I can tell, it’s just me, Nana, and a couple of nurses now.  Perhaps the rest of the staff has left to give us our last moments with Papa.  And, more so, perhaps there is nothing left for them to do here.

Nana goes over to say goodbye and I’m right behind her, saying my goodbye and kissing Papa’s cheek, squeezing his hand while the nurses are checking for a pulse; and I wonder if he’s already gone before I even finish, and seconds later the nurse checking for the pulse nods to the nurse next to me that yes, he’s gone.

Papa is gone.

 

My Reflections:

A fairly normal day around here with school and stuff at home.  After dinner, J and the I take the boys to some nearby soccer fields for a little kicking around of the ball (because playing on “real” fields with “official” goals is just plain cool).  J and the big boys play while Little M & I lounge (or more accurately shoo the bugs away) on the sidelines.  Nice night.  Nice time to get out as a family.

Texts: (between a friend & me)

Friend:  Dinner planned already?  Event at Chick-fil-A tonight.

Me:  Sounds fun, but we’re heading to my parents.

 

My Reflections:

We’re heading to Nana & Papa’s tonight & I offered to bring dinner.  Salmon cakes will make their shining debut (think crab cakes, but with salmon), fitting the “easy to chew” bill for Papa.

The plan is to make dinner, pack everything up, and have everything & everyone ready to roll as soon as J gets home from work.

Easy-peasy.

Except the dinner prep is taking longer than expected (salmon from a can looks far less appetizing than I’d imagined – there’s bones and goosh, and do you sort through it all or just dump it in?).  Little M is still sleeping and the other two are vying for my attention and the kitchen is a disaster and it’s obvious everything and everyone will NOT  be ready to roll anytime soon.  But the clock is ticking and we need to be ready to roll.  SOON.

And in the middle of the rush and mess, as squishy salmon cakes are being fried up and I’m stressing that there’s not enough time, J calls:

He’s going to be late, very much late; pressing matters at work that can’t be helped.  By the time he’ll get home and we travel the not-so-short distance to Nana’s & Papa’s there will barely be time to eat before we need to turn around and head home to get the boys to bed at a semi-reasonable hour.

Argh!

Big SIGH….

I could round up the boys and food and head there myself, but in this moment, that prospect seems no less than daunting.

I call Nana who lets Papa know and he says not to worry about it, we can do it another night.  But between their schedule and our’s we won’t be able to make it work for several nights from now.  I can hear Papa in the background saying something to the gist of No worries, it’s ok, and I know he’s being sincere; he & Nana understand and it truly is ok with them.

But inwardly, it’s not all ok for me.  It just seems like yet another good-intentioned attempt gone awry, yet another something out of my control.  After I get off the phone with Nana, the tears well up and I leave the boys to their cartoons and the kitchen to its mess.  I head out to the deck for a moment of sanity, to breathe and get some perspective.  And get my crap in order.

As I take my self-induced time-out, I check my email via my phone, and right there, like that, is an email waiting for me from a friend.  As I read it, the tears spill down my cheeks.  This couldn’t have come at a better time.

How did she know?

 

Email: (from a friend to me)

Hey Kari,

I know that you are going through so much right now, and I was praying about a way to bless you.  So, God put in my heart to buy you a massage from groupon.

I emailed J, cause I wanted to have it all set up for you, but I figured that it may be easier to coordinate with you, since you know your schedule best.

I offered to watch Little M too, while J has the two [big] boys.

Either you can make the appointment, or let me know what day/time works, and I can do it.

I pray that this blesses you, because you are an amazingly strong and beautiful woman, and you deserve a break.  xoxo

Love [your friend]

 

Email: (my response)

Oh my goodness – thank you!!!!  Seriously, you brought tears to my eyes w/ your sweetness.

I’ll figure out a time to go soon (yay!) and will let you know if we’ll need help w/ Little M (I’m sure J can manage, but I’ll leave that up to him.)

So looking forward to my massage time!  Words cannot express my thanks – so very, very nice of you!

Love, Kari

 

There’s no denying that a massage sounds heavenly right now, but it’s really not the prospect of a massage that means so much to me in this moment.  More than that, it’s the gesture; it’s all about the gesture.  This dear friend was thinking of me, praying for me, and had it on her heart to bless me, and then she did something about it; and God truly used her thoughtfulness in the very moment I was needing it.  She followed God’s lead and I was truly blessed, my heart encouraged, because of it.

With crap now pulled together, I head back inside.  Soon salmon cakes are eaten, kitchen is put back in order.  J eventually arrives home, boys get tucked in bed, another day is done, with rest to begin yet another.

We’ll have dinner with Papa another day.

It will be ok.

 

Email: (my response to an email from an overseas missionary friend)

Thanks so much.  Would appreciate your prayers!  Hard to know exactly what to ask prayer for.  For the moment, I’d say for my dad’s strength and speech to improve.  The cancer and his prognosis aren’t good, but it would sure help the time we do have with my dad if he could speak and understand what we’re saying more clearly (we can usually get the gist of what we’re trying to say to each other, but it’s still difficult).  He’s been pretty weak as well, able to get around somewhat, but more like you’d expect from a 90 year old.  Really hard to see him like this!  People have mentioned the importance of sharing special time together as a family during this time – cherishing the time we have together, which all seems like wonderful advice, except the reality of it isn’t that “Hallmarky” and warm and fuzzy, but a whole lot more mundane, and at times awkward, as my dad and the rest of us adjust to his current state of mind and circumstance.  There are good moments, but sometimes he doesn’t seem “all there,” sometimes he needs help getting to the bathroom, sometimes he has to be reminded to wipe his face after eating or chew smaller bites so he doesn’t have trouble swallowing…..  A lot of his manhood has been taken away along with his faculties…. I know it could be a lot worse, it’s just hard.  My dad is still here, but a lot of what makes him “Dad” is already gone, if that makes sense.

So you can also pray for joy for me.  Sounds crazy because nothing about this situation seems “joyful,” but at the same time I don’t want to live this next year, or however long, just sad and discouraged and generally ticked off with the situation.  “Rejoice in the Lord always” – I want to be able to do that, however that might look, in the midst of all this.  Weeping when I need to (cause I think I’ve got to do that as well to cope with this in a healthy way), but also being able to see God’s faithfulness and goodness in this too, and be ok in Him even though I’m not ok with all this cancer and illness crap.

Thanks for your prayers and concern.  I’ve appreciated getting your update emails even though I’ve been horrible about responding or checking in.  I know it’s not easy doing what you’re doing, but I know you’re stepping out with an obedient heart and that God is honoring that in your life.  Keep on pressing on!

Love,

Kari

 

*No pertinent texts, emails, photos or stories to share from today.

Email: (to me from a friend)

 

My Reflections:

This morning I prepare to meet Nana & Papa at an appointment where we’ll be meeting with another oncologist (a friend of friends) for a second opinion regarding treatment options, diagnosis, etc.  I’m hopeful in getting this doctor’s input and any helpful insight he has in regards to Papa’s cancer and current condition.

But just as I’m getting ready to go, the phone rings.

It’s Nana.

And she’s calling to tell me that Papa fell again, this time as he was making his way down the couple steps that lead to their garage.  He was on his way to get into the car to ride to his appointment when he lost his balance on one of those steps.  And fell back and hit his head.

Oh, no!

I’m concerned, but Nana reassures me that Papa seems fine.  His doctors have instructed them though, that should Papa ever fall and hit his head, he should be taken to the E.R. immediately to be checked out.

Nana goes on to say that obviously with this turn of events, Papa’s appointment with the oncologist will have to be postponed.

Obviously, and yet my heart sinks when I hear it.

Yet another thread of hope snatched away.

Nana & Papa head to the E.R. to make sure all is ok.  Nana reassures me that they’ll be fine, no need for me to come.  So I stay home with my charges, my heart a bit heavier than it was before.

Thankfully, Papa checks out ok at the E.R. and no harm was done except a small gash on his head.

Just a small gash…

And one second-opinion appointment missed.