My grandpa passed away on Sunday...
He was in the last stage of Parkinson's disease. He had been declining steadily over the last year, and in January, he started a hospice program. I started making plans to visit him the 2nd weekend of the month... it seemed like there would be enough time to put my trip off that long.
Last Tuesday (my birthday), my dad called to say that I should change my travel plans, and come to California to see him as soon as possible. His pain from severe muscle cramping (PD related) had become very bad, and the medication he was starting to take would cause him to be mostly unconscious. On top of that, he had started showing signs of dementia. Later that week, his pain worsened, his breathing became more labored, his kidneys started to shut down. He was moved from home to a hospice facility to better manage his pain. Calls went out that the end was coming faster than expected, and the family gathered at the hospice facility late Friday night/early Saturday morning as they arrived from southern California. He was somewhat alert then, when his pain medication wore off. He'd talk (as much as someone with stage 5 PD can; it's hard to form words at that point, so my aunt, his caregiver, interpreted)... but after 10-15 minutes, he'd say his pain was worse and ask for more medication. The medication would make him sleep again.
Saturday morning, he asked who was there, who was coming, and when they would be there. We held his hands, rubbed his feet to warm them, talked to him.
He had barely eaten in days, and hadn't had anything to drink either... he hadn't wanted it and no one forced him to. His body wasn't processing oxygen as well, and he ran a low fever. When you asked him how he was doing, he always responded with his usual "pretty good." But, not long after, he would say he was ready to go. It made sense. During the last year, he had promised to come to my wedding, go to my cousin's wedding, celebrate his 60th wedding anniversary, and move to a new house so that my grandma would be in a safer neighborhood when he was gone and she was by herself. And he did all that. At his age, and with the suffering he was going through, there wasn't much reason to keep fighting.
Most of the family was able to spend Saturday at the hospice facility with him. Groups of 5 or 6 family members rotated in and out of his room. At 6pm, some had to leave to go home, and as they made their goodbyes, he woke up, and started asking for certain family members. This started a process where each person had a moment or 2 alone with him, and he used what energy he had to hug each person one last time. At Grandma's turn, he said thank you for being such a good wife to him, and she thanked him for being a good husband. It was painful to watch him say goodbye to my cousins, aunts, uncles... and it was hard to give him what I knew would be the last hug I'd ever give him... but it was beautiful. Not everyone gets the chance to say goodbye like that, and I'm so grateful that grandpa was able to have that time to say goodbye to each of us.
We thought... hoped, prayed even... that he might pass Saturday night. We had all said goodbye, and there was closure. But, he hung on through Sunday... his soul was willing to leave, but the body was too strong, I guess.
My flight back to Seattle was scheduled for 9:00pm Sunday night, and most of the family left throughout the day. By noon, the only ones left were my dad, 3 aunts, my uncle, and my grandma. (One of my cousins came and went, too.) I spent hours holding his hand and talking to him. He was alert for 5 minutes or so on Sunday morning, and my dad was able to put a phone to his ear so one of my cousins was able to say goodbye. He was able to speak a little (again, with my aunt translating his mumbling). That was the last time you could clearly see he was alert and he was visibly in pain again. That afternoon, there would be periods of 2 minutes or so where he would respond to noise-- a flickering of his eyes at someone's voice, or a little jerk of hand when someone coughed. I spent hours holding his hand Sunday, and when I wasn't, my aunt or my dad held his hand. Hopefully, he knew someone who loved him was there until the end; hopefully that gave him some comfort.
Thinking he could still hang on for 48 hours or more, and that I'd already made my goodbyes, I kept my plans to come home that night. I kissed his forehead one more time, and (not knowing what else to say), said I loved him. An hour and a half after I left to the airport, dad called to say that his breathing had changed. The doctor said it was the type that usually started an hour or two before death, so the end was finally near. 25 minutes later, he called to say grandpa had passed. When grandpa died, my dad and my aunt held his hand. Another aunt cheered him on and said "You did it! You did what you wanted to do!" What she meant was that he'd been ready for hours, and his body had finally given in to what he was so ready for. His suffering was over.
****** (This is probably more detail than most would share, but writing it out was cathartic to me, and it was also a beautiful, but incredibly difficult experience. Death is hard, but beautiful, and I don't think I understood how beautiful an experience it can be until this weekend, even when it comes with so much pain. The blog is about our life as a family, and reality isn't always sunshine and rainbows. Bad times make the good that much more precious. And yes, I'm ok... I got my appetite back tonight, so hooray for eating again.)
