When I watched my father slowly die over several days (or
you could say for a decade), I found myself having to think about the science
and biology of it. How one by one his
organs were failing. Oxygen wasn’t
getting to his brain. His kidneys were
no longer working. His lungs were
filling with fluid. His memory was
gone. He was no longer the man I
knew. Near the end he was like a wild
animal.
I got the call from my sister while I was doing door-to-door
canvassing. My father was in the
hospital. There was a bit of a
reassurance in her voice. My dad was in
the hospital a lot, usually for appointments, though sometimes for medical
scares. This is just another time.
In the past, one medication assigned by one doctor could mess up another
medication assigned by another doctor -- the final drug cocktail ingested would
make his eyes go yellow from stage 2 kidney failure. I’ll never forget how bright blue his pupils
were when I was home and the doctor called to say the blood test results show
he needs to go to the emergency room immediately. He was scared, but he went in and after a few
days and tests at the hospital he would be back home and things would be back
to ‘normal.’
I quote normal because things were never normal. Not when your father is overweight and only
half his heart is active. He had a
silent heart attack in 2001. The doctors
gave him 10 years at most with diet and exercise. I imagine he was terrified and it paralyzed
him. Despite efforts of the family, he
overall declined diet and exercise; consequencely putting an unspeakable toll
on the family in the decade that followed.
Nevertheless he stuck to the doctor’s timeline.
The time I had in middle school and early-to-mid high school
was dark. Hormones go rampant, drama
ensues, and there isn’t much wiggle-room for an overly sensitive kid who is
constantly wondering when his father might die.
I always wondered what it would be like to throw a baseball around
with him, or build that homemade go-kart like he promised.
Then again, I think of my grandfather on my mother’s side
when I was a small child. He was helping
build a box-kite for me, as he was a superior carpenter, but we never finished
it. By the next time I visited his California home, the
Alzheimer’s disease had mostly taken over and the kite was no where to be
seen. He died soon after.
Perhaps its better my father never got into those projects
with me.
My father’s health was like the ocean tides, some days he
was himself, others not so much, and sometimes he was a raging tsunami. Imbalance with diabetes can do that. Seeing his dependency on medications, and
accompanying him on those hospital visits, made me fearful of meds and have a severe
dislike of medical centers.
As the years tallied up after his heart attack, death was
always a gambling thought. When would he
die? At times he got really bad and it
didn’t look likely he would live to see my high school graduation. Then my college years continued on, and
things became less ‘when’ and more accepting of what it was. He was always ill, always dying.
I would always hug or shake his hand before heading back
down to college. Sometimes I would stare
at him before walking out of the room—would this be the last time I see
him? My father silently caught on to my
thought one time, his face showing hints of uncharacteristic sorrow. I hurriedly turned and walked out of the
house.
As I grew up, my room was directly across from my
parents’. I would always see my father
napping on the bed, his big round belly rising and falling with this sometimes
labored breathing. Occasionally I
stopped and watched his belly, fearful of the day I would look and see it
still.
Over all those years I tried everything I could to get him
to change. I would positively encourage
him. I would yell and scream at
him. Only once or twice did he get on a
treadmill for a few minutes, and more than a few times I made him cry. Eventually I had to give up and start trying
to focus on my own life, a process that took years and helped with the distance
college brought.
Ironically, I had to take on my fears of medication and
medical centers when I nearly died in 2009 in the middle of my election bid for
Blacksburg Town Council.
A recent google search comes up with this explanation:
“hypokalemic thyrotoxic periodic paralysis with thyrotoxic psychosis and
hypercapnic respiratory failure.” In
English: I eventually was diagnosed with Graves’ disease, a condition that
causes my thyroid to be over active. Due
to a surge of thyroid hormones it started to shut down my system and fully
paralyzed me in the middle of the night.
I was one symptom away from it paralyzing my lungs and killing me.
Perhaps in the fact that I was always seeing sickness with
my father I failed to appreciate my own health.
At the time I thought my paralysis was due to me being really sick,
despite my head being clear. After
around 30 minutes of effort, I crawled to the bathroom and found my temperature
was just 95 degrees. I took a hot bath
and then went back to bed-- meh, I thought, I ought to feel better in the
morning. I was lucky I ended up being ok
after that episode. I saw a doctor the
next day who did blood work that led me to find out about the Graves’ disease. Three months later, as there is no cure, I
had my thyroid removed.
A few years before that, freshman year, I remember being up
in the middle of the night on a weekend, lying on the floor of my girlfriend’s
dorm. I was withering in pain as my ears
bubbled and popped. I had a fever and
ear infections. Despite the immediate
health problems, I figured I would go to the doctor later and didn’t even
consider the ER. I was again lucky in
there was only minor scaring in my ears and no loss of hearing.
More recently, I wasn’t so fortunate. In the last year I had
dull pains crop up in my lower left abdomen, even went to the ER after it wouldn’t
go away for a few days. They found
nothing after doing several tests.
Months later the pain continued and I decided to get a colonoscopy to
get to the bottom of it.
Hours after that lovely process, which ended up showing
nothing, I went to the ER with immense pain in my testicle. I soon found out I had a history of
testicular torsion. Yes, it is as nasty
as it sounds. Your testicle can twist
and cut off blood flow. I had some
symptoms and discomfort for years with my testicle, but always dismissed it and
it got better.
After years of occasional incidents, apparently the pain
shot north toward my lower left abdomen.
For this latest incident, I dismissed the pain for too long. You only have about 6 hours to untwist a
testicle. By the time I was in the ER
and despite the heroic efforts of the medical team-- my gurney nurse was a
veteran and passionately talked how he helped save his buddy’s testicle and was
going to do it again for me-- my testicle was already dead and had to be
surgically removed.
That’s one way to be knocked off your feet for a few
weeks. That was one of the first times I
had an opportunity to really think about my father passing, 6 months after the
fact. I ended up spending a lot of time staring at the ceiling.
Rewinding to that afternoon where I just hung up the phone
with my sister who said Dad was in the hospital, I was shocked and
confused. I didn’t get any details, but
I knew it wasn’t good. I came home the
weekend before as it was Memorial Day Weekend; I remember shaking my father’s
hand before I left back for work a few states away and recalled how cold it
was. The usual thought of him being
close to death popped in my head, but I quickly dismissed it. It was useless to think that way.
Still holding my phone and standing on the side of a
neighborhood street, I called the director of my office and then my regional
coordinator of our canvassing operation to let them know I needed to take off
the rest of the afternoon (I had already made my fundraising quota). I went down to a neighboring stream in a
forest and sat and embraced the shock. Was I being foolish with
my emotions? Will Dad bounce back like usual?
The day wrapped up without incident.
The next morning as we were gearing up for the day and
setting up our turf for canvassing, my mother called. I stepped out in the hallway to hear my Mom
in a choked up voice say I needed to come home, it was a second heart attack. I knew what that meant. With my back against the wall, I slid to the
floor and starred ahead for a minute as the morning light came gently through
the hall window.
I pulled myself together and got up. Knowing the canvass operation needed my
support, I felt guilty. I walked into
the next room and told the three friends there I had to go, my father is
dying. I called the regional coordinator
who gave an agitated ‘go now!’ over the phone, understanding the importance of
me being with my father. I walked
zombie-like to my car and drove to my apartment, grabbing a box and throwing
random clothes in it unsure how long I would be gone.
It was impossible not to speed the several hundred miles
home. Every opening in traffic I took
and sped until I got the 2 second distance behind the next car. I still am impressed with my courtesy not to
tailgate, despite thinking every minute is a minute closer to my father’s
death.
Finally I arrived home and was eager to get to the
hospital. I then heard the details of
the morning my Dad went to the hospital.
My Dad wasn’t responding normally while he lay in bed in the
morning. My Mom called 911. They had to send two emergency crews to carry
him out of the house. The neighbors
gathered and watched. My parents tend to
be very private people; I can’t imagine the hell it was for my mother to deal
with that.
I went with my mother and sister to the hospital. I saw the heart
rate of all the patients in the ward on monitors along the hallway. There was my father’s name, his heart rate
stable.
My mother walked in first and said hello to my father like
she would to a child. “...and look, Bryce
is here!”
I slowly walked in.
My father had a breathing mask on and saw me and his eyes widened. “Brycefff?” He said through the mask. “What arrr you doing here?!”” I panicked but tried not to show it. Why would I be here unless he was dying? He doesn’t know he is dying. I can’t let him know.
“I got the day off Dad.
I heard you were sick and wanted to come see you.” He looked skeptical, but also
disconnected. He continued staring at me
with wide eyes, like a wild animal would in trying to understand as you coo at
it. Slowly he nodded and leaned back in
his pillow. Over the hours to come I
would hold his hand and squeeze it, and he would squeeze back.
Soon it became evident he was getting worse. Occasionally a fully sentence or two would
bubble out of him, but it would take countless ‘ums’ and ‘uhs’ of him trying to
think what he wanted to say. Usually he
was either trying to say he was thirsty (kidney failure) or that he needed to
go to the bathroom (catheter). Or he
would give a one word curse.
One of the last recognizable moments of the man he was, was
when he looked ahead and raised his bushy eyebrows and gave a weary, extended
“Ohh, man...”
Given my father’s size, the nurse said it was easier for him
to do his fuller bathroom duty in bed.
The nurse tasked me to tell him it was alright to do so. In one of the less graceful moments of his
passing, I spent around fifteen to twenty minutes explaining to my father that it
was alright for him to go to the bathroom there. He would stare at me, trying to understand,
he would say ‘um…um…um…’, take a breath, and then try to get out of bed to walk
to the bathroom. I would hold back down
his arms and tell him again he can’t get up, you can go to the bathroom here.
“Um…” He stares at me trying to put
together the thought-- “um…”
”You have to go to the bathroom”
”Yeah.”
”I know, you can go to the bathroom here.”
“Um… uh.. oh, shit.”
“Yes! That’s the
goal!”
This repeated itself many times and eventually I had to give
up. When he finally did go, a group of
nurses with malcontent on their faces lined up to change the sheets under my
large father.
Soon my mother and sister and I started rotations at the
hospital so we could rest at home and take care of the dog. My brother got the news while he was in Cuba, of all
places. He hurried as best as he could
back to Mexico
to fly home, traveling for one to two days straight.
After grabbing lunch with my mom and sister, I glanced up at
the ward heart monitor screen and my heart dropped. My father’s heart rate was off the
charts. I felt a rush of adrenaline and
hurried around the corner to see a group of nurses going into my father’s room.
My Dad was distraught, flinging his arms and cursing. He was uncomfortable and felt trapped and was
fighting. The nurses were doing their
best to keep him under control. I think
they had to drug him to calm him down.
At a later incident my mother ended up with bruises on her arms; my Dad
is a big, but strong man. Even when
dying.
On my phone I took a video of our dog, Princess, and showed
it to my father. “Hey Princess… Hi baby” my father sluggishly said.
At last my brother arrived, but at this point my father was
no longer recognizable. He tossed and
turned, his eyes searching wildly across the room to close for a minute
only to wildly search a moment later. He
didn’t notice my brother’s arrival as he stood there and took in the
situation.
When I saw my Dad open his eyes slightly toward my brother,
I told him to look at Dad. He smiled and
said “Hey, Dad” and with that my father eyes bulged as he leaned in
and stared straight at him for several seconds.
“Good. He recognized
you! He knows you’re here,” said my
mother.
The animalistic qualities were all my father had by this
time, restlessly shifting and staring wildly around. As my family stood around, I found myself
gravitating away from my Dad’s line of sight and slumped in a chair and tried
not to cry.
There was nothing more the hospital could do that this
point. The conversation of hospice came
up and as soon as a room would be made available he would be transferred. After ten years of my father dying, he may
remain in this condition for many more months.
The thought was unbearable.
As my sister and I finished our hospital shift in the very
early morning hours, I said good bye and I love you to my Dad. He, in a tired, muffled tone, said “I muve
you.”
My sister and I went home and slept. A few hours later I got up and was downstairs
when the phone rang.
“Bryce.”
Her voice cracked.
”Dad’s passed.”
I hurried upstairs and my sister was already awake from the
expectation. She looked at me and all I
could do was nod.
My mother and brother went to get some lunch. My mom said to my Dad they would be right back. My Dad was calm and my mom thinks he gave an acknowledgement of “mmmhmm.” While at lunch they got a call from a nurse
to come back; when they arrived they said he passed suddenly. Perhaps he just waited to be alone.
At first neither my sister nor I wanted to see him. We drove to the hospital nevertheless, solemn
and hearts heavy. We got to the
ward. I looked and saw a straight line
where my father’s name was on the hallway heart monitor. The curtain to the room was closed. Slowly, reluctantly, I walked in.
It’s true what they say, how peaceful someone can look in
death. Heck, my Dad even had a slight
smile on his face. His balded forehead
began showing a web of red and white as his blood pooled in his body, but
otherwise he could have been alive. The
room truly was filled with peace and warmth.
I took his still warm hand and squeezed it with no
response. I kissed his cooling forehead
and that was it. So it goes.
Ironically after all those years of staring at his belly,
fearful of it being still, it still moved in his death as the chemicals of his
body settled.
We walked out of the room.
The next month was weird, to say the least.
I made a few calls to my supervisors to let them know I
needed to take a month off. At one point
when I sheepishly apologized for the inconvenience of it all, I got a scoff: “Inconvenience?
Well that’s an understatement.” I didn’t
know what to say, and so I said thank you and hung up.
I made the calls and arrangement for his cremation; picked
up his ashes. It’s weird to see the red
velvet bag on a table and to know the remains of your father are inside. Though I knew it isn’t ‘him,’ so to speak. He is gone.
I still took extra care in transporting his ashes, even putting the bag in the front seat belt. For all the times I transported my father, working with his hefty figure and helping get in and out, this relatively small box was about as foreign of an experience as it could get.
My parents bought a house to retire in just before he passed
and so for the next month my mother and sister and I went there to reflect. It was
almost like it didn’t happen, like it was a dream and my Dad is still at our
old home waiting for us to return. On
the drive back while playing some music of a Broadway show my parents saw, my
mother finally broke down. “He’s not
going to be there,” she sobbed.
I have always been proud of my father. Despite all the reasons I have to be angry
and unforgiving for the burden put on myself and our family for so long, I
never blamed him. He had a challenging
upbringing and lacked a solid father figure himself. He got into the military and had a long and
successful career in the intelligence field.
He lived a full life before I was born, a life I never knew. He knew this, and that is why it was
important to him to show a piece of that life by being buried in Arlington Cemetery.
From his years with the Army Reserves he got up to the rank
of Colonel. He was one rank below having
a jet flyover for the ceremony. My
family decided to have only immediate members attend the funeral; it is what my
father would have wanted as well. Two
charter buses of military personel escorted my father’s remains. Horse drawn carriage, the riderless horse
with boots on backwards, the band, the absolute precision of the march, the gun
salute.
Back in 2009 while I was running for Town Council, I
remember talking with my father about my achievements. I explained to him that I wouldn’t be the man
I am today, being as involved as I am to even run for Town Council at age 20,
if it wasn’t for the father that I have.
Filled with pride, he cried.
My father, Robert Carter, was extremely proud of his children. We meant everything to him. I consider myself extremely fortunate that I
don’t have college debt and fully own my car.
My Dad made sure we were taken care of. That was his gift to us that I can only fully
appreciate now after he is gone.
Given my father’s background in intelligence, he had a habit
of following his children online.
Sometimes he would spookily bring up something someone posted on my Facebook
wall. In high school it freaked me out,
but in college I embraced Facebook and later Twitter as it was an easy way for
my Dad to see and experience what I’m experiencing. It was always fun if I was on the main field
in college and I would call my Dad to check out the school’s web camera and
watch me as we talked. The habit of
Twitter remains with me today; I consider it my lazy method of blogging.
In the past few months I’ve visited home a couple times to
help my mother finish the move to the retirement home. I’ve now gone through several things of my
father’s including a lot of military pictures and documents. I never knew it, but he was 50% deaf in one
ear, 33% in the other after discharging his weapon without ear protection.
The last year of my life has felt like many years. My time has been filled with organizing
full-time, traveling and adventuring, health issues, relationships, and my
father’s death. There hasn’t been a
chance to truly reflect. That’s one
reason why this blog has remained unused.
For a transition to what I’m up to nowadays, I’m watching Mad Men and can’t
help but imagine my father growing up in that era as he would have been in his
early 20s. Slowly I am piecing together
the man I never knew, and I’m ever more proud of him.
I know today that my Dad would be immensely proud of me, and
that is something I’ll hold in my heart until the day I die.
