Dad

Dad was really strict.
I don't remember him ever spanking me as a kid
but I remember him threatening to.
And I remember being afraid he would,
so I'd settle down real fast.

My Dad
smoked 2 packs of cigarettes a day since WWII.
As a commercial artist
he was exposed to paint and thinner fumes
for over 30 years
and
he was exposed to benzene while building tires for 20.

You see, he held both jobs at the same time,
working 80 hours/week for 20 years.
No wonder he was usually grumpy
until he retired from building tires in 1971.
With him working 80 hours a week,
I only saw him on weekends.
Maybe a glimpse or two during the week...
but that was about it.
Good thing I had lots of older brothers
to do things with.

But even after he retired from building tires,
he was still grumpy.

Maybe it was because
he was in the early stages of emphysema.
Emphysema that was likely caused by all three of those:
smoking, art supplies and benzene.
They're all very hard on the lungs.

He quit smoking around 1986
because one day he ran up a flight of 4 steps
and couldn't catch his breath at the top.
It scared him to death, and he quit cold turkey.
A few years later - in 1988 - he retired.

He seemed to get thinner and more frail
as the years went on
and after seeing a doctor in the autumn of 1990,
he was admitted into the hospital.
It was only supposed to be for a few days.
His breathing had gotten so bad
that his doctor wanted him to start using an oxygen tank
and some medication
and tests were being done in the hospital
to determined exactly what he needed.

He was in the hospital for over 2 months.

Initially, he was in a hospital ward
and while I visited him one day
I noticed a nurse with a bad cough
who went from bed to bed to check the patients.
A few days later, several patients in that ward
- including my Dad -
developed bacterial pneumonia.
Pneumonia on top of severe emphysema
is a virtual death sentence.

So he was transferred to intensive care
and put on a respirator and IVs with antibiotics.
While in intensive care,
he drifted in and out of hallucinations.
I brought in a small chalkboard so he could write
because with the respirator in his throat,
he couldn't talk.
One day he wrote that he thought he was in Florida.
Another day he looked out his 3rd or 4th window
and thought he saw our neighbor lady
walking down our neighborhood street ,
when all there was to look at
was multi-story office buildings and birds.

This was all very hard to take.

It didn't help matters
that a sister-in-law asked
in front of all of my brothers and myself
"how much money" Dad had.
A brother of mine exploded at her,
accusing her of worrying
about what kind of inheritance she was going to get
while Dad was fighting for his life.
She insisted that she was just concerned
about his medical bills being paid.
He had supplimental insurance,
so added to Medicare, that wasn't a problem.
It's hard to tell if my brother was right,
or if my SIL was truly concerned about the bills,
because she's very sly.
It could go either way.

In mid-December 1990,
he was well enough to be released to a nursing home
with an inhaler and a multitude of prescriptions
with the intent to be rehabilated and return home.
He was to get physical therapy every day
so he could strengthen his arm and leg muscles
and learn how to breath more efficiently
to make the best use of his damaged lungs.

And the nursing home staff
was told by our family doctor to make sure
his oxygen setting never went above 2-1/2.
That's actually a pretty low setting.

You see, most emphysema patients
have trouble inhaling oxygen.
My Dad had trouble exhaling carbon dioxide.
So, he was always in danger of hallucinating
from a buildup of CO2 in his body.
Having the O2 turned on low
made him work a little harder so he could exhale better.
The CO2 buildup had another nasty side effect:
my Dad - a once wonderful artist -
now had hands that trembled terribly.
Even if he survived,
emphysema robbed him
of ever being able to paint again.

After a few weeks, I discovered
the nursing home
was taking him to less and less physical therapy.
When I'd ask why,
they'd say "...because he didn't feel well today."

I also found twice
that his oxygen was turned up to nearly 4
(they said he seemed "more comfortable"
with his oxygen turned up),
I told them to never let it go above 2-1/2.
And I told them why.

In the nursing home, my Dad's calves
had become all dry and scaly-looking.
Obviously some side effect from the emphysema.
I'd visit him every day
and rub lots of skin lotion on them while we talked.

Most of the time,
he had become an "easy buck" for the nursing home.
He didn't complain, needed no shots,
and was able (but just barely)
to get up and go to the bathroom by himself.
But every now and then I'd still find his O2 turned up
and it was those times that he'd be hallucinating.

Pretty much all they did was feed him.
Physical therapy was gone
and they seemed to make up a reason each time.

Dad was dying.
And I determined that if I didn't do something,
he'd be dead in two weeks.
I talked it over with my wife
and here was our plan:
we'd bring him home,
sell our house and move in with him,
she'd get a leave-of-absence from her job,
help take care of him
and we'd have a visiting nurse come in
several times a week
to do stuff like give him sponge baths.
She was very supportive of the plan.

"You can't take him home!!!",
the nursing home protested.
"Really? You want to watch me?", I replied.
Yes, that's exactly what I said.

I packed up his things and moved him home.
My Dad didn't feel comfortable
at the nursing home anyway
with "all of those old people."
Dad never felt old, just sick.
Even through all of this,
he still had a full head of black hair at 69 years old.

The day I planned to take him home
turned out to be a day he wasn't doing well.
He was hallucinating at the nursing home
and it got worse after I brought him home.
By evening I called called an ambulance
to take him to the hospital.
Ambulance paramedics said,
"No wonder! You've got his oxygen turned down so low
that it's making it hard for him to breathe!"
I explained to them that it must be kept at that level
and I told them why.
It obviously fell on deaf ears.
By the time he arrived at the hospital,
he was in a coma, caused in part
by the paramedics turning his oxygen way up
and thus Co2 built up in his body.

When my Dad's doctor found out
what the paramedics had done,
he was furious!

Dad was in a coma for 4 days,
with nothing in him but a feeding tube
and he was given last rites.

On the 4th day,
while one of my brothers was visiting him,
Dad opened up his eyes
and said
"What happened?"
It appeared it wasn't his time after all.
The CO2-induced coma wore off.

By this time, it was early January 1991.
He continued to improve,
although his lung function never got any better.
Several days after he came out of his coma
the hospital was ready to release him.
His doctor and I had a long talk, and I said
"Look...all the medications my Dad was taking
- the inhaler and all the pills -
weren't helping him a damned bit.
Emphysema contributed to his hand tremors
and the inhaler he used made it worse."
(During the 4 days he was in the coma
he hadn't used the inhaler, of course,
and the trembling in his hands nearly disappeared.)
"I don't want him on anything that wasn't helping",
I said.

The doctor agreed,
and Dad was sent home with two things:
an oxygen tank
and a prescription for steroids - for inflammation.
The doctor really thought that was helping him.

Once home,
Dad told me he had overheard
my conversation with the doctor.
He said he was really impressed
at the way I handled myself with the doctor
on his behalf.
That made me feel good to hear him say that.
I also learned
that it's amazing what all of us are capable of
when the need arises.

And we did hire a home nurse to visit him twice a week.
As I said earlier,
to give him sponge baths, quick check-ups and such.

Throughout 1991, my Dad was pretty much his old self
except for the fact that he was on oxygen.
Since we were able
to keep close tabs on his oxygen settings,
he never had any hallucinations at home.
And although he didn't like
the O2 line dragging all around the house,
he learned to accept it.
But he refused to go out of the house
with a portable tank.
There's no doubt in my mind
that he was embarrassed to be seen with it.
He went out once with me
and it was just to go on a car ride.

At some point that summer
I remember Dad and I talking
and at the end of the conversation
I told him that I loved him.
He wiped tears from his eyes and said,
"You'll never know how much that means to me."
He added,
"No one ever told me they loved me before.
Not even my parents."

Sometime during the summer,
Dad had a lawyer over at the house.
He told me later after the lawyer left
that rather than make a new will,
he had the house and all the belongings
put in a survivorship deed with me,
he sold (or gave, I don't know which)
his car to one of my brothers
and had all financial accounts
made into joint accounts with me.
Nothing would go through probate court.
This is not something
I'd advise elderly people to do
because there's so many unscrupulous people
that would be put into the position I was in.
It worked for us, but I could've taken everything
had I not been an honest person.
And that's the key to doing this.
You must implicitly trust that person
to fullfill your wishes.

"When I'm gone, take my money
and split it up evenly 4 ways among your 4 brothers.
You keep the house", Dad said.
"The house? That's worth a lot more
than a share of the money."
"I know. I want you and ____ (my wife)
to have the house."
I replied, "We'll sell the house, OK?
Then I'll split up the money evenly."
My Dad closed his eyes.
I knew he was starting to get angry.
"No...keep the house. You need a place to live.
Besides, I want you to have it."
"But it's going to start fights.
Everyone will get mad
because I got something worth more."
Dad said, "I'll invite them over one at a time
and explain it to them."

And that's what he did.
My brothers never discussed the conversations with me.

By autumn 1991,
Dad's breathing seemed to be getting a little worse.
In early December 1991,
the doctor came over to visit him
...and gave him bad news.
I was there.
He told Dad his emphysema was in it's last stages
and he probably only had a few more weeks.
Then Dad asked the doctor something
that really surprised me.
"Could I get a heart-lung transplant?"
He wasn't prepared to die,
and I thought by now he would be!
The doctor replied, "No. You're 70 years old
and such a transplant operation
is one done for younger people."
After the doctor had left, Dad and I had a talk.
I said, "Well, you've always told me that
you wondered what it's like after life is over.
Think of it as a big adventure."
Dad seemed to like the idea, and smiled.
"Yeah. I guess so."

On Decenber 15th, 1991
Dad was sleeping comfortably in bed
and I decided I needed a diversion.
My wife stayed with Dad
and a buddy and I went to see
Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country
at a theatre.
My wife met me at the door when I got home.
"Your Dad's not doing good. I can't wake him up
and he's not breathing well."
I went into his bedroom and up to his side.
We weren't able to wake him
and his breathing was very shallow.
I took his hand in mine and said,
"Dad? Dad? I'm here, Dad."
He slowly took a few more breaths,
then he was gone.

He was hoping to make it to Christmas.
He didn't make it,
but at least he died at home.
That was something he wanted.

I closed our joint accounts
so I could split up his money among my 4 brothers.
There wasn't very much
but since Dad always made everyone think
he didn't have two nickels to rub together,
there was more than a couple of my brothers thought.
Just over $45,000 total,
so each brother got just over $11,000.
The house at the time - 1991
was worth about $85,000.

I really miss Dad.
I miss visiting him, I miss his company
and I miss his advice.
When you're a kid,
you think your Dad knows everything.
By the time you're in your 20s,
you realize he doesn't.
But there's been a ton of stuff
that's happened to me in the last 15 years
I would've loved to get his advice on.
No matter how old you are,
I think most people
would like their Dad's advice from time to time.
I suspect that even if I were 76 years old
instead of 46 like I am now,
that would still be the case.