My dad passed away early last Sunday, at around 3:08am.
My mom had given the hospital permission to put him on comfort care, a euphemism for hospice/end-of-life care. He hasn't been responsive since then, sleeping the whole time. He would open his eyes occasionally for a few seconds before closing again. We spent nearly the whole visiting time with him those last few days. I think he knew we were there, because he would sometimes turn his head or make a groaning sound as we addressed him. It's a good thing his friends visited when they did too.
We left the hospital around 7pm and got home at 8pm (it's quite a drive away with the awful Charlotte traffic nowadays). Mom and I ate a small dinner and tried going to sleep. I slept for maybe 30 minutes before being woken up by my mom around 1am. The nurse called to say we should get over there because his breathing was getting bad. Since it was St. Patrick's Day weekend, we came across a part of the street near the city with drunk party-goers, police cars, and other cars parked everywhere. I nearly ran over one of those useless pricks as he tried crossing the street. I don't care about your fucking party. I just want to get to my dad. My mom had to tell me to calm down because my temper was flaring, shouting at the assholes blocking the street.
We got there, and it's weirdly empty since we're so used to it being so busy and crowded. We go back up to his room. It was my first time hearing a death rattle in-person. We sit. They changed the channel on the TV for some reason, so I switched it back to A&E, which was playing Storage Wars at the time, one of his favorite shows. He would watch re-runs of it so often. He was given one last dose of morphine to relax him and make him more comfortable. We sat and sipped on the little cans of soda the nurses gave us, just waiting for the end.
His breathing got quieter, more shallow and irregular. After a moment, his chest was barely moving anymore. They say hearing is the last sense to go, so I held his hand and told him I loved him, as did my mother. He didn't deserve this, no one does. I went to get a nurse while my mom stayed with him. Two nurses listened to his heart and confirmed he was gone. We filled out a short form of where to send him. He didn't want a funeral and wished for direct cremation. We said goodbye one last time, and went home at around 4am.
It still doesn't feel real in a way. I honestly think the anticipatory grief may have been worse than the aftermath, but maybe I haven't fully processed it still. For 11 months, I was always scared I'd get a call from my mom saying he was gone, anxious every night I went to bed. I was very worried about him in the last month, because he fell several times. We had to call 911 the last time he was home, because he was so weak we couldn't help him up without hurting him. He argued with us, but I can't blame him. I think he knew it was the end of the line too, and didn't want to leave. You could tell he was ashamed of losing autonomy. Anyone would be if they suddenly couldn't eat, shower, or use the bathroom by themselves, even though I wish he didn't feel that way.
We picked up his ashes a few days later, and I bought a small keepsake urn to take with me back home. When my pets died, I always felt a sense of closure picking up their ashes, because they're back home with me. I tried keeping up hope that he would get better back when he was diagnosed, but the statistics just weren't promising at his age. I miss him.
He was born and raised in New York, and moved down to the Carolinas right before I was born because of a job offer. He loved music in general, but his favorite genres were rock and roll and disco. He loved collecting records, old cars and radios, watching TV, dogs, the beach, coffee, sweets, and sitting on the porch (a lot of older people love doing that and I'm beginning to understand why. It's just relaxing.). He was caring, hard-working, handy, and always had a witty comment ready. He could be hot-headed at times, but usually it was after he was pushed to a point. We had a little tradition before I moved out of getting pizza every Saturday and watching Live PD. We still did it when I was visiting on weekends. Another tradition we had is watching A Christmas Story every holiday season. He would watch that at least 10 times, even had a little tree ornament of the leg lamp.
One of the best gifts he gave me in recent memory is my goofball cat, Espresso. He paid the adoption fee as an early Christmas gift. Espresso is a little terror, but he's calmed down a bit now and he's super cuddly. Never heard him hiss, even when I'm having to force him into his cage so I can take him to the vet or travelling back and forth between my apartment and parents' house. It feels like he's been particularly clingy these past few days, like he knows I need some support.
I helped my mom with things for the week afterwards. Writing down all the passwords to important stuff, ordering death certificates, and helping with filing taxes, as she's never done it herself. Dad always did. I'm back at my apartment now. I still miss my dad but I feel like I've accepted it. It hurts but maybe time will heal me a bit.