Last Thanksgiving

A year ago tomorrow, I hoisted my 82-year old father from the hospital bed we had set up in the library into a wheelchair and took him into the dining room for his last Thanksgiving. Eleven years into a dementia diagnosis, he didn't really know who I was anymore, or what day it was, or even where he was, but we knew, my brother, my sister, my mother and I, that he was with us one more time for our last Thanksgiving. Through the help of Midwest Hospice & Pallaitive CareCenter, we were able to have him at home with us, almost to the end.

I settled him next to me, locked the wheels on the chair, and filled his plate. He still had an appetite, even if swallowing was a bit of a challenge and choking an ever-present danger. Bit by bit, I fed him, while my sister made anxious suggestions from the other side of the table. Was I giving him too much on a fork? Was I feeding him too fast? Would he choke? I knew it was her anxiety talking--trying to control an absolutely uncontrollable situation. Our father was dying.

My best friend is one of the movers and shakers in the field of palliative medicine, and she counseled me well during my father's illness, but nothing could prepare me for that incredibly profound, painful experience of watching my father ebb away, especially those last agonizing months when agitation and delirium set in, and he lost his ability to walk. Some people say dying is something you do alone. I guess in some ways that's true. But in other ways, dying sharpens the relational reality of family and friends like nothing else. Maybe you die alone, but in the dying--well--all of us go through the dying together.

And, at my parent's dining room table last Thanksgiving, we were all doing the dying together. I mashed a few peas with a fork. His mouth was open like a baby bird's, waiting for the next bite, completely dependent, completely trusting. He hadn't eaten normally for years, but, until he took a turn for the worse the September before that Thanksgiving day, my mom had taken her with him out to eat anyway. He had scooped up scrambled eggs with his hands, needed help spearing his cut-up meat in the restaurant, tried to eat the napkins sometimes, but mom kept taking him out to eat, out in the community, out where life was. Even as other members of their church wondered why he wasn't in some home somewhere, Mom took him with her. As long as he had the ability to move, walk, sit and stand, Mom made sure that Dad would live as fully as possible. And when it became evident that his life was coming to a close, we made sure that he could still live as fully as possible. That's why we chose hospice. And hospice is why dad was able to be home with us, almost to the very end.

Without a doubt, the hardest thing I have ever done was companion my father through his final days. I have never felt such a total lack of control, such utter uncertainty. I don't think I've ever been more tired or overwhelmed. The edges of life, the basic day-to-day needs of the body and spirit, have never been in sharper relief than they were while my father's jaw was dropped open, trusting and waiting for the next bit of turkey or gravy or mashed potatoes last Thanksgiving. No matter how impressive your life, no matter the good you've done or the harm, it all comes down to this for most of us: You hope that someone loves you enough to put you in your chair and wheel you to your dining room one more time. You hope that someone cradles your face in her hands so you can feel that lovely warmth. You hope that someone is there to care about who you were and who you are. You hope that someone carries your memories, even after they've faded far into the dark recesses of your mind. You hope that your final days will be filled with gentle people and kind words. You hope for "I love yous," both heard and said. You hope that the dying won't hurt. You hope that someone will be there to hold up your loved ones after you're gone. You hope that they'll smile when they think of you. You hope they find joy and happiness again. You hope that they'll pick up the pieces and go on.

When Dad died the day after Christmas, I was the first at his bedside. I closed his eyes and kissed him goodbye. I told him he was the best dad in the world. He might have slipped away alone, but all of us, my brother and sisters, my mother and me, did the dying with him. I am so thankful that we could be there to change him, to move him, to feed him, almost to the very end. I wouldn't have had it any other way.