This might just be the most difficult Jay’s Way I’ve had to write for some time because every time I talk about my dad–I cry. By the time this issue of the Journal is published and sitting in your local gas station ready to be purchased, my dad will have turned 71 years old. Not a milestone birthday by any means, but it puts a lot of things about his recent decline in health into a completely different perspective for me.
I mentioned it months ago, but my father, Mark, has been battling breathing issues caused by COPD and is a survivor of a heart attack he suffered about a year ago in December 2023. The breathing issues could have been ongoing for years and may have been sparked by the COVID-19 pandemic as I noticed him needing to catch his breath after doing tasks and chores he has done for decades with no issue at all. Maybe his decision to quit smoking after nearly 60 years of use was the lynch pin that sparked all of this–it’s not an automatic reset to your body when you stop ingesting carcinogens for the first time since you were 13. He’s been on continuous oxygen ever since and once Hospice became involved in February of 2024, my history with the in-home care reignited my fears and anxieties regarding what they represent took a heavy emotional toll on me.
It’s not that I don’t trust the efficacy of Hospice or the care its workers provide, but I knew their purpose was to create as comfortable a space as possible for someone who will be suffering through their illness. Also, the notion of prescribing some of the most potent, and in some cases highly addictive, medicine like Morphine or Lorazepam worried me. My dad has been sober for 31 years and counting, so doping him up to the point of lucidity felt counterintuitive to his very character. The most controlled substance I ever saw him take was a few Tylenol every now and then. And Tylenol is essentially a warm towel and a pat on the back.
Of course, I knew my father was in great pain having to deal with limited oxygen with each breath and a hard cough that would leave him rattled and desperate to find some relief. So, the meds did provide him that relief from his but, there was a brief window of about 10 days where he felt dependent on his medication and each time I visited him and his partner, Brenda at their trailer park home was another jolt to the heart as a living room that once had the blinds open to let natural sunlight in was now a dark and desolate hovel for a man gasping for breath. The man who had an endless supply of willpower and inspiration was now reduced to barely having the strength to get out of bed to go to the bathroom; he was essentially cocooned with blankets in order to keep warm in his Hospice-provided bed. There were times you could hear his laughter before you even entered the house, but his condition left him muttering to himself while he slept and struggling to pair two phrases together. These were dark times for my family and I.
I can’t say how many lumps were caught in my throat every time I spent time with him during those early days of June this year. So many memories of dealing with my mother’s illness came flooding back and there were times where I don’t think my dad even knew I was there to see him. Hospice took notice of his decline at that time and noted that it could be the preamble of what’s to come and the idea of having both of my parents pass away in early days of June brought me to a dark place. As dark as the living room my dad was sleeping in. I didn’t believe that he would make it to Father’s Day because of his condition at the time.
Thankfully, the somber reminder that it could have been a swift end for him sent our immediate family into a frenzy to help however they could…even two of his siblings, Kathy and Rene, flew out to see their brother for what could be the very last time. With so many determined people in the same room, we took a close look at the care my dad received and knew that executive decisions had to be made on his behalf. People deserve some level of decency as they approach their last days and being in a Morphine-induced stupor didn’t give my dad any chance to go out on his own terms. So, we completely uprooted how we monitor his meds and that change alone caused a 180 in my dad’s demeanor. The illness is still there, but the undying love from his siblings and children in his darkest times helped spark a resurgence to his personality. His laugh can once again be heard right as you enter the home.
As it stands, my dad appears to be at a plateau stage with his illness as he still has an aggressive cough and requires oxygen full-time to prosper, but unrelenting spirit has him completing chores around the home and he will occasionally walk to one end of freshly-mowed lawn to the other to “stretch his legs.” I like to believe that he has a newfound will to live his life the best that he can with what is front of him; he has always been able to take a negative and flip it into a positive and he has never backed down from a fight.
For that, I am forever grateful that I get to spend as much as I can with him as he nears the twilight of his life. Love you, Dad.