A Caveman Moves Into the Light

This post is very personal, just like so many others on this blog and deals with this caveman's loss of his Cave Dad.

My Cave Dad passed away at about 6:00 PM on October 13, 2007. I was with him and I hope I was able to help him finally find his way into the light.

Because of the experience I had with my father that evening, I believe more and more that there really is a bright light that some people see when life slips away, and they can hear people near them at the end of their lives, even though they may not be able to show us they know we are there.

I still can't write how I actually feel about the last experience I had with my father. It will always be one of the most incredible series of moments in my life and I don't feel I can even try to help others who have never had this type of experience understand what it meant, means now, and how it impacted me and those closest to me.

My dad was a true caveman. He was most certainly sequentially-minded, and so much more of a caveman than I could ever be. Being a caveman in today's world is very difficult and true cavemen are having to deal more and more with a world they don't really belong in, anymore.

But it was cavemen who won World War 2, and it was cavemen who came home and built the world we live in now, wars and all.

Dad was a caveman, and he lived his entire life in that life style and with the difficulties that brought to everyone.

My dad was not a great father to me. He didn't know how to be a good father. His father, also a caveman, was unable to provide any emotional skills training that most cavemen don't know in the first place. My dad was a much better father to my sister. They seemed more alike, for some reason and they communicated better with each other.

My dad never told me he loved me in my presence, but he did tell others.

But I was the one who chose to be with my dad right at the very end of his life. I was determined to not have him die alone or without a family member with him. It may be something internal in me that feels that when a family member is about to pass away, someone from that family needs to be with him or her.

October 13 was a Saturday. It was exactly two months, to the day that my wife Terri had lost her mother, who passed away at the age of 82-years, in the home she loved so much. It was also exactly two months before my father would have turned 80-years of age.

Around noon that day, Terri and I visited dad at the nursing home where he was taken after being released from the hospital. Dad was taken to the hospital from his former nursing home on September 24, due to a dramatic decline in his health, due to a severe infection.

From the time dad went into the hospital on September 24 and until about October 11, he was either sleeping all the time, delusional, hallucinating, or pumped up on drugs that kept him from suffering too much. Dad went on dialysis during his hospital stay, but his "numbers" never got under very good control, even after dialysis.

Dad's breathing, up until October 13 was fine, not labored, and seemed to be good. He had been using a nose tube to help him receive plenty of air, and he was given breathing treatments.

On October 11, dad had his most conscious day, it seemed to me. he was able to tell the doctor that dialysis made him feel lousy and he did not want to continue having that treatment. Dad realized to himself what would happen if he stopped dialysis, and for the first time since 2005, he knew and was able to consider that the end of his life was near.

On October 11, I had my last conversation with my dad. Someday when my sister can deal with what dad and I talked about, I will write it all down. When it is read, everyone will know how hilarious my dad could be at times. What he said during that final time I ever talked to him will stick with me, every single word, forever. The few folks who I have told either laughed until tears welled up, or laughed, stopped laughing, and then started up again.

What my dad and I talked about that last time is absolutely, positively, nothing any person on this planet would expect to talk about, especially during the last conversation. What made it even more "different" is that it was during the time my dad was the most lucid, clear, and communicative he had been since before September 23!

You will laugh, I guarantee it. You won't cry, I'm sure. It is not a "last" conversation you would ever expect to hear, but it was part of what made my dad what he was, warts and all.

After October 11, I never heard my dad's voice again, except in my mind. During the evening of October 12, my sister got a call from dad's nurse who told her that dad has said he loved us, before he fell hard asleep or unconscious.

Also on October 12, I visited my dad twice, but he was so sound asleep that he would not wake up. I could tell he was asleep, his breathing was fine and he moved around slightly, but he wouldn't wake up.

On his last day, my dad's breathing became quite labored. When Terri and I visited, I think we both knew that he was not going to live much longer. I asked a nurse what her experiences were seeing people in dad's similar condition, about how long she felt dad might live. The wonderful Jessica thought that dad had less than a week to live.

I didn't like dad's breathing and I didn't see him acknowledge when Terri and I talked to him or touched his shoulder.

My sister was on her way over to see dad as Terri and I visited. When my sister got to the nursing home, we were waiting outside to tell her what we saw and learned. I tried my best to warn her that seeing her dad breathing like he was would be a shock to her. It was.

My sister has been a perfect angel in caring for our father since he moved back to San Pedro from Ensenada Mexico, in around 1999. She was even more perfect at she cared for our dad since May 8, 2005 when he fell, couldn't get up, and was placed in his first nursing facility, after one of his many trips to the hospital.

My sister lost it when she saw her dad. During the time since September 24 and October 13, the only time I cried was when I saw my sister so distraught. I felt so much pain at her suffering and I was not prepared for that. Watching everything my dad went through didn't bring tears, but watching and thinking about what my sister was going through and all the efforts she made to keep our dad from suffering is the thing that breaks me down, and the tears flow freely.

My sister said as we, along with her husband, all four of us by dad's bed, that she could no longer bare to watch her dad's breathing and how difficult it was. It would be her last time with her father.

As we all left that mid-day, I asked to be notified when the staff feels dad's time was growing close. Also as we left, we all thought dad had a little more time, but less than a week.

At five in the afternoon, on that very same day, we got the call that dad's fingers were turning blue and that I needed to get to the facility as soon as possible.

As I drove to the nursing home I was trying to think of what to say to my dad. I didn't know if he would hear me, or even if he would be alive by the time I arrived.

As I drove, I thought of talking to him about something we did, on occasion, while I was growing up. Dad had Thursdays and Fridays off from his job as a marine terminal operator for Standard Oil Company of California, later Chevron. Every couple of months and for many years, dad would keep me home from school and we would venture out on day trips across parts of the vast desert, near where we lived.

Dad would wake me up before sunrise, we would let Rumar, our dog, and dad's best friend, by far (Ru-Ruth my sister, mar-Mark, me), run to whatever vehicle my dad had at the time, and we would begin our Odyssey.

Dad would pack the BB gun, beer, some snacks, and a few sodas for me, and we were off.

Dad didn't like humans very much. He was alive on the desert and spent his retirement in a house in Lucerne Valley, a trailer in Baja, or a house he had built above Ensenada. Dad also spent most of his Thursdays and Fridays at the Lucerne Valley house, which was larger than the house we lived in, in San Pedro.

The day trips out onto the desert provides some play time for dad, me, and Rumar. We were three souls, trying to have a connection, a good time in the desert, and for one of us, a great time to drink beer. Dad would usually be somewhat smashed by the time we got home and his mood usually wasn't too wonderful when driving home, especially if he had to drive through work traffic.

So on the trip to the nursing home to be with my dad for the last time, I decided to tell him about the times we had, the three of us, out in the desert. I had no clue, while I was thinking about what I would talk to him about, how it would become a way for him to go "into the light."

We got to the nursing home and dad's breathing was even more difficult than we had observed just five hours earlier. Now he was laboring more, taking much longer between attempts to breath, and having some breathing that appeared to be gasps.

It was with his breathing in the foreground that I went up to him and told him that I was going to tell him about one last trip together, out onto the desert.

For my story, I created it in a chronological way. I talked to dad about waking me up, grabbing the goodies, including Michelob Beer, back then his favorite, and beginning our journey.

For the story-telling, I would lean down near my father's right ear and I would put my hand on his right shoulder and rub it, from time to time to also try to let him know I was there.

The trip began before sunrise because I knew my dad loved to watch the sun rising over desert landscape. My story started with the preparation and the first "episode" ended with my dad stopping his 1955 Chevrolet pickup truck, painted school bus yellow, (really it was, he just had a thing for the color yellow) to fill up with gas, a little before sunrise.

I think this is when I first thought about creating a story about the end of dad's life because I told dad that the person who was pumping the gas into the truck was his nephew, Joe.

Joe, dad's eldest nephew, passed away a year or so ago. I told dad about Joe's passing some time ago because I was researching the paths diabetes takes on our whole family.

The school bus yellow truck was being filled by Joe, before sunrise, and I told dad that we still had a long way to go. I left dad's side to sit for a bit at the foot of dad's bed and just watch him breath.

Time progresses, or doesn't progress at all, it seemed, and still seems to me, when dealing with what I was dealing with at that particular time. Later during the time of my story-telling, I would look at my watch, almost every minute, but during the first bits of the story, time stood still for both of us.

I got up again to continue the story I was telling dad. I told him we let Rumar go pee after we got gas and we were heading east, it was still dark in my story, but we could tell the sun would rise in a short time.

Breakfast. The sun was going to come up shortly, but we hadn't eaten, and we had a long trip to take. As we headed east, with the sun almost rising, I told dad that out in the far distance, a bright white light might also appear. I told dad that it was a good light and we didn't have anything to worry about. I told dad that it was time for breakfast and that I knew he liked bell peppers in everything he ate, peanut butter on anything, onions all around, and plenty of eggs would be ordered. I also told dad that I would save some links of sausage for Rumar because he couldn't come into the restaurant.

I told dad I would be back to tell him more of the story after we ate breakfast, and I sat down again.

I probably watched dad breathing for what must have seemed like hours, but was certainly more like ten minutes. During this time, dad's breathing became even more gasping, slower, and labored. I saw dad's eyes move, but his eyelids did not open. Dad also closed his mouth for about two breaths through his nose. I still had no idea how much longer dad had, but I think I began to feel that I needed to bring the white light closer to the truck or dad closer to the light, soon.

Breakfast ended. This time, instead of rubbing dad's shoulder, I thought he might be able to feel my hand running through his very fine white hair. It was also time to describe to dad just what we ate at breakfast, so I did.

I have french toast, because I always have french toast. I also had potatoes, and I saved sausage and wrapped it up in a paper napkin for Rumar.

Dad's eggs had bell peppers, cheese, ham (even though he really didn't like it that much), onions, and had ketchup on top. He also had potatoes and toast, but he didn't have any sausage.

I told dad that the cook at the restaurant was Mr. Durant, his old boss at Standard Oil. I reminded dad that when he took me to pick up his check on Thursday, his day off, Mr. Durant would give me some money for the candy machine that was really out in the lobby. That was another good memory I could share with my dad.

As I told dad what we ate, I also told him that we let Rumar out for a good pee and to eat the sausage I saved for him. I told dad that we needed to get going because there were still lizards to shoot at with the BB gun and the white light was getting brighter.

We headed east and I talked to dad more about the white light. I told dad that there were family members, and old friends in the light and that the light was comfortable and there was no suffering in the light. I had the light grow brighter as we headed towards the east.

For some reason, and I will never know why, I began to look at my watch as I watched my dad's breathing slow even more during the story. I don't know how I knew that he has just minutes left, but I looked at my watch and I saw 5:58. Dad's breathing was course, labored, sometimes very shallow, and time was growing ever longer between breaths.

The light was growing much brighter. I told dad that Rumar was waiting for him in the light, just like his parents, Joe, and niece Susan were also waiting. I told dad the light was good and he needn't be afraid if he wanted to go into the light.

I continued to also tell dad about what we were looking at in the desert and that I reminded him that the first time he let me drive any vehicle from behind the steering wheel, was in our VW "bus" and the first direction he let me drive in was reverse. I told him the light was growing brighter.

I had a dilemma building in me, with a very short time to get by it. I didn't know how to tell my dad that it was O.K. with Ruth and me for him to go into the light. I had no real clue how to "release" him without feeling that I didn't want him on my side of the light any longer.

It was 6:00 on the watch. Dad's breathing got even worse. I told him more about the light and that there were two sides of the light. We were "outside" the light and I told dad there were people who loved him on both sides of the light. I told him that nobody on either side of the light would be mad or hurt if he stayed outside the light or went into the light. I also told dad that Rumar would be so happy to be with him again.

I told dad that Ruth and I loved him and that if he wanted to go into the light, we would be O.K. with that. I told dad that we understood if he wanted to go into the light and that we would not feel bad if he went into the light.

As I brushed my fingers through his fine hair, dad went into the light. After taking one gasp, he hesitated for a very short time and took three very short, shallow breaths, back to back. I didn't see hear or feel him exhale from the third breath.

I kept talking to dad and told him that "you done good" and that I was comfortable with him going into the light.

I removed my hand from his head and placed it on his chest. I continued to tell him that we were proud of him and that he was good. I moved my hand calmly over his chest and didn't feel any heartbeat.

I looked at my watch after some time and saw 6:02. I walked towards the door and my dad's roommate, who I thought was listening to the T.V. said "I'm sorry." Apparently he heard the whole thing even though I didn't think he could understand what was going on.

I went out into the hall and calmly told the assistant that my dad had just died. She ran into the room, took a glance at my dad and ran out to find the nurse.

I returned to the room and waited.

Terri, who came to the nursing home with me in a rush that last time, said a little after we arrived that she had left the oven on, with food inside. She asked me if she should stay or go home. I said that losing my dad and my home on the same day would be "a bit much" so I think we both immediately agreed that she would go home and turn off the oven.

Now there I was in the room waiting for the nurse to confirm what I felt I knew. Dad never took a breath after that third, shallow breath and his face seemed to turn a bit yellow in his cheeks.

It seemed like hours of waiting by the time the nurse arrived. She looked at day and then used her stethoscope. She looked at me and shook her head, then left the room.

It again seemed like an eternity until Terri came into the room. I looked at her and we hugged. She was crying a little as we looked at my dad, he was so very still.

I felt it was time to go and call Ruth. When I called I told her "dad went into the light" and how peaceful and comfortable it seemed to me. I told her I would go and see our mother.

Terri and I went back into the room and looked together, one last time. We both walked out together.

About ten steps down the hall, I told Terri there was one thing I still had to do. I had no idea why I did it, I have NEVER done it before but I felt I needed to do it, for unknown reasons. I turned around, walked back into the room, and kissed my dad's forehead.