Dad, these days: Part Six

Dad and I

   This will be the last in the series of blogs I've been devoting to my Dad these past few weeks, chronicling his final days. On March 2, early in the morning, his body finally succumbed to a heart that simply wasn't strong enough to sustain it. It had become very apparent over the final week of his life that there would be no plateau-ing here. The downward turn he took was dramatic and unrelenting and, by the end, he was a man hardly recognizable as the Ken Baker we know and love.

Dad, taking it easy, very early on in his hospital stay

   That was from the outside, though. Throughout all his physical struggles it was very clear that the essential part of Dad was very present and accounted for. At no point did he lose his sense of humour. His graciousness never wavered. He maintained a strong sense of propriety right til the end.
   The care he received at University Hospital was, with occasional exceptions, good. He did benefit from having family there with him every day, either myself or Doralyn and for a one week stretch his brother Keith and his sister-in-law Barb. These visitors from out west greatly brightened Dad's stay, both for him and for us. What it all amounted to was that Dad was being taken care of by people who loved him and the hospital care was usually secondary.

His whiteboard--important to ALL of us!

   At one point early in his stay, there was talk of Dad being placed on palliative care. At the time, though, he very quickly rallied and thoughts of making this particular move were put on hold. This past week, however, we were called in to discuss this move again, due to dad's quickly deteriorating condition.

Dad and his Angel. More on her later...

   The process was discussed with us and would mean a subtle change in the type of care he would receive. He would no longer be hydrated intravenously. He would not be fed, unless he made it known there was something he desired, or had a hankering for. He would be started off with baby doses of painkiller, only enough to make him comfortable, and these would be increased only if the pain did. All this in an effort to not over-medicate him to the point at which he would be unable to interact with the people around him. 
   From the start of his stay, Dad had had moments where he was unclear as to where exactly he was, and why. We got to where we were putting messages up on his whiteboard for him, as gentle reminders. During this last week, however, his ability to realize who you were, where he was and what was going on slipped away quickly. The last couple of days were spent, for all intents and purposes, in a barely conscious state.
   We got to where we would talk to, or about, him without really expecting a response. In the midst of doing that, though, occasionally he would raise an eyebrow at us, just to let us know he was still there and understood what was going on! These moments always seemed amazing to us and they continued on right up until the end.

...one last coffee with Dad...

   The end we were expecting came just about when we thought it would and still caught us a little by surprise. I received a call from the hospital shortly after 6:00 in the morning informing me that Dad had passed. I wasn't surprised but at the same time I'd wanted one of us to be there when it happened. Perhaps Dad really didn't.
   When I got to Dad's room he was still there. What had disappeared was the tortured breathing and the stop-and-go rising of his chest. Oddly, this was comforting. I began to arrange his belongings and, all of the sudden, I craved a coffee, of all things. So I stopped gathering and headed to the cafeteria. On the way there, I had this sudden desire to share one last coffee with him (as there was no Coors Light to be found...) so I bought two double-doubles and returned to his room. I drank both coffees (thanks, Dad) and before I walked out I touched his hand, kissed him on the forehead and asked him to say "hi" to a couple of people who'd been important to us.
   I am sure that he will.