Last Wish

My dad is in his final days. He wants to see his grandchildren, great grandchildren, and his sister and we’re going to make it happen. It won’t be easy; Daddy and his wife are frail and Aunt Kitty. His wife is visually impaired and Daddy has dementia on top of everything, so the bulk of the load falls on my niece, Brandi, who is his 24 hour caregiver. My brother and I are supplying love and financial support.

The logistics of traveling with a hospice patient requires contracts and coordination. Besides the rental car, there are the obvious medical needs. Daddy is planning seven nights on the road, four at our home and three in a hotel in South Carolina. He sleeps about two hours at a time. Dementia is challenging; sometimes he’s with us and sometimes he’s not.

Brandi asked me whether I was sure I didn’t want them to stay at a hotel. No, he’s my dad. Her response was, “But he’s a handful!” Yes, I know. His medications have been adjusted and titrated, and sometimes he’s okay but sometimes he’s not.

Food restrictions? “No shrimp, catfish, pork, or anything like that,” she said. “And no spaghetti. He doesn’t like pasta, spaghetti sauce, and nothing with any red dye. He’s very worried about red dye right now.” Hmmmm…red dye? He might have dementia but he has very specific opinions.

My daughter is working on sleeping arrangements but we’re not sure what we’ll need beyond that. We’re playing this by ear.

His brother waited until he saw my dad, and was gone before Daddy got out of the driveway. Last wishes can be tricky, especially with someone so frail.

This will be interesting. I want to make this next week memorable for everyone. He’ll see his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I had not heard the lyrics to Carly Simon’s “Like a River” in a very long time, but she talks about how she is no longer waiting for her mother, as a daughter, as the part of their lives together is over. I have wanted my dad to come and visit ever since we moved here, but I never really pushed it because of his health. He’s coming this time on his terms, and I will cherish whatever days I have with him. It is his last wish.

I have certain movies that I watch for different reasons. I can watch Brian’s Song and cry without anyone questioning whether I’m okay. Airplane makes me laugh myself silly and the quotes sometimes come out at the most inappropriate times. And right now, the thought that comes to mind is, “I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.” I have to find humor wherever and whenever I can.

But to quote Gone with the Wind, “Tomorrow is another day.”

September 11.

September 11. Home.   Not happy. I should be flying. Nothing to do but maybe I could go play golf. 8:45 a.m. I hate morning television shows but I go into the living room and turn on the TV to CBS. Before I’ve brewed my tea, the nightmare begins. My cousin calls first. Ken wants to know I was safe.  Phone calls continue throughout the day and night. No one can believe it.

Days earlier, I had been in Columbus, Ohio. “Please, Chris. Please! Let me go out early!” I begged and pleaded but the answer stayed the same. Chris said I needed to stay home. What did he know. I just wanted to fly. I was already going out on September 13, and I was wrapping up an extended tour. It was a game to work your schedule so you could fly on your off days and stay home on your work days. This meant $$$.

The airspace was reopened on September 13 but our passenger didn’t want to go. My copilot was a skinny guy from Alabama. The silence over the airways was deafening. I thought of “The Stand” by Stephen King, where everyone disappeared. Periodically we’d key the mic and ask ATC if they were still there. Yes, but quiet.

As we crossed over Richmond going into Baltimore, we were told to look out for close traffic on our wings. I never dreamed of a military escort, not in my wildest imagination. When we arrived at Baltimore, our identification was checked before we got off the plane. It was a somber day as we awaited our passenger, a senator from Wisconsin who was attending the memorial service. We could still see the smoke when we approached White Plains, a few days later.

Flying changed. My attitude towards flying changed. I had imagined being hijacked but I never imagined an aircraft being used as a weapon. Each time I went to Hartsfield to meet my aircraft, my luggage was searched. My underwear would be strewn out over the table, my uniforms pulled out and wadded up, and my battery operated toothbrush turned on. Nothing was ever put back correctly so I now had to allow extra time for repacking. That was minor, though, compared to the realization that we were no longer safe.

There are four days in my life that I will never forget. The day President Kennedy was shot, the day Martin Luther King was assassinated, the day Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon, and September 11, 2001. Of course I will always remember our wedding day and the birth of my children, and there are probably others, if I think about it. Each of these events changed the way I saw the world.

We can’t forget.

Lost – A Very Short Hospice Story

I had no idea where I was going so I called Trevor. It was a bad neighborhood and besides being our chaplain, he was an ex-cop. There were good people on the street, but trouble lived nearby. At least Trevor knew where we were going. Or so I thought. Hospice patients only die at night, at least that’s how it seemed. It was my turn to go out and pronounce and no way was I going alone. Not to this neighborhood and not to a strange home. Trevor and I agreed to meet at a nearby intersection.

I followed closely behind his car. My first clue that Trevor didn’t know where we were going was how he kept slowing down. It was – literally – a dark and stormy night, and visibility was limited. Numbers were missing from most of the mailboxes so we couldn’t confirm the address and the houses were obscured by the trees and the darkness. We’d have to rely on Trevor’s memory.

We knew something was wrong as we approached the house. Where was everyone? You would like to think there would be some cars there, since a beloved father, grandfather, brother, and friend was dying. What was going on? Where was everyone? Apprehensively, Trevor rang the doorbell. We waited. I rang it again. Finally, we heard movement when the door flew open. “I WON! I WON!” she screamed. We looked at each other, totally confused, and the lady abruptly stopped. “You’re not the Prize Patrol.”

Sometimes you just have to find the sense of humor.

Saying Goodbye – A Tribute to my Dad

My father is dying and I feel as if I’m in a revolving door. Sometimes it feels like a roller coaster. To quote Lester Carter, “Life goes on, and then it doesn’t.”

Webster Marlowe is my biological father and the man who taught me to fly. He instilled in me a sense of duty to my community and a desire to make the world a better place, in whatever way I can. He was a pioneer in the plastics industry and this afforded us privileges that none of my friends enjoyed. On Saturdays, he would drive me to my music lessons and my horseback riding lessons, then we would go flying. We would come home in time for dinner, usually hot dogs at my granny’s on Saturday nights.

I will never forget Daddy picking me up at one of my dance classes, driving a brand new Oldsmobile Cutlass convertible. I was 15 years old and had taken two buses to get to dance. This was my daily routine. I would ride the school bus to the county line, then take the city bus to the Ray Hollingsworth School of Dance. Usually my mom picked me up, but this day Daddy picked me up in the most gorgeous car, everything I dreamed of in a new car. The main thing was it was NOT a station wagon. Daddy’s company cars were always station wagons. He tried to tell me this was just a loaner, and his new station wagon would be here the next day. I knew better; Daddy loved this car as much as I did. I would get my first car the next year, when I turned 16, but it would be a Dodge Dart. The Demon. Seriously. Daddy said I needed a car with a warning on the side and a model named for me. He always had a great sense of humor. I was loved, every day of my life.

About a month ago, my dad fell and was life-flighted to Orange Park Medical Center. We drove down to Jacksonville and I found him in ICU, on a ventilator and not responding. He responded to me, though, and he seemed better the next day. Still, I knew it wouldn’t be long but I was optimistic. We said goodbye and drove home. I thought he would be okay, but on Tuesday, the nurse called and said he was being moved to inpatient hospice with an expectation of just a few days. We drove down. The day I had to say goodbye and go home, Daddy said this would probably be the last time. I cried all the way home.

Now he’s rallied, but I know it is temporary. He met with the funeral home this week. I’m spending as much time as possible with him, but it is time to go home. I don’t know whether he will be here when we get back. Will the next time we return to Palatka be for his funeral?

I have said final goodbyes to him on three separate times. Knowing his death is inevitable doesn’t make it any easier. He’s been a great dad. He’s loved me at my best and he’s loved me at my worst. We’ve argued and he has infuriated me as much as I’ve infuriated him, but through it all, he’s been my dad, one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known.

I’m just not ready.

You’re Doing WHAT? WHY?

These are the first words people say when they find out I am working on a Masters of Science in Nursing. My husband said, “I thought a PhD was a terminal degree.” My mother said, “Why in the world would you want to do that?” My friend Sheila said, “Good for you.” Most of my other friends and family have responded with varying degrees of surprise, shock, horror, and support. Let me set the stage:

I graduated from high school in 1972. As an 18 year old commercial pilot and flight instructor, opportunities in aviation were limited.   With the exception of one female pilot at Frontier Airlines, airline pilots were men. I didn’t want to be a flight attendant. I wanted to fly. I was attending UNC-Greensboro as an interior design major, but my heart wasn’t in it. I just wanted to fly. And fly I did. My girlfriends and I would hop in my plane, once a week, and fly to the beach. We never skipped the same classes two weeks in a row, so we were good. We kept this up all year. I knew I needed an education, but I really wanted to fly.

I was conducting a training session one Saturday and my dad flew my airplane (okay, it was his, but I flew it all the time) to the beach for the $100 hamburger. The hamburger was only $5, but fuel and maintenance made it much more expensive. Pilots love to fly and they don’t care. Flying to the beach for the day or flying to Roanoke for a hamburger was routine. When my dad got out of the airplane, he was greeted with, “What are you doing flying Suzanne’s airplane? Who are you?” I was busted, big time.

I began looking at my options. I went to the military recruiters and was laughed out the door. I applied for flying jobs to no avail. Less qualified men got the jobs. The airlines were only hiring former military pilots coming home from Vietnam. In a moment of desperation, I got a job in a hardware store. The day I vacuumed up a cockroach the size of my cat was the day I decided to get serious about school.   I decided to go to nursing school. Even if I got a flying job, nursing would give me security.

I attended Central Piedmont Community College for the next two years and earned an Associate of Science in Nursing and became a Registered Nurse. Throughout this entire period of time, I was still flying and I would go to the airport and instruct aspiring pilots. I was flying early in the mornings and in the evenings.   I continued to apply for flying jobs and continued to be turned down.   I decided to continue with my Plan B.

My healthcare career was great and I loved every minute of it. I completed a Masters in Health Policy, since I had moved into administration. I was 43 when my company was bought out by Cigna, so I returned to aviation and got my airline job. However, I found I couldn’t totally leave health care. Since that time, I’ve owned a hospice and a home care company, and I’ve earned my Ph.D. in Organization and Management.

Why am I doing this? I’m a lifelong learner. I love education. I decided 30 years ago that someday I would get an advance degree in nursing, and the opportunity for an MSN presented itself. I jumped on it. Being in school makes me a better professor, too. I have much more empathy when I, too, am juggling work and the demands of the student side of the classroom. The importance of solid feedback is glaringly real, as a “100, good job” frustrates me. It has also forced me to focus and hone my time management skills.

What will I do with this degree? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll do nothing more than enjoy the sense of accomplishment. I’m loyal to a fault and I have no plans to leave my current employer. I really like my colleagues and my students. For now, I’ll just enjoy the adventure.