Did You Get My New Shoes?

I was at the office with my business partner, Patrick. We’d been work colleagues for 10 years and friends for 30. He was headed to his parents house. I was headed out with my husband, Fred, to a storytelling event. I was jazzed. I love storytelling. 

I needed to call my dad, Bob, before leaving. After my mom died, I had become his primary caregiver since my siblings lived out of state. He was in Rehab at, well; let’s call it, Movenant Crillage. They once kept my father suspended for 45 minutes in a poop crane. Doubt that’s what it’s called. My dad weighed 300 pounds so no wee lass or beefy broad could help him on to a commode. Instead, they’d strap him in to this contraption, lift and crank him over to a toilet. Imagine a giant version of one of those games where you try really hard to get the claw on the stuffed zebra, so you drop it in just the right spot. Like that. Except for a person. Equal parts freaking genius and utter humiliation. Some aid forgot about him. His call button wasn’t working; so there he hung, long enough to develop sores on his thighs. 

Rehab was lasting a few months. We knew now that he wasn’t headed back to his retirement community. He was off to a nursing home. “It’d be cheaper to put me in a pine box,” he’d say. Or “Just drop me at the loading dock of the VA.”  My dad was always making light of things. Always joking. He was also obsessed with leaving his kids his meager savings. He was always putting others first. 
       Like he’d load up on candy and pop for the kids that worked where he lived. At the end of their shifts they’d stop by. “Now be sure to grab yourself a Snickers and a Pepsi from the riffy, Tony” he’d say. Or, “I got some of them little Pringles cans you like, Sarah!” When he’d see me, he’d say, “I have to stop doing that. I’m spending your inheritance.” 
       I’d push back. “It’s fine. I want you here long after your money runs out. We all do.”

Then he’d grimace and growl as if I said a horrible thing. It was this weird wheezing sound he’d make when his stress level went up.  It was a sound I’d heard my whole life occasionally accompanied with swearing, usually after misplacing his glasses... a wheezy, stressy sound followed by, “asshole-son-of-a-bitch”.  We all knew he didn’t want to spend more money on his care. He and I had had a long talk about it days before. We all wanted him to have the best care.  My dad, however, was going to decide where he would end up. And he did. 

The next day I had to bring him to the foot doctor. I called him to confirm details. I knew he’d be irritated because I hadn’t bought his new shoes yet. He asked every time we talked if I’d gotten them. He didn’t HAVE to have them before the appointment, so they weren’t a priority for me. But they were for him. I wouldn’t say I was a great caregiver.

I called.  We chatted briefly about my day, and then he said, “Did you get my new shoes?” I said, “Not yet. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get them in the morning.” I waited for the stressy sound. He was silent. Then this, seemingly snore sounding sound. Not quite a snore. Not not a snore. “What was that? Dad, don’t be an ass. I’ll get your shoes. Dad? Dad?” Nothing.

      I hung up and called the main desk. “Can you check on my dad in 111?” Some lady put me on hold for what seemed like an eternity. I called back. “Hi, I’m wondering if you found out anything?” “I’m sorry,” the woman said. “We’re dealing with an emergency right now.  Can you call back in a few?” “Would this emergency be for Room 111?” I asked. “Yes. Yes it is. We’ve called an ambulance.” 
       Seriously, Movenant Crillage!?

I didn’t have to explain to Patrick that he had to go with me to my dad’s. I called my husband who decided, since I had Patrick with me, that he’d head to the venue to try and sell our seats. He had paid $60 for two tickets. Oh sure, my dad was in some kind of trouble, but this THIS was also an emergency. I knew the kind of emotional trauma unused tickets would be for my husband, so I gave him the okay.

I was greeted at Movenant by Nurse Nancy.  Not her real name. I didn’t like her. It wasn’t her fault. She wasn’t mean. Just annoying. She spoke in a flat affect about inane things. “My cousin went to Davenport. Did you go to Davenport, Terry?” Terry. She'd call me, Terry. Grrrr. 
      She took my hand and led me down the hall to my dad’s room. Inside my head I screamed. “Oh God, don’t let him be dead. Please God... that woman... that voice... cannot be the one to say, your father is dead.”

As we got closer to the room, I could hear the flat line of a heart monitor and a team of EMT’s. He didn’t have a DNR Order (Do Not Resuscitate) at the home. I'd never thought about it. Like I said, not the best caregiver. 
       I wriggled my hand from Nurse Nancy’s and stepped in to the room, Patrick at my side. 
       From a corner I yelled, “It’s okay dad. I love you. You can let go. Patrick joined in. “Bob, You’ve been a great dad. It’s okay.” They pumped him full of something so I yelled. “Fight it, Dad. Fight it!” 
       At this point, Patrick got really confused. “Fight it?" I thought she wanted him to live. He half-heartedly tossed out a "Fight it, Bob? I guess.” 
      Then I yelled, “Fight the medication, dad. I know you want to go. It’s okay.” “Ahhh…now that makes sense” Patrick thought and added confidently, “It’s okay, Bob. Just let go.”

Then I heard something medical like, “Give him 2 more CC’s”. 
       I had always heard that loved ones will come to get you and take you to the light, so I said… LOUDLY… “Mom, if you’re there, will you please come get dad and take him to the light? Please.”

       Now you need to know my mom was tough on my dad. Tough on all of us, but especially my dad. Let’s just say, after she died I asked him if he missed her and he said, “Well, you know how you feel after you take a really big dump, how it’s so good to just get it out of your system.” Sure, my dad was playing for the laugh, but there was some truth in it. Still, my mom and he shared complicated love her for 49 years. So I thought surely, this is the time for her to be there for him.

            Again, I implored, “Mom, will you PLEASE take dad to the Light?” SECONDS later a paramedic says, “We got a pulse.” And I screamed “Holy shit! You just scared him back in to his body. Go away, mom. Go away!”  
       I looked over to notice every EMT staring at me. Mortified. I laughed and laughed and shrugged. “It’s just my family. It’s fine.” I was even laughing as the room grew silent. His pulse weakened. Then stopped. They didn’t try and revive him again. He was gone.

My dad’s death was so like his life. Had I not been on the phone with him when he died, I would have been certain it was Movenant’s fault. That he had pushed a call button and no one responded. He was protecting them. My dad. Always looking out for others.  And I laughed… he always made me laugh. And he would find a way to do so even while he was dying. Fred sold the tickets. Face Value. Maybe he had something to do with that too. And, most importantly, he left me with profound last words. Not “Rosebud.” Not “Forgive them for they know not what they do.” But… “Did you get my new shoes?” Followed by the death rattle, as I now understand.

I’ll admit, I often wonder what would have happened if I had gotten them? I probably would have blamed myself knowing I shocked him into a heart attack because I finally did something he asked me to do when he wanted me to do it. But I hadn’t. And he died. And it was sad and heartfelt and funny and fast. As death goes, a pretty good exit for a pretty good guy.