Holding My Dad’s Hand

While I hold my mom’s hand as she walks to help steady her, dad was never the hand holding type.  As he got older, he would use his cane, and then a walker, to get around.  He would reluctantly accept some help getting in and out of the car, but that was pretty much the limit of the contact he would accept.

 Last week I took Keely to see dad at the nursing home, the day after he was moved from home. He knew who she was, and reached over to take her hand. 

Each day as I visited, there were changes.  The last few days, he withdrew into himself, sleeping, or drifting in and out of concisions, I’m not sure which.  It seemed obvious that he didn’t know we were there. 

Holding his hand became a way for us to connect with him, to hope that he could feel our presence.  I could judge his progress on this short final journey by holding his hand.  I was amazed, that first day, at the strength of his grip.  He looked at me, squeezed my hand, we talked.

The last two days, his hand lay in mine; there was no grip, no strength at all.

Lying awake last night, images in my head of these last days.  My brother Michael, holding dad’s hand and gently wiping the hair off his forehead, tears streaming down his face as he looked at his father lying in the hospital bed.   I wish I had thought to get a picture, but that image will be in my mind for a long time to come.  Michael took the lead in taking care of dad these last years, exasperated by the cantankerous man that my dad was, he was still fiercely protective of him, agonizing over this process. I saw a side of my brother that I had never seen, vulnerable, yet strong in so many ways, doing whatever was needed to take care of his dad. 

My sister Anne-Marie came to my parent’s house almost every day.  Helping with dad’s care when he was still home, taking much of the burden off of mom. 

Tracey spent several hours yesterday with dad.  I was there for a while, we talked.  We cried.  It was so very obvious that the time was getting short.

She held his hand the entire time.  

One of the most difficult parts of this was watching mom with him.  It was hard for her, seeing him in the nursing home, watching the very visible decline in his body.  The first few days, there was recognition.  She teased him, he smiled. 

I don’t know if he recognized these were the last days with family.  We made the conscious decision not to tell him.  There seemed to be no reason to cause him agitation or stress. And really, what could words tell him that he didn’t already know?

I told him that Kathy had reminisced about him giving her a ride on the riding lawnmower, of hitting golf balls with him out at our farm.  He smiled.

I gave the message, from Kathy and David, that they said “hello.” 

What I was really doing was telling him goodbye for them. 

Then came the time I took mom to see him and there was no conversation, there was no eye contact on his part.  He slept.  He didn’t know we were there.   

Yesterday, his last day, she held his hand.  Talked to him.  As we were leaving his eyes opened.  She told him goodbye, that we were leaving.  She repeated it, louder this time.  For the first time in two days he looked at her, and he waved his hand goodbye.  Then he closed his eyes.

As we walked out, mom and I smiled.  He had heard his wife’s voice, responded to her.   

A few hours later he was gone.

As I look back, I realize that the last voice he heard, really heard, was my mom talking to him.  Telling him that she loved him, and goodbye.  How fitting is that.  The voice that he loved for sixty five years was the last voice he heard.  The last words “I love you Mike”.