Thanks for the Blue Eyes, Dad

Dad spent his last evening having dinner with my younger daughter — his youngest grandchild. She prepared dinner and helped him to the table; they had Polish sausage, which was always one of his favorite meals. Forbidden, too, since he was on a low-sodium diet. Naomi says Dad ate well and was in a good mood.

He left us the next day, on a peaceful afternoon. His heart stopped while he was resting in his chair.

I prefer to believe that Dad was not conscious of the chest pounding, the electric jolts, and the breathing tube. I think he was already on his way out when the emergency crew arrived at our home and tried to re-start his heart. Wayne had made it back to the house before me, but a policeman stationed in our front yard prevented him from going in. I wonder if it might, someday in an odd moment, occur to that officer that he kept a dying man from seeing the face of a loved one one last time.

At that moment I was mid-flight on Highway 280, thinking that this was the first and perhaps last time I would use the capabilities of my high-performance car. I drove directly to the hospital and met the ambulance as it arrived. Rows of parking spaces near the entrance were coned off — reserved for the eight-dollar valet parking. (Has anyone ever heard of valet parking at the emergency room? I had not.) A taciturn security guard directed me to a more distant lot, and I made for it, deciding it would take up too much time to interact with the valets. I ran uphill from that lot, in my sandals, my arthritic back — Dad’s legacy to me, along with our blue eyes — aching with every jolt.

Stanford Hospital’s emergency room requires a pass through a metal detector and a rummage through one’s purse by a guard who attempts humor by routinely asking, “have any grenades in there?” (He would never make it as an airport security guard.) Finally in, I requested to see my dad, only to be told to sit down, fill out some forms, and wait.

After a few minutes the charge nurse came over and explained that a team was working with my dad. She needed to know if he had any wishes regarding heroic measures, and I replied that he had nothing in writing but had told me (and Stanford, during earlier hospitalizations) that he did not want a breathing tube or resuscitation that continued for more than a few minutes. And then I said, “If this is it — if he is going to die, I want to be by his bedside, and I’d appreciate it if you’d arrange that right away.”

She looked startled and then said to wait; she’d be right back. In a moment she returned and led Wayne and me into the room where Dad’s team had just given up. His heart had failed again, and this time they couldn’t re-start it. They were standing around him, several of them looking devastated. I wanted to put my arms around one young woman who didn’t look much older than my daughters, and say “It’s okay, sweetie, you did all you could. Death is normal, and he was ready to go.”

The doctor introduced himself. I could hear the charge nurse explaining that I could hold Dad’s hand if I wanted, and stay with him. But I knew all that, and what I really wanted was for everyone to move aside and let me talk to him. They had said there was still a tiny bit of brain activity and I wanted to get close to his left ear — his good ear — and say “don’t be afraid, Dad.” That’s what I did, as the team removed equipment, withdrew, and pulled the curtain around to give us some privacy.

Later they took Dad’s body to a private room in the emergency unit. A chaplain escorted Wayne and me in to sit with Dad for a while. Wayne left after a moment and I stayed on, thinking about Dad and about how suddenly he left us. And thinking about what an odd culture we have created, where one sits vigil after a parent’s death in a room filled with stainless steel basins and various instruments and plastic tubing, with — incongruously — a happy, primary-color wallpaper border of balloons in flight. Perhaps that room is normally used for treating children.

In Dad’s recent hospitalization, during the long hours I spent simply sitting by his bed, one memory, far away in time but clear as a bell, kept returning to me. I must have been very young; perhaps five or six years old. I’d wait at the window for Dad’s return from work each day, and when he came in, we observed a two part ritual: First, he’d go through his pocket and give me all his pennies — sometimes I’d hold out for nickels and dimes, but he drew the line at quarters. Then Dad would stretch out on the rug, flat on his back, which though he was only in his forties was already aching with (I realize now) the arthritis that would plague him in his later years. And I would stretch out next to him. We’d both lie there gazing at the ceiling, not talking about much.

I once asked Dad if he remembered those days. “Yes,” he replied, “I surely do.” I hope he held that memory as dear as I do.