Changing Places, letting go and saying good-bye

Life Journey March 2008

It was our Christmas visit three years ago when we knew it was time. Past time for us to step in and help our parents. They have always been fiercely independent. They were still attempting to maintain their standard of lifestyle but the level of effort was stressed by failing health for both of them. The situation had not been so obvious through our phone calls but upon seeing them up close and personal, we were greatly concerned. How could we leave them on their own anymore? Too far away from our help.

After much adjustment, they agreed to relocate. It began in increments. Just look and see what types of houses are available in our area. After dozens of houses are discarded for one reason or another, the right house is found. Another increment. An intrepid purchase of a house. Another increment. Their beloved dream house built with Dad's own hands, log by log is put on the market. Months go by and it is still unsold. Health issues escalate. A broken hip for Dad from which he valiantly recovers and attempts to resume his caretaker role. They limp along, hiring help for inside and outside needs. Mom goes for a recheck for the healing of the wound on her foot and never returns to her log home. She is hospitalized for several weeks, transferred to rehab and then readmitted to the hospital. The time finally came for them to come to us. No more delay.

The Missionary Flights International (MFI) Douglas DC-3, "wings of the morning" fly our dear parents to us. Our hearts are stirred with emotion seeing the big bird which represents our parent’s life work touch down on the airstrip before us. Especially poignant in that moment was knowing our parents are aboard.

All of us began a new journey. My parents adjusting to being out of their element of security and familiarity. We were stepping forward to shoulder some of the responsibility for Mom's needs that have tired my devoted Dad the last few years. We are thankful to replace the helpless feeling that we endured because of a distance that hampered our total involvement in caring for our parents. Now we are able to incorporate their needs in our daily lives. It is a blessing and a privilege, well worth the sacrifice of changing our life style to accommodate caring for my parents.

But this journey wasn't an easy road to travel. I was afraid. I didn't know how hard it was going to get. It was already hard and I didn't know if I was up to it. Sometimes I felt like I was losing my life. Was I selfish? Was it normal to think like that? If only I had known we would only have Mom with us for less than six months. Maybe I could have been more patient. Maybe I could have held my frustrations intact. Maybe I could have done more.

When Mom first arrived, I was shocked to see that she couldn't even hold a drink to her own lips or sit up unassisted. She had no muscle tone or support. What had happened to her in those Florida facilities? Was she neglected? Overmedicated? Was she physically capable of any improvement?

Therapy began and it was slow. Baby steps. Sitting in the wheelchair for a half hour was a monumental feat. Baby steps. Feeding herself. Baby steps. Moving her legs in limited exercise. Baby steps. Getting her to cooperate in attitude and physical work. Baby steps. Some days good. Baby steps. Some days bad. Too many excuses resulting in many setbacks to hamper her progress. I had to push Mom hard and often. Try to get her to do the work so she could go home. "No days off, Mom." I felt like a nag. All we wanted was for her to be able to do enough so that she could go home. "Mom, work so you can go home." Why didn't she connect the dots?

I tried to make her feel special in a rather generic institutionalized environment. She was out of her world of friends, sense of personhood, interests and collectibles. She had nothing to show who she was besides a lady who was wearing a diaper and colorful dusters. I brought a studio picture of Mom and Dad for the room. This is who she is. She is the smiling lady in the picture with beautiful styled red hair and a pretty dress. I bought her a Princess box of Kleenex. She enjoyed showing it off to all the staff. Ok. I'll get more princess stuff. How about a Princess pillowcase and blanket? She loved them. Everyone commented about her princess’s stuff when they came into her room. I bought her some soft slipper socks with straps. She loved showing them off. I bought more than dozen pairs in different colors. She loved having a change every day. These were just little things to give evidence that Mom was someone unique.

Mom loved treats so I brought her snacks. Tapioca or butterscotch pudding, ice cream treats, gum, Long John Silver’s chicken planks, hush puppies, and McDonalds cheeseburger. Dad brought her cheese and crackers and Malted Milk Balls. Whatever she wanted, we got it.

I bribed her to work in therapy by promising her a hair dye and style. She hadn't had her hair done in about nine months. Her new hairdo looked so good. It gave her some of her persona back. She looked in the mirror and said, "Well, I look like an aristocratic." She felt more like herself.

Mom began progressing. She got the transfer down pat. She learned to pivot, pivot, and pivot with her walker. I was amazed and proud of her.

Often we sat outside on the front porch of the rehab. Mom loved the fresh air and change of scenery. We had a couple of outings for her to visit her new house. She loved it. She wanted to begin going through her stuff. But there never seemed to be a good time to do that. She couldn't leave the facility too often otherwise it could affect her Medicare.

We had Christmas with Mom and Dad at the home of our eldest daughter. Mom loved being there. She also enjoyed one visit to Cracker Barrel for dinner. The cold weather took away the treat of getting out of the building and sitting outside. Then two bouts of contagious health issues isolated her to her room and took away the treat of going to watch the birds upstairs, visiting Margaret or being in the gym. How much more did Mom have to keep losing? She was nearly stripped of all the things that had been her life. Not many decorations in the room where she spent endless hours. Just a boring border and a valance that she thought didn't match the border. No pictures on the walls. Mom's life was becoming more generic.

But she still had people. And Mom was a people person. Everyone loved talking to Mom. She was still a charmer. She made friends wherever she was. She invested her time into getting to know the staff. She knew personal details of their lives. She became a popular resident with the staff.

Mom always cheered up to see her great grand kids. She loved watching them. Once after a somewhat noisy visit, I asked her if they had been too loud for her. Without a moment’s hesitation, she answered, "Not at all. I loved watching them." Mom loved showing off her adorable kids to everyone.

Mom progressed to a point where she was within ten days of going home. I felt apprehensive with mixed emotions about her being home. How well would we manage? How hard would it be on us, Dad in particular? I so wanted her to be able to be part of her new home for her sake and Dad's. I couldn't see it lasting for more than a few months but at least she would make it home.

Mom had a setback that landed her in the hospital for over a week. Soon she began longing to return home to her room. Sadly, rehab had become her home in many ways. The familiar faces of dear people who cared for her had made it home. She was back at home in her room for only a few days when a serious setback sent her back to the emergency room. She laid for six hours, hemorrhaging onto the white sheets of the gurney, the smell of blood in the air almost choking me. It broke my heart to hear Mom apologize for making a mess to whoever came in periodically to clean her up. Finally she was transferred to a nice room with pictures on the wall and a recliner for Dad to be comfortable as he kept his vigil. That arrangement was short lived. She was soon sent to ICU which really was a better thing since her well being would be closely monitored.

When Mom was hospitalized in ICU, I came for every meal so I could help her eat. She was the perfect patient. Always smiling at everyone, cooperating through tortuous efforts to get blood for lab work, thanking anyone who did anything for her. In the unit my only focus was to visit with Mom. Not necessary for me to be the therapy police. We had nice visits with no pressure on either of us. I found a few things I could do for her in the unit. Tapioca pudding qualified for a soft diet tray. I could leave her my gum. I put Chap Stick on her lips. I combed her hair with my little purse size hair brush. It was increasingly more important to me to be able to do something for Mom. Mom didn't have anything of her own personal belongings in ICU. Just us when we visited. And there wasn't even any boring border on the walls or mismatched valance at the window. Nothing of interest for Mom to look at. Just us when we visited.

When Mom was promoted out of ICU to a room on the floor, I felt fearful. Would she receive the required attention all her medical problems needed? How much should we stay at the hospital with her? Going to the hospital four times a day was already tiring us out. How could we extend it to more hours a day? I was afraid to leave Mom while at the same time I was afraid I would have to stay and sacrifice more of my already tired life. Was I being selfish? Was it normal to think like this? What a mix of feelings.

Before Mom was discharged from the hospital we had to make new arrangements for her. It was time to move Mom from her special place at rehab. We couldn't afford to keep paying to keep her there. We found a new place that seemed to be an answer to our needs. It was just five minutes from Dad. There were nice outside grounds we could access once the weather turned warm. Nice people. Two resident cats that wandered into the room whenever they felt like it.

But we didn't feel at home. Everyone was a stranger. We were starting over. I assured Mom I would stick with her. I tried to appear positive. But I didn't like the high ceilings that made it seem not so homey, the absent minded roommate that repeated herself like a broken record, the blaring intercom system on the wall above Mom's head, and a staff that was nice but too busy to be too attentive. Too busy even if you needed them quickly.

I didn't like leaving Mom in the new place. It was her first night and she seemed afraid. I didn’t blame her. Privately I cried over seeing my Mom reduced to being a resident in a place like that. It didn't seem right. Maybe we should have tried to get her home with private duty nurses. But we couldn't afford that. Or maybe I should have moved in and taken care of Mom myself. But she has so many needs I couldn't sufficiently meet. My biggest fear was that someday she would die alone there in that new place. She had told me recently that she thought it would be awful to die alone like her sisters did.

The next day I returned to the new place with a forced positive attitude, a couple of bags of newly purchased lounge wear for Mom and room decorations to cheer up the atmosphere. I decorated the cork board on her side of the room. I brought all her Princess stuff. I hung a cheerful happy wall clock. I brought her Tapioca and butterscotch pudding, gum and 100 calorie pack of peanut butter cookies. I made sure the crank hospital bed was traded in for a motorized bed.

At supper time, Mom tried to cooperate with my efforts to help her eat her tray but something was wrong. She wasn't focusing on me or anything in the room, just looking downward to her right side. Random words. I asked her what she was trying to say. She surprised when as clear as a bell, she said, "I don't know what I am trying to say!" And she laughed. Briefly I thought maybe things were alright with her after all. She sounded fine. But that was the last normal thing I ever heard her say. And the last time I heard her laugh.

I double checked Mom's condition by asking her what her name was. She couldn't tell me. I went for help. Things got worse. Mom convulsed. 911 was called. I got Dad out of the room. We waited at the ER for the ambulance to arrive. After what seemed too long of a wait, the ambulance was in sight but went on past us. It was diverted to another hospital which has a stroke unit. We returned to my car. Shortly we came upon the ambulance in the center lane with the doors open and another ambulance behind it. I pulled over, yelled asking if it was my mother. I was told to continue onto the hospital. I didn't want to do that. I will NEVER forget making myself drive away from that ambulance knowing Mom was in trouble. I could see the lights of the ambulance in my rear view mirror becoming more distant as I continued on. I was leaving my Mom in the hands of strangers in the center lane of a four lane road. How could I bear it!

We found out later Mom arrived at the hospital without vitals. CPR brought her back around. The news was grim. She may have been deprived of oxygen for twenty to thirty minutes. The tube might have mistakenly been put in her esophagus instead of her windpipe. When we were allowed to go see her, the first thing I saw were the dark blue slipper socks still on her feet. It almost seemed inconsistent to see those familiar little slippers snuggly on her feet in the midst of all the foreign apparatus connected to Mom. It seemed Mom responded to us even though the nearby medical personal discounted our observations. Later the doctor said in fact Mom did seem to be responding so maybe the tube had been properly inserted. We saw Mom again in the ICU. She was breathing through a respirator and hooked up to many devices. But she was alive. And we hoped.

We resumed our hospital visits which included parking difficulties, getting lost and long corridor walks since Mom was now at the largest hospital in town. Little signs of Mom being herself emerged. She wanted to talk. We couldn't understand her. I made an alphabet chart. She pointed and spelled out her first word. F-O-O-D So typical Mom. She still noticed all the good looking male staff too. She tried to get the attention of one of them during my visit. I said, "I think my Mom thinks you are good looking." Mom vigorously nods her head yes. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with her mind.

Despite all the machine hookups attached to Mom, we had good visits with her. A particular special visit was when our youngest daughter and I sang to her. She squeezed out a rhythm to the beat of a silly song she had taught the girls many years ago. Our other two daughters both visited their Grandma. Mom acknowledged our middle daughter's full tummy that carried her next great grandson. My husband thoughtfully swabbed Mom's dry parched mouth with moist sponge swab. She really received that small gesture with pleasure. We continued that practice each visit. Sometimes Mom didn't respond to Dad or I when we came to visit. She would always pop her eyes open if my sister came for a visit. Or a doctor came walking into the room. I guess Dad and I were old hat. If I was her only visitor, I felt more comfortable to sing to her. I wanted her to know that I was there even if she was sleeping through my visit. One visit Mom was much more alert and when it was time to leave I told her I had to go now. She nodded her head like she understood. I walked out of the room and happened to turn around to look at her one more time and she was waving at me. I didn't expect it. I rushed back into the room and clutched her hand. "Were you are waving at me Mom?" She nodded yes. I said, "That's the best thing that has happened to me all week." I hugged her and thanked her. I'll always remember that sweet little wave.

Finally Mom was weaned off the ventilator. It felt like a victory until we learned Mom couldn't swallow. The feeding tube had to stay. She couldn't talk. She mouthed out barely audible words. Most of the time I couldn't understand her. She tried so hard to talk. Why couldn't I get it? Once in awhile I did. Clearly I understood when she asked what happened. I told her. She expressed shock with facial expressions after hearing about all that had occurred.

I felt more helpless since there was hardly anything I could do for Mom. I could barely comb her hair with all the things around her head. No more gum or pudding. Her blue slipper socks had been laid on a shelf so I took them home so they wouldn't get lost. She didn't have one single personal item in the ICU cubicle. I thought her life was stripped down before. Now it was even worse.

In the midst of the drama of Mom's struggles, life goes on. Her beautiful new great grandson was safely born. The transition of going from looking at the precious face of this new life to going to see my Mom in her final days was difficult. I prepared my heart to embrace a new life as I let go of an older life. The Lord gives. The Lord takes away. I lift my hands and heart to say, Blessed be the name of the Lord.

Mom couldn't breathe well. She had a full face mask to assist breathing. Now she couldn't keep her eyes open because of all the air swirling around inside that mask. She slightly nodded her head yes or no to us. She was slipping away, one life ability at a time. She seems to be barely with us. I ask her if she needs a hug. She slightly nods. I hug her as best I can. She turns her face towards me to get close to my cheek. That was the last thing she did for me.

The kind, caring doctor said everything has been done that can be done. He said we are standing in her way. It is time for her to leave us. My heart has to let her go.

Her final day we stayed by her side. There was nothing left to do but hold her hand and let her know somewhere in the recesses of her mind that we were there. She was not alone. She was not going to die alone. Thank you Lord for the privilege of being able to be at Mom's side.

We sing for Mom. I wonder if she noticed how often we were off key, forgot or choked on the words. We talk to her. I say everything to her that comes to my mind. Why didn't I think to thank her for helping my kids stay in Christian school? Instead it pops into my head to thank her for letting me get a two piece swim suit when I was in high school.

Mom, I will take care of Dad.

Mom, Linda said she loves you and it is ok to go.

Mom, do you hear the angels? It is ok to go to them. Your family is gathering to greet you. Do you see the angels? They are ready for you. It's ok Mom.

Throughout the day, during the night and into the early morning we each hold Mom's warm hand. My Dad on her left side. Me on her right side. My Dad's sister nearby. Then peacefully Mom took her final breaths before dawn and was ushered into the presence of her Lord and Savior.

Mom, you are finally home! I will miss you but I will see you later.

'Because He lives, I can face tomorrow.' Blessed be the name of the Lord.

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Life Journey Continued 2009

There is a saying that life goes on. And it does. Life continues. Even after we lose a loved one. The sun still shines. We wake up. We keep our routine. We go to work. We eat. We laugh. We remember. We cry. We miss our special one.

There was a promise I made to Mom on that last day even though she probably didn't hear me. I whispered in her ear that I would take care of Dad. But I knew what my heart had promised and I kept my word. I focused on taking care of Dad. I had to be clever to make sure he didn't know how much I was really caring for him. He had continued the facade and still fancied himself to be fiercely independent. What we didn't bargain for was the awkwardness of the role reversal that naturally occurs with the passage of time. For the most part, we gently adjusted and made our peace with this ultimate life change.

There were other numerous life changes that Dad experienced over the last few years. We were amazed at how well Dad had adjusted, considering his own health issues that had greatly aged him. He tirelessly cared for an invalid wife for 10 years, resigned from his beloved life work as the founder of an aviation ministry, lived with untreated prostate cancer, recovered from heart surgery, hip replacement, put the log home slash dream home that he built on the market, and eventually relocated to our area which meant leaving friends, familiar routines, roads and residence behind. His greatest adjustment was becoming a widower.

There was a new way of life. Dad was living in a new home with familiar furnishings which were lovingly arranged but never had the personal touch of the decorator of the family, Mom. Dad loved his home but was not accustomed to being alone. His hope to share it with Mom wasn't realized. We tried to build a new life for Dad. We filled his schedule with keyboard concerts at local nursing homes, shared our friends and included him in all family activities. Dad, a man who spent a lifetime living a strict schedule, became spontaneous and responded affirmatively to our last minute invitations to eat out, go to the park, a ball game, an occasional movie or visits in the homes of his grandchildren. We planned special events like taking a Tennessee River lunch cruise, the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey circus and the Disney on Ice show. We kept regular routines he could count on like Monday Night Taco night at Amigos, weekend plans or a monthly Manwich and Music night hosted in his home when he would entertain our friends with his keyboard repertoire.

There were neglected health issues. We began a round of doctor appointments; an eye doctor for double cataract surgery, a heart doctor, an urologist to monitor his prostate cancer, and a general physician to monitor his Coumadin dosages. Dad always protested he was fine and didn't need anything.

There were bumps in the journey. Just two months after we lost Mom, Dad was diagnosed with bone cancer. The untreated prostate cancer had spread. Although we bravely faced this new obstacle with optimism, we were concerned. Upon hearing the diagnosis, I specifically asked the Lord to please not allow Dad to suffer from the pain of bone cancer.

There were mistakes. He paid his first $120.00 telephone bill online but accidentally keyed in the check amount for $12,000.00. Imagine our shock that the telephone company accepted it and applied it to his account. It was a fiasco trying to get an immediate refund check issued back to a strained bank balance.

There were mishaps. On Father’s Day, Dad missed the last step as he was on his way to Sunday school. He split his head open above his eye and wound up in the ER for stitches. The bruising bled from his eye to his neck. He looked like he'd been in a fight and was the obvious loser. He chuckled over the whole episode and kept on going, bruises and all. In the ER that day, a scan revealed an aneurysm that resulted in an additional procedure at a later date.

There were lasting effects from the procedure that attempted to treat the aneurysm. Though we had the best physician available to accomplish this task, five hours of effort yielded no success. The effects of anesthesia were even more frightening. Within hours of bringing Dad home from the ICU where he was monitored overnight, he could not void. We took him to the ER in excruciating pain. He endured delay in receiving relief because the waiting room was full of patients. It was more than I could endure to see my 80 year old father almost passed out from pain, waiting for the relief a catheter could provide. Normally an undemanding person, I became aggressive trying to secure help for Dad. I asked if he could be catheterized in a hallway with a sheet held in front of him for privacy. Finally, he received help. A complication occurred when his bladder went into spasm which resulted in more pain. After Dad received pain medication and was resting in a drug induced sleep, we were informed he was to be sent home. At three in the morning, Dad was transferred home by ambulance, catheter and all. It seemed absurd. Our personal physician and friend made house calls to help us wean Dad off the catheter. Dad also exhibited a change in his interaction with us. His sister and I were fearful Dad had retreated and would not be the same. He did not initiate conversation and responded to us with slow, deliberate one word answers. In a couple of days, he slowly walked over to the keyboard and labored to play a tune. Each effort yielded better results. Thankfully, Dad was back. But there remained a marked change. We lost ground we never recovered. His thinking was never as sharp. His memory was never as clear.

There was a vulnerability to advertisements for health cures, companionship, useless products and empty promises of prosperity through various offers. These offers flooded his mailbox online and offline. We made calls requesting removal of his name from mailing and call lists; we sporadically snatched up his junk mail whenever possible, and eventually figured out his email password so we could eliminate unscrupulous solicitors who take advantage of the naivety of the elderly. We limited verbally voicing our concerns about these matters to Dad unless absolutely necessary. It was a challenge to maintain his dignity and sense of independence.

There were incidents. One incident I can relive in my mind like it was yesterday. It all came about because I'd called the fire department to ask if it was a potential fire hazard to have a parked vehicle emitting gas fumes sharing garage space with a gas water heater pilot light. The fire department was located near Dad's neighborhood so they graciously offered to come over to evaluate the situation in person. Dad remarked it was thoughtful for me to call to inquire and welcomed their visit. Three fire department persons arrived shortly to help us.

There was a gathering in the garage to assess the situation concerning Dad's parked classic car, the Studebaker Avanti. The garage doors had been open for over an hour so the strong smell of gasoline had somewhat dissipated. The request was made for the Avanti to be moved out of the garage so the contents on the drip pan underneath the vehicle could be examined. Dad had already pulled his other vehicle, a Lincoln to the end of the driveway. Dad got the keys and started the Avanti. The fire department staff was standing in the front of the parked Avanti. I was closer to the opening of the garage door. As soon as Dad backed the Avanti out of the garage, the four of us looked expectantly towards the garage floor. We centered our attention on the drip pan. My concentration was disrupted when I realized Dad was bringing the car back into the garage. What was he thinking? We hadn't had time to assess the amount of gasoline leakage. The Avanti passed me. Dad was looking ahead. The Avanti continued deeper into the garage. The other three individuals were puzzled by Dad's re-entry. The Avanti kept coming. Suddenly it was apparent Dad was not going to stop. One of the personnel literally jumped out of the way to avoid being pinned between the car and the wall. The Avanti's front fender on the passenger side crunched into the garage wall. The fiberglass fender popped up like a macabre jack-in-the-box. I couldn't believe my eyes. Dad had just rammed his immaculate, pristine vehicle into the garage!

There was a transfer of my attention as I focused now primarily on Dad. What was he doing? He began backing out of the garage. That was good move except he kept backing up and almost hit his Lincoln at the end of the driveway. He put the Avanti into forward gear just in time and advanced towards the garage again. He entered the garage. We were on guard, jockeying into position to do what, I don't know. I was yelling at the top of my voice, trying to penetrate through Dad's closed window, "Dad, what are you doing? Dad, what are you doing?" We were literally trying to push the car away from the wall so he would not damage his car again. As we strained against the forward thrust of the Avanti, we were relieved from the persistent pressure when Dad put the car in reverse again. Like an instant replay of a slap stick comedy, the Avanti almost hit the Lincoln again. The movie continued to play as the Avanti rolled forward towards the garage for the third time. I resumed yelling my pointless words at Dad's closed window, while adding the hand motion of cutting my throat. I was so intent on communicating that I didn't realize I was almost getting pinned between the garage door and the car until one of the firemen pulled me away.

There was a sudden a halt to this surreal scenario. The car stopped. Dad opened the car door, unfolded his long legs and dejectedly climbed out of his unattractive newly customized car. The firemen quickly offered to push the Avanti out into the yard next to the driveway. Dad's explanation was there were no brakes. The car hadn't been driven for months and he hadn't checked the brakes before backing up. He got flustered and didn't think of turning the car off. For a man like Dad who is accustomed to presenting himself with great dignity, it was a very humiliating incident.

There was relief when the fire department personnel left. Dad and I retreated to the living room where my sister had been conducting a business matter on the telephone. After we related the horrible mishap to her, she explained why she hadn't come out to see what happened. She was in the middle of a phone call trying to settle one of Dad's mishandled financial issues. The company representative handling the problem actually heard me yelling from the garage. She asked my sister if she needed to go help with an obvious problem. My sister began crying, which is not her norm as she answered, "We are just trying to take care of my Dad and there is always some drama happening. Let's just finish this first." The matter was settled.

There was a happy ending to this story. Dad ended up with a complete new paint job for the Avanti, my fears were confirmed by the fire department that the gas fumes were indeed a fire hazard with the gas water heater and I learned to never stand in Dad's way when he was behind the wheel.

There were opportunities to get to know Dad that my sister and I had never encountered as we grew up. Dad was our greatly admired hero but he was frequently absent because of mission trips or being busy with ministry needs. Mom was the consistent parent on duty. She was more talkative than Dad so we didn't often interact conversationally with him. As a teenager, whenever I found myself alone with Dad, I nervously struggled to think of things to say. Now Dad was part of my daily life. I drove him to appointments, ran errands, shopped, ate out, and we talked constantly. In the short time he lived close by I talked to him more than I did my entire life. It was very enlightening. I learned more about his devotion to the Lord and ministry, his willingness to be involved in the life of others, his life views, his experiences, his stories, his humor, his personality, his temperament, his mind set, his insecurities, his expectations, his misperceptions, his hang-ups, his routines, his perfectionism, his ability to keep on going, his uncomplaining attitude, his stubbornness, his loyalty, and surprising quirks. To my discomfort, we had numerous talks about his intimate personal matters I never envisioned speaking about with my Dad. Nor did I wish to continue to speak about with my Dad. Sometimes I became a counselor to encourage Dad in his adjustments to his new life. Often I started at square one and repeated the same message. Ironically, he said I sounded like a counselor and acknowledged I was giving good counsel and he knew he needed to change his thinking. It was the role reversal in process. I was giving back to him things he had taught and nurtured in my life. And through it all, he still remained my hero.

There were special times of worship with Dad I will always cherish. I had seen Dad in church all my life but never like I saw him in church the last 18 months of his life. The first time Dad visited our church is a vivid memory. The orchestra was playing a lively number as we walked down the aisle to our seats. He was literally almost high stepping it down the aisle. We sat down. Excitedly he said to me rather loudly, "Wow. I've come to the right place!" That was how it was every time for Dad. He was deeply affected each service by the songs and the message. He couldn't understand his emotional reaction that moved him to tears. He tried to talk about it to understand it. I just encouraged him to embrace the special sensitivity that the Lord had laid on his tender heart. I loved seeing Dad respond with his tears, an amen or even raising his hand. It mirrored my own response. We were united in our worship experience. Each Sunday I saved Dad a seat. I watched for him to appear in the doorway to the left of the auditorium platform. He'd always have a colorful jacket with coordinating tie. His steps were slower but he ambled along to take his place next to me. He always asked my approval of his outfit. Did he match everything ok? He was accustomed to having Mom's approving eye to send him out. Then we'd settle in for the blessed experience of meeting the Lord together in our pew. Dad was enthralled with the ministry of the interim pastor, especially a unique study of Revelation. We surprised Dad one Sunday dinner at his granddaughter's home with special guests, the interim pastor and his wife. Dad was delighted to have the one on one time with someone he greatly admired. Dad bonded with the associate pastor and people in his Sunday school class. He became known by name. His approval of the candidate who answered the Lord's call to pastor our church was phenomenal. Every Sunday Dad stood in line after the service to greet the pastor. With both hands Dad gripped the hand of the new pastor towering over him. Dad sincerely offered his own special encouragement as his eyes filled with tears, “That was a tremendous message, Pastor!" Since reading Dad's files of correspondence throughout his ministry, it is obvious he had learned the importance of encouragement from personal experience.

There is not one Sunday that I don't still look towards the door to the left of the auditorium to watch for Dad to appear in his flashy coat and tie. I cry alone now over the choir specials, orchestra numbers or the song service. I miss Dad crying with me.

There was a special vacation. After Mom went to be with the Lord, we planned a first for all of us with Dad. A real vacation at a tourist spot. My sister, brother-in-law, Dad, my husband and myself spent a week in Pigeon Forge. We enjoyed the music at Dollywood. Dad relished each show. Many shows we repeated purely for Dad's enjoyment. Dad even felt the freedom to get up and dance a whirl with my sister. He was game for any suggestion. He had his first helicopter ride, even though it was only a few minutes long. He enjoyed our home cooking in the condo. He loved having our companionship in the evenings. He was sorry when our week ended. We were too.

There were special visits from my sister who lived two hours away. She managed frequent weekend visits even though she maintained a demanding schedule as an elementary school teacher. He frequently called her several times a week as she was on her way to school. He began most of his phone calls with, "How is my dear daughter?" But there was nothing like a visit to his home. My sister spent quality time with Dad. She claimed the spare bedroom as her own special room. She sorted and paid his bills. She made the house smell good with her whirlwind house cleaning efforts, refilled vanilla plug-in deodorizers and her crock pot meals. These were precious times for both of them. Dad hated to see her leave. He always stood on the porch to wave her off as she drove away.

There were special visits from his only sibling, his sister from Illinois. She typically planned a three week visit. They both enjoyed each other’s company immensely. They spent late night hours bent over the keyboard, entertaining each other in song. Giggling like school kids, they shared time together in the world of music. She baked him home cooked meals and cookies to snack on. The hard part of the visit was when it ended. Dad had to adjust to being alone again. But his sister always gave him something to look forward to by setting another visit date.

There were special visits with his great grandchildren. Dad wasn't used to being the center of attention when it came to children. Usually my Mom had that spot and Dad was just an observer. I loved seeing Dad's enjoyment at being the recipient of the hugs and kisses from these little ones. They easily accepted him and treated him special. Dad was impressed with their unique expressive conversations and play. He loved watching his youngest great-grandson develop from birth to seeing his first steps. Dad's face lit up with joy as he watched him teeter across the living room, gaining more steps each time he picked himself up after each fall.

There were even a couple of special visits from former friends and colleagues. I helped by hosting with meals and preparing the home.

There was a special Missionary Flights International Open House in Ft. Pierce, Florida to celebrate the Forty-Fifth Anniversary of ministry. My sister, brother-in-law, my husband, myself, Dad and his sister booked flights and took a weekend trip. It was the grandest of all days for Dad. His life work was now showcased in an immaculate, expansive hanger which housed the DC-3's and the daily operations of the aviation mission outreach. The Lord had blessed MFI in mighty ways. From a one man with a single engine airplane operation meeting missionary needs to the expanded ministry of Missionary Flights today. One man filling the gap has become a full blown ministry filling the gap for hundreds of missionaries on the field. A day of many praises. Dad manned his book table for the signing of his book, "Yours for a Meeting in the Air" He gave his testimony on a live radio broadcast. He spoke to the crowd attending the Open House. The finest moment was at the end of the day when we boarded a DC-3 with the president of MFI as our captain. Dad sat in the jump seat. He was wearing his captain shirt. Dad leaned forward as we taxied to the runway. Dad put his hand on the back of the captain's seat to pull his body to a position where he could see the control panel and the movements of the current captain. This symbolic moment was not lost on me. Key thoughts raced through my mind. This was a snapshot of the elder passing on the baton. The passage of time resulting in the changing of the guard. Dad was now the coach instead of the player. The experienced one takes a backseat to the younger one who will carry the task forward.

There was an annual Missionary Flights Banquet in West Palm Beach, Florida a few weeks after the Ft. Pierce MFI Open House. My husband was the only one who flew down with my Dad since we'd all just made a trip. This was also an important event for my Dad and not to be missed. It was exciting to be involved in the updates of the ministry, see old friends, meet new people and be part of MFI like always. Dad was in his glory on the platform with his 'Sing-a-long with Don' time. He led singing with his usual vim and vigor in spite his frail appearance. His voice resounded with enthusiasm as he gave encouraging testimony between songs. Looking back at the video, it is hard to believe Dad was less than a month from his home going.

There was a distinct physical change in Dad after the trips. He was tired and sleeping more. He had a few incidents of falling. His short term memory that had been failing him for the last few months was becoming worse. His normally ferocious appetite had become poor and he complained of lack of taste. Was it too much for him to have taken two trips in one month? Was he sleeping more during the daytime because he was waking up so much at night to go to the bathroom? Was it the effects of medication? We made a couple of visits to the doctor before we discovered the probable problem. Cancer had spread to his liver.

There was hardly time to adjust to the new diagnosis of liver cancer. Dad fell in his living room the same day. My husband was within arms link of Dad and protected Dad's head from hitting the floor but couldn't completely break his fall. Initially Dad seemed fine. He wanted to sit on the couch with his leg propped across the ottoman on a heating pad. My husband left him and came home to get me. We brought Dad supper. He showed no discomfort. We were prepared to spend the night because we were not sure of his stability. When my husband gently tried to assist Dad in moving, Dad cried out in pain and beads of sweat peppered his forehead. My husband and I looked at each other. Without speaking words, we gave each other a knowing look. The moment we dreaded had arrived. Dad's fall was the beginning of another change in his living arrangement. It was likely his independent days of living alone were over. An ambulance took Dad to the hospital. Dad was racked with the pain of moving onto a stretcher and out the door. No goodbye to Dad's faithful feline friend who was being left behind. No last fleeting look at the home he was departing. Pain consumed the moment.

There was a diagnosis of a fractured left hip. It was discovered Dad's blood was dangerously thin to the point of being life threatening. No surgery would be scheduled until the blood was thickened up. My sister came. His sister came. The risks were discussed with Dad. Dad chose to do surgery. "I can't imagine lying in a bed like this every day for the rest of my life." All kinds of tests, labs and history were gathered. Doctors conferred. Dad waited. Seemed like Dad deteriorated before our eyes as we waited for the surgery. He couldn't manage feeding himself anymore. He quit caring about his hair which was an alarming change. Dad was always fastidious about the appearance of his hair. He even muttered, "What is the use?" when we encouraged him to continue grooming. Dad did perk up when he received personal visits from church friends. Surgery was scheduled for the sixth day since Dad's admission. It had been a long wait.

There was peaceful presence as we faced the precariousness of surgery day. We gathered early to spend time with Dad. The so loved pastor said he would come to pray with Dad before surgery. The door opened. It was the surgical team to take him downstairs to the surgical prepping area. How disappointing. They were early and the pastor wouldn't make it. The surgical team left the room to check with the nursing station. We gathered around the bed. I prayed. My sister prayed. There was no more time for anyone else to pray because the door opened again. I expected to see the surgical team but it was not them. It was the pastor! Not just the pastor but the pastoral team, all three of them! They circled the bed and we joined hands. With tears in his eyes, Dad shared his desire for more earthly days so he could witness to a gentleman he had befriended. It was the gentleman that had painted his Avanti. The pastors prayed for Dad. The Lord had gifted Dad with a beautiful send off to surgery through the love of the pastors and their prayers!

There was a request for one family member to accompany Dad downstairs to the surgical area. I was chosen. I wish I had insisted my sister be allowed to come too. Little did we know this would be our last time with Dad. The nurse insisted Dad's wedding ring he’d worn for fifty-eight years needed to be removed. I thought it was unnecessary since he’d had a heart valve replacement and did not take it off then. But the ring must come off. They had a trick of string and tape that slid it off Dad's finger. His finger was bruised. I told Dad I would wear his ring for him until I could give it back to him. He wondered how he was going to get it back on. The anesthesiologist explained to me that he was using the minimum of gas so it would wear off quicker. The minimum of pain killers would also be used. We should expect some confusion because of his age. When it was time to leave Dad, I kissed his forehead and told him I loved him. I gave him one last look before I left and he said, "I love you."

There was praise for answered prayer. The surgery was a success with no complications. The surgeon expected to have Dad up walking in the evening. We were excited and felt a burden had been lifted.

There was no waking up from the anesthesia. After several hours, we were called to recovery to try to wake Dad up. No response. I noticed how swollen his hands were and was glad they had insisted on taking his wedding ring off. After several hours in recovery, Dad was transferred to SICU. For two days we kept vigil. Our first visits were encouraging. Dad would moan when we talked to him. I told him his cat was lonely for him and he needed to wake up and get better. Dad moaned like he was saying, "Aw." But after that small encouragement, Dad's condition worsened. His heart beat was too fast and his blood pressure too high. We were asked what type of heroics we wanted. We were not prepared to make these decisions. I don't know if anyone is ever prepared. We requested everything be done possible except for chest compressions. We knew his fragile bones would break under that type of pressure. After a day, it was recommended we try the ventilator for 24 hours to give Dad's body a chance to rest. An EEG was scheduled for the next day. It was our final puzzle piece to evaluate Dad's condition to see if there was any hope of recovery.

There were no hopeful findings. The report was not good. The flush of the liver to eliminate the accumulation of the chloride was not successful. The EEG showed damage in the brain from the excess chloride from the liver. Dad was not going to wake up. His condition was irreversible. Nothing more could be done. Just like in Mom’s case, we were being told we were standing in Dad’s way. Dad would stay in SICU, be taken off the vent and we would be able to be with him. Our nurse, Andrew who had been such a gentle comforter to us brought us back to the unit. We were surprised to see Dad was still on the vent. We thought it was going to be taken out before we came back. From the SICU window, we could see my husband who had been called off work arriving. He was trying to find a parking place for his truck and trailer rig in the hospital parking lot. The vent was removed. I was shocked to notice Dad’s lower teeth were missing. Before I could process how that happened, I realized Dad's heart was struggling. It only beat a few moments and we knew he was leaving us. His sister, my sister and I began singing, "I'll fly away." He was home with the Lord so quickly! I closed Dad's eyes. My husband arrived just a few minutes later. If we’d known Dad would leave us so fast, we would have waited until he reached the unit. Hard to believe Dad was absent from his body and present with the Lord. The Lord answered my prayer. Dad never suffered from the pain of bone cancer. He went to sleep and woke up with the Lord. Dad's gain but our loss.

There will be seasons of loss in the journey of life. I had the loss of independence for six months when I was encased in a turtle shell to heal my broken back because of a head on collision with a drunk driver. I grieved the loss of my hair while going through chemotherapy treatment. I cope daily with the aftermath of that treatment which affected the loss of endurance in my knees. I felt at loss in knowing how to manage the needs of elderly parents who were living too far away. When the task of their relocation and fifty eight years of accumulation of possessions began, I feared I had lost any resemblance of my own life. I adjusted to the loss of my 'good' daughter role when I became Mom's caregiver and therapy police. I struggled as I became more Dads’ parent than his daughter. I've suffered the loss of a closely knit, united family when a beloved daughter chose to turn from the Lord and her husband. Now our family events seem to always have a missing person which accentuates our loss of things that are right. The loss of a devoted pet in the midst of great sorrow robbed me of another source of comfort and affection. Losses produce grieving. Grieving is a process. It is a continuing happening. A momentary heart tug. A jolt of realization to correct our lapse of reality. Loss is a change that keeps us off balance as we adjust. And hope that the pain of loss lessens with time.

There were optimistic plans to spend years with my parents close by that will not come to pass. The home that held those hopes is now just an empty house filled with left behind belongings. I still wear my father's wedding ring that I promised I would return to him. I cannot remove the ring because it has become a comforting connection. Our home is filling with parental possessions that have become very dear. My husband and I feel the loss of Dad daily since he was well interwoven in our life. As old as we are, my sister and I feel orphaned. We did not expect to lose both our parents within one year. Our best cheerleaders are gone. Our personal prayer warriors are not accessible. The best readers of my written work are not here to encourage me with their biased praise.

There is more grieving ahead. The bittersweet task of sorting through papers that reveal glimpses of a life well lived, well remembered and is no longer. Preserving history to pass on as family heritage. Disbursing mementos to the right family member or friend. Piecing out a lifetime of possessions, one by one.

There is a blessed hope of being reunited with our loved ones. The Lord has prepared a place for those who love him. No more suffering, No more tears. No more pain. No more disappointment. No more discouragement. No more hurt. Heaven has become more personal to me since my parents have gone to be with the Lord. Just as I was privileged to witness their home going, I KNOW they will be waiting for our home coming when the time comes. Why should we dread that day? We know the King! What a blessed day that will be!












No More Night:
Sung by David Phelps
Words & music by Walt Harrah

The timeless theme, Earth and Heaven will pass away.
It’s not a dream, God will make all things new that day.
Gone is the curse from which I stumbled and fell.
Evil is banished to eternal hell.

No more night. No more pain.
No more tears. Never crying again.
And praises to the great "I AM."
We will live in the light of the risen Lamb.

See all around, now the nations bow down to sing.
The only sound is the praises to Christ, our King.
Slowly the names from the book are read.
I know the King, so there’s no need to dread.

No more night. No more pain.
No more tears. Never crying again.
And pr aisles to the great "I AM."
We will live in the light of the risen Lamb.

See over there, there’s a mansion, oh, that’s prepared just for me,
Where I will live with my savior eternally.

No more night. No more pain.
No more tears. Never crying again.
And praises to the great "I AM."
We will live in the light of the risen Lamb.

All praises to the great "I AM."
We're gonna live in the light of the risen Lamb.

See you later, Mom

Tribute to Mom
March 7, 2008
Read at Mom's Memorial Service


As I reflect over the years of growing up under Mom's guidance and leadership I have thought of many examples she set before me. Foremost, I always knew both of my parents were committed to the Lord, ministry and each other. This provided much security for me as I was growing up. Seeing firsthand the inner workings of missionary life is another part of my heritage that gives me a unique perspective of ministry. Even though the sometimes financially lean years of being missionaries were frightening, I knew our faith in the Lords provision would see us through. This is the constant faith I have today. The Lord will see me through whatever is happening in my life.

My Dad's role of being a missionary pilot required him to be absent from our family frequently. Mom always excited us to do something special to give Dad a hero’s welcome home after his trips. Mom made us feel safe and secure even in Dad's absence. As a teenager, my Mom was the youngest looking mother of all my friends. She loved it when she was mistaken as my sister instead of my mother. Shopping together was always fun, even though we had a few battles over the mini skirts of the 60's, shoes and a two piece swimsuit which surprisingly she did let me get. Our most special shopping was when she helped me plan and prepare for my wedding and married life. Mom loved to laugh! We had silly times when we would laugh forever over the least little thing, especially our private family jokes. Mom had the ultimate knack of knowing what to put together, whether it was clothes or decorating her home. Mom loved special occasions, especially birthdays and Christmas. She faithfully remembered our family with birthday cards and checks. She started catalog shopping for Christmas in January of every year and by December had a mountain of gifts gorgeously wrapped in beautiful foil paper and bows. Mom loved children. She loved teaching Sunday school and working in Junior Church for many years. She loved her grandchildren She told them stories of her childhood, read to them and taught them fun silly songs from a long ago era. I appreciated Mom's upbeat personality and positive outlook on life. Through her struggles with arthritis, she continued to push forward and serve the Lord through her support of Dad, her ministry to children and friendship with others. I am thankful for her example of being a Godly wife and mother.

The last six months were very difficult for Mom because of many debilitating health issues. She was working hard in rehabilitation to be able to come home to live in their new home in Ft. Oglethorpe. She was excited to settle in and decorate it with her special touch. She spent hours thinking and dreaming about all the things she wanted to do. She was within of week or so of being able to come home when critical health issues gave us setback after setback. We had so hoped for her to be able to come home.

As I sat next to her hospital bed, holding her hand throughout the day, into the night and then early morning, I thought of how we had worked so hard to get her home. But I didn't know her destination was not to her earthly home. The Lord's will was for her to go home to her heavenly home. Although it was difficult to let Mom go, it was a privilege to be with her at her home going. I am comforted knowing she is walking the streets of gold with her new body.

Each time I left Mom at the rehab or hospital, I didn't say goodbye. I told her I would see her later. One last time I say, "See you later, Mom."