Second Wind

Saying Goodbye During a Pandemic

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The week before Dad turned 90, he began to get weaker. I teased him that his warranty must be expiring soon. He also found a large, tender bump on his breastbone, though, and I took him to the clinic where the PA told him she didn’t know what it was and said to rub hydrocortisone cream on it. 

My kids and grands brought supper over for his birthday on November 14th, and when the City started shooting big fireworks a few blocks away, I was surprised and concerned to see that Dad needed help down the three porch steps to watch the show. We told him the fireworks were in honor of his birthday, and he laughed, knowing we were pulling his leg. 

When he continued to decline over the next two weeks, we both took a Covid test (negative) just in case and made more visits to clinics and even a trip to the ER, but no one could tell us what was going on or what we should do about it. A second visit to the ER on Monday, November 30, involved all kinds of tests including one for a stroke and another Covid test. Both were negative although he thought it was 1991 and kept asking where he was. The nurse said all the hospital beds in the area were full, thanks to the pandemic, but we could get on a list and wait until one opened up. Dad believed if he could just shave that stubble off his face everything would be fine. We stayed in the ER for 27 hours until a bed became available in Round Rock. As the attendants started to wheel my father away, I kissed him goodbye and told him Joe (his #3 child) would be meeting him at the hospital in Round Rock.

The hospital drained 1.5 liters of fluid from Dad’s lungs, and he was able to breathe better. Hospital policy during the pandemic allowed only 1 guest per day, so Joe took over so I could get some sleep. He stayed with Dad during visiting hours on Tuesday and Wednesday. The doctor told us she was pretty sure Dad had cancer, but said biopsies would be too invasive for him. My sister Joy had come to town, too, so I dropped her off to be with Dad on Thursday until he was transferred to the SPJST nursing home in Taylor. We were so relieved a bed was available there since we heard they usually had a waiting list. 

Joy said she was told he would be transferred to Taylor between 11 a.m. and 1 p.m., and she said I could see him briefly when they took him to the ambulance, so I waited around in the parking lot. I was able to get a Rapid Covid test (my second in a week) at a nearby clinic so I would be able to see him in the nursing home. One o’clock came and went, and it wasn’t until 4 p.m. before attendants came to pick him up. I waited 7 hours that day to be able to see my Dad for 15 seconds when they wheeled him out of the hospital doors and onto the ambulance. He probably didn’t even realize I spoke to him and kissed his cheek. But it was worth it. Separation from loved ones in medical care during the pandemic is heartrending.

Rules in the nursing home were much stricter than the hospital, and I wasn’t allowed to see Dad until the next day. I knew he was probably wondering where I was, and sure enough, when I saw him he said, “I thought I’d lost you.” Heart pang. The rules said he would be in quarantine for 14 days, and that only one family member who had been Covid tested within a week’s time could see him only once a week. I thought I’d get to see him briefly every day, but that wasn’t the case. We could stand outside his window at any time, although Dad had a hard time staying awake unless someone was in there with him reminding him we were at the window. His voice continued to get weaker and weaker, and it was hard for him to put coherent words together. 

I made big hearts that said “Love you Dad” on his window, and I made a poster to put on the wall of his room that told his caregivers about the life of this man they were taking care of. I wanted them to know how special he was and how loved he was, and that our hearts were broken that we couldn’t be with him more. Damn pandemic.

Eight days later my dad was unrecognizable, and we were told he was in his “end of days.” How did that happen so fast? My siblings came on the weekend to tell him goodbye, but he continued to linger on that following week, even without eating or drinking. End of days meant we could see him for 15-30 minutes a day rather than once a week.

The nursing home followed strict guidelines to protect their patients, for which I’m grateful because they kept Covid out of their facility. Each daily visit involved signing in, filling out a Covid form, disinfecting hands, donning a hospital gown, gloves, a really tight and uncomfortable mask, and a visor, all of which were disposed of each time. During the last week, I had to take a rapid Covid test every other day at the nursing home to be allowed in. For 9 days, I told him an agonizing goodbye at the end of each visit, thinking it would be the last time I saw him on this side of heaven. On Sunday, I was told that Christmas week visits were maxed out, but I called early Monday and left a message with their scheduler to please fit me in somewhere— that as long as Dad was alive I needed to see him every day. I didn’t hear back from them, so I called at 3 p.m. and asked them to open his room blinds— so I could at least see him from the window. The receptionist said she would head down there.

I arrived at the nursing home in minutes and stood outside Dad’s window for at least 10-15 more minutes waiting for them to open the blinds. I know they are busy with 88 patients, so I understood if someone hadn’t gotten to it yet. I watched family members at the next window— their mother/grandmother almost always had visitors at her window when we came. She sat by her window and talked on the phone with them. Dad hadn’t been able to communicate for the past 10 days, so the times family members were at the window, we just stood there and watched him, willing him to know we were there and that he wasn’t alone or forgotten. 

As I stood by the window that day, the sweet receptionist I had talked to earlier came walking up behind me, and I when I saw her, I said, “He’s gone, isn’t he.” She nodded her head and said it looked like he had just passed. I tell myself that Dad’s spirit saw me standing at the window as he left his body— that he knew he was not alone. Thinking that makes it bearable for me. 

She let me suit up and spend 45 minutes with him. I wept as I held his hand, still pliable, and touched his smooth cheeks. His kind caregivers shaved him and combed his hair every day, even the days he didn’t even know it. I don’t know if they knew it, but that was important to him. By then he was only a shell of the man he once was, but in my mind he was still my strong father I could always count on. I told him I was so sorry I couldn’t have been with him more. But I’m comforted in knowing he wasn’t in pain and was unaware of his situation his last week. I'm comforted knowing he's with Momma again.

Then I packed up his belongings— much of the new comfy clothes my sister and I bought him had yet to be worn. I put the big box and bag on the walker and parked it by the door. I figured someone probably needed to use that bed like we did, and I was grateful it was available when we needed it. 

I took off my mask and visor and put my cheek against my daddy’s forehead for a moment. Then I kissed his face goodbye for the last time, put the mask and visor back on and walked out.

All the times I stood outside his window, I’m sure people saw an old woman peeking in to see an even older patient. But it was actually a heartbroken young girl watching her dying father during a time of pandemic.

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Donna Casey Van Cleve

January 2021

Family