Originally, I had some posts spelling out the last day of my father’s life. Or, more specifically, my feelings about it. I’m writing this on March 29, 2012 as I prepare this space for true public consumption.
He was admitted to the hospital with a punctured lung and pneumonia. He felt much better right after surgery and declined rapidly throughout the week. The doctors could not find much wrong that they could fix. He requested to be intubated and transferred to another hospital. At this point he was having diabetic complications because he could not remove his oxygen mask long enough to eat anything.
He could not be moved that night because of the weather. By the morning, several of his other organs, including his heart, were failing. He technically died of pulmonary fibrosis, a disease which is always a death sentence. Usually a few months to a few years. He was always very secretive about his health and doctor’s visits. It’s possible he received a diagnosis at an earlier time and did not to tell us so he could work hard at the farm without our criticism. We will never know.
I flew in two days sooner than planned, which means I got to see him and be there for the end. I’m still not sure if this was a blessing or a curse.