My Father

Many of you know that my father passed away on December 17th, 2013 after a very short, two month non-battle with stage IV cancer.  He did not want to go to battle.  At 80, he accepted his illness and lived his last two months the same way he lived his life.  He was stoic, decisive, and stubborn.  He was independent, courageous, and strong.   He did not want sympathy and he consoled others.  He was a kidder, and he made others feel better by making light of his illness.

Dad had extensive cancer that left him weak, tired, and sick almost every day near the end– and yet, he did not complain.  Not once.  In fact, he did the opposite and reassured everyone that he was alright and NOT in pain.  He was fine, thank you.

My father passed away exactly two weeks after I arrived at his home.  And I feel like he taught me more in those two weeks than maybe my entire life.  It’s as if I saw my father for the first time — and what I saw was a proud and strong man who had independence and toughness beyond measure.
Dad got up and out of bed every day, right up to the end.  The day before he died, he was standing and talking.  I said he didn’t go into battle against his cancer, but it seemed like he was battling for independence and dignity with every breath he took.  He battled for control and repeatedly said he didn’t want to “be a burden.”  For this reason, he wanted to die.  He prayed to die.  Not from pain, but because this end of life business with all the attention and loss of independence did not suit him.

On Monday December 16th, dad sat up in bed and said he wanted to go to a residential hospice facility TODAY.  This had always been an option, N.C. Little Hospice already had his name, and we were prepared to stay or go.  It was up to him.  Dad was transported within a few hours of his decision, and he blew his neighbor a kiss as he left.

The next day at around 11am, the nurses bathed and shaved him and put him in comfy pajamas, and then with his three children at his side, he died one hour later at 12:04pm.

I like to think that getting bathed and shaved in bed and NOT being in control of his life was more than he could take — he had enough, and wasn’t doing THAT again.  I like to think dad was still in charge at the end, and decided NO MORE.

Dad was in the hospice facility for less than 24 hours, and he skipped right over the sometimes lengthy “active dying” stage which was so difficult to watch with my mom — for this I am grateful.

We discovered later that “I love you too” were his last words to his three children.

I am home now with my family for Christmas, which is what dad wanted for all of us.  But we’ll be going back soon to honor and celebrate his life.

I thank you all, my dear family and friends, for your thoughtfulness and support.  I feel you, and I love you back.

Dad loved you too.

~  Joanne

 Gary Dwane Nelson
June 5th, 1933 — December 17th, 2013
age 80
Visitation 10:00 am
Celebration of Life 11:00 am
Tuesday, January 7th, 2014
Living Spirit United Methodist Church
4501 Bloomington Ave. S.
Minneapolis, MN  55407

Minneapolis Star Tribune Obituary

Dad Update

 

Greetings friends and family.  I shared last month that my dad has terminal cancer, and then I sort of left you hanging — so here’s a quick update.

Dad continues to decline, but he is one tough guy.  His hospice nurse thought he had “less than a week” over a week ago and he still continues to get up and out of bed at least once a day — until today.  But it’s early.

My sister, brother and I are taking shifts and doing our best to make sure he’s comfortable and cared for.  We are well supported with an almost daily hospice nurse visit and 24/7 phone support.

Dad is very weak and tired, but says he is not in pain.

It seems he has one foot in the afterlife and he goes back and forth between both worlds.

We are taking it day by day and sometimes hour by hour, with our father in the lead.

All is well in this cozy and warm home.

Thank you for your continued love and support.

Marilyn, Joanne, and John

In the backyard on one of our favorite toys -- the "Whirley Bird" that our dad had just put together.

I’ve been playing Scrabble

The Rockies -- from the car, while moving, with my iPhone.

My son and I went on a mini cross-country trip to Colorado last month.  I wanted to tell you all about it, but I couldn’t find my words or motivation to write.  So I’ll share a tiny bit about our trip, and then tell you why I’ve been quiet.

Our trip began on Oct. 2nd in Minneapolis where Jake ran the Twin Cities Marathon and I the 10 Miler.  Then we made our way to Denver via Rapid City, Mount Rushmore, Custer, Cheyenne, Fort Collins, Estes Park, Boulder and the beautiful Rockies.  We drove a lot, saw beautiful landscapes, ate good food, talked and talked, and saw cool wildlife everywhere including  a bugling bull elk and his harem.

Saying good-bye at the Denver Airport.

That’s all I got, but there’s so much more.  The time with my 23 year old son nourished my soul and lightened my heart, then he dropped me off at the Denver airport on Oct. 11th, and continued westward on his own in his hand-me-down mini van and home on the road.

Two days later, my father went to the ER doubled over in pain and was diagnosed with “extensive stage IV cancer.”  Colon, liver, lungs, prostate, bladder, stomach — and who knows what else.  He declined treatment, and went home with pain medication. That was four weeks ago, and I can talk about it now.

My father is dying.   My father will die soon.  It helps to say this out loud.

He’s okay right now, says he doesn’t need help yet, and promises to let us know when he does.

I’ve been laying low and processing and planning.  Okay, I’ve been hiding.  I’ve also been eating jalapeno potato chips and ice cream, and have a new personal record of 6 days without a shower.  I’m bitchy, have no patience, and turned all my lights off on Halloween and ate candy in the basement while watching “When Harry Met Sally.”  (Harry’s right by the way, men and women can’t be friends.)

The day I got the news about my dad, I invited a friend to play “Words With Friends” and we’ve been playing ever since.  I don’t know how many games we’re up to, but I’m madly addicted — or distracted, depending on how you look at it, and if my friend currently doesn’t play the spot I have my eye on, I can play “HEAVEN” for 45 points.  My friend lost his mom to cancer two years ago, and his scrabble abilities are near genius level.

My father Gary Nelson, in one of his favorite places -- in a boat on a lake.

I’ve also been crying which is well and good and such a relief.

I cry in my car, out on walks, and in the shower (that time I took one).  I cried once in the grocery store, at an art gallery, and at church when I shared during “Joys & Concerns” — what was I thinking?  I cry every time I hear “Dust In The Wind” by Kansas, which seems to be playing a lot lately.  Have you ever really listened to the words in that song??  Sheesh! Were they Buddhist monks in a previous life?

Crying is sneaky.  Which is why I stay home.

The thing is, I’m not just crying for my father.  I am grieving the loss of an era.  I’m grieving for my parents, my childhood, and even my childhood home.  I’m grieving for the innocence of playing outside, being happy when my dad came home from work, and for the way my mother called her three children in to supper — “Mar-i-lyn . . . Jo-a-anne . . . Jo-ohn . . . .”

Crying when you’re sad is really an expression of love isn’t it?

It was difficult to lose my mom in July after her long battle with Alzheimer’s.  But the thought of losing my dad — losing both my parents, and then eventually my childhood home feels so much bigger and final, and life changing.

The truth is, I’m grieving my own mortality, along with the joy and sadness that make up this beautiful and tragic life in equal measure.

You may or may not have been wondering where I’ve been lately, but now you know.

I’ve been playing Scrabble.

"Joanne365 played HEAVEN for 45 points!" We're both available for game requests -- just introduce yourself and tell us how cancer or Alzheimer's has touched your life.