Ellie Remembers Pop Pop

Q – What is your first memory of Pop Pop?

A – He was a quiet, peaceful guy. I remember me and Pop Pop going picking peas. We went to his garden and he showed me all the things he planted and he said, “This is what we are going to pick today.” And he showed me how to snap them and I watched.
Q – What else do you remember about him?

A – He loved sweets. He ate Moon Pies for breakfast and always had pop tarts for us. He loved to give gifts so he gave me a lot of the Little Bear movies.

Q – When did he come to live with us?

A – After he had his heart attack.

Q – And how did you feel about that?

A – Happy. Excited, because I got to live with him and take care of him. He could tell stories.

Q – What is your favorite memory of Pop Pop?

A – When he went camping with us. Actually no. I loved when you would read Little House on the Prairie to us and he would tell us stories about what he would do with his pa.

Q – Do you remember any of those stories?

A – When mom would read about Ma churning stuff, Pop Pop would say, “My mama did that too.” One time we were reading about how Pa killed a panther and Pop Pop said, “I did that.” And he told us a story about when he killed a panther too. Oh, and I remember we had to listen to the history channel 24/7.

Q - Did he ever do anything that was funny?

A – At breatkfast and he would say, “Red, White and Blue and sometimes Yellow” and I would just say, “Umhmm. That’s right Pop Pop.” He would say that because he was confused. All those toxins inside of him would make him confused. And we would clean his dentures at night.

Q – How did it make you feel having Pop Pop live with us?

A – Sometimes challenging. Sometimes fun.

Q – What was challenging?

A- Like we had to go to dialysis a lot. We had to go here and there a lot. We didn’t always get to do what we wanted to.

Q – What was fun about it?

A – Being a help to Pop Pop and filling up his fruit and candy bowl at night. Listening to him tell stories.

Q – Are you glad he got to live with us before he died?

A – Yes. Otherwise he probably would have hurt himself. And that way he wouldn’t be lonely and he had relationships with us.

Q – When you are a grown up, would you bring daddy to live with you if he was sick?

A – Ummhmm. Because I know I could do a lot for him and I would want him to feel better.

Q – How did you feel when Pop Pop died?

A – Sad. The house seemed quieter. Nothing was very normal.

Q – What would you tell another little girl who might be dealing with her grandfather’s death or sickness?

A – That it’s OK and that if he is a Christian you may see him again in heaven.

Q – What do you miss most about Pop Pop?

A – Taking care of him and his stories.

Q – Anything else you want to share about Pop Pop or the ism of grief?

A – I don’t think so. I remember at the funeral that some people couldn’t even talk they were so sad. I kind of felt sorry for them. And mom was very sad.

Looking Back Part 3 - The Surreal Life

Originally written
Wednesday, August 1, 2007

More of a window into my brain these days. Warning - beware - it is a strange place to be.

What a surreal life we are living right now. I know there are many who have walked this path before me and many who will walk it after me, but somehow when it is your turn it feels as if there is no way you can possibly walk through it. Then you look down and somehow your feet are moving and things are progressing. Stranger still is that I hear things being said and respond appropriately on the outside, but on the inside it is like that scene from the Matrix where the bullets are floating all around Neo but he isn’t touched by them in a bizarre slow motion. The words just linger there too large to be ingested. Too foreign to be understood. And then suddenly in a flash everything is at warp speed again.

“You need to call the funeral home to prepare for arrangements, would you like a flag or no flag, open or closed casket? His bowels may be obstructed and this is what we need YOU to do. He will either have a heart attack or drown. It could be days or months. Does he have life insurance? Where is his will? Do you want a DNR......” And on and on the words get spoken and linger out there till suddenly there’s a phone call and ....

“You’ve missed swim lessons, Are you coming to Bible Study? The sherriffs department would love a donation...” - “Real life” continues around me. I have two sweet girls who still need to be bathed, read to, and taught how to subtract, how to add three yellow bears and two green bears to make five bears in all. There is chicken on the counter that was destined to be lightly fried and drenched be a lovely lemon caper sauce with a side of sauteed asparagus, but instead gets moved back to the frig and replaced by turkey, chips and cereal. I have a sweet husband who verbalizes his great love of turkey sandwiches. Life – the normal one – desperately wants to continue on while the surreal one builds into the tornadic like state. All the pieces of the storm are coming together and I can’t stop it. I just stand and watch as cloud after cloud forms.


Yesterday a “well-meaning” person thought it was the right time to look at me and with an ever-so-accusing tone ask, “Why are you still bringing him to dialysis?” On the outside I stammered around with words like, “well I am just taking this one day at a time and doing the best I can and he says he still wants to come.” Inside my head was a much sharper conversation that went like this:
“Why are you still bringing him?”
“Oh I don’t know, somehow allowing him to drown in his own mucus, just seems a little disturbing to me today, so I brought him. Pardon me if we seem to be dragging our feet in your estimation.”
But of course those thoughts stay internal – at least for now. I am afraid there will be a day that the thoughts match up with the spoken word.

The reality is I ask myself that same question. On the ride home from dialysis I began to feel anxious about whether I am doing this right? I started to feel overwhelmed by the decisions I have to make and then watch. And I just looked at the Lord and said, “I just have to trust you Lord. Trust that you will tell me when and what to do and what and when to do it.” If I get tossed back and forth between everyone else’s experiences, advice and opinions I too will drown. So day by day I take this one step at a time, often feeling like I might fall at any moment, but the steps come.

Thanks again for "listening."

Looking Back Part 4 - It Is Finished

Originally written
Friday, August 10, 2007
Homecoming
Sweet Daddy decided to go on home at 4:15 p.m
I will fill in the beautiful details later.
________________________________________________

Saturday, August 11, 2007 1:00 AM

I thought for sure I would be able to just crash into bed tonight without having to get these thoughts out, but I should have known better.

Where to begin?
First let me again say thank you to everyone. Your words, prayers and actions have helped us in ways you will never know. I am so thankful to serve a risen savior who walked us through this journey.

This morning there was a noticeable difference in daddy. His breathing was labored and slow, but never desperate. He looked like a hard working machine that was determined to keep going. He rarely opened his eyes, but did on occasion and slept soundly from about 2:30 AM to 9:00 AM, as did I. The nurse's only explanation for how daddy had made it through the night was, "he is just a really strong man." And she was right.
At around 12:00 the hospice chaplain came by and prayed over daddy. As she finished praying, he sat up and opened his eyes with a sense of urgency. I moved quickly to his bed and held his hand and again respoke the words I had said so many times, "I love you daddy. It is OK to let go and go home." I even had the nurse alert my sister and my mom, but he slowly relaxed again, closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

But in that moment I realized that what the hospice books referred to as "the death rattle" had come. It is a unique sound that they say comes as a sort of warning bell that death is approaching. In daddy's case it was very "darthvadarish" and mimicked the sound of a respirator. And so from that moment on, I never left his bed (I was literally sitting on his bed) I also held on to his hand and decided I would not let go of it until I could "hand him over personally" to Jesus.

For about the next three hours I sat in his bed holding his hand much like I had done when I was a little girl. You see every night when I was little, daddy would come home and sit in his very "Archie Bunker-like" recliner. I was not content just to sit in a chair next to him. I had to sit on the arm of his chair while he watched the news, Sanford and Son, Hee-Haw, you name it. That was my understood designated spot with his left arm wrapped around me. It was my princess's throne.
As I sat in the bed with him today I could not help but think of that sweet memory. It was my favorite place in the world to be. I thought, "No wonder the disciples fought over who would get to sit next to Jesus." I felt the same way about daddy.

Mom brought a plate of lunch into his room for me to eat, but I couldn't bear the thought of letting go of his hand. So I ate one-handed and placed the computer right next to us. Worship songs played continuously and we all would occasionally sing them to daddy.

Finally at about the third hour of the hand-holding vigil, I figured out a way to actually lay down in the bed with him while still holding his hand. My head was at his feet so that I could continue to look at his sweet face. Everyone had sort of settled into naptime mode and I even found myself closing my eyes only to open them every time I thought the "rattle" had stopped.

The RN came in to check daddy's vitals and I asked her if what I as hearing was the infamous "rattle." She said yes. She wanted to check his blood pressure to be sure and it was at that moment that I felt like daddy's room was transformed into a holy sanctuary.

It is hard to put into words what began to happen so I will do my best, but remember it was so "of the heavenlies" that I know I cannot do it justice.

Her attempt to take his pressure was unsuccessful because it was so low and as she began to remove the cuff he squeezed my hand and opened those beautiful crystal blues eyes never to close them again.

As strange as it sounds I had been praying that I would be able to see those eyes just one more time again. I had no idea the final moments of daddy's life would play out like they did and how powerful that answered prayer would be to me.

When he squeezed my hand and opened his eyes it was as if it was a "call to arms" - this was no practice drill for him. He had a grid-lock stare into my eyes and as if I was his "birthing" coach, he looked to me to begin and I did.
"Daddy it is alright, you can do this. I will help you. We will do this together. Just let go of me daddy. Let go of my hand and reach for the hand of Jesus. I know you can hear your mama calling you for dinner. She is ready to hold you again. Daddy you can do it. I know you can. It is OK sweet daddy. I will be with you again. Save a place for me on your lap. I will be there in a twinkling of an eye. I promise you I will do everything in my power to see that those you love will be there too. It's OK daddy you can do it, just let go of me."
And in a moment that nearly took me with him, I felt daddy's spirit leave him. His armor tank of body was still pumping blood and air, but I knew instantly that he had gone. He was incredibly cold and I let out a deep sigh, because I knew he was gone.

A thought came to me that just as we had done in the CICU, I needed to tell daddy what he needed his body to do. When I would leave him in the CICU I would whisper instructions in his ear - things like, "OK daddy, while I am gone you have to get your blood pressure up, you have to fight that infection" or whatever he needed to tell his body to do.

And today I found myself still coaching him in how to die. "You did it daddy, you did it. Now daddy, you need to tell your heart it can stop beating, you're gone. You don't have to breath anymore, you're not there." And eventually the small tiny breathes he was determined to keep taking stopped and the small pulse disappeared.

I thought for sure I would need to run outside, scream, have a hissy fit maybe even "let God have it" for a minute, but by His grace I walked on to the back porch alone, took a deep breath and felt my spirit say, "It is finished." I lifted my hands in the air and admired the beauty (and the heat) outside. What a glorious release. I was so taken aback by the beauty and miracle of it all.

As Rob came out to comfort me I remembered that as daddy and I were "birthing him into heaven" right next to us Third Day was singing Blessed Assurance.

You want to know what daddy's death looked like? It looked like every word of that song that was blaring as he was ushered in.

I am living with blessed assurance that it was real. Jesus did come for him. Not a high power, not a great light, not the black abyss of uncertainty, Jesus his savior came for him and I got a foretaste of glory divine. And this is our story. The beauty of daddy's death can only be explained through the reality of his resurrection. It is not about being comforted by some thought of "a better place," Its about being so close to the face of God that my heart almost stopped too.

I have said before and I say again, I am a blessed, blessed, blessed woman. I will treasure daddy's death as much as I treasured his life.

Thank you for walking through these days with us. You just have no idea what a ministry it has been to us.

All my love,
Denise

Looking Back Part 2 - Sparing Rabbits and Other Life Lessons

Originally written
Tuesday, August 7, 2007

As I sit next to him now, I ache for him. I ache for him to be whole. I ache for him to stay. But I ache for his ultimate peace.

I can only imagine the twisting in the Lord's gut when he had to send Adam and Eve from his sight. He knew it would feel like this for us every time one of us has to die.

Most of the time this doesn't even seem real. Today I thought to myself, what in the world will life look like in a week, a month, a year. I just can't imagine life without him in it - as I know is true for every person who has ever gone through this.

I went digging for pictures today of daddy that I would somehow like to use at the funeral and found one I wanted to tell you about.

There is a picture of daddy standing in front of a very large, but very homemade tent-like structure next to his house. I got so tickled as I remembered the story to go along with the picture. It captures the heart of my dad.

Daddy was discussing with a friend the problem he was having with some pesky rabbits that were having a field day eating his new green beans.
His friend thought he had just the solution.
"Tommy, why don't you just get your gun and shoot them? That'll keep them away."

Now remember my dad was a WWII vet and lived on a farm all his life, but his response was a tender, "Well, they don't eat that much."

And so his solution was to relocate the green bean plants closer to the house and enclose them in net. That way both rabbits and green beans were spared an untimely death.

That is a classic story of my dad - not just that as manly as he was he had great compassion on these rabbits, but that he went to great lengths to find a way to make it work. I admire that greatly about him. What seems foolish to others made perfect sense to him if it meant everyone won.

I suppose to some this past year may have seemed foolish. Why put him through open heart surgery, months of recovery, turning your life upside down, inside out just to have him die from the same things he "should have" died from a-year-and-a-half ago? And maybe all this running back and forth to dialysis, working so hard to create a life for him here seemed like "postponing the inevitable" but maybe, like daddy and his rabbits, it just seemed worth it.

Foolish or not, something was gained by both sides.

My prayer is that he dies now knowing without a shadow of a doubt how much he was loved - not alone in his house and not in a cold hospital. I know that I have "won" in ways I can't fully express - serving him, being allowed to slowly say goodbye to him. I know my family and my marriage has changed and my children have been blessed.

So maybe part of daddy's legacy for me is "be foolish - sometimes it's worth it."

Looking Back Part 1 - Bizarre Midnight Ramblings

Three years ago, our family was living through one of the best and worst seasons of our lives. My father had a massive heart attack in April of 2006 and "should have" died immediately, but he refused. He fought through the next 17 months to be with us even just a minute longer. Most of that time was spent with us in our home in Atlanta. Rob had just started a new ministry, the girls were 6 and 3 years old and I was given an amazing gift for 17 months. It was one of the greatest honors of my life to serve him the way he had always served all of us. In the final days of his life, I recorded my thoughts (spewed them out is more like it) for friends and family via email. I thought that maybe someone else out there might be going through those final moments right now and might benefit from our experience. For the next few days I thought I might "reprint" four of those emails as part of our catharsis and for anyone dealing with the "ism of grief" right now. I must warn you that these were written when emotions were pretty raw, so please keep that in mind. Thanks for the indulgence.

Originally written:
July 26, 2007

OK, beware, I hardly ever share what my brain vomits anymore, but thought since many of you have asked - here is what is really going on inside my head right now:

A year and a half ago I helped my dad to live, now I have been asked to help him die.

How do you do that? How do you say the words that all the “dying” experts say he needs to hear, but not really mean any of it? I am telling him that it is OK to go on and be with the Lord and on some level I am sure I believe that, but in my gut I am thinking “Are you kidding me? This is my father. This is the man I love. The man I can trust. The man who protects me, who sacrificed for me. How can I tell him I will be OK without him when I am not sure I will?” I know he is in a win-win situation – but only slightly. If he stays he has us, but he is so miserable, enduring such suffering, robbed of all the things that he loved, his independence, his work, his home – having to be taken care of instead of the care taker. If he goes, he experiences total healing, complete restoration, full joy, reunions with the others he loves so much. If I were him it would be a no-brainer, but on this side I can only say these things out of love for him. I know that he needs to hear them so that he can truly (temporarily) let go of me and move on. This is that moment when I look in God’s face and say, “It better all be true. You and all your promises better be real.”
I look into those incredibly blue eyes of his (daddy’s not God’s) and think, “How will I not be able to look in those eyes someday? How is that possible?” I know the Sunday school answer. I know to say, “God knows best and he is trustworthy.” But in reality there is this sense of “If I trust you with this love, this person, this loss, then you better be who you say you are. You better be able to heal that kind of wound. You better be able to give him a new body. You better be waiting for Him and preparing a place for him. You better do and be all you say you will and are.”

I know it sounds blasphemous, but it is my truth in this moment. It is a gritting my teeth letting go.

But somehow the words are coming out. They are calm and peaceful words and they seem to bring him peace, which makes it bearable. They are words that I know I believe but never thought I would have to say.

And so I help him die. I say what needs to be said, do what needs to be done, trust what needs to be trusted and walk through this.

I am asked “how are you doing?” to which I respond, “I don’t know the word for it.” I don’t know what you call this. Some have suggested, “numb, adjusting, as well as can be expected.” But the word that I hear isn’t what is expected.
When I hear, “how are you doing?” all I hear in my heart is “I’m doing what my dad taught me to do. I am obeying.”

Tonight my dad asked me to pray for him - that “God would help him.” So I did. And under my breath I prayed the same prayer for myself. Help me.
Help me help him to die well.