Goodbye, Dad

Three weeks ago, I wrote about my journey of advocating for aging parents; two weeks ago, I said a final “goodbye, Dad” as a bluebird sang outside his window. I wasn’t ready to stop advocating — or to say goodbye — and in a way, Dad wasn’t either.

Dad was a fighter. He wanted to be with us and he wanted to be healthy. In his last hospital stay, Dad had a team of experts gathered and in the end, they told him, “we know you’ve got the will and the drive but your body is not cooperating with you.”

The doctors told me he said, “When it’s time to go, it’s time to go.” I think these words were a final gift to us, to me as his primary advocate. He’d wanted to be sure that as long as there was a chance he could live a happy and productive life, he had the chance to do so. And when it was time, he wanted to go peacefully.

Dad truly was a fighter.

In the last 2 1/2 years of his life, Dad was in the hospital 31 times — an exact average of once a month for 31 months. The reasons for his hospital visits were varied since his medical conditions were complicated and sometimes interacted in strange ways with each other. He was tough and rarely complained about pain.

Over the 31 months, Dad’s hospitalizations treated high blood sugars, urinary tract infections, pneumonia, skin tears from falls, a heart valve replacement, and edema from congestive heart failure. This past March, he took a hard fall, breaking a hip and several ribs and suffering a horrible skin tear that covered his left forearm. After nearly two weeks stabilizing in the hospital, he went into rehabilitation for a month and worked his way back to walking. He returned to his home in assisted living.

But then his body started to decline

In May and early June, dad was hospitalized twice, first with a low grade fever, then shortness of breath and chest pressure. He continued to have signs of an inflammation somewhere in his body, but nothing definitive was found. He spent the last half of June in the hospital, then went back to rehab to regain strength.

But this time the rehab visit was short. His body truly wasn’t cooperating. When Dad entered the hospital for what became his final visit, the medical team truly pulled together to try to identify the source of his inflammation. In the end, they couldn’t be sure without tests that would have been difficult for him, perhaps inconclusive, and effectively not treatable since his body was giving out.

Dad was so tired

Dad wanted to go back to his assisted living home and the medical transport brought him home on a Saturday afternoon. As his body let go, Dad slept. And slept. And over the next 2 1/2 days, family gathered to say our goodbyes. At the beginning, he acknowledged us with his eyes, and a slight smile.

But for Dad, it was essentially a silent goodbye. It was okay. We knew he loved us.

For me, any type of goodbye is hard. In a way, final goodbyes are beyond words anyway. The hospice nurse told us he could hear us but would likely be too tired to speak. As I held his hand and told him goodbye, I sensed that he knew we were there and felt our love as we felt his. We played his favorite songs, and ours in tribute to him, on the little speaker he always wanted playing in his room.

And then the bluebird sang

I noticed it first, sitting on the fence. Then, all of us gathered in the room saw the bird. We caught it on the camera as Dad’s breathing slowed. Then that silly bird flitted back and forth rapidly — as we prayed and Dad breathed his last and grew silent.

We knew Dad was in a better place. And somehow, that little bluebird symbolized so much of what was left unsaid. I found a little tiny bluebird charm in a gift shop later that week. The card accompanying it reads, Bluebird of Happiness:

“This little bluebird is special, so cheery and merry too; He’s here for just one reason, to bring happiness to you! Just keep him close or carry him, enjoy each and every day; This little Bluebird of Happiness, will bring smiles along the way!

A.S. Waldrop

I miss Dad a lot. And I’ve seen a lot of Mountain Bluebirds since we said goodbye. And each time, I smile and say hi, grateful that he’s sending a message my way.

If you’d like to know more about Dad, I’ve linked to his obituary in the Central Oregonian. Jim Austin was a good man who lived a good life — and he’s missed dearly.