Daddy

This is a very remarkable fellow. My father passed at age 99 last night. He went because he was ready to go. When he decided to stop taking all his medications (for congestive heart failure) he was given three to five days, and I was called to come to Medford, Oregon to say good-bye. Sister Joyce already lives here, and sister Elizabeth was here helping to look after him while he was in the hospital. On the airplane over here, I was gearing myself up for a frail, feeble, sickly looking man who had just been transferred to the medical center in his retirement village to die. But, though he was thinner, he was sitting up in his favorite chair and greeted me with a smile. "You look great," he said. "Well, you're looking pretty good yourself, " I answered. "I can't help it," he joked.

As the medication wore off and he got weaker, he still kept his mental agility, and was joking up to the very last. When the nurse came in to check his vital signs, she took his temperature and blood pressure. Then she said, "I'd like to listen to your chest." He said, "Well, there'll be an extra charge for that."

One of the nursing assistants came in and was being very friendly. His chart says "Dr. Bushong", so she asked him what was his medical specialty.
"No," he said, "It's a PhD. And you know what that means, don't you?"

"Not really," the aide admitted.

"Well, first of all you get a B.S. Of course, you know what THAT means?"

"Yes, that means Bachelor of Science."

"No, dear, B.S. means Bull Shit. After that you get your M.S. That stands for More of the Same. Then, finally, you get your PhD which simply means, Piled Higher and Deeper. So that's what my degree is in."

After two days off his medication, he told Joyce, "I don't WANT to be 99."

"Too late," she answered. "You're already 99."

"Well, then, I don't want to be 100."

"OK - you won't." She assured him.

"You promise?"

He dreamed that it was all a joke, a cruel hoax and that he wasn't really dying. He was pretty angry with it all, so he asked Joyce if that was true. She answered that no, it WAS just a dream, and he WAS really dying. "Well, why aren't I dead yet, then? I'm supposed to be dying. How come I'm still alive?"
"Well," she reasoned, "You're just not ready yet."

"I am! I'm ready!"

"Well, your body isn't."

"I told it."

"Well apparently your body is just not listening." He looked down at his body and muttered, disgustedly, "The big prick!"

We talked about the memorial service and the kinds of things he wanted. At first he said, "I don't care cause I'm not gonna be there." But Elizabeth convinced him that he was going to be cremated and that therefore he actually WOULD be there - as ashes. Then the next day we wanted to talk about the memorial service some more and he said again, "I won't be there." Elizabeth said, "No, Daddy, remember yesterday we decided that you WOULD be there."

"I changed my mind." He muttered. Then he said, "OK, for the funeral the rules are - you can applaud if you want to. You don't have to stand to sing the hymns. And no spitting tobacco juice on the floor."

One day a woman came in and introduced herself. "Hi there, Mr. Bushong, I'm Joanne, the hospice worker, and I'm meeting you for the first time."

Dad says, "It's the last time, too."

He never admitted to being in pain, but as the medications wore off, he got weaker and weaker, and his body was not functioning the way he wanted it to. As he was confined to the bed, he lost the abilty to turn over, and to even move his arms and legs. He was a big man, and it took two aids (and often a daughter) to help turn him over. One time after one of the aids had to help him pee, he told her, "You may have to marry me." Between bouts of peaceful sleep he would be agitated and frustrated. "Oh boy." He would mutter, or "Oh dear." He was concerned that he was being a burden to us daughters, as we would not leave him in the room alone. We would talk to him and sing to him and try to soothe him and reasssure him that he was doing what he wanted to do and we were going to be fine. But he was still distressed. "Oh dear," he would exclaim. "Oh boy," and once, "Oh girl."

It was amazing to me that he was still so intelligent and quick-witted the whole time his body was succombing to death. His mind never faltered. Such an incredible man. He passed quietly in his sleep at 2:15 on Sunday morning the 25th of July. I will miss my daddy.