It's been a year since I lost my father.
I recall his last day with clarity. I arrived at the hospice early, shortly after my mother. Dad was lucid, in good spirits, happy to see me.
We discussed the middle of the night solo foray to the bathroom that had left his oxygen tubing detached from him after catching on a corner of the bed, rendering him on the verge of falling had my mother not awakened and eased him to the ground in a miraculous feat of physical strength for her.
When his physician came by to round on him, dad asked thoughtful questions and agreed that he was no longer able to remain at home. That was a line dad was extremely reluctant to cross before this moment, but after seeing what it put my mother through to have an "event" on her watch, he was all in.
Breakfast was offered, but all he had energy to consume (largely to please my mom), was a protein shake. He aspirated significantly while drinking it, received stacked nebulizers, then asked for morphine and benzos to relieve his dyspnea and anxiety - another first despite half a year on hospice for a man who associated those meds with the death of my grandfather.
My uncle, dad's only brother, dropped by and we spoke in his room while dad smiled wanly, happy for the company but too weak to participate in the conversation. He occasionally asked for more meds to treat his symptoms. Eventually he drifted to sleep.
My cousins and their husbands stopped by. Dad was sleeping, but they were a tremendous support to me and mom.
By late afternoon, only my mom and uncle remained. I sat holding his hand, all of us speaking, and then I noticed an unusual movement of his arms that I recognized as decerebrate posturing, an ominous sign of brain injury, in this case presumably due to oxygen deprivation.
I shared the somber observation with my mom and uncle, and we all absorbed the reality of the moment.
A couple of hours later, dad was gone.