About a Joy: Uprooted From The Land Of The Living

Recently my sisters and I have been talking about our family line. The history has been a bit convoluted as it has made its way passed my ears -either due to the informant, or the way I remember it happening. But as we were talking through events of the past, it became suddenly clear just how tragic lives can be.
My daddy survived the deaths of 4 brothers, both parents, one step father, his father-in-law, mother-in-law and one daughter.

He didn't survive his own death though.
Actually, he did survive his first death. I'm guessing there aren't a whole lot of people that are afforded that opportunity in life. Well, there's always Lazarus. He was dead so long that the bible said he "stinketh". I can totally relate to that. I live with all boys. My house often stinketh.
For the sake of memory (which is most often why I blog), I decided to be brave and share the circumstances surrounding my dad's sickness that left him uprooted from the land of the living.
Uprooted From The Land Of The Living.
I read that exact phrase one day when I was reading about the life of King David in my bible. Specifically it's mentioned in Psalm 52:5 in reference to a tattletale who brought death to several innocent people.
Surely God will bring you down to everlasting ruin:
He will snatch you up and pluck you from your tent;
he will uproot you from the land of the living.
Something about reading death described as being uprooted from the land of the living made shiver. Kind of like my spine was italicized for just a moment. I just thought of that all on my own because I was admiring how italics makes letters all shivery. That's a word you know.
Back in August 2016, I received several phone calls updating me on the state of my dad's health which was declining enough to put him in the hospital. It was my sister telling me that I should come home because "this time is different, he doesn't look good" that sort of put me in a frenzy to get home quickly.

Now, I have days when I don't look good. Like today -I was outside all morning in the freezing cold drizzly weather and my hair had gone through a metamorphosis of chic straight to animal with mange nappy. What I need is a hair hospital. You know? I knew from the tone in my sisters message that my daddy was in a bad way.
So I did laundry for hours while Jason scoured the internet and made phone calls looking for cheap flights to get me home. This was the first time I ever flew alone. I was a nervous wreck. I'm not afraid of flying. I'm afraid of getting lost and missing my flight. Security also unnerves me just a little. Like I'll unlawfully have cannabis oil in my Revlon Lustrous Super Natural lipgloss and I'll get tazed. On this trip I actually did get pulled aside because the scanning machine found a suspicious object in my backpack. It happened to be a roll of quarters that I brought along to give to my mom and I suddenly found myself talking rapidly to the TSA agent like I do when I get nervous, explaining that I brought them for my mother who lives in an apartment complex that has washers and dryers that take quarters and one time when I was visiting my mom I felt bad that my mom had to have change and when I was growing up we always went to the laundry mat and I would bring my friend along and we would play hide and seek and go behind the vending machines. Yeah. That TSA agent waved me on pretty quick.
It was during the layover in Dallas that I received an update stating that dad had been seeing visions. I never got to meet my Grandpa DePew. He died of a massive heart attack before I was born. It was at this point where I had to settle in my heart that was in serious condition and perhaps my plans for him to pull through were not God's plans. I continued to mull it over.

When he said Jesus was calling him home though. That was a big deal. I can't remember a time my dad ever spoke the name of Jesus without it being a form of a curse word. (For more on the status of my dad's faith, feel free to read this).

He also endeared us all when the nurse asked him questions:

There are 5 of us sisters, but my sister Sherri had passed away over 20 years ago. My daddy still claimed her.

I finally made it home and my sister was able to take me directly to the hospital so that I could let dad know I made it home to see him.

I stayed the night in his room on my first night. Only I forgot to bring my bed with me from Colorado. I asked the nurse -couldn't they overnight my bed to me via FedEx because the bed they provided felt more like a baby mattress. And the pillows were too airy and squishy like sleeping on a deflated parachute.

Dad was pretty miserable. He couldn't get comfortable and when any of my sisters were present and he was awake, he consistently called out to have someone move him, shake his arm, or give him a drink. It was hard for us to see him in this state. We did our best to do everything he asked. Late at night on this night that stayed with him, he noticed that there was someone in the room with him and he cried out "I need a hug". So I jumped up from the couch bed and ran over and hugged him tight.

Then I wondered where my hug was. You know, when you sit and have a pity party because the immature nurses are standing outside your dying loved one's doorway at 3 a.m. loudly proclaiming the events they have planned over the weekend and laughing like they're exciting lives are not being bogged down or impacted by death, so no big deal.

And then I prayed. Lots of us prayed.

There were a few moments when God had mercy on us and our grieving, somber state. Like my nephews announcement:

And my little parking lot incident:

It was the decision us girls had to make about dad's care that burdened us the most. We were told that we had to make the decision if we wanted dad to be treated aggressively, which meant ultimately he could die there in the hospital, because of the complications of the treatments. OR, he could go into hospice care. All treatment would be stopped which meant he would die of Sepsis, but he would be given enough medication to keep him comfortable. And, he could go home which is where he most wanted to be.
Who in there right mind wants to make that sort of decision?! What a torture for your mind. I can see how families are torn apart by these kinds of circumstances.

Ultimately, we made the decision to take dad home to his apartment where my sister Anita -who was able to take advantage of FMLA and my nephew Michael would care for him (as well as the rest of us as we were able). This brought us all peace. We had hospice nurses who said that they would come and teach us how to administer medicine and talk us through any questions, concerns or needs we had.

After dad was brought home we were told he would probably only make it about 2 days. So made some calls and invited family members to say goodbye.

Ugh.

I cry just remembering the goodbyes. "Save the last dance for me" and "you were always a good daddy"... Just ugh.

My daddy never said goodbye.
On August 14, 2016 at approximately 3 a.m. He just never woke up. Uprooted from the land of the living.

We all stood as the funeral directors wheeled my dad out of his apartment, past us, and placed him the back of the hearse. Which was a Mercedes. If dad had known he was going for a ride in a Mercedes. He probably would have died earlier.

That evening my sister and her husband took me out on the lake for a pontoon ride. Dad had the most beautiful sunset God could have given him.