His Final Lesson

Recently, my brother shared a piece that he wrote about our dad. It is one of the most heartfelt, poignant things I've ever read. Beautiful, succinct, and touching, may you be blessed by this lovely writing:

His Final Lesson

“Rick, come here.” Typically, words and even commands spoken by him did not elicit a heightened reaction from me, but there was a specific tone that made this sound different, possibly more imperative. 

Please don’t believe that I am someone who is not reactive. My main priority in life shifted from one of being cared for to being the caregiver. I still wonder how I took that responsibility without being more overwhelmed or more mystified. Because it was me – the boy who could not go to school without fear of being away from his parents; the boy who crumbled at any potential illness – my own or theirs; the boy who could not stick to any activities such as Boy Scouts or band. Yet, when the time came, I gracefully accepted the role as the caregiver, the boy now who could be called man. Although I did not see it, I embraced it. His lesson was that of a teacher – quietly teaching valuable lessons of being a man without me even knowing that it was occurring.  

The response to my expected question “What’s wrong?” was one of unknown pain that was to eventually take him away from me. We started what would be our last phone call to 911 and subsequent collecting of the home items for another hospital stay. 

Despite my fears, years of concern based on the reality of mortality being a few steps away, possibly a few minutes away due to him not being in touch with his body or his needs associated with the plethora of health issues related to heart trouble, I always reacted with a calm nature and, in my heart, believed that it was not the end. Regardless of the severity of some of the hospital stays or diagnoses, I must admit that I never believed it would end. Naivety is not usually my forte. But with him, I always felt like there was another day, another month, another year. This was a testament to another lesson – the lesson was grace regardless of the surroundings and circumstances. 

The ensuing diagnosis, required surgery, and many ups and downs in his physical and mental health took a toll on all of us. It only lasted three weeks, but felt like many months had gone by. He was tired, frail, and, no doubt disappointed that his body was failing, but he never complained and never once did he say he was in pain. 

I was young and full of anxiety. My concerns ranged from my own physical health through the rest of the family being ill or diseased. He did not understand mental health issues such as this. He had dealt with others’ issues, but he never quite understood the “why” behind them. Yet, when I needed him to be there to tuck me back in at night or to pick me up from school when the worry was beyond normal, he was there. He never made me feel bad for the worry, or for being bullied, or for the irrational concerns about death, monsters, and such.  This lesson was to understand and accept, sometimes even if you don’t truly understand. 

I watched him in bed daily – some days intubated, some days awake and able to talk and listen. Reality of this being our final hospital stay became more and more tangible as the weakness grew and no interventions had a lasting effect. A doctor had called me and sternly said, “We have to be open and prepared if God is calling him” since some of their interventions were not having that magical effect we had come to expect. Still, the grace of handling this without falling apart had overtaken me. I cried, I begged to have it be different, I used up my bag of tricks that had always kept his quality of life high, but this time was to end in an unfamiliar way and I was letting that reality make me stronger. 

I had not been formally acquainted with death. I had heard stories of all of the loss that my family had handled, but most of this occurred before I was born. Distant relatives, friends of the family, and others that we had known were gone and the sting had been there, but it was a fleeting pain, yet all their memories would remain fond to me. His mother had died many years ago and I watched him handle it with quiet compassion and reverence for who she was to him and to others. His lesson was unending love and the value of legacy.

I received a call from the hospital that he denied intubation. He was still present, but the intubation would be necessary to continue life. I had no choice but to go and find out if this was truly the end. I cannot recall my thoughts on my way to this visit, probably an amalgam of potential outcomes at that point. I laid eyes upon him in his bed, the way that I had for these few weeks, and even hours prior, but I knew this held more weight than those other visits. Upon seeing me, I should have known that he could not lay eyes on me and say “okay, I give up”.

Each time that we had a “scare”, I suppose it was evident that I was giving every fiber of my being to positive outcomes, never once admitting that there were any options beyond continued life. And I lived that way from day to day, for many years. Regardless of how high he had gotten in age, there never was a day that I let on that he was aging. Regardless of how he was unable to do certain jobs or activities, I never let on that he was more limited. I was his biggest cheerleader. I had gone from being the frightened little boy to his champion in all ways that I could. There were ways that he adapted to still be functional and express his love, despite any limitations.  This could also be attributed to him – the lesson of adapting to your environment and accepting change. 

This visit lasted only about twenty-five minutes. He would allow them to place the ventilator back on. We had moments of communication, despite this final intubation. So many words were spoken before this point, yet it was down to a few final lessons. Though it was only a few short years ago, the memory of all words has faded a bit. However, significant words were spoken at that time. I told him that we would not torture him anymore after this attempt. I wanted him to know that he had fought hard, but I also wanted him to know that I, the one who had fought so hard to keep him alive for so many years, was giving him permission to no longer suffer or fight, when it was so clear that he was ready to let go.  Our last exchange was one in which I initiated my expression of love. In all of my years of life, the words had never left my mouth toward him and neither him for me. It was clear as day, though, that was how we felt. But, on this night, I felt that it was time. I knew it was the right time. And, he reciprocated. 

His last lesson was finding out if I could be not just a man, but the man; the man who could let him go despite giving so much to ensure that he lived; the man who could be strong enough to use words of love because the actions were no longer possible. This lesson was his most valuable, because we both needed it to move on; for him to move on past this life and for me to move on past him to a life which would have to garner new meaning and understanding and use the tools provided since childbirth to continue the cycle of love and kindness.  

Author: Matthew R. Mattia (Rick) 

My Father's Special Language

        My father was shy, a man of few words, yet he fabricated a make-believe language, one he invented himself. Nonsensical, silly and fun, it was a constant in our lives—a way that he expressed himself and the emotions that seemed difficult for him to show.

       Dad wasn’t completely comfortable in crowds; he didn’t have any friends that he met on a regular basis. He chose mostly to immerse himself in a special world of his outdoor flowerbeds, working with his hands, and being with family. He began to restore antique furniture and build miniature dollhouses when he retired. When I visited my parent’s home, Dad would walk me around his little gardens. We would admire the glory of nature together—roses, pansies, petunias, butterflies and birds. He would share his latest projects in a truly humble fashion, lovingly showing me the smallest details, reserving this special time we had together using the silly words of his made up vocabulary to name everything.

       None of us were called by our real names, even the family pets, for Dad even had his special code words for each family member, friends, and cousins. My son Matt was known as Ray, my brother, as Boy, Mom was always Barnett, my husband Jim was Peppy, and I was little Tenya. It was as if a secret society—one that Dad was the founder--permitted entrance as his way of letting you know you were welcome in his world. Friends knew that Dad liked them if they were given an unusual name.

       Dad had a particular saying, however, when faced with a barrage of unexpected health bills, or when a particular project he worked on, wasn’t turning out as expected: “What a nightmare!” he’d say, though he said it with a chuckle, as if trying to diffuse the situation. ‘Nightmare’ became the code word in our family for anything we weren’t happy about.

       A robust, healthy man, Dad learned that he had congestive heart failure in his late sixties. Several blockages were found, and Dad had to undergo serious surgery to correct them. A sac of fluid encased his heart due to his heavy smoking. The outlook was a bit grim—not the usual type of bypass surgery.  Yet Dad came through that particular nightmare and subsequent rehabilitation better than expected.

       Years later, another nightmare crept up in the form of my mother’s dementia. Our family began to notice the small changes at first. She began to repeat stories, she forgot simple tasks. Then as time went on, Mom’s whole world changed. She experienced health issues and lost a part of who she was. My father’s words became more powerful than ever to me. He began an early morning ritual of calling before Mom would awaken. It was during those precious moments that we could commiserate about my mother’s failing mind. We made lighthearted conversation and solved some of the serious issues if only for a short time.

        For me, the dementia brought back frightening moments from my childhood—my mother’s mental illness. Her hospital visits had been long, and there were days when I wasn’t sure she would return to us. It was in those moments that my father’s soft-spoken words had soothed and given me hope as a little girl. And it was in our new journey with my mother that Dad would once again step into the role of protector and hero with quiet words of faith and goodness.

       He patiently watched the same movies over and over with my mother. He bought her favorite foods and took her for long drives to nearby places she enjoyed. I never saw him lose his temper with her, and much like the time in my youth, this quiet, good man handled our situation with grace and courage.

       Two years ago I noticed that Dad’s morning phone calls were becoming infrequent. When we did talk, he seemed agitated and spoke of more ‘nightmarish’ incidents as if truly complaining about them for the first time. He seemed to lose his smile, his sense of humor. Even the silly vocabulary that had been such a big part of our world fell by the wayside. None of us knew it at the time, but my father had gallbladder issues that would eventually land him in the hospital.

       In August of 2016, my father was told that he needed emergency surgery. We weren’t sure if he had ignored the symptoms in his care for Mom, or if it happened quickly. His body became septic. The outlook was grim. Dad was now eighty-five years old and his heart had become weakened.

I sat with him alone the morning while the doctor had a serious conversation with us. They weren’t sure he would be able to survive the surgery. Dad looked at me when the doctor left the room and said, “What a nightmare, huh?”

        My brave father chose to give the surgery a try. That night as he was being wheeled away he had something to say to each family member in turn. His last words to me were, “Thanks for everything.” But later I would find out that these weren’t truly the last words I would ever hear from my father.

Though he made it through surgery, Dad couldn’t breathe on his own. He was placed on a ventilator and given medication to keep him comfortable. Weeks passed with no change until I arrived at the hospital early one morning.

       Something had been nagging at me. We had all noticed that Dad’s health was failing, that there hadn’t been any improvement. I knew that I should say something important to my father on that day. Dad had always been there for all of us and he had spent his life dedicated to others. I knew he deserved to be at peace. Though he hadn’t been conscious, I felt that he would be able to hear me as I talked with him that morning. I wanted to be able to let him go. To tell him it was okay to leave us.     With tears streaming down my face, I arrived at the hospital. He actually was much worse. The nurses told me that it would be a day of decisions. Nothing else could be done. His kidneys and organs were failing. I called for my brother and Mom to be there. Friends came to support us on a most difficult day.

       Each of us took our time to say goodbye to him. I had been prepared, but now I wasn’t quite ready to let go. This was truly it. The end of Dad’s life. I glanced around the room at the faces of friends and family, so glad for their comforting presence when I sensed a presence of another kind.      Surrounding my father’s bed, almost like an out-of-focus camera lens, were four tall stately beings: One at the head, one at the foot, and one on either side. I realized they weren’t clearly visible, it was as if I could feel, more than see them. A sense of awe overcame me. They were beautiful, majestic. I wanted to cry out and share the moment with everyone else in the room. Were they angels sent to guide my father home?  Visitors sent from Heaven to greet Dad on the journey he would soon take? This incredible glimpse I was given had to be a true gift that only could have come from my Heavenly Father. I kept the moment to myself. Peace enveloped me then; a sense of well-being, knowledge that Dad would be in good hands—the best hands. I was able to leave the room, able to let go.

        Though others stayed behind as they took Dad off life support, I could not. I went downstairs to a small chapel in the hospital but it was too dark, too quiet for me there. The sun had been shining brightly outside and I decided that I would spend Dad’s last moments walking outdoors.

       A friend who stayed in the room told me she would call me when my father passed. I found a bench and sat upon it, lifting my face to the warming rays of the sun. Birds chirped happily in the surrounding trees. All was quiet, until . . .

I heard my father’s voice, clear as a bell. No mistaking the slight chuckle, the tone of what was said. “The nightmare’s over.”

       Exactly at that moment my friend texted me. Where are you? She asked. Why, I asked, is he gone? Yes, she said, very peacefully. I knew that God had allowed another miracle! For me to hear my father’s words as he went off to glory. To let me know with our special phrase that he was leaving, but for me to be happy for him.

       A few months later I had a very powerful dream. In it, my father came to me. He looked young and handsome. He said to me, “Kar, here in Heaven, everything glows, even the people.” I remember feeling as if my heart would burst from happiness at seeing him. During the dream, I confessed how worried I was about Mom. He simply said, “Don’t worry.” When he wanted to tell me a secret about Heaven, I awoke, for I felt it wasn’t time for me to know.

       Throughout my life I’d always dreaded saying goodbye to my parents. Our family was so close. I was sure I would never be able to handle it. Though he left us, Dad’s words remained with me and got me through; the ones that were silly and made me laugh, the comforting ones which had always given me hope, and the parting words spoken secretly to me.

       We lost Mom only nine months later. Though it wasn’t easy saying goodbye so soon after losing Dad, it helped to know he was waiting for her on the other side. 

It Will Be a Year

I'm pretty sure on this day last year, a Sunday, I was sitting with my mom at her care facility. I wheeled her around outside, listening to the chirping of the birds in the trees, and enjoying the warmth of the sunny day. I told her stories about the birds we listened to, the butterflies floating nearby in the little garden of flowers, and the cute dog that was a part of weekend visits there. When we went back inside for her lunch, I sat content by her side, enjoying the time with my mother and learning all the different oddities of the others seated around her.

There was a man who wheeled himself around and around the room as if searching for his lost love. There was a boisterous lady who reminded us of an old family friend with a biting, sarcastic humor. There was a sweet black lady who was blind, and had a marvelous singing voice and a huge sweet tooth for candy. A Chinese lady who befriended me and tried to get Mom to talk more. These people had become a normal part of my life. I'd grown fond of them, and looked forward to seeing them as I visited my mother.

How was I to know that in one week my mother would be gone? How do any of us ever know? No, her health wasn't great, but she seemed stable. It had been easy to picture heading into fall and Halloween at the facility, and then Thanksgiving and Christmas. In my mind I planned all sorts of fun things for Mom and the other residents. I would read stories to them, and make little gift bags. I couldn't wait.

Friday of that week, I got a very serious phone call from the Home. Mom began bleeding, vomiting actually. They wanted to know which hospital to send her. I chose an older hospital that we had used most of our lives; I knew that they knew her history best, and would give her good care. I phoned my work office and told them I wouldn't be in. I told them my mother had another emergency.

By the time I got to the E.R., Mom was doing better, rather quiet and calm. A doctor pulled me aside and much like our decision with Dad, told me it may be time to let the Good Lord intervene if He so chose. She had lost huge amounts of blood. They would only give her a blood transfusion if the family requested it, but in observing her failing health, her passing would be inevitable anyway. My brother and I spoke about it, and as long as Mom was comfortable and not vomiting any longer (they had given her something for that), we would begin the vigil of letting her go.

I remember sitting with my mother back at the care facility later that day. She told me that I looked pretty in the color I wore. She would fall asleep, become agitated, and then awaken where I would reassure her with words of comfort. I sat by her side quietly for hours.

The next day my husband and I visited with Mom. She did not wake up. Her breathing was shallow, the gurgle in her chest had begun. I laid my head upon my mother's shoulder while tears found their way out of the corners of my eyes. I began singing softly to my mother, silly songs she'd sung to comfort me as a child. Later that night, I received a phone call around three a.m. Mom wouldn't be here much longer. I live an hour away and wanted to leave immediately. My husband was worried for me driving at that hour and in the state I was in. My brother was able to be at our mother's side, and we remained on the phone together for a long while.

My brother later told that a sound like soft footsteps seemed to enter the room though no nurse was there. A napkin blew down from Mom's table, though no breeze created it. And in our mother's hands was clutched her Miraculous Medal necklace though we couldn't imagine how it had gotten there. Mom passed very peacefully.

I remember being strong for myself and other family members during the preparations for her funeral. I remember holding up well and greeting loved ones and friends with my own comfort for them and the words, "I know she is with God and Dad now." And my mother looked beautiful--radiant almost. I had no difficulty standing near her casket and soaking in every last detail that I could of her.

Why is it that I am having such a rough time right now? What is it about this first anniversary of her passing that has thrown me into a black hole of despair? For I find that I am not the same person. I am easily offended, sad and depressed. I cannot find the laughter that was such a big part of my world--of my family's world. Why is grief refusing to let me go of it's ugly grip?

I have many emotions when I think back on all that our family has gone through in these last two years. Two years of losing both parents. Two years of Mom's dementia and failing health. Part of what I feel is guilt, you see. Guilt over relief that a burden has been lifted. Guilt over not being there for my mother's final breath. Guilt over making the decision about the blood transfusion. But what is it that Mom always said?

My mother wrote me many notes and little letters in cards through the years. And one that I found recently said this: All our love always and forever. I want you to know all bad things pass but good thoughts last forever. Hold those good thoughts in your heart.

 And another: My Dearest Karen, I'm not the writer you are, but I speak from my heart. We grew together not just mother and daughter, but best friends also. We had laughs over the years but most of all, love. When you tell me I taught you compassion, you already had it when I was sick in your early years. I have been proud to be your mother. We are human, Kar, the Lord didn't mean for us to be angels on this earth. To me being kind and sympathetic as we all are is what I believe the Lord wanted for us. Don't waste this precious life on past mistakes; live it with joy and laughter as much as possible. All my love, Mom

These tangible reminders of how my mother saw life, are guides, beacons to me,  of how she wants me to live. Would she want me to remain guilt-ridden? I think not. Would she want me to wallow in depression? No. I think Mom is speaking to me through these little notes. I think she always knew how I would feel--how I would take her passing. As always, she is there to teach me and guide me. And in my heart, I know that these feelings will pass.

Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. (And in the mourning.)