Originally published at Living. Please leave any comments there.

November 18th, 2008. 16:50 hours GMT-5. Some of his military friends will appreciate and probably remember Dad’s fascination with time and time keeping pieces. I think he’d appreciate me knowing the precise time of his death. This is going to be a long, long post. I promise if you read it all the way through will be glad you did. You will not want whatever minutes you spent reading this back. At this point I’m not sure I can finish writing everything I want to write in one setting, but I’m determined to do so. Oh 7 hours later… I’m done.

My father died holding my and my mother’s hands. At first he squeezed, or it felt like he squeezed; it was probably autonomic. I cannot think of a better way to go, than to have the two people who matter most to you holding your hands. I was in #arsclan (the “family room” for Arsclan) on my laptop, and my mother just said “Matthew!” in a rather urgent fashion; i dropped my laptop. My father held his hands up, and I held his right hand, and my mother had been holding his left for a long, long time. It was okay for him to go, and he should stop being such a tough, incredible, amazing man and just let go. He took one last deep breath, my mother said “There might be a another one of these”, but I knew this was it. I can’t put it into words yet, but I knew this gasp was the end. I wasn’t confident in it to say anything out loud or to my mom, but that was probably my mind fighting the fact my father was taking his last step; his foot hadn’t landed on the ground for the end of the step, but neither foot would leave the ground after this. I apologize for the very metaphorical explanation but, but that’s the only way I’ve got to explain that moment. The doctor (Dr. Nesbitt, we’ll come back to him & the hospice) knelt down and place his stethoscope on Dad’s chest and said “his heart his taking its last few beats.” I was glad I hadn’t said anything out loud, though my gut feeling had been 100% on this entire time. I held his hand. I think I said I love you, or maybe I just said it in my head. And that was it. I asked one of the nurses, with some sort of quick, awkward explanation to take a picture of his hands in ours. I sat back on the couch, sent a twitter (which didn’t get fucking delivered, GIANT FAIL WHALE) and dropped 3 lines into IRC; I forget exactly what I said, but it was along the lines of “my father has died.” I closed my laptop.

Some of you have my address. Don’t send flowers. I would rather the money go to the Gatehouse Hospice as a donation in the name of Dr. William H. Sprinsky. Without them I would have been even more of a mess. They were amazing, and Dr. Nesbitt should be commended repeatedly on what his hard work produced.

The hard part is over. No more worries. No more pain. I felt relief, and some bizarre surge of energy. My views on the body once a person has died are not old fashioned. Dad will get what he wanted to happen to his body, but the still warm hand my mother was holding was not my father anymore, it was a shell. As Vietnam veteran and a full-bird Colonel, retired from the Army in 1985, He will have full military honors at Arlington National Cemetery, which my mother explains to me is quite a sight, as her father (a WWII Army Retired Colonel) had the same. My father was not a proudful or boasting man, but his wishes reflect the pride that he took in serving this country and going from being a jewish boy in a poor family in the depression to being PhD in Geodetic Science, decorated combat veteran, and a well respected colleague in both military and academic realms. He might never have said a damn thing about it, but I am amazed and and very, very proud of my father.

This process of his death, and comforting and being there for in as best I could, as hard as I could, was the most difficult thing I have ever done. I hope that in sharing all of this I am going to help someone else, because it helps me to get it out of my head and into word form where it can be shared and understood. If you can empathize, you can better understand, and vice versa.

I am thankful that my mom was there for me to hold on to on my father’s way out. I was not the strong one. My mother held his hand more. I was more withdrawn and distracted. People have called me strong throughout this experience, but I do not feel strong or brave, I feel like I am a son who did precisely what he should have done. I was not strong the way people think I was, and that’s okay, it’s absolutely okay. I know what I did was both what needed to be done and what should have been done, and I could not possibly ask someone for more than that. I am needed more now, my mother needs me… and now I can be the strong one, and I will be the strong one no matter what. I am thankful that my job permits me to do what I need to do, and that the work that my father and mother did getting absolutely every last I & T dotted. Which is why my father’s death was the hard part, nothing after his death will be harder. I will be okay, for many many reasons. And it’s okay that I am not okay now.

The entire experience was definitely the hardest thing I have ever done, and I am only starting to gain a greater understanding of what this all means. One of the biggest things I’ve become aware of is how much of him lives on in me, in my mannerisms and the way I think. The first night after his death was very hard, every time I sighed, I heard him. It sounded exactly like him, in the hard sighs he’d release as he was dying. I look at myself in the mirror and see more of him, but also in a lot of good ways. I am just glad the hard part is over…

Yesterday. The hard part.

I couldn’t fully handle all of what was going on and because of that, I was detached. I was in IRC and I was so glad I had a trickle of data service with my N95 tethered to my MacBook to AT&T on EDGE (No 3G in Williamsport) because I was with my other family. I had been distracted throughout this whole thing, though I was increasingly just staring at dad, watching his eyes, as his body very slowly came to the same conclusion his mind had done hours before, and his connections and presence in this world faded and fell away, that is when it got easier. The final throws were awful. I realize that stayed distracted was my way of coping. I don’t regret it, and nobody should regret any of their own coping mechanisms. Dying is hard, and my mother’s words hang in my mind: “you do what you have to do.”

I stayed up all night with him from Monday afternoon when he was admitted to the hospice (a truly amazing and helpful, loving place) until the morning hours of tuesday. When the transport dropped him off, he was lucid. I cracked a joke at him, asked him if he had enjoyed the in flight movie. My mother said there were no peanuts. We all laughed, but that would be the last time we all laughed together. At least it was a clever joke.

Now Dad was fairly quiet, though he’d groan and grunt and try to get comfortable. I got some sleep. One of the reasons I was able to handle this entire process as well as I did was something my mother had given me, a pamphlet which explained the things that people do as their dying, in the last weeks, days, hours, and minutes before death. Having this information was absolutely invaluable for me, knowing or having some clue to what may happen next.

When we arrived, the Doctor. delivered an estimate of a couple days to a week or two for my father. My heart dropped in my chest, I knew I couldn’t handle this for that long. I knew she was wrong, I don’t know how I knew at that point, other than that’s what my gut told me. That hit me like a ton of bricks and I found my mother immediately and told her I knew they were all wrong. Dad was going to die tomorrow. I am thankful I was right, and we skipped what could have been even more grotesquely excessive.

The part of his death that infuriated me the most is what came next, in the wee hours of tuesday morning, something that I hadn’t fully been warned about. I share this not because it adds anything to the narrative I set before you, but because you nobody told me. And someone should tell you about this should you ever want to be fully prepared to be with a loved one with they died. It is an awful, needless, terrible thing called terminal agitation. This was the hardest of the hard part I think, because dad couldn’t get comfortable, he’d groan and moan and ask constantly for my mother who was busy trying to get some sleep since she hadn’t had any in over 24 hours. It was awful, and it was the only point in this entire process I wish I could have just skipped. I held him up because it was the only relief he could get from the pressure sore he had on his backside, althought it was only for 30 seconds at a time. But he wouldn’t take drugs for it, I could see the frustration in his face. It was worthless and awful, for me and for dad, to go through it. I was sad and angry that he was so goddamn stubborn and wouldn’t take medication to make him more comfortable, to make that sore on his back side feel like a bowl of melting jello. I didn’t realize what this meant at the time, but the last medication he took was because I pointed at my head and told him “Remember, I think like you, trust me.” He closed his eyes and complied with the nurse. I was glad he took the haldol, but did not grasp what I had just done.

All of this was hard enough without the fact that the string that held him to this world was slowly fraying down to the last fragile, weak strands. My mother would talk to him, and he would get even more agitated. I was afraid to talk to him, but I shouldn’t have been, because in talking to him I discovered the greatest gift I was able to give my father on his way out of this life, I was able to communicate for him. I could read his eyes. I could, somehow see in his head. Each one of the grunts and groans he made, I could hear which words and phrases they meant, from bitching at my mother being such a dingbat, to a genuine pained grunt held in a composure which could only be described as soldier-like. Now that it’s done, I realize what an important and wonderful thing being able to do that for him was. I was the bridge, as best I could be, between his logical mind, something deeply important for him, and the outside world. When I guessed at what he wanted, he didn’t get frustrated. Eventually we just held his hand and asked him yes or no questions, this was a very good, warm, effective way for him to communicate with us, and keep some dignity as man who valued his intellect above all his other processes.

What I did realize was at the times my father was talking to me with his eyes, and responding on some subliminal animal-like level, was that I had accomplished my goal of truly getting to know my father. While I did not hear all of the wonderful things he experienced in his life, I knew how to think like him. I can’t think of a more pure way of knowing something then thinking like they do. I apologized to my father for my mother and I ever thinking he was offline and couldn’t hear us when his eyes were open. He never closed his eyes throughout his death, ever since he was at hospice. I had to apologize for the disrepect I felt I had levied towards him for this. I know he understood and was forgiven. There was a point somewhere along this where I told him we would do whatever he wanted, whether it being staying at his side or “just getting the fuck out of the room and giving you some peace” — to my surprise the corner of his mouth jerked up in a smirk and his eyes smiled. Mom and I gave him some peace, and talked with each other, and again made me realize why I am so glad my mother is with me in this. I was exhausted, I don’t remember what time it was other than the sun was coming over the mountains out the window. Their beauty in the morning mist and the sunrise shining through was a comfort to me. I drifted off to sleep in the recliner next to his bed, my mother holding his right hand on the other side of the bed.

I had been half-hearing the world around me and being too tired and too overwhelmed to come out from underneath the blanket I had over my head and the ball I had curled my body into, but… eventually I fully awoke. When I did, dad was quiet. Steady breathing. I think it was around 11:00. I diddled on the internet. My mother checked her email on my Mac, which was a bit of levity since she’s never used a Mac before. I showed her expose, and she was amazed and impressed. Life went on, we were there in the room in whatever state we could be, but neither of us were going to leave his side for long.

At around 14:30 on tuesday afternoon, I had driven my mom’s car home for a shower and a change, dodged the sweet old cleaning lady who takes care of my parents’ house but talks to much, and returned by 15:30 to dad’s side. The title of this post comes from the shirt I picked, quite intentionally, to wear in what I knew was going to be the end.This beautiful bit of art in t-shirt form is a fascinating, extremely intricate illustration of a swan’s head. Dad always felt the same way about nature that I do, and if he could see what I was wearing I’m sure he would have found it pleasing. The phrase in sans-serif vertical type at the bottom reads “True love will find you in the end” and I am lucky to have stumbled upon that phrase as the most apt descriptor for the process of my father’s death that I can possibly think of.

When I came back into the room for the first time after my quick trip, cookies and coffee in tow, I saw my Mom had rotated the recliner so she could hold his hand all the time, but not be hunched over… she’s practical like that. Dad was in the same state that he was when I left, regular breathing under his own power, still, regular breathing with few interruptions for a gasp. He didn’t ever want to be hooked up to any machine. I told him I loved him, I watched his eyes and held his hand. There was no indication there was anyone there on the inside, and I was having an intense mental debate about whether Dad was really still in there. I was beginning to think my dad was gone, but I didn’t know for sure. There was only one thing to do with the energy I had gained from going home and getting a shower.

I leaned on my friends, something I really should have done sooner, I called those who had different viewpoints who I thought might enlighten me. I can’t remember everyone I called, or anything more than a loose order. I was gathering data. I was doing the engineering to make a decision, and that decision was just some part of my mind trying to cheat and make the experience of my father dying over sooner. I am glad that the conclusion that I did; though my father was completely disconnected from the outside world, I believe (and I use that word to it’s fullest purpose) that he was still in there, that he knew when mom and I were there, or maybe he could hear us. Even if it isn’t true, it doesn’t matter in the end, and the comfort I take in feeling that is echoed by my gut telling me I am indeed correct.

I was right. I would not have the last hour I had with him any other way. He died in a way that was uniquely him, and I was there telling him I loved him, and I can’t possibly be sad about the way it went. I am only sad that he isn’t here anymore, and with that sadness comes a series of revelations and realizations that are only beginning now. I will be fine, but I’m not fine now, and that’s okay.

It was just today that I realized that my father had been waiting for me. We had discussed that as soon as he went into hospice, I was going to come home. Before I left, we were thinking he had two to four weeks. No one expected things to go this fast, not even him. I had gotten home on the wee hours of Sunday morning, and here it was Tuesday afternoon and I was sure my father was going to die. I thankful that the randomness of the universe decided to be merciful in what it could have been. I am glad that I see so much of my father living on in me, and that this experience has brought me even closer than ever before with my mother.

Dad left a letter for me to read after his death. The classic procrastinator he was, he never finished it. But the letter confirmed everything my heart already knew, and it was all on the first page. Dad was always direct, and brutally honest. He loved me and my mother and had a hard time expressing it. It’s okay, there are some things that happened to him in his life that made it hard for him to do certain things emotionally. One of the things I will continue to strive against is living in my own head as he did, but it was right for him, and I know that.

I don’t know what happens from here. But I know it can’t possibly be as hard as what I’ve just done. It’s just dealing with “stuff.” The house is going to get sold eventually, and we don’t have to be in a hurry, but I do worry about it a bit in this market. But on the other hand, it’s a beautiful piece of 3 acre land with two barns and a wonderful house full of a multitude of time capsules. The main house was built in 1740, and added on to in umpteen different pieces up until the 1970s. It’s the reason I will always love old houses. It’s home, and I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be, or anything I’d rather do right now.

Many of the same people reading this have called me, or sent me an sms/text, or posted on the internet communities that live in my heart more than any of their members really realize. Without twitter, IRC, and the trickle of EDGE over a bluetooth tether, I would have been in 1000x shape. Thank you all immensely. I will warn you, I am an idiot when it comes to asking for help. Those who I will call on know in their hearts who they are.

And here’s the shit kicker, the duality in all of this. Remember “True love will find you in the end” from earlier? Well, I realize now that my circle of friends, that I’m so hesitant to call upon for help, love me in a way that I can’t quite fully describe. You sort of have to have been “born on the internet” to get it. Those reading this who this love know it by “less than 3″… or <3. Much love to all of you. I am thankful, I am positive, and I will be fine; but if weren’t for you all, my world would fall apart. Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.

And good lord this was a long post. Those who made it all the way through deserve a medal. Or something.