Even Superman Has to Die

My Dad died just before Christmas. He was 83. Dad suffered a long, hard road these past few years as his body lost strength and ability. With each loss came frustration, anger and fight -- the desire to overcome the latest frailty. The last nine months were a rocky series of ups and downs. There was another small stroke, then a badly broken ankle that necessitated two months in a nursing home. He deteriorated in the nursing home, hating the confinement and loss of independence. When he could finally put weight on his ankle again, we were able to bring him home. It wasn't easy to provide the necessary level of care Dad now needed, but it was so nice to have him at home.

Mom hired caregivers and my sister came over every afternoon to help out. Dad cracked jokes and directed the rearranging of the furniture to accommodate his wheelchair. But every few weeks Dad seemed to take another little step down. Therapy would go well and he'd improve a bit, then he'd lose ground. He never really regained the ability to walk and gradually his muscles got weaker and his body less dependable. A urinary tract infection took a tremendous toll and Dad didn't seem to be recovering.

Hospice agreed to come in and brought with them equipment, medicine, a wonderful nurse, bathing help, a physical therapist, a massage therapist, a social worker and a chaplain. Most of all, they brought expertise, experience, support and comfort -- for Dad, Mom and all of us. Life for my family became considerably easier. At each new step down, at each new problem, Betsy, our hospice nurse, was there to help. She joked with Dad during her twice weekly checkups, reassured Mom, ran interference with doctors, and brought the drugs and supplies Dad needed. She made sure we could give Dad the very best possible care and helped us cope as caregivers.

For quite a long time Dad had trouble accepting what was happening to his body. He wasn't ready to die yet. He hated that his body wouldn't respond and do what he wanted, but mentally there were still things he wanted to do. At first we all thought death was many months, if not years, away. But as Dad's health deteriorated, we could see that his body was failing, even though his spirit was still strong. Accepting the inevitable was perhaps the hardest part of dying for Dad. Though never much of a churchgoer, Dad was a Christian who followed Christ's teachings in his daily life. He was honest, thoughtful and deeply loved his family. He was the most honorable man I have ever had the privilege of knowing.

When Chris, the hospice chaplain, started coming to visit, she and Dad chatted about his life, the business accomplishments he was proud of, his years in the South Pacific during the war, his escapades growing up in Cincinnati, his frustration with his body and health. But as time went on, Dad talked to Chris about the inevitable, who would take care of Mom, how his children would manage, missing his grandchildren growing up. Dad always took care of all of us and it was hard for him to relinquish that role.

As time grew shorter, with Chris' help, he was able to accept that he was dying and be at peace with the ending of life. He asked us to take care of Mom and each other. And then he gave us each the most important gift he's ever given. He allowed each of us to tell him what we needed to say, to clear the slate, to say how grateful we were for all he had done for us, and to tell him how much we loved him. Dad was able to tell each of us that he loved us, that he was proud of us and that he knew we would succeed in life. It was a powerful gift.

As Dad's health failed over the past years, we jokingly called him "Duct Tape Man." The doctors kept patching him up and he just kept on going. He was like that old TV ad for Timex watches: "Takes a lickin' but keeps on tickin'." Even as we watched Dad age, we thought he'd be there forever. But even Superman has to die. For all the months Dad spent dying by frustrating inches, finally confined to his bed and able to do little for himself; when the end came, it was quick and peaceful. He was home, he was with family, and he just drifted quietly away in his sleep.

I miss my Dad but I know he will always be with me. He helped me become the person I am. He was teacher, mentor and friend, someone I looked up to and will always love and respect. Dad loved telling jokes. After Sunday dinner, he'd regale us with one great story after another. I like to think of him in heaven now, trading jokes with the angels. Tell them the one about the penguins, Dad; it was always my favorite.