My hands look like his…a story that ends well in death

My Dad died.
I could hear the death rattle while video chatting with my Mother – trying to think of every humorous or lovely moment with Dad and other family members to distract her. Dad was gasping for air. 99% sure it wasn’t COVID-19, the Speech Therapist said that as Dad lost swallowing capabilities – food/water would go down the wrong pipe, and pneumonia would set in. It did. Hospice wouldn’t come unless Dad was tested…Dad wasn’t going anywhere to get tested.

It didn’t end ugly.
I can Thank our amazing careworkers, morphine, my brother, and the great-grandkids for that. I wouldn’t have called the kids in time to say, ‘good-bye’ – they are all under 7 years old – Dad was such a mess I thought it would terrify their dreams. My brother called and they all trooped over (6+ of them) to see Dad with little masks and gloves.

Dad rallied.
He passed out Tootsie Pops.
Turned over and died in the chaos with Mom on his shoulder and holding hands with the chain of kids.

That thought sustains me more than the painful video call earlier. Dad would do anything for a kid. Kill himself for a kid. Works for me. Thank Goodness my brother called in the troops. A better way to go.

So, will the kids have bad dreams? I don’t know.
I just know that as I look at my hands which are the same shape as my Dad’s,
I am really craving a red Tootsie Pop.

Painting by Mick McGinty

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