As they rolled the gurney from his condo and down the hallway, my father, with tears in his eyes, looked at me and said, “I’m never coming home.” I looked back at him, with confidence and doubt in my voice at the same time, if that’s even possible, and replied, ‘That’s not true.”
I didn’t lie.
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Forty Days
I got lucky this year. The kind of luck you make, not the kind that seems to fall out of the sky, appear out of nowhere, or happen simply by chance. No, the kind of luck you work for.
I’ve been immersed in a year-long program, The Heroes Journey, teaching me the tools, thought processes, mindset, and maybe most importantly, the heart, to be a true 21st-century leader. The program is led by Darren Hardy, a man who has been my mentor for the past decade, and not even knowing it when I first discovered him ten years ago, would have a profound effect on one of the most significant moments in my life.
As part of this program, in module one, we were instructed to interview a few people from different generations than our own, since this is the first time in human history where five generations are employed in the same workforce, at the same time. As one of the interviewees, I chose my dad, since he was born in 1935 and is part of what is referred to as The Builders or The Silent Generation.
So back in January, I sat down with my father, (and my mother, who listened in), and asked him dozens of questions, learning so much more about his childhood, about his perspective on the world from then until now, about his greatest fears, about his greatest accomplishments, about his role as a husband and father. I left that interview, feeling inspired and more at peace since I knew at age 86, my dad was getting up there in years and though very independent, you just never know when your conversation with one of your aging parents, might be your last.
What I learned gave me a greater sense and greater respect for who my dad is and in turn, where some of my own pride, character traits, and fears emanate from. What I learned helped me gain greater insight into the man who helped create me and then shape me. What I learned brought me closer to his heart.
This was a blessing, for truth be told, after childhood my dad and I were not that close. It had absolutely nothing to do with anger, resentment, or anything of the kind. I just always viewed us as very different people. If felt like he saw the world as more black and white, I found more of the colors. I didn’t gravitate to him to talk about my problems, fears, heartaches, or the like. I always reached out to my mom – probably because the woman has the biggest heart you’ve ever seen, and there always seems to be plenty of room in that heart to handle any concern or challenge you bring her way.
I had always seen more of myself in my mom, she is extremely hard working – while my dad worked hard, he also focused just as much on his downtime, relaxing, while my mom still charged hard throughout her work career. My dad retired at 62, we had to convince my mom to shut it down in her mid 70’s. I just always saw her as stronger, though she’s often put herself in that position because she wants to know what is going on and the woman just flat out does the one thing all of us can do more of, she cares. She cares about anyone and everyone she meets.
After the interview with my dad, I realized a great deal more about the impact he had on my life and the work he truly did put in. I also had the understanding, he didn’t mind being in the background. He was kind, logical, fair, and loving. I never ever felt unloved. I always knew he cared about family, especially staying connected to his base, his family in Wilmington, Delaware, where he grew up. We lived in Maryland, (still do), and my dad didn’t get to spend time with his family as often as I know he would have liked.
I also gained more insight into just how much he adored my daughters, his granddaughters, Sophie and Emily.
Besides what filled his heart, I knew more now about his fears, one of those fears he experienced more recently, brought on by my his now compromised ability to get around, having to use a three-wheeled walker with a pouch, to get from one place to another, making him an easy target for someone who wanted to take advantage of him in any given moment. His other fear was to protect my mom, to make sure she would be ok, especially financially. My dad is seven years older than my mom, and in his mind, he always believed he would be the one to go first, leaving her behind.
Except, on Labor Day of 2021 it appeared the tables had turned.
In the late morning on that holiday, while I was on another call, I saw my parent’s house number appear on my mobile phone. I ignored it since I just figured it was my mom calling about getting together for dinner later that day.
But then their number appeared again, it was the number for the house phone and that meant it was probably my dad calling.
I put my other call on hold and picked up the call from my parents’ line. It was my dad.
“I can’t wake her up, I can’t wake her up. They’re taking her away,” he’s crying to me. I immediately responded. “What do you mean… Mom?” He said, “yes, I can’t wake her up.” I stopped him to ask the question that was the most important at the moment since, from the sound of it, I was almost sure my mom had just passed away. “Is she breathing?” I said. My dad told me yes, she was and she had squeezed his hand. But now she was in an ambulance, headed to the hospital. When I got to their condo, my dad told me that when my mom’s radio alarm clock went off at 10:30 am, he heard it and realized she had not come out of the bedroom and he went in to check on her. But when he tried to awaken her she couldn’t speak or open her eyes, only squeeze his hand. So he his hit the medical alert button he always wore around his neck and called for help.
The reality, my mom had suffered a stroke, not a huge one, though as I have learned through this process, the size is not necessarily as important as the location in the brain. She was also battling a significant urinary tract infection that no one was aware of but ended up doubling the challenge at the moment for the doctors. Not to mention the current COVID restrictions and lack of beds and shortage of nurses at some of the best hospitals in Baltimore.
The bottom line is I had a feeling we were in for a long ride, I just could not have imagined that forty days later, how life would change. I knew at the moment, it already had, it’s just that the significance of that day would lead to even greater consequences. I also couldn’t know at the time, how many moving pieces would soon lie before me.
My mom was moved to two different hospitals, based on bed space and then on the challenge of knocking out her infection, which the doctors managed to accomplish. But, once stable, it was time to focus on her rehabilitation and at the same time, try and keep my 86-year-old father, who was still driving and living as independently as he could, on track and keep him calm. My dad has always been very emotional and now he was on full tilt.
My family is small, it’s myself, my younger sister, my mom, and my dad. Because of this, I accepted and I wanted to be in front leading the charge to navigate my mom’s care and be there for my dad, as his go-to for support. Though my dad could basically live independently, he was even still driving, he had some health challenges. of his own. Plus, I had to find a way to still care for myself. I knew if I let up on my daily habits and disciplines and just put them all aside, we’d all be in trouble.
Getting back to Darren Hardy for a moment, for a decade now, I had been doing the work in a program called, Living Your Best Year Ever, which meant every year, for the past ten, along with a few other men who are now like brothers to me, we tracked and worked on daily habits and focused on three life goals. The constant work on this growth mindset had helped me build the muscles, physically, mentally, and emotionally, to face a challenge just like the one before me. I knew had to stay healthy, in body and mind. After all, you can’t give what you don’t have.
I knew I was built for this.
I found myself in charge of choosing from a list of rehab facilities for my mom and helping my dad with his independent living, asking friends to assist him with making some meals (my dad didn’t cook, though he could microwave and heat-up food with the best of them) and even accomplish part of this process while I was halfway across the country.
When my mom had a stroke, I already had a trip planned, one that was planned months before and was scheduled to embark on just six days after her life-changing event. Even in my mom’s compromised state, the consequences of the stroke appeared to be more physical than neurological, and she was begging me to still go away on my trip.
When there was one day during that first week that her overall health seemed to be slipping backward, I had decided there was no way I was going away. But then she stabilized and I made a conscious decision to head out west, on a 7-day trip to Las Vegas, The Grand Canyon, and Sedona, Arizona. The trip was commemorating the ten-year journey of being part of the aforementioned program, heading out west with the two other members of my Mastermind group. This was to be a time for bonding and celebration for our decade of progress in so many areas of life.
Since Covid had made visiting my mom a real challenge, there could be only one visitor a day, and my dad was holding his own living by himself, I knew I could be thousands of miles away and still navigate it all with phone calls to communicate with my mom, my dad, the doctors, the social workers, and other family members to give them updates. What I could accomplish on a mobile phone in Maryland, I could certainly still accomplish the same from Nevada or Arizona.
It all worked.
Even while I was away, I led the charge to get my mom transferred into a sub-acute rehab facility, doing it all while on the road from Vegas to the Grand Canyon and managed to also navigate my dad’s emotional state during the process. He was upset, but he was still doing all he needed to be independent. I was able to keep most of my extended family and my parent’s friends in the loop on my mom’s progress. And I was still managing to experience and enjoy my time with my close friends and to immerse myself as much as possible in the incredible, beautiful parts of the country where we were traveling.
Like I mentioned earlier, I told myself I was built for this, and for the most part, I was. Handling all that was in front of me with patience, perseverance, fortitude, and emotional stability. The consequences of the decade of work I had put in, (and still going), to focus on personal development and this growth mindset – were now carrying me through two of the most significant events of my life. The first event had been the reorganization of my family in 2016 and now, what I couldn’t see coming, was that while my mom struggled on her stroke recovery in rehab, my father started to struggle at home.
His vision, his fear, was coming true.
For most of September, my dad was doing ok living on his own. I would go over at least a few times a week to help with some light house cleaning and make sure his meals were good-to-go. My sister would also assist. My dad and I went out for a few dinners together, once sharing the biggest cheeseburger and fries I have ever seen, (hey, when you’re 86, just eat what you want), and we’d talk about life and I’d listen to his stories, many I had heard before, but it made my dad happy to share them again, so I listened.
But when the calendar turned to October, so did my dad’s health.
He started to complain about certain health conditions getting worse. He couldn’t lift his head up right, his legs were starting to get heavier and heavier, (he already suffered from significant lymphedema), he was frequently out of breath from trying to walk, he said it hurt to eat and as it turned out, he had suffered mini-strokes, called TIA’s, which no one knew, though after at least one phone conversation with him, I had my suspicions.
In any case, there were new challenges in front of me. I live nearly an hour away from my parents and was I going back and forth to assist and to visit, staying with my girlfriend, Stephanie, who fortunately lives only a few miles from my parent’s condo, to visit with my dad and still visit and coordinate my mom’s care. I was able to be there the day she was transferred to a sub-acute rehab facility, fortunately, the one I wanted, and I was also visiting her a few times a week as well. I was doing all of this while trying to still lead my health insurance team, to be there to co-parent for my daughters, both enrolled in a local college, to transfer my dog back and forth, since I co-parent for him as well, to spend time with my girlfriend, to keep family and friends up-to-date about both my mom and now my dad, and to try and take care of myself, to maintain my physical, mental and emotional well-being – and be as strong, and stoic as possible for all who needed me.
There were all these pieces to the puzzle, to the maze of life I was navigating, but I could see how life was slowly making a 180-degree turn, from worry and concern about my mom and her recovery from the stroke, to focusing on my father’s significant health challenges.
It was about a week into October when I realized I just couldn’t handle helping to care for my dad and his health concerns on my own. It had gotten to a point I never thought I would experience in my life, that one night I was even putting an adult diaper on him. And in the moment, he didn’t even seem to care, it was no longer about pride, it was about needing assistance, a helping hand. I knew then I had to call in help if I was to handle his mobility challenge, so I vetted and hired a caregiving agency to assist with his care.
I was also now caught trying to navigate a very delicate see-saw, telling my mom that my dad was having “some” health challenges, but not revealing all about his downturn, for fear she might stop working hard in her daily therapies, speech, physical and occupational. I needed her to still fight to get better after her stroke, despite the fact it appeared my dad might be headed for the fight of his life.
And that he was.
On October 11th, that Sunday morning, neither my sister who had stopped over to see him nor the caregiver, could get him out of bed. When I arrived and we finally got him to sit up and get into a wheelchair, his breathing sounded “wet” and labored and he just kept falling asleep. I had no choice but to call 911.
It was a week I’ll never forget.
My dad went from being treated in a private area in the emergency room, (again a bed shortage in the hospital), because his oxygen levels were not good and he had some internal bleeding which needed to be rectified – first a blood transfusion and then finally being admitted to a hospital room and having a procedure done to stop the bleeding. The doctors seemed to think that would improve his blood flow, and eventually help his lungs, though he was suffering from a bout of pneumonia as well.
At the same time, I was still making visits to my mom’s rehab facility. I had to tell her my dad was hospitalized but was stable, I couldn’t hide the fact, because she knew she couldn’t reach him by phone and he wasn’t coming to visit her. I still couldn’t reveal too much more because I wanted to keep her spirits up and not compromise her recovery efforts.
The procedure to help my dad and stop the bleeding worked temporarily and made him more stable, but soon his natural oxygen levels were once again dropping, meaning the doctors had to keep increasing the liters of air being pumped into his nose and mouth to get him the proper oxygenation to his body. About a day later, an echocardiogram revealed some “vegetation” around two of his heart valves, endocarditis, which normally would require surgery to correct, but with my dad’s advanced age and weakened state, the doctors could only recommend a program of intravenous antibiotics, lasting at least 4-to-6 weeks.
With all of that going on, even on Thursday of that week, there was talk of sending my father to inpatient rehabilitation, maybe even the same facility where my mother was still recovering. I thought, what a blessing that would be, to have them close again, if even for a few weeks because my mom was making significant progress and I figured she could be released before the end of the month.
With a slight ray of hope, that night I decided to head back to my home about an hour away, to do laundry, get more clothes, to repack, and on Friday, to even try and work for a few hours in my office, before heading back to Baltimore later that afternoon to see my dad and visit my mom again. But in the late morning, the phone rang, it was the cardiologist to explain to me the ramifications of my dad’s heart condition and then while she was still talking, the doctor in charge of my father’s care was also calling me. She said things weren’t going well. They were pumping more and more oxygen into my father’s lungs, he was on two different antibiotics now, and his liver and kidneys were starting to fail. The doctor also told me looking in my dad’s eyes, it seemed he was giving up the fight.
The man, who just one day before, I thought might have a chance and even after assessment by the hospice team, I was told was not a candidate for hospice, all of a sudden in the late morning of Friday, October 15th, he was.
My next call was to the hospice advocate and I made the heart-wrenching decision to send him one floor up in the hospital, to the inpatient hospice wing. Standing there in my office I stared at the e-mail, the one which had just been sent to me, where I had to sign the release forms to make this a reality.
But first, I called my mom.
I had to tell her everything, of what was about to happen, to tell her all of it. And I needed for her to make a decision, for I had made one on my own, a vision I had in my mind six days earlier when my dad headed to the hospital. If he took a turn for the worse, I was going to make something happen – my mom was going to have the honor and dignity of seeing my dad before he died. He wasn’t going to pass away, while she sat alone in that rehab facility, I was making damn sure of it.
I told her, “Dad is not going to make it. We have to send him to hospice. The doctor told me he is struggling with respiratory distress and many other things. I need to know from you, do you want to see him like this, or do you want to see him in hospice, once he is sedated and comfortable?” I wasn’t sure what she would say, but it was her decision. So I waited, and she said, “I’m already so upset, I want to see him and to talk to him.”
That was all I needed to hear. I told her I was coming to get her and for the first time in six weeks, she was getting out of that rehab facility, at least temporarily, so I could get her to see my dad. I signed the paperwork to send my dad to hospice, then I called the hospice advocate. I told her straight out, “I signed the papers, but here’s the deal, you cannot move him until I get my mom to see my dad.” I was in my office an hour away or more from her facility. I would have to make the drive, then get my mom into her wheelchair, get her out of rehab, drive another 30-40 minutes to the hospital, in early Friday afternoon rush hour traffic, and then wheel her in and up to his room, so she could see him and say goodbye. I told the hospice advocate it would probably be more than two hours’ time for me to make this happen.
“Don’t you dare move him until I can get there,” I said. “My mom deserves the chance to say goodbye.”
I was moving fast now, (probably driving too fast as well), on my way back to Baltimore and I called the rehab facility on the way. They were actually inconsequential in all of this. I was taking her out of there, whether they approved it or not. I was getting her regardless. Ask for forgiveness, than permission.
When I called to speak to the nursing supervisor, I didn’t ask, I told her what was about to happen when I got there. She listened and she didn’t put up any argument. I told her I accepted all responsibility. This was going to happen. I would come up to get my mom in the wheelchair, I needed to do it. I didn’t want them to handle this then have her waiting at the door for me. I needed to see her and speak to her first and then get her transported out of there.
It went as planned. I got my mom out of the rehab facility and we made the slow drive in that early rush hour traffic, to the hospital where my dad was going to end his days. I double-parked outside since I realized I would have to drop my mom in her wheelchair at the front door. There was no time to park in the visitor’s lot then wheel her across the street to the hospital. We checked in, but because of Covid restrictions, there was only supposed to be one visitor at a time to my dad’s room. That would be impossible since I had to push my mom in her wheelchair. Once security learned my dad would soon be heading to hospice, the restrictions were lifted. So we headed upstairs to the second floor, room 252.
I wheeled my mom slowly inside his hospital room, where my dad was sitting up, staring off into space, the loud noise of the oxygen machine, now pumping thirty liters of air, straight into his nostrils. Apparently, he could no longer tolerate the oxygen mask and intubation was not an option since there was a DNR. That was a strong and noble decision on my parent’s part, years earlier, to create advance directives that would not allow either of them to just be kept alive on machines, or in a vegetative state.
My dad was struggling, but as I wheeled my mom next to his bed, she called out his name and grabbed his hand, “Robin, Robin, can you hear me? I’m here.” With the loud sound of the air flowing from the machine and the fact the hearing aid in his right ear was apparently missing, I had a feeling he could not hear her. But he slowly turned his head and saw his wife of nearly 60 years, now sitting by his bedside, feeling her gripping his hand. Shocked to see her there, he tried to softly say her name, “Bonnie…”, and then he started to cry, as much as he could with the tremendous amount of oxygen being transferred into his lungs. He got to hear her tell him she loved him, I did the same, as I went around to the other side of the bed and kissed the top of his head. “I love you dad, and I’m sorry.”
I then went down to move my car, leaving my parents alone and sending my sister, Donna, who had now arrived at the hospital, up to see my dad. She was having a rough time. I understood. After all, a girl loves her daddy first and the first love of her life was slowly slipping away.
As I walked out of the hospital, I paused to look at the sky and knew that in this moment of extreme stress, anxiety, emotion, and words I can’t even seem to find to describe the scene, I had done the one thing that I had seen in my mind as something that had to happen – I got my mom to see my dad. She experienced the dignity and honor of saying goodbye. In turn, I gave my dad the respect of making sure his bride was by his bedside, while he could still see and hear her. He felt her hold his hand. He heard her say his name – and he got to hear that she loved him.
For the rest of my life, that moment will serve as one of my finest hours.
Hospice, which I never experienced before and hope never to again, is a strange thing. The person you love is kept comfortable, in my dad’s case, doses of morphine and a light amount of oxygen, just enough to keep him breathing. The nurses and doctors tell you that hearing is the last sense to go before you die. So although my dad was not awake, we were told he could hear all we were saying. My mom could only stay for a short time that afternoon, since I had to take her back to her rehab facility, with my dad still lying there, but breathing peacefully now. You don’t know how long someone will live in hospice, as the caregivers told us, only God knows that moment. So I took my mom back, figuring if my dad was still alive the next day, I would bring her back in the afternoon. She had already experienced that single moment I could control… it wasn’t up to us anymore. The remainder of his time on this earth was up to a higher power.
I returned to hospice that evening, talking to my dad as he slept, in his coma-like induced state, telling him how grateful I was for the life he had given me, my sister, and my mom. Thanking him for doing the one thing I needed him to do in my life, to love my mother. And for nearly six decades, he did just that with unwavering devotion. I stroked his head, cried, and told him I was sorry as well, for the closeness that we didn’t always experience. For the times I could have made more of an effort, and we could have spent more time together and I could have asked more questions and gained more insight. And I cried… because I was losing him and I love him.
My dad passed while I was sitting in the parking lot outside of my mom’s rehab facility. Since at that time on Saturday, my dad was still breathing, so I had gone to get my mom to bring her back to hospice. But we wouldn’t make it back in time.
When the end came, my sister and her husband were in my dad’s room. My brother-in-law called me at the moment because the nurse was in the room and had confirmed, after three long breaths, there were no more. On Saturday, October 16th, nearly 24 hours after sending him to hospice, my dad was gone. Time of death, 2:52 pm.
2:52, the same exact numbers of the hospital room where he had spent the prior six days of his life.
Our family is not the only one to lose, to mourn, to experience the heartache. We all do. Every single one of us. Everyone loses, everyone has bruises. The scars of loss you carry with you to share with others, the lessons of a life are for all of us to learn from.
I’ve learned that the person who asks the most questions, not only controls the conversation, they get to live a deeper life, for those questions you are asking are of other people and you get to learn more about the value, the depth, and the color they bring to his world. The questions might be black and white, but you can’t escape the color in every answer. Every life has these colors, every life has value and meaning. Everyone matters.
In the end, I realize God had given me a gift. Though we weren’t always close, my dad and I spent six weeks, exactly forty days, in each other’s lives every single day, either in person or on the phone. We said, “I love you”, to each other more times in those six weeks than perhaps the combined days of our entire lives together.
God knew what he was doing. HE always does.
The writing of my dad’s eulogy was a struggle for me since I am a writer and almost never experienced any type of writer’s block. But I was struggling with exactly what to say and how to share my dad’s story… until I realized I had his story and it was in the pages of notes I had taken when I interviewed him for the Heroes Journey program ten months before. I pulled out the notes and was able to weave these notes and the knowledge I gained about my dad and his life into the final words I would say about him, standing on the altar just above his casket.
This is why I thank Darren Hardy and his A-Team for the exercise of that Heroes Journey program, for as I said in my eulogy at my father’s funeral, “What a blessing this was. Because if I hadn’t done that interview exercise, standing here today, I never would have learned more about his life and the man who was my father. And I decided part of that interview should play into what I’m about to share… just some of what I will remember about and have learned from my dad.”
You never know where life might take you or the people who will touch you in ways you could never have imagined when you first meet them. I thank Darren for the thought and idea that inspired me to dive deeper into my dad’s life – the man that helped to create and to shape me. How could I know when I first found Darren a decade ago, that one thing I would do attached to a program he developed, would become part of the final words I would speak about my father as I lay him to rest. That’s some serious synergy.
This story isn’t about Darren Hardy, it is however about the power of developing yourself to the point that no matter the challenge, you must build yourself into someone who can rise to the occasion. In a quote from Wayne Dyer, one I heard just before my dad’s passing: “You must learn to develop an inner candle flame that never flickers, though the worst goes before you.”
I know in my heart I tried to do just that. Though now in the aftermath, comes the hurt and the heartache.
It is also about reminding myself and every one of us – the value each and every life has, if we only take the time to listen and to participate. The story is about my dad, my mom, my sister, and those forty days of our lives, from my mom’s stroke to my dad’s passing, a turn of events that are still hard to wrap my head around. But they are and forever will be part of the reality of our existence.
It is a story about the value my dad brought to not only my life but to all those who took the time to get to know him.
Thank you Dad.
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As they rolled the gurney from his condo and down the hallway, my father, with tears in his eyes, looked at me and said, “I’m never coming home.” I looked back at him, with confidence and doubt in my voice at the same time, if that’s even possible, and replied, ‘That’s not true.”
I didn’t lie.
He is home.
Rest in peace dad. I love you.
With pride, your son,
Mark