Transitioning.

I got the text from Paul early this afternoon. The nurse had decided it was time to move my Dad to the hospice. Paul and Shari, who have been nothing less than saints taking care of my parents for the past few months, had been getting very little sleep making sure Dad would stay in his bed. He kept getting out of bed wanting to go somewhere. This is common when someone is in the later stages of dying. The get agitated and feel like they have to go some where. He's so frail and thin, that if he fell, he would undoubtedly break bones. So the nurse made the call and let my Dad know we would be moving him to hospice. There, he would get medicine to keep him comfortable until the time comes. He asked the nurse, "And what happens next?" She said, "Well, then you will go and be with you wife." and he just nodded his head and said, "Ok."

I didn't rent a car while down here in Naples, so I've been biking everywhere. I raced all the way from my brother's house, to my parent's house. 8.5 miles away. Made it in 35 minutes. I went in and said hello to Dad, he slowly turned his head and made eye contact, but he could barely utter a hello. Just yesterday, he said "Hi Pete!" as clear as day. In the past few days I've watched a sharp decline in his condition. He's transitioning. He's peaceful and quiet. His movements are slow. Occasionally he mutters things that I can't understand. Sometimes he'll ask me if I can come back early the next morning so that I can take him to Sam's Club or Costco. He liked when I drove him around in November and took him shopping. It's as though he doesn't realize how weak and frail he is. There's no way I could take him out in his condition. But his brain is still going. "Pete, get here around 9 tomorrow. I want to go to a few places." It breaks my heart, because I have to say yes knowing full well I can't

So we were waiting for the hospital van to arrive. Not an ambulance, but a van they use to transport patients to hospice. I'm standing there next to my Dad, in his last moments in his home. A home he was very proud of and did so much work to try and make it better. And now he was about to cross the threshold of that front door for the last time in his life. I'm not sure he understood the significance of that moment, but the rest of us did. I had a lump in my throat. This is it. He is not coming back.

The van was backed into the driveway. They turned around the stretcher and my Dad was looking at the house. His house. I wondered what was going through his mind. I didn't want him to see the tears welling up in my eyes so I smiled at him and waved as they lifted the stretcher onto the van. My Dad's gaze continued toward the house. The van doors shut. I rode in the van with my Dad to the hospice. A lot of the neighbors had gathered outside in their driveways, and as we pulled away in the van, I didn't know what else to do, I didn't want to wave, so I gave a salute. Like I was transporting a wounded soldier. Dad's stretcher was facing out the back window. He couldn't see me so I said Dad, just so you know, I'm here. We left Forest Park, their home for the past 15 years for the last time. It was sad to say the least. 

When we arrived at the hospice, Dad was in the back asleep, but when we got him out of the back, the sun seemed to hurt his eyes so he lifted his arms up to shield them. We wheeled my Dad in to Room 8 North, the exact same room my mother was in exactly one month earlier. A parade of nurses came in got my dad changed, cleaned up, and got him nice and comfy in is bed. On top of the bed was a child's blanket. I don't know if it was Chandler's or maybe Evan's, but it seemed kind of comforting. Minutes after the nurses left, a nice priest came in and administered last rites to my Dad. It was a beautiful moment. I really wanted this for my Dad. 

Paul and I were present as last rites were read. We all bowed our heads and prayed. The priest said he had been absolved of all his sins and can now rocket up to heaven to be with Hilda. 

Seriously, that's what he said, it was kind of funny. I don't know if it's appropriate to take photos at times like these, but I did want to document my Dad's last days and write about it. Paul and I returned later that nigh for about an hour but Dad was asleep nearly the whole time. When we left, Dad again said that he wanted us to come pick him up early to go shopping. Wherever my Dad is going, there had better be a Lowe's, Home Depot, Sam's Club, and Coscto or there will be trouble.  

Dad, it's okay to go home. Mom is waiting.

My Mom and Dad were married for 62 years, and as is common with married couples as they approach their golden years, when one passes away, the other is usually not far behind. When my Dad was diagnosed with stomach cancer 18 months ago, the doctor told him he had about 12-18 months if he decided to forego chemo treatments. I remember being in the hospital and asking my Dad if he wanted to go through chemo. He looked out the window for a second, looked back and said, "No, I've had a good run. If the doctor says I have 12-18 months, I'll take it." That was 18 months ago. Back in the fall, I spent nearly the whole month of November down in Florida visiting my parents, thinking that my Dad, who was quite frail, would be the first to leave us. As fate would have it, my Mom passed away first, on December 18th, a week before Christmas. I truly feel that my father hung on to see my mother get to the other side. I know he was worried about what would happen to her if he passed away first. I'm just glad that I was able to take that time to visit with my parents and spend some time with them before my Mom passed.

At my Mom's funeral, my Dad appeared frail and weak. He had to be brought in to the memorial service in his wheelchair, but he was still able to walk with the help of a cane. I could see that he was heartbroken. Things have declined sharply since then, and even more so in the past 5 days. Just last week I came to visit him and he was sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes for his "Scouse," a stew from England that was popular during WWII and especially popular around the Burke house. That was the last time I remember seeing him still being himself. In the days since, he has been mostly confined to the hospital bed in the living room, which was originally intended for my mother. He's been sleeping about 20 hours a day, maybe more. He's lost nearly all of his physical strength to the point where he can barely sit up. It is hard to watch when I think of how physically fit and strong my father was. One thing my brother Paul told me that was heartbreaking, was that one night last week, while he was helping my Dad get into the hospital bed, my Dad said, "I want to go home." Paul said, "Dad, you are home." But I know what he meant. He's tired. Tired of the struggle. Tired of fighting. After seeing him today, I think he's ready, I want him to know it's ok to go. It's okay to let go Dad. Mom is waiting for you.

Mom, today we laid you to rest.

When you're young, you hope this day will never come, and you think that you have all the time in the world. All the time to say "I love you." You also think you'll have your mother with you forever. She's the first love you'll ever know. No one ever quite loves your like you like your Mom. So when that day comes, even as an adult, it still hits you like a ton of bricks. It still breaks your heart. You feel as though a piece of you is missing.

I started this blog in 2008 primarily for my Mom, (and my Dad,) but mostly my Mom. I wanted to keep her up to date on the birth of our first son, Evan, so she could see photos, hear stories, learn about all the "firsts," and see all of the things she would have otherwise missed living down in Florida. Then Eliana was born and I kept Mom up to date with all new and exciting things from when she was a baby.

My Mom hasn't been in great health for years. She had a bad bout pneumonia as a teenager that landed her in the hospital, and back then, it was almost enough to kill her. She survived but still suffered with breathing and lung problems for the rest of her life. She dealt with asthma for as long as I can remember, but later it became full blown COPD. She was on oxygen for about the past 10 years but by no means bedridden. She was determined to not let it hold her back. Mom and Dad went on lots of vacations and traveled all over the world. Mom loved gardening, reading and writing out on the lanai, having a hot cup of cocoa while watching old movies on TMC, and going out to the British Pub with my Dad. In later years, that oxygen tank went everywhere with her. She didn't let it stop her from doing what she wanted to do, and from being herself. But as the years went on breathing became more difficult, and even something as simple as walking from the bedroom to the kitchen would leave her exhausted and out of breath. She no longer has to fight for every breath. But as I sit here in my parent's house. I am missing her really badly.

Mom, your service was beautiful. Minister John from Avow got up and said a few words and prayers. Paul got up and gave a wonderful speech, followed by Bill, and myself. Each one of us struggled to get through our words. I was trying so hard not to cry that my face was contorting and I didn't know if I was even making any sense. Of course, I finished by saying what you always said at the end of all of our phone conversations: "By for now." Then the three of us brothers, plus Dad, took your remains over to niche. Minister John said a few words, we each touched the urn, and I placed it in the niche. It was really really hard to say goodbye. Even if it only is for now.

Mom

Mom. When I heard, I got down here as soon as I could. To be honest, when I woke up that morning, I had a bad feeling. That feeling in your gut that stirs you wide awake well before you're supposed to wake up. I immediately started cleaning up my place and getting my things together, I instinctively started packing. I knew. My instincts told me something was wrong. Paul called me and said "when can you get down here?"I got the first flight that I could: a 5:42PM flight to Florida and figured that would be plenty of time. I thought you would hold on at least through the weekend. I knew you were strong. I knew how you felt about your sons. And I knew you would wait for me to get down there. I threw everything in a suitcase and unplugged the Christmas tree, but left it standing for when I got back so I could celebrate Christmas with the kids. When I got to the airport, I almost didn't make the flight. I had to sprint though the terminal and I was literally the last person on the plane. Once on the plane, it was the most restless flight I've ever had. I could not rest. I could not find a comfortable position. You were on my mind. Surely Mom will hold on until I get there. The plane arrived in Ft Myers shortly after 9PM. It took forever for everyone to deplane. It seemed like an eternity, but I was trying to be patient. I wanted pass everyone to run to the front of the plane and forget my luggage and get to you as soon as I could. But as fate would have it, I had to wait. There was even more of a delay when I got to baggage claim. It seemed like forever. Bill texted me. "We're outside baggage claim." Since there was no movement at baggage claim, I figured I'd run out to let them know where I was. I went to the curb and Bill and Dawn were there waiting. I ran up to the car all excited to see them, and Bill got out of the car. "She's gone."

"She's gone."

Two words that I will never forget as long as I live.

"When?" I asked.

"About half an hour ago."

My heart shattered into a million pieces. Instantly. Right then and there. My mother. Gone. I tried to remain focused. Had to go back and get my suitcase. Bill gave me a hug. I was completely numb. I went back into the terminal trying to process the information I had just been given. I walked amongst the anonymous faces waiting for their bags and tried to act like I just hadn't been told that my Mom had died. I grabbed my bag and dragged it out to the curb. The ride to the hospice was quiet. Mom passed within minutes of my plane landing. First person I talked to was Genevieve. There's literally no one else I would call first. The mother of my children. Despite our differences, my Mom adored her. It was good to hear her voice.

I missed Mom by minutes. Minutes. I couldn't even process this fact. I don't know. Maybe she knew I had made it to Florida? Maybe she knew that her sons were all there? I walked into the room at the hospice, took a few deep breaths, did the sign of the cross, and saw her lying there. I walked over to her, kissed her on the head, and said, "Mom, I got here as soon as I could." I burst into tears. But not the way I thought I would. It was only for a few seconds. I was trying to be strong. I put my hand on hers and said what she said at the end of every phone conversation" "Bye for now."

Mom, just know that Paul and Shari were by your side as you took your last breath. I wish I was, but I was just a little too late. I am thankful for the month that we had in November. I had no idea you were so close to leaving us. I'm so glad we got to spend time together. Mom, you know I love you with all of my heart. Thank you for all you've done for us. All that you've sacrificed over the years. Just know that it did not go unnoticed. I appreciated everything. From you tucking me in, reading me stories, singing me to sleep, letting me stay up late to watch Johnny Carson and have hot chocolate with you, writing my name on my lunch bag, even all the things you did that I never knew about or noticed, you always had my back. Mom, you are always with me in my heart, so in that way you are still here with me.

Love, your son, Peter

Thanksgiving Obstacle Course!

Ok so it's not a turkey, it's a chicken, but watch this girl lead her chicken through the obstacle course. That last hop at the end though. Wait for it, it's hilarious!

Breaking News Brought to you by Evan and Eliana.

Evan and Eliana's Halloween Parade 2015