My Dad’s Last Spot

“This is where my dad will spend his final days.”

I looked at my dad lying in the hospital bed that had just arrived in my parent’s apartment (the lower level of my sister’s house). When Lisa and I were with him last month, helping him deal with the effects of a recent fall, the hospice nurse was adamant: “He’s done with the walker. Forever. He can only move in the wheelchair.”

My sister had me hide the wheelchair so he wouldn’t be tempted.

Now, even the wheelchair is history. He will lie in this hospital bed until the day he dies. This is it. It’s right next to a window that overlooks the Puget Sound, and on the evening I was there (the second night of his move to the hospital bed), an especially spectacular sunset greeted him. At the foot of his bed is an Aura frame that cycles through photos of his children and grandchildren (if your parents don’t have one, please get them one. Next to Step In Skechers, it’s really the best present grandparents can receive.)

I couldn’t get over the thought that this is where my dad will die. What’s it like for him to know that? No more walks. No more runs. No more trips to the store or coffee shops or even to church. At 95, he has a do-not-resuscitate order, so no one’s taking him to the hospital. And he’ll be cleaned in the bed. My heroic sister is making a dream come true for him: with her care and comfort, he can die in his home, surrounded by those he has loved and does love.

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