A TRIP HOME (PT. 2)
I got another call, this time from my dad’s cousin, who just so happened to be visiting dad.
It had been a week of ups and downs from the time I got home on February 22 to the beginning of March. Dad in and out of the hospital. His health improving and then sliding back.
Couldn’t get his blood sugar under control. Had issues with weakness, blood in his stool, and incontinence.
All of those were handled, and by the end of the week, they were scoping him to try and figure out where his bleeding in his GI tract was coming from. They found it, so they thought.
But, by this point, dad couldn’t swallow. He would probably have a feeding tube in some form for the rest of his life.
The words “hospice” and “palliative” were thrown around. Words that cause your stomach to drop into your ass.
Dad’s cousin calls on March 2. Dad has been removed from everything. No life-saving measures. Dad had seen his prognosis and, for whatever reason known only to him, he decided to just call it off.
Apparently dad had some sharp pain on his side. They did a scan and found a blockage. They tried to clear it, but his body had started shutting down. His digestive system was no longer working.
By the time I got there after a 7 hour drive with my wife, dad was not very responsive. He would open his eyes and quickly shut them, only if you were loud and in his face. The nurses kept him on a steady diet of morphine and Ativan. A few hours after arriving, my wife and I were falling asleep sitting in dad’s hospital room in the dark, as was my brother, who had made the 2 hour drive down shortly after finding out the news, and dad’s estranged soon-to-be ex-wife (they had a divorce hearing on March 20 scheduled) had driven a few minutes over from the next town.
She opted to spend the night with him in the hospital, which she took as a means to find peace with their situation. She said her I love you’s to him and he responded while he was still somewhat active.
The next morning, we went to the funeral home. Shit was getting real.
We spent the day, as much as possible, with dad. Nightfall came and it looked like he might be okay another 10 hours or so, and we went back to our hotel.
Approximately 2 hours after we left, dad took his final breath with his wife by his side. She called us, and we rushed to the hospital. My wife comforted my dad’s wife, and my brother and I kissed our dad’s head and relieved him of his duties.
We contacted the funeral home in the morning and started piecing together his service. We went to dad’s apartment and cleared it out, taking totems that we could use to remember him by. We went to dad’s wife’s house and sorted through things he’d left there, hoping he would be able to return via reconciliation.
My wife and I had a car packed full of family memories, as did my brother. The rest, we determined, was up to her to pitch or donate or keep at her discernment.
The service was held on Friday, March 7, and immediately, my wife and I took off and drove back to Georgia.
A simultaneous weight of sadness, a relief of not being at war with some form of tragedy, and a mid-life fright of being on the descent of life hit all at once.
I mostly feel relief, throughout the day, but I miss my dad. I bought a hat when I was in town that had the old-school logo of my university on it and wanted to show dad. I wanted to call dad last Sunday and catch up like we normally did. I stared at the transcript of his last voicemail and read his last text to me, both simply saying he loved me.
I don’t have regrets this time, and that’s something, but I miss my dad.
I’m a 41 year old orphan. Three of the 5 people I have loved most in the world are gone. Holes in my heart will never truly fill from these losses. Matter of fact, the one thing I know is that either I’ll be the next to go, or I’ll suffer loss again and again. Both of those fill me with sadness and dread.
But for now, I’m trying to find the will to carry on. To make the best of the stories I have been a part of. To love those I still have, and honor those I don’t.
And, as I look out the window of my hotel room in Puerto Rico, on a trip that was planned well before dad’s health took a dip, I am reminded that there’s much to be happy and thankful for.
And I hope that, if nothing else, I can remind myself of that.
Rest in peace, Dad
James Arthur Shank
June 30, 1953 - March 3, 2025
