Peace be with you

Dad passed Saturday, August 30, 9.05am. 

We could not have witnessed a more peaceful death.  

Mom's best friend, Auntie Josie, arrived from CA the night before. After our usual three nights in Jersey City, Al & I decided to make a run to Parlin. I wasn't sure if we should leave Jersey City that night. Dad had vomited what seemed like coffee grounds a few times in the last couple of days and had pretty much been out of it what with the morphine, fentanyl and ABR patches. But every time we'd gone back to Parlin for a night, Dad was still there the next day. 

Mom called 7.20am on Saturday morning, asking us to come up to Jersey City then and not to wait until lunchtime.  In a second call, she asked us to swing by Our Lady of Mercy to pick up the priest since he didn't have a car.  

We arrived at my parents' home around 8.45am. Auntie Aurea and Uncle Regino were also on their way from CT.  

Father Ralph gave Dad his last rites.  (I think we've had a dozen priests from more than one denomination provide last rites to Dad during his hospice care at home).  His breathing was staggered, his fingertips cold.  

"Al & I are here, Dad.  We love you.  Go meet everyone now." 

On oxygen, Dad snarled with every last breath. Then he stopped.  Three gurgles followed. (I'd been listening for the gurgles for more than three weeks). And that was it.  

Dad actually waited for the very final word of his last rites to be uttered, and he waited for Al & me to be at his side too.  

I will cherish that moment for the rest of my life. 

Family & friends:  Thank you so much for your prayers and thoughtful words of sympathy.  We appreciate your heartfelt condolences tremendously.  Love & peace be with you.

Given the long holiday weekend, we are currently finalizing Memorial Mass details.  Dad will be cremated. At Dad's request, there will be no wake.  Though some Catholic churches are particular about cremation, we are hopeful that the service will be held Saturday, September 6, 10am, at Our Lady of Mercy Parish, 40 Sullivan Drive, Jersey City, where Mom & Dad attended Mass every morning until he no longer was able to do so.  Final details to follow.  Thank you for your patience.  

   

The Chaplet

"For the sake of His sorrowful passion." 

"Have mercy on Amante, on us, and on the whole world."

Ten times.  Five rounds.  Using the rosary.  

And prayers in between.  Prayers that the Sisters of Charity failed to teach me in my thirteen years of all-girls Catholic school.  Lucky for me, I still know how to pray the rosary.

Every morning, 10am, with Henry, the Eucharistic minister from Our Lady of Mercy.  A senior volunteer, he comes to pray with Dad and offer him communion. Today, he brought an elderly Filipina friend, Matilda, to pray with us too. It's usually Henry, Donna (the nurse's assistant who happens to be Filipina too), Mom and me for 30-45 minutes praying The Chaplet.  

I've usually had turbo hot Dunkin Donuts coffee by then. (DD is located just two blocks away from my parents' home, so it's a short walk.)

Dad is no longer communicating verbally.  He slept through the entire day today.  His breathing can sometimes be labored.  Mom has stopped force feeding him and is relying more on the Comfort Kit. Sometimes.    

Mom has been concerned that Dad is no longer passing urine or moving his bowels.  His sugar remains high. (Mom still tests it three times a day.)  She consulted with the hospice nurse and asked if she should give Dad an additional shot of insulin.  The nurse responded, that's to be expected.  No need to worry.

Mom cries silently.  No loud or deep sobbing.  Just quiet crying.  

When we have to move Dad (sometimes he looks uncomfortable or just to prevent any bed sores), Mom asks Dad to put his arms around her neck so that she can more easily lift him.  He used to be able to do that.  Put his arms around her.  

When Dad was still verbal but fading somewhat, Mom asked him to kiss her.  And Mom lovingly kissed Dad lips to lips.  It was a comforting and desperate kiss. Just one more kiss.

Mom is in despair.  

I worry.  

Dad is dying comfortably.  And I am relieved. 

Every time I check in on Dad (probably every 10-15 minutes), I say a short prayer. Please die quickly and peacefully.  Soon.  Please.  

[Meditation is helping.  Deep breaths.  So are the walks in Bayonne Park.  Not completely insane yet. Just tired.]

Family & friends:  Thank you once again for your thoughtful and encouraging prayers. Your love & support mean so much to us.  And we send out heartful intentions to you too, that your woes may not be too heavy & that you take the time to experience life's wonder every day.  

  

See the sun

Thank you so much for your prayers & love that support us at this time.  I have no doubt that your peaceful intentions keep us patiently sane.  

It feels like Dad has begun to enter the next phase of his journey.  Having lost some of his speech ability recently (in addition to not being able to see or hear well), he has been communicating less.  He complains of a sore throat and the inability to feel his tongue.  When we first discovered that Dad's speech slurred, Dad asked why did his voice sound different.  

With our encouragement, Mom has been using the Comfort Kit more frequently as Dad has been in considerable pain, more restless and more confused as the days go on.  Though we do appreciate his moments of extreme alertness too.  

The combination of morphine, fentanyl, and ABR patches seems to provide around-the-clock relief to Dad who has also been experiencing more noticeable chest pain. This morning, he requested cold air, so we attached the oxygen tubing for a short while.

I thought experiencing my husband's quadruple heart bypass almost two years ago was difficult. Experiencing my mother's guilt and devotion as well as my father's inevitable passing leaves me seeking comfort from a peaceful Spirit.  

This past Sunday a good friend, Patrick, and I shared with Dad that the sun was out, and it was a beautiful day to play tennis or golf.  Dad threw his arm in the air to demonstrate his backhand followed by his golf swing.  

"I would like to see the sun," he said.

Go see the sun, Dad.