Sacred Seaweed

Sacred:  Designated or exalted by a divine sanction; possessing the highest title to obedience, honor, reverence, or veneration; entitled to extreme reverence; venerable. 

During the last day of my dad's life my sister and I spent much of the afternoon sitting in his room.  He was sedated at this point.  Morphine.  Must be a wonderful drug.  I knew a guy from The Fellowship who told me he shot morphine once and knew he could never do it again - he said it felt just a little too good.  I guess it does the trick.  Anyway, dad was kind of responsive, looking at us when we spoke to him, nodding, occasionally trying to smile.  Willie told me that the hearing is the last thing to go when someone is close to passing, that they can still hear you when you speak to them, so I tried to talk to him some, tell him that I loved him, that he was doing well, that it was all going to be OK.  Sometimes I was afraid that the sound of my voice made him restless so I stayed quiet.  At the end I was happier when he was sleeping, preferring that to the times he was restless, pointing at wraiths in the corner, grabbing at his blanket, asking for mom, for my sister, to go back to his apartment.  At one point he clearly said: "I'm outta here," either wanting to go home or letting me know it was time to really go, I'm not sure which.

My sister left around dinner time to take care of her family.  I came back two or three times in the evening.  The first time he opened his eyes when I said hello, the last two times he was totally unresponsive.  On my last visit I told him that I loved him, that it was OK if he wanted to let go and it was OK if he wasn't ready to let go, that mom and Jesus were waiting for him up in heaven.  His respiration rate was down to about 20 or 25 breaths per minute so I knew we were getting close.  Exhausted, I went to his apartment and went to bed.

I have been on the receiving end of text messages and emails and phone calls and Facebook posts during my stay.  I've shared about some of the very practical advice that I was given, solid stuff that I normally do but which slips my mind when I'm under stress.  I was also fascinated to see different people share some remarkably similar thoughts.  Willie and Shorty both told me to be present, that something very sacred was happening.  I liked the word: sacred.  I had never, ever, ever thought of death that way.  A lot of my friends are not people who you'd think of as being religious so it can be surprising to hear spiritual things coming from them.  You know how some religious people come across as condescending and smarmy, holier than thou, dismissive of anyone who doesn't live up to their high standards?  My friends aren't like that.  A while ago Willie shared somewhat sheepishly that he was reading every day from a very famous religious book.  I told him that I had read that very same religious book from five to eight times, probably rounding up so I'd go with the five number.  We both kind of went: "Huh.  No shit."

Anyway, dad died about seven in the morning.  I was getting ready to head over but wasn't there when he actually passed away.  That was fine.  I don't feel bad about it.  It's hard to be there all of the time.  And maybe he wanted to die quietly and alone.  I always thought that a great father's day gift for him would have been for everyone to get out of the house and just leave him the fuck alone for the whole day, so he could watch NASCAR or golf.

Onward and upward, dad.  Say hi to mom for me.