My Dad’s Last Life Lesson
My father passed away last week. Cause of death: COVID-19/Pneumonia.
In the last seven days, I have done a lot of thinking. I’ve reflected on my dad’s life and the impact he had on me. I’ve tried to retrace the last place I saw him, the last thing he said to me, and the last time I hugged him. I’ve replayed fond memories of my father like so many glowing orbs from Disney-Pixar’s Inside Out. And yet, through all of this, I am constantly distracted by a thought that has little to do with my dad: There are still too many Americans who don’t believe COVID-19 is real.
Before we go any further, let’s go back.
One year ago, my father was diagnosed with dementia. He was exhibiting signs of paranoia and psychosis, so a psychiatrist set him up with some medication and he was able to continue living independently for a while. In March of this year, things began to escalate again and it became clear that he would need 24-hour care. At the same time, COVID-19 was emerging in the U.S.
The process of transferring a loved one to a care facility is no easy task (logistically or emotionally) at any time, but let me tell you — it’s significantly more difficult during a pandemic when care facilities are at high risk of severe infection, hospitals are strained, and many places are simply not accepting new residents. After two and a half months of searching, multiple conversations with his doctors, lots of paperwork, and (of course) a negative COVID-19 test, Mel was able to move into a memory care facility that specialized in dementia and Alzheimer’s patients. When he was placed there, I was assured that the facility was following state guidelines to minimize the risk of COVID-19. They were regularly testing their staff, conducting daily temperature screenings, and had restricted non-resident visitation. After nine months of worrying about where my father was going to live and three months of worrying about his potential exposure to the coronavirus, I felt like I could finally breathe a sigh of relief.
Six short weeks later, I received a phone call. The staff could hear fluid in Mel’s breathing, so they had decided to call 911. My dad had experienced pneumonia a few times before, so I wasn’t completely surprised. I was, however, worried about his mental well-being. After all, dementia can make it impossible to decipher reality; I can only imagine how the sudden presence of paramedics made him feel.
Over the next two days, doctors called me at regular intervals. I learned that my father did have pneumonia, along with a few other concerning issues. He was experiencing “septic shock” — the third stage of sepsis. The following day they found a blood clot in his leg, and without a CT Scan (which his condition wouldn’t allow) they couldn’t determine if it had travelled to his lungs. He was on the maximum level of Oxygen, a broad spectrum of antibiotics, and blood thinners. The doctors continued to monitor, evaluate, and communicate. The only good news so far was that his COVID-19 test had come back negative.
By the third day of his hospitalization, I felt like I had prepared myself for the worst possible outcome. My father was 85 years old and I knew his chances of a full recovery were slim. One doctor helped put things into perspective by explaining that if he were younger and in better health, he would be in the ICU on a ventilator in critical condition. I was told that if the time came, the hospital could make an exception for visitation and allow me to come say goodbye. Despite my hesitation, my wife encouraged me to see him in person if things got to that point.
A day later, I received another phone call. My father now had a fever, so they had tested him for COVID-19 again…and now he was positive. They were going to do what they could, but the doctors had no way of knowing what part the virus was playing in his illness. It could have caused his pneumonia or it could just be a “bystander” (as one doctor described) in the midst of everything else that Mel was fighting. One thing was certain, though: I was no longer planning to go see my father in the hospital.
A Zoom call was arranged for that afternoon so that I could see my dad and talk to him. Like many, I’d heard about healthcare workers adopting the video conferencing service so that families could interact with COVID-19 patients. When the time came, the nurse read a Meeting ID to me over the phone and my laptop instantly became a window to the front line of this global health crisis. The nurse’s cheery disposition was a stark contrast to her layers of PPE. She brought me into my father’s room and greeted my dad, who didn’t offer any reaction. I asked for a “tour” and the nurse kindly explained the different machines and other details of his surroundings. Then she held up the iPad so that my dad could see me and, in turn, I was able to see my dad.
He looked so different. So small. He’d lost a lot of muscle mass and his skin seemed fragile, giving him a skeletal appearance. The nurse moved the iPad from side to side and was excited to see his eyes follow the screen. “Look, he sees you!” she cheered. I said, “Hi, Dad. I love you. I’m really happy to see you.” He stared back at the screen, too weak to respond. I waited a few seconds, searching for more words. “I’m really proud of you.” For the first time since he was admitted, I felt the gravity of the situation and my instinct was to say more, but considering his dementia, I didn’t want to talk too much and cause him more stress. Instead, I repeated the one phrase I wanted him to hear and remember — “I love you.” After the second or third time, my dad’s chin began to tremble. I could tell he wanted to say something, but I’ll never know what was going through his mind. After just a few minutes, I thanked the nurse for setting up the call and clicked “Leave Meeting.” That was the last time I saw my father.
In the last seven days, I have done a lot of thinking.
That nurse…using Zoom every day to connect people when visitation is not possible. Those doctors… making phone calls every day to update family members. The patients…fighting every day to survive.
In the end, it does not matter when my father contracted COVID-19, how he got it, or if it altered the trajectory of his health. The fact is, he had it. Even though precautions were taken and guidelines were followed, the disease still found its way to him. With one quick swab, my only chance to say goodbye to my dad in person was gone.
In the wake of my father’s death, I am distracted and disheartened that there are still too many Americans who don’t believe COVID-19 is real. I can understand how some people were skeptical in the first few days and weeks. I can understand the hesitation to do something that feels culturally foreign, like wear a face covering. I can understand where areas with no infections might’ve been lulled into a false sense of security. That was four months ago. We now have thousands of experts who agree on how to combat the spread of COVID-19 and dozens of countries who’ve shown us the path to recovery. Yet, Americans continue to hold ourselves back.
Personally, I didn’t need proof that the disease was spreading, that people were dying, or that hospitals were nearing capacity. I trusted the experts and chose to wear a mask, keep my distance, and wash my hands — the small, selfless actions that we know make a difference. I figured I would hear about somebody in my life testing positive sooner or later, but I didn’t expect it to be my father and I certainly didn’t expect it to become his official cause of death. Whether I needed it or not, I have proof anyway.
In a way, the last “life lesson” my dad gave me was a reminder that small, selfless acts can go a long way. Mel Chase taught me to care for others, to tip well, and to hold the door open for strangers. I can’t help but wonder if there were any strangers along the way who might’ve been able to prevent this final complication in my dad’s life. A stranger who, through some small and selfless act, could have held the power to let me visit my father one last time.
