My Dad was born and raised in the little, country town of Mendenhall, Mississippi. When I was growing up, we spent nearly every Saturday down there visiting my grandparents, along with all the aunts, uncles, and cousins who were scattered along highway 13. Most of my memories include either walking or riding down all the of the dusty, gravel roads of Simpson County, my favorite being the one that led us down to the bank of the Strong River near May’s Bridge where we often picnicked, fished, skipped rocks, or jumped into the “swim hole” for an afternoon of family fun. All the priceless images come flooding back and make me smile—and feel the need to sneeze as I am allergic to dust.
There is something wonderfully American about a good ol’ gravel road. Just pick out any country music station and you’ll see what I mean. Gravel roads have been the subject of countless country songs along with pickup trucks and blue-jean wearing girls. I suppose there is something of a redneck romance about it that every country songwriter has picked up on at one time or another.
The thing about gravel roads is that they’re much more appealing in a song than under the tires of your car. They are bumpy and rough and generally not enjoyable to drive on (unless, of course, you’re in one of those big pick-up trucks we were just talking about). They get you where you’re going, but the ride is never smooth and, after a while, you start longing for some fresh asphalt. Such has been yet another characteristic of my family’s journey with my Dad’s illness.
It has been said the older you get, the more you learn how much you don’t know. I have written now so many times how close we are getting to the end of my Dad’s struggle and how many times I have had to say “goodbye” to him when I have left to return to Tennessee after visiting him over the last nearly seven months. With every passing day I am learning how much I don’t know.
Each time I left him, I was certain it would be the last time I would see my father this side of heaven and I would experience another round of grief. Each time I have been joyfully surprised that I was wrong. I have clearly been wrong again and I am glad for it.
I wrote in my last post entitled, “The Winding, Hilly Road,” that each day introduces a new hill or a new curve that, though unseen ahead of time, has to be navigated; has to be dealt with whether we want to or not, but get you to your destination, nonetheless. That was written early on a Saturday morning in Mendenhall as I prepared yet again to travel back to Chattanooga. Even then, I didn’t realize what lay just around the next turn and that the pavement was going to get very bumpy.
I had expected to drop by the hospital in Jackson to visit with Dad a while and then give him a hug, tell him how much I love him, and head east. When Mom and I arrived, everything changed.
As has become my habit, the first thing I do after glancing at Dad and saying good morning is I look up to the monitor to read his numbers. Since he was asleep, I looked up to see that his oxygen was down to 73, which immediately alarmed me since it needed to stay above 88. His heart rate, which had been a steady 65-67 was at 55. Something was definitely not right. The nurse was in there with him but very calmly and professionally going about her work.
Normally, we are able to rouse Dad and instruct him to breathe through his nose so that he could get the oxygen provided him into his system and get the levels up to where they needed to be. This time, no matter how much I stirred him, he couldn’t make it happen. Even with the nurse warning him that he would have to wear the bipap mask if he didn’t wake up (which he hates!), we still saw little response.
Soon after the mask was put in place, Dad’s doctor walked in and asked why it was on him. The nurse’s explanation prompted a quick order for a chest x-ray and blood-gas tests, the doctor fearing we were at a stage where this would be the end or we would start a new cycle on the respirator.
Tests confirmed that Dad’s carbon dioxide (CO2) levels were at 80%. He simply wasn’t able to expel the gases produced when oxygen is processed in the lungs. He was retaining it and it was killing him. In an instant, we were in crisis mode. What were we to do? At about that time, my brother walked in and we began discussing our options.
In those agonizing moments, there are only minutes to make a decision, certainly not enough time to discuss in-depth what everyone thinks should happen next and whether we are all on the same page. My siblings and I had already determined that whatever Mom and Dad wanted to do, we were there to support them.
The doctor, realizing that a consensus wasn’t being reached and my sister had not been in on the conversation, advised intubation again to buy some time. It was agreed that would be the course of action this time, starting yet another cycle.
Delaying my return for a few hours, we deliberated on how this should be handled. Do we plan for a trach to be surgically inserted into Dad’s throat so the ventilator could be used again, or prepare to wean him off of the breathing tube and prepare for comfort care? Again, no immediate consensus.
In order to make a much longer story shorter, the decision was tabled for the moment. I would go back to Chattanooga so that, should we ultimately decide to wean Dad off the ventilator for the last time, I could come back with my family for the funeral.
When Dad woke up a day or so later, the decision was made for us—he made it. His doctor had a discussion with him before Mom could even get to the hospital and Dad chose the trach with an option of going home with a portable ventilator that he would sleep on at night and, hopefully, be off of most of the day. I didn’t even know that was an option!
He would have round-the-clock care, but at least for the first time in over six months, he could be in his own home. If everything goes according to the plan, Dad will be transported to their home in Mendenhall sometime tomorrow by ambulance.
If Dad had not made this decision himself, I honestly don’t think I would have been in favor of it. For a child of God, there are much worse things than death and I probably would have encouraged that we let him go home to be perfected and rest in the presence of Jesus. I think that would have been fine with him, but he’s a fighter and he’s also a man who has always been committed to his family. Given a choice to end the fight and enjoy the glory of heaven or stay a little longer to support his wife, he has chosen to battle on. I admire that. It reminds me of Paul’s dilemma recorded in Philippians 1:21-25 as he struggled between his love for the Philippian church and his desire to be with Jesus:
For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. Now if I live on in the flesh, this means fruitful work for me; and I don’t know which one I should choose. I am torn between the two. I long to depart and be with Christ—which is far better—but to remain in the flesh is more necessary for your sake.
I know that ultimately God’s sovereign hand will bring about His purpose. I trust that to be the case. Nothing has really changed with Dad’s underlying condition. His lungs are still in terrible shape and pneumonia may return and overwhelm him at any moment. If that should happen, it will be better for my Dad. I will celebrate through my tears and thank God for the time we have had with him and worship God for the certainty of life beyond the grave. Until that time, Dad is going to fight on, even though to do so will be a struggle. Even though to do so will mean delaying the incomparable quality of life and joy that awaits him in the presence of Jesus.
This has been a difficult road to travel. Life usually is. The road is about to get much rougher as we have moved from windy, hilly roads to gravel hilly, windy roads. I would appreciate your continued prayer and support for my Mom as she prepares for the terrain ahead. Fortunately, she’s a fighter, too. Still, this next phase is going to take a toll on her, but she’s willing to take it.
I am grateful for the example of love and commitment that my parents have given me and shown me what it looks like to love and cherish in sickness and in health until death parts. I know that until their dying breath, those vows will remain rock solid, and I thank God for it!
