On Sunday, September 30, 2001, we celebrated Daddy’s 90^th birthday with a party at the Burlington Wesleyan Church fellowship hall. It was well-attended (although just a few of Daddy’s close acquaintenances were still living) and Daddy enjoyed the attention and fellowship. The autumn that followed was unremarkable from my caregiver’s point of view. Then came the last year.

On Sunday, January 20, 2002, I was on my way to church. Rodema was still taking Daddy to the Wesleyan Church; Randy and I were attending the Assembly of God. Randy was teaching a Sunday school class and had gone early. Rachel’s husband Steve had to work that morning, so I was on my way to pick up her, Talise and Jada from their apartment in town. When I pulled into the driveway, she immediately came out of her front door onto the balcony porch.

“Grandpa is on his way to the hospital; he passed out in his Sunday school class,” she called out after I yielded to her motion to roll down the car window. 

My thoughts met head-on. Would he be okay? Was this the end? Sunday school class – what a wonderful place for him to breathe his last. Oh, no, not now!

Rachel hurried down the steps with the girls in tow. Trembling, I was already walking around to the passenger side. “Can you drive?”

She seemed calm; I knew she didn’t want to upset her little daughters. I however, started bawling like a baby. “Oh, God, please, I know Daddy wants to go Home, but please help me.”

Hardly ever had a day passed by during the last four years when I had not heard Daddy pray at least once, “Lord, take me home to be with You.”

There had been some trying times over the last six months. Nothing especially concerning; just long, weary, days. Maybe God knew I had reached my limit and he was fulfilling that first promise: I will not give you more than you can handle.

I began to think more coherently and turned to Rachel for further information. “What happened? How did you find out?”

When Rodema couldn’t reach me at home, she called Rachel (BC – before cell phones).

Daddy had just crumpled to the floor in the middle of class. She described him as “ashen.” His teacher, a former missionary nurse, tried but could not find a pulse. He was unresponsive. Someone called 911.

That was all she knew. It didn’t sound good. My crying spell ended abruptly when I saw we were almost at the hospital. I had to get control and face what lay ahead. When Rachel stopped in front the emergency room entry door, I jumped out of the car and almost ran through the doors and to the reception desk. The policewoman on security duty also served on the advocacy team at the sexual assault response and resource center where I worked part-time. We recognized each other.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, discerning my apprehension.

“I got a call saying my dad was brought here by ambulance; I think he’s dying.”

“What’s his name?” she asked, sharing my concern.

“J. Boyd Wright.”

“He’s not here…wait, he’s on the way now. EMS should be here soon.” 

I did not have to wait long. 

“Hey, your dad is here and he’s talking and seems to be fine,” the officer informed, placing her hand on my shoulder.

I felt relieved and stupid at the same time. “I thought he was dying.”

“No, not this time,” she reassured.

I was allowed to go back and see him; he did seem fine. I learned later that because he did not have his DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) forms with him, when the medics could not find a pulse they administered epinephrine. His heart had stopped, but not for long.

He was checked out by a doctor and kept in the emergency room a few hours for observation. Tests revealed nothing troubling. Soon we were on our way home. 

Later that afternoon, Daddy shared this interesting account:

“I saw Jesus and He said he had planned to take me Home today but then decided to let someone else come in my place. He told me I would have to wait.”

I considered that must have been a very interesting conversation. I was especially intrigued by the idea that going home to Heaven is a coveted event; we must wait our turn.

By Monday morning, Daddy no longer recalled fainting in Sunday school, his ambulance ride or being at the hospital. He did however mention that he had talked to Jesus. His Sunday school teacher telephoned to check on his condition. 

“I was so surprised to hear Mr. Wright was back home. I just knew he had died,” she disclosed.

When I relayed the account he had given of his conversation with Jesus, she seemed to accept it as fact. “Our lives are in His hands.”

Indeed.

After I experienced almost losing Daddy, and actually went through the emotions of thinking I had, each day with him became more precious. It seemed as if God had given him back to me for a little while…and I felt compelled to take better care of him than ever before. No longer did I long for uninterrupted sleep during the nights or the ability to exchange my strict and busy schedule for a more leisurely lifestyle.

The changes were more attitude than actions; I knew I had been taking good care of Daddy. There was one activity I added to our nightly routine. I tracked down an old church hymnal and along with our prayer and Bible reading every night, we began to sing together. Or should I say that I tried to carry a tune and Daddy hummed along. He had never considered himself a singer and I always wanted to be one. (Okay, I’m not terrible, but Benjamin has been known to goad me by singing, “Mama sang bass, Daddy sang tenor!” because my vocal range is rather limited to the lower end of the scale.) Even so, Daddy and I made inspiring music together. It always blessed me when he actually intoned a few lyrics. His favorite song was It Is Well with My Soul  and he did know that simple chorus by heart. 

The year that unfolded after that fateful Sunday found me revived in my spirit and invigorated in my caregiving skills, even after Daddy’s cognitive abilities markedly declined. He did some rather strange things; I found it was best to just clean up the messes and not mention them. We continued to do our best to ensure he lived his last days surrounded by love and without the scourge of loneliness. The hardest part was getting him in and out of the car; he no longer seemed to understand the process. His social skills remained appropriate for the most part; he remained sweet in his spirit.  He continued to attend church through November.

Around Christmas, his always-healthy appetite nose-dived. I offered all his favorites, but a body that is beginning to shut down does not need as much fuel. He became completely incontinent (he had been hit and miss) and was no longer able to walk independently. We acquired a lift so I could transfer him from his bed (where he now spent most of his time) to his lounge chair. The first time I tried to use it we both ended up in the floor – unhurt – and laughed about it. Humor is so often a fitting response.

One night, as I kissed him good-night, he looked up at me through hazy hazel eyes and whispered, “I love you, Mama.” 

I wondered…his mother had died when he was ten-years old…was he remembering her?

At some point, we had contacted Hospice, which was sending an assistant to help with bed baths. They supplied a hospital bed. Twice a week a Hospice nurse would come out to check on him. Because he was eating so little, his digestive system slowed and he was often constipated. He was miserable when the nurse had to digitally disimpact him, but otherwise there were no signs of pain. He slept most of the time, his favorite Christian radio station playing songs and sermons in the background. Once in awhile, he would say a few words; but his heart and mind seemed to be focused on another land. We invited family and friends to visit – just in case they wanted to see him one more time…and tell him farewell.

His last meal was a few bites of chili and vanilla ice-cream. 

“That’s good,” he said as he swallowed. Then, “No more.” After that, he would only take sips of water.

For two weeks he calmly waited. Every night as I lay in bed, I wondered if he would still be breathing in the morning.