All-Nighter

Imojune’s attention was divided between watching the clock approach three a.m. and watching the ominously irregular rise and fall of her father’s chest. Three a.m. was only significant because it would mark exactly twenty-four hours of being awake—a rare event for Imojune who was approaching sixty years old next month.

She tried to reckon the last time she forewent sleep and decided it must have been during college, nearly 40 years ago. Doing an all-nighter at this age was unwise, she knew, but there was nothing for it. She had to wait and stay awake. And so she did just that. She waited with the steadfast patience that is learned from so much living and persevered through the exhaustion. She waited with the obedience of a loving daughter.

Every ten minutes Imojune’s father would wake in a panic, thinking he was alone he would start to grunt and moan in distress. She would stand and hurry to his bedside assuring him saying, “It’s okay Dad. I’m here. I’m always right here.” He would relax at her touch and slowly fall back into sleep until the next fit.

Imojune had been in this routine of waking and sleeping for nearly three weeks now. First in the hospital and now at her home. When the doctors had tried everything they could do to no avail, they declared Imojune’s father terminal. Still fully lucid, he was given a choice of where he could go to die — a nursing home, a specialized facility for this exact scenario, or home with a family member. He chose to go home with Imojune. Within the day the living room was rearranged, a hospital bed setup, and oxygen tanks brought in. This all happened on a Thursday, and the doctors estimated he would live until Sunday at best. This estimate being based primarily on the fact he would no longer be able to eat or drink anything from that point forward. Things like feeding tubes and IV fluids were considered ‘life-saving measures’ by insurance companies, and since the doctor had declared the patient terminal, these things would no longer be covered.

“So the options are to watch my Dad drown on the fluid building in his lungs or watch him die from thirst and starvation,” Imojune asked the doctor. “This doesn’t feel humane.”

“I’m afraid so,” the doctor responded. “I can tell you with certainty that your father will die from this infection regardless of life-sustaining measures or not. Keeping him on the feeding tube and fluids will extend his life, but it won’t save it. I’m sorry.”

Imojune had been around her fair share of death — nobody gets through sixty years of life without some acquaintance with death. Sitting there watching her Dad slowly wilt, she began to wonder, as is common during a time such as this, if there is any preferred way to die. On the one hand, she had gotten to spend ample time with her Dad these past few weeks, time that she treasured. His time in the sick bed was not all bad either. He remained fully aware and of a sound mind, especially early on. He had told her stories of when she was a baby. They reminisced on old times fondly together. She was able to tell him, show him, how much she loved him. She reassured him he was a wonderful Dad. That alone was priceless. On the other hand, it was painful to watch the process happen slowly over time. It made every day hard — physically draining and emotionally devastating. Watching someone you love suffer and being powerless to help was torture. It caused a painful conflict within Imojune — wanting at the same time for her Dad’s suffering to end, for him to have peace, and wanting him to live on too. This desire to have two opposite and opposing things at the same time was confusing and added to the emotional distress. Imojune felt these conflicting desires either made her a decent person or an evil person — she did not know which. Trying to find an answer to this was impossible.

Exacerbated by this inner turmoil were all the physical demands of caring for a dying person. Having no medical training at all, it felt like she had been abandoned without the tools or knowledge to be helpful. She couldn’t help but feel her lack of training would be a contributing factor in her Dad’s death. A nurse would come once a day for a half hour to help, and Imojune would try her best to ask questions, take notes, and learn from the nurse, but it never felt like enough. She never got to a point of confidence with her care. There were so many things she had to do that she never considered and didn’t know to even ask about.

How did this kind of catheter work, and what was she supposed to do if it fell off? How was she supposed to change her Dad’s diaper if he had an accident? He wasn’t able to move himself or even roll over. What was the best way to care for bed sores? So many things that she felt unequipped to handle. Additionally was the humiliation associated with all of these tasks. Imojune’s Dad was a very reserved man. Imojune tried her best to reassure him that she didn’t mind, that there was nothing to be ashamed of. Despite these assurances, there was still something sad that dwelled behind the eyes of both of them while Imojune was trying to figure out how these diapers worked and her Dad was trying to find a way to tell her politely that he shit himself. Even after this humiliating experience and he was cleaned up, Imojune would look him square in the eyes with a smile that had roots down in the heart, and tell him she loved him.

The most intimidating task was the use of a suction tube, similar to the one used by dentists. Her Dad would be continually coughing up fluid and mucus that would have to be suctioned out. This would happen every ten minutes or so and she eventually got the hang of it. The machine required to operate this device was loud, especially when it shattered the silence of a still house. This device, the oxygen tanks with all its tubes and fittings, the hospital bed, it all turned Imojune’s cozy living room into a makeshift hospital room.

Her Dad’s incredible will to continue living made this emotionally difficult. He was not ready to go and continued to harbor hope that he could prove everyone wrong and bounce back from this. He still had things he needed to do, places to see, and people to love. Despite growing weaker by the day, he insisted Imojune help him exercise by lifting his arms and legs, ten reps each. Imojune was always encouraging when her Dad wanted to do this little exercise. She would tell her Dad that, yes, anything is possible. She remained optimistic outwardly, but inwardly she was already struggling with letting him go.

To Imojune, her father was always a pillar of strength and bravery. She always saw him as fearless and dedicated, and he was as much as anyone could be. He was the person she ran to when things felt uncertain. He was her rock and seemed unshakable in her mind. To see him afraid and looking to her for reassurance was heart-rending. For the first time she saw her Dad terrified and meek. He looked like a child, filled with fear. Her Dad made it eight days beyond what everyone figured. All told, he went eleven days without food or drink. The physical toll this takes on a body is profound — eyes begin to sink in, cheekbones start to show, and the underlying shape of the skeleton begins to come into focus making us painfully aware of what we truly are underneath. 

It was a beautiful Monday morning in November, the sun was at full strength, cloudless, and the wind was slowly toiling away at striping the trees of their dead leaves. Imojune was approaching her 36th hour of sleeplessness. She could sense it was coming, and so stayed awake and by her Dad’s side. She could feel her Dad’s panic growing as the time drew near, and it was heartbreaking to see. A man who was so strong and fearless in life, turned into a boy when death came near. By this point, simply breathing required too much effort for Imojune’s Dad. There were long five to ten-second pauses between each labored breath. Still, he was always looking at his surroundings, trying to find his daughter. There was always visible relief every time he found her again. He was still fighting. Always fighting.

Imojune was holding his hand and rubbing his arm gently. She would softly run her fingers through his hair as he was trying to fall asleep.

“Dad? Can you hear me?”

He would barely open his eyes and nod softly.

“I love you Dad. You know I love you, right,” Imojune said close to his ear. Another soft nod.

“I want you to know that it is okay for you to go. You can rest, Dad. I’m going to be okay. You’re going to be okay too.”

Another nod, but barely perceptible this time. Imojune stood right next to him, holding his hand and stroking his head as his chest rose and fell one last time.