Mother's Day 2009 ~ The Loss

(Written by Jules who was unable to post this herself today. Our thoughts and prayers are with Jules and her family.)

I come from a large family with many aunts and uncles.

Today, we lost one of them. My mother’s youngest brother. He would have had his 67th birthday this coming Saturday.

For about 12 years, he has battled chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, known as COPD, and emphysema. Chronic oxygen had been his constant companion for most of those years.
He lost his wife who was only 46 years old during the beginning of his health issues. He had to go on disability soon after her death due to depression and worsening of his health. At the time, his son was 10 years old.

He was able to get around in the beginning with his portable oxygen. He continued to raise rabbits which were a hobby and business. He was able to drive his truck for most of this time, until recently, when his now adult son said , " no more driving. "

Severe COPD is a progressive and ultimately terminal illness. He had his exacerbations over the years, and stabilization came as well. His life became smaller and smaller, until it seemed that he lived in his kitchen sitting at the table, or walking the few steps to his bedroom, dragging the long tubing from his nasal cannula hooked up to gigantic tanks in his living room. It seemed that he always had his TV turned on to “Matlock” reruns which were always playing when I would visit. I doubt I can hear the theme song to “Matlock” without thinking of him.

He used to play banjo , years ago , and he was pretty good. The banjo sat in its case in his room but I never saw or heard him play it in many, many years.

He had a cat named Thomas – a dark tiger cat.

These are just things I remember fondly.

A few years ago, he nearly died from an exacerbation. He was hospitalized, put on a respirator, and an induced coma. He was given the Last Rites of the Catholic Church, now known as the Anointing of the Sick. But he pulled through that one.

A week ago, he developed pneumonia. He seemed to recover. He was to go home Friday, but the winds took a different turn. His son was told to please call family because he had 24 to 48 hours at best. Many of us went to visit – but he was in no condition for visits. Heavily drugged, confused, exhausted, there was no real conversation. He was headed to hospice Saturday, yesterday. Upon my visit, he was completely unaware, totally out of it, a BiPap machine hooked to his face. Earlier, he told his son “There’s a small boy at the end of the bed.” Maybe it was a hallucination, maybe it was an angel. He didn’t seem afraid.

A priest from my parish offered to give him those Last Rites again this morning. He offered to go last night but I decided to risk the wait. This morning, after mass, I went to visit him. Father was leaving the building as I arrived. I thanked him from all of us.

I found my uncle as he was yesterday, not aware, breathing from the machine, not responsive to conversation and I didn’t really try. The nurse showed me his fingers and toes, the odd color, almost bloodless, very cold, and a mottling of the skin on his knees. His BP was very low. She told me they looked for such signs. The signs were there. I stayed with him awhile, and although I could not give him Communion which I had brought with me, I said the Lord’s Prayer for him, which we always prayed together before he took Communion at home as a shut in. I told him I would say it for him. I held hi s arm, his tattooed arm, and could barely say that prayer. I had to look out the window between my gasps and tears. I gave him a kiss and left. I don’t think he knew I was there.

Less than two hours later, his son called to tell me his dad had passed. No one had come yet , after me, but others were coming and were actually on their way, including his son. He was alone when he died. I wish I had known, because I would have stayed, but I didn’t. A nurse went in to check on him, and he was gone.

I hope the little boy he saw , at the end of his bed the day before , came back and took him home.

He always told everyone “Love you.” I have many messages on my phone where he said, “Love you.”

He was my godfather…

LAI – the journey is over, the battle done and we “love you.”

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”And I’m waiting on an angel, and I know it won’t be long, to find myself a resting place, in my angel’s arms, oh, in my angel’s arms.” - Ben Harper, Waiting on An Angel