The Great Surrender

img_3951

“I’m afraid I’ll have to call you back,” I say into the office line, “I have an emergency call.”

“There’s been a down turn,” says Dad’s nurse on the phone with Mum.

“It’s time to come back,” says Mum.

Thirty hours after I left him, I am back at Dad’s side.

When I walk into his room, the nurses have just moved him. He calls out, unsettled by the interruption from his dreams.

“I’m here Papa,” I say, “It’s Katie, I’m here.”

His head raised off his pillow as his eyes and arms reach out above him.

I don’t know what he’s experiencing, but I see a warrior spirit fighting his way out of a dying body.

I lean over him. I take both his hands into my own and hold them as gentle and firm as I can to his chest.

I sing:

I’ve wandered far away from God, now I’m coming home

The path of sin too long I’ve trod, Lord I’m coming home

Coming home, coming home, never more to roam

Open wide thine arms of love, Lord I’m coming home

I sing it again and again, quieter each time.

Then, I hum the tune in bits and pieces all the while still holding his hands as they jerk and squeeze against mine.

Then, I remember what someone recently said. The hearing is last to go.

So I talk to my father. I tell him I love him. I tell him he is a beautiful soul. I tell him he has made the world a better place, that he has helped so many people and that they all love him too. I tell him it’s okay to let go.

Bit by bit, he calms and falls asleep.

“He used to call me Buttercup,” says a drop-in visitor I’ve never met before, “There was a song that went with it.”

The wave of visitors has calmed down to a trickle.

“It’s probably for the best you remember him as he was,” Mum tells the caring loved ones that continue to call.

“You deserve to be taken care of by lots of nurses,” says Buttercup, a retired nurse, “You fed all us hungry student nurses every Sunday.”

“We had such fun times, Sandy,” she says.

“Do you work?” asks Buttercup turning to look at me.

I tell her about my employer’s continued patience and compassion.

“He has a heart,” she says.

Three more days pass. Meals are now delivered to me and I only leave the ward for a shower in the mornings.

No longer able to speak, Dad talks to me by squeezing my hand.

As I walk the halls to the bathroom or for more tea, I notice the rotation of patients and their loved ones in other rooms.

One night, I hear sobbing from behind a closed door. The next morning, the door open, there is an empty bed.

“His big heart is keeping him going,” says Jessica.

A music therapist plays guitar and sings his favourite hymns. I watch his eyebrows rise at the chorus.

Doug reads Dad’s favourite book, Hornblower, aloud, while Susan and Mika take a shift at holding his hand.

Vera Lynn is the sound track behind the hours that pass.

We’ll meet again

Don’t know where

Don’t know when

But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day

Keep smiling through

Just like you always do

‘Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away

“Can any of you come to the hospital today,” I text the grandchildren, “I’m having a hard time.”

Alone for too long, I need someone to share the weight.

“Okay,” replies Taeja, “I’ll bus there in a bit.”

We sip tea together as Dad sleeps and when Taeja gets up to leave, I am ready to face another night.

“His breathing has changed,” says the nurse who’s come in for his midnight medications.

Mum has told me there would be a change in his breathing at the end.

I get up from the cot and sit down beside him.

He has visibly changed in the past couple of hours. His eyes are foggy and there is little life left in his body.

I hold his arm and I say on repeat what I’ve been saying for days.

“I love you Papa. I love you Papa. It’s okay to let go.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it before,” says the nurse, “He hears you and is telling you he loves you too.”

Dad in his final breath calls out to me. It is quiet, but it is the battle cry of a warrior. Brave and strong.

Valhalla!

With his ring around my neck and his spirit in my heart, H A (Sandy) Ormiston dies on February 23rd, 2017 at 12:15am.

What a love story it’s been, Dad.

I love you for always.

Thank you.

img_3946

Advertisements

About Morbid Optimist

My name is Katryna Mary Brooke Ormiston. I am 35 years old and after living in Vancouver for a decade, I am returning home to my 81 year old father’s hobby farm on Vancouver Island to care for him in the final stages of his life. This blog is to document my journey, process my experiences along the way and hopefully share and feel connected to a community beyond the three and a half acres I find myself on. A message in a bottle in the cyber-sea.
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

16 Responses to The Great Surrender

  1. Vicki pierobon says:

    So happy you were there for the transition Katie and that your dad had your beautiful voice to listen to as he passed. Such a journey well done 😘

  2. Carlene Neeve says:

    Wow – Katie you are an incredible daughter to an incredible Dad. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for sharing this beautiful journey with me and others.

  3. Bernadette says:

    What a beautiful sharing of surrender from a beautiful soul! Thank you Katie, such a pleasure to know you.

  4. Mary Stairs says:

    Prayers and sympathy to my western cousins!!!hugs Mary

  5. Kate Main says:

    Katie – hugs to you and peace to your warrior dad. x Kate

  6. /erland says:

    To my dear friend Katryna Ormiston,

    You and your entire family are in my thoughts.

    Thank you for your sincerity open-heartedness, sharing and giving of yourself.

    Mythologically speaking, you may be some form of Psychopomp, Katie ; )

    “Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself
    is true wisdom. Mastering others is strength;
    mastering yourself is true power. If you realize
    that you have enough, you are rich. If you stay in
    the centre and embrace death with your whole heart,
    you will endure forever.”

    ~Tao Te Ching

    God Bless you All,

    /erland

  7. so sorry, Katie your story made me cry.
    Karen

    • I once heard that tears of grief was love unexpressed. You have a big loving heart. Thank you for keeping tabs on me these past years. I know you have suffered your own losses. xo

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s