The next morning, I called the hospital and spoke my brother-in-law, Doug. He told me that last night my father had undergone ten hours of surgery. The main surgeon said that he had never done more surgery on one person before. He had suffered something called dissection of the aorta. There had been a tear of the inner lining of the aorta. In his case this tear had gone from near the top of the aorta--near the heart--down to near the vital organs (liver, kidneys, intestine, etc.) The surgery had been done not to mend the tear, but rather in an attempt to reroute the blood to the vital organs. Doug said that he had been told that the condition was very rare and that many of the people who suffered from it never even made it to the operating room. So in that sense, it was something of a miracle that my father was still alive. Doug also said that as of then--the time of my call--my father's vital signs were good. He was doing as well as could be expected, but, of course, he was on life support systems and was still heavily sedated. Because of all the drugs that he had been given, there was no chance of him regaining consciousness anytime soon.
That day, Saturday, both Alice and I continued to monitor the situation telephonically and also began to discuss and plan making the trip back East. I called my immediate supervisor, Major Fletcher, and he told me that if I needed to, I should go. He said that I should have my family initiate a Red Cross message, but that I did not need to wait for it to come through: I only needed to go to the battalion headquarters and sign out on emergency leave. I asked him whether he thought that it would be possible to catch a military flight from McCord Air Force Base and he said that he didn't believe that McCord had flights that went to the East Coast. Next I called my company commander, Captain Kolb, and explained the situation to him. He more or less reiterated what Major Fletcher had said, but said that he thought that McCord did have flights to the East Coast.
The whole day was spent making phone calls, worrying, trying to figure out what to do, what could be done. I didn't get dressed. I spent most of the day in my bedroom, in my underwear. Although I drank quite a bit of coffee, I ate very little. Both Alice and I were worried about the potential financial expense of making a trip home. She was in an even worse position to handle such an expenditure than I. By calling Staff Sergeant Jennings, I got the number to the ATOC and to the passenger terminal at McCord. When I called McCord, they told me that there was a flight leaving the next morning going to Andrews Air Force Base, near Washington, D. C. and that since I would be on emergency leave, I would have priority in terms of getting a seat on the flight. Later in the afternoon, I called the hospital again, trying to get an updated situation. I spoke to Susan and to my Aunt Beverly who has worked for many years as an intensive-care nurse. She explained my father's condition in a little bit more detail. But I still didn't feel as though I had as much information as I would like to in order to make a decision whether to get on a plane or not. I asked if I could speak with one of the medical personnel, and my aunt found one of the nurses for me to speak with. She did not provide very much more information. She said that if his condition were worse, it would be easier for her to know what to tell me. She could without hesitation tell me to get there as quickly as possible. But as it was, she really did not know what to advise me.
Earlier in the day, my Red Cross message had come through. I had spoken with a woman from the local Red Cross office. She told me that they could make flight arrangements for me and give me a no-interest loan to pay for the ticket. Airlines give a discounted rate to people who have extreme family circumstances, but the discount is based on that day's ticket prices--i. e. the full fare. Cheryl Redman, the woman from the Red Cross, told me that the thus "discounted" fare would be around six hundred dollars. Talking with Alice, I learned that she had found similar fares. Luckily, David's mother was going to be able to help her. She had a free ticket that she had gotten from frequent-flier miles which she was willing to transfer over to Alice's name. Saturday evening, Alice told me that she was planning to leave Seatac Airport that night.
At about 6:30 P. M., I got dressed and drove to my battalion to sign out on emergency leave. Earlier in the day, I had called the Staff Duty NCO, Sergeant Norris, and told him that I would probably be coming by to sign out. I filled out my DA Form 31 (leave form) for two weeks. That would give me enough flexibility in terms of how long I would be gone: I could always come back early, and I could even probably get an extension, if necessary. The person I had spoken to at McCord had told me that when I got my emergency leave form, I should fax them a copy of it so that they could reserve a spot for me on the next morning's flight. From battalion headquarters, I went to brigade headquarters, the nearest place where I could get access to a fax machine. I called ahead to make sure that somewhat would be expecting my fax. The airman who answered the phone told me that I should not bother to send the fax, because the time of the flight had been moved to the middle of the night. The time that I needed to be there for the flight--the "show time",as they called it--was 10:30 that night, just a couple of hours away. He advised me to be early, if possible, since the time was changing that night and he was not sure how this might affect the time of the flight. I drove straight home to pack.
At about 1 A. M. Sunday morning, the Air Force personnel at the terminal loaded about five or six retirees and me on a couple of mini-vans and drove us to the C-141. The plane had only "jump" seats. One of the crew members briefed us and handed out earplugs and the box lunches for which we had paid. It was rather chilly, even though there was heat. Apparently, some of the retirees had been waiting at the terminal all day, since an earlier flight had been canceled. They carried very little luggage with them and seemed rather unconcerned about where they were going or when they got there. Once we got in the air, we were allowed to stretch out. Since there were so few of us, there was plenty of room. There were pillows and blankets, but even so, I was rather cold.
We arrived at Andrews about 8:30 A. M. local time. It is a very attractive post and well cared for. I suppose that since the President and many other VIPs fly in out of there, it is important that it be first rate. I wasn't really expecting to be able to catch another hop to get me closer to home. I figured that I would probably have to go by ground from there. But I found a pay phone and called John Movizzo, just on the odd chance that he might be able to help me get a civilian flight from the D. C. area. He was, of course, surprised to hear from me and dismayed by the news I gave him concerning my father. He said that if it had been during the work week, he would have been able to get a free plane ticket for me, but that his office was closed on the weekend. He seemed disappointed that he was unable to help. But we agreed to try to get in touch later in the week, since his sister, Chia, was getting married in New Hampshire the following weekend and he planned to be up there.
I went back into the terminal and asked at the desk if they had any flights going to New England. They told me that they had one going to Bangor, Maine which left in about an hour. I decided to take it. I waited in the busy terminal, finishing the remnants of the generous box lunch from the earlier flight. The plane going to Maine was a smaller aircraft, a passenger plane similar to a small commercial plane, but with the seats facing toward the rear. There were a number of stops: someplace in New York state, Providence, RI, etc. In retrospect, I realize that it would have been wiser for me to have gotten off in Providence, since Bangor is in Eastern Maine and I ended up having to backtrack to get home.
It turned out that the bus wasn't scheduled to leave Bangor until about 4 P. M. There would also be a couple of hours between when the bus arrived in Boston and when the next bus departed for White River Jct. That bus would arrive in White River Jct. at 4 A. M. the next morning. When we got to Boston, I found a pay phone and called the hospital again:
"My father is a patient there. His name is Erva Barnes. Could you connect me with his ward?" And when they had done that:
"My name is Paul Barnes. My father is a patient in your ward. Could you connect me with the waiting room or let me speak to one of my family members?"
I spoke to my Aunt Bev. My father's condition had worsened. He had suffered a stroke earlier in the day and blood was not getting to some of his vital organs. When I told her my plan to take a bus and arrive at four in the morning, she told me that he might not last that long. She asked me why I couldn't rent a car and I explained that I did not have a credit card with me. In fact, I had cut up all of my credit cards to keep from using them. She suggested that someone might be able to pick me up in Boston. Linda came on the line and we discussed possible options. She started to ask where I was and make plans for someone to come and get me, but then said that maybe I could rent a car and she could put it one of her credit cards. So we agreed that when I found a car rental place, I would call the hospital again so that she could call them.
I quickly found out that the only place one can rent a car on a Sunday night in Boston is Logan Airport. It took me three subway trains to get to the airport and once there, I caught the National Car Rental mini-van to take me to where they rent cars. The man driving the mini-van had a Slavic accent and I asked him, in Russian, if he was Russian. He replied, in Russian, that he was Polish. We talked some more in English and he told me that he had taught languages to Special Forces soldiers in Vermont.
I called the hospital again and spoke with Linda. She would call and try to put the rental on her card, and if I did not hear from her in ten minutes--I gave her the number of the pay phone from which I was calling--I would go up to the car rental counter and assume that she had been successful. While I was waiting, I tried to get a drink of water. The fountain near the pay phone was broken. I was just getting ready to go up to the rental counter when the phone rang. No dice. They wouldn't do it. So now I was way out at the airport and would have to get back to the bus station, more or less the reverse of the way that I had made the trip from there to National. I calculated that I would be able to do it, but not have lots of time to spare. Since the water fountain had been broken, on my way out of the building, I bought a can of grapefruit juice from the vending machine and stood drinking it as I waited for the shuttle bus back to the actual airport. After a few minutes of waiting, it occurred to me that I had credit card bills with me and that maybe, if I called the credit card company first and explained my situation, I could convince the car rental people to let me use a credit card account, even though I didn't have the actual card. The woman at Citibank said that they would approve the transaction if National was willing to process it, but that I would need the card's expiration date. She proceeded to engage me in a guessing game and soon I knew the expiration date.
The woman at the rental counter was reticent to go along with my plan. But we made another phone call to Citibank. I explained my situation, showed her a variety of identification and finally, was able to rent a car. I called the hospital yet again and told them of my success and that they did not need to meet me at the White River Jct bus station. Although I made pretty good time in the Buick Skylark that I had rented, for the most part, I kept it under seventy miles per hour. At one point, a state police car actually passed me. In my head, I envisioned being stopped and what I would say, explaining about my father and asking if it was unreasonable that I should be going a few miles an hour over the speed limit.
Not having been to the new Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center, I took Interstate 89 to Interstate 91 and got off at the Norwich/Hanover exit. Had I known the exact location of the hospital, I would have gotten off 89 at the Lebanon exit. It was about 2:00 A. M. Monday morning when I finally arrived at the hospital. I ran across the parking lot to the main entrance and once in the large vaulting lobby, stood looking around, trying to figure out where I needed to go. Because of the hour, there was no one at the information desk. Finally, I saw a sign near a phone at the desk that explained how one could call for information. I called and found out where I needed to go: up the stairs to the left, to the second floor and then follow the signs for the Critical Care Ward. I ran up the stairs and walked briskly, resolutely down the empty, carpeted hallway.
When I turned the corner, I saw my sisters--except Susan--and my aunts standing out in the hallway, near the Critical Care waiting room. When they recognized me, they greeted me with hugs and a few tears. Then they tried to prepare me to go see my father. They explained again that he had had a stroke and that it had affected his appearance. Deborah said that before the stroke, his face had looked more or less normal, but that now she could see a difference, particularly in the eyes, which now had a glazed, unnatural appearance. Aunt Bev explained to me what he would look like in general: how tubes came out of his mouth, etc. Then my sisters and I went through the series of doors and turning hallways that led us into the cardio section of the Critical Care Ward. My father's room had a curtain pulled across it. The light was still on. You could hear the noise of the respirator and the beeps from the other life-support systems. I was filled with a sense of trepidation, both because of the fuss and build-up that had preceded my visit to the room and because of the sight that I was about to behold.
He looked different. His face and hands looked puffy and swollen. His eyes did look unnatural. They were partly open and you could see a small portion of the whites. His face had been shaved within the past day or so, but there was a spot--near his mustache and near where the tubes coming out of his mouth were taped to his face--that had been missed, giving the appearance of a caterpillar crawling near his mouth. He did not look like the man that I remembered. In some ways, his appearance reminded me more of how my Uncle Donald looks. Susan was sitting by the bed, holding his hand. My sisters must have seen the emotion in my face, for they began to cry. The tears welled up in my eyes. I fought them back. My sisters explained that though they were not sure that he could hear them, they spoke to him. They felt sure that it was, in some way, beneficial.
"We're all here now, Dad", said Linda. "All your children are here and we love you." She spoke to him almost as one would speak to a very small child, or to someone who was hard of hearing, or to an old person, suffering from senility. I felt uncomfortable talking to him in front of everyone else. I didn't know what to say and I felt that if I said anything, I would break down. Finally, I managed to mumble something, but mostly I just stood there gently but awkwardly holding onto his right hand. Even with the respirator, he seemed to be breathing with great difficulty. Occasionally, he would gasp a large breath and then not breath for a few seconds. His nurse said that although this was alarming to witness, it was not a bad thing: he was, they believed, attempting to clear fluid from his lungs. He was dressed in a light-colored hospital smock which left his legs exposed from the calves down. His legs and feet were very pale, in marked contrast to the exposed portions of his upper body which were quite tan.
To the left of him, there was an assortment of bluish-gray plastic-looking, box-shaped machines with screens that displayed his vital signs. I could not help thinking of how they sort of looked like some of our Force XXI equipment, and this struck me as grimly ironic. On his right were a number of suspended clear-plastic IV bags which were dispensing fluids and medications to him. Behind the bed was a window. Beneath its mostly-closed venetian blinds, one could look down upon the tables of the food court. All was quiet and empty down there then, but I wondered if, during the day, people looked up as they ate and wondered who was in the rooms above. I felt a sense of resentment thinking that they could enjoy a meal and observe casually, detached.
I spoke briefly with the nurse. She was very nice and seemed kind and caring. She was rather attractive and had long, brown hair. At some point, Katy came in, tears in her eyes. She stood next to me and put her arm around my back, give me a sideways hug. A bit later, when it was just my sisters and I in the room, they suggested that I might want a little time alone with my father. They left the room and I went and sat near the other side of the bed, holding my father's left hand, somehow reassured to find that it was still tough and callused.
I spoke to him. I tried to talk to him as I would have had he been conscious. I told him that I was happy that we had had a chance to spend some time together in the past few years. I talked about the time that we went to "The Third Rail" for a couple of beers and how maybe he had been trying to tell me something, but I hadn't understood. I told him that I loved him and that, no matter what happened, I would do everything I could to help take care of little Erva, my baby half-brother. I talked about little things, like the weather. When we would speak on the phone, he would almost always ask me about what the weather wherever I was and tell me what the weather was like in New Hampshire. This was not really small talk for him: it was something in which he was genuinely interested.
When I was done, I did not want to leave him alone while I called in someone else. I went to the curtain which was pulled across the entrance to the room and peaked around it. Susan was not far away and I asked her to come back in.
I made my way back out through the maze of doors and passageways, back to the waiting room where my sisters--minus Susan--and aunts were, as well as Doug and Steve. I told them about my very long voyage, including my unfortunate excursion to Bangor, Maine. I told them about the guilt that I had felt when I took the time to purchase the grapefruit juice at the car rental place. Deb immediately was reminded of the "Sienfeld" episode where Elaine bought Ju-Ju Fruits at the movie theater after she learned her boyfriend had been in a car accident, which was precisely what I had been thinking of at the time of my purchase. We laughed about this and about other things and I believe that everyone was thankful for this distraction and release. Alice and Linda fell asleep on the floor. Steve helped me make some coffee and I drank a cup.
Eventually, the little group broke up, because everyone had been up all night and needed at least a little sleep. Deb and Alice went to one of the rooms in the hospital where there are beds for visitors. Aunt Marilyn and Aunt Bev went back to their hotel. Doug and Linda went out to their car. Having slept some during my trip, I did not feel that I needed to sleep just then. I went for a walk alone around the hospital.
The place was very quiet. It was about 4:30 in the morning. I walked down to the large lobby. I saw the grand piano, but thought that it would probably be too early to make that kind of noise. Instead, I sat in one of the chairs along the wall and looked through some issues of a Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical School alumni magazine. I saw articles about men who had graduated from Dartmouth and been successful in the medical profession. Some were men who were older than my father and still alive. A few people came through the main entrance, hospital employees. I walked down the hall, past the closed shops of the little food court, down to the bathroom, where I splashed some water on my face. The sweater and jeans that I was wearing, I had been wearing since I left my apartment and I was beginning to feel unclean. Additionally, I needed a shave.
I went back up to the Critical Care waiting room and hung around there and in the hallway outside for awhile. Steve was there and we leaned on the railing that overlooked the food court and talked a bit. At some point, when I thought that it would be late enough, I called Susan's place so that I could speak to my mother and let her know that I was in the area. My mother had recently moved into Susan's apartment. She was quick to add that her living there was temporary. She had been living with one of the women where she worked in a trailer in Plainfield, but I believe the woman decided to sell the trailer. Susan was having a hard time paying her rent. She had gotten married in June and by this point she had already been separated from her husband, Tim, for a couple of months. As it turned out, my mother moved in with Susan at a very good time. She was able to watch Susan's girls some of the time. I caught her that morning before she went to work. I tried to tell her how we understood that this must be very difficult for her and that we children wished that she could be there. This was something that my sisters and I had talked about. My mother started to say something about how she was not surprised by what had happened to my father, given the way that he tried to work as though he were a young man. I tried to explain to her that his current condition really was not a result of that and I tried to steer off the subject, telling her that I understood how she felt and sympathized, but that that was not the sort of thing that I wanted to hear just then. She said that she did not feel it was her place to be at the hospital, but that if he died, there was nothing that would stop her from attending the funeral. I was very glad to hear that. I told her that I wasn't sure exactly when I would see her, but that I would see her as soon as I could. I suggested that maybe one of us children could have lunch with her.
After I finished my call, I went back to the waiting room and paced around there some more. Eventually, Doug, Linda, and Deb, showed up I went with them and Steve to get some breakfast. I was very short on cash so I had to ask Deb and Steve to help me out. As we sat there at the table talking, I felt that we were very downtrodden and pitiful. I felt resentful of the fresh, clean hospital staff--the doctors, nurses, technicians--who were sitting together talking cheerfully. How could they be cheerful when there were people like us around, going through the ordeal that we were?
When we had finished breakfast, we went back to my father's room. Susan was still there, keeping her vigil. Katy came by and those of us who were around talked with a couple of the surgeons who had operated on my father. The primary surgeon was not there, but the two men with whom we spoke seemed to fully understand the situation. They also seemed quite caring and frank without being cold. Although they were obviously very knowledgeable, they did not talk down to us. They explained to us about dissection of the aorta and about my father's current condition. Apparently, the prognosis was not at all good. Some of his organs--including his liver and his kidneys--were not functioning properly. They explained to us that there was no way of artificially replicating the function of the liver. Also, they told us that, in terms of kidney function, dialysis was not a good option because it usually caused the blood pressure to decrease and my father's blood pressure was already very low, too low to sustain such a drop. They could continue to sustain life for some period of time--perhaps hours or even a day--using machines and medication, but in the end, the result would almost certainly be the same. Dr. Sanders, one of the surgeons, seemed particularly concerned make sure that he answered any questions we might have. He appeared to be an older man, although still quite vital, healthy looking. He was perhaps in his fifties, or even as old as my father.
The doctors that morning were telling us, in essence, that it was just a matter of time--indeed, a short amount of time--until my father died, and that although there were measures that they could take that might protract his life by a few hours, the final outcome would be the same. Given this fact, they suggested that we might want to consider making the decision for them to not do anything additional medically for my father, and even possibly reduce the medication that they were already giving him. They assured us that he was already insentient, that he would feel absolutely no pain or discomfort as a result of them not going further or even backing off medically. Those of us who were there agreed that this was not a decision that we should make by ourselves, that we would like to all of us to gather together--with the doctors present as well--to decide what course to take. We asked one of the interns if such a gathering could be arranged and he said that it could, but that the schedule of surgery made it difficult for him to give us a precise time when the surgeons could attend. He suggested that late morning might be the best time, since that time would be between sessions of surgery.
Earlier in the morning, before the family had broken up to try to get a little rest, we had spoken of problems that might arise concerning Katy after my father died. We were unsure of the status of my father's life insurance policy. Indeed, since the final divorce papers had only arrived in the mail the day before my father's surgery, there were a number of personal matters left unresolved. My sisters also told me that Katy had said something about how my father had told her that he wanted to be cremated. The Roman Catholic religion in which we were raised is adamantly opposed to cremation and so, my sisters were worried by Katy's remark. I pointed out that legally, Katy had no rights concerning what would happen to my father's remains. But we were all worried about the Katy question. She is very opinionated and we were not at all sure if her opinions would even come close to matching our own concerning issues that were very important to us.
Not long after our little meeting with the doctors--at which time we decided that we wanted to have a meeting later with everyone present--my Uncle Gary called. I asked to speak to him. Gary is an attorney in the Washington, DC area. He sounded very upset. I updated him on the situation and also talked with him about some concerns that we had regarding legal issues. He assured us that if he could help in any way, that he would be more than happy to do so.
Doug and I went for a walk. We went down to the hospital's bookstore and then to the food court. It was nice to talk with him and draw a little support. I explained that I felt as though I was assuming something of a leadership role in the family and that I wasn't sure if I was entirely up to the job. He told me that I was doing a good job. When we went to food court, I suddenly saw someone that I knew: Mr. Saadah--my high school physics teacher--and his wife. They were there to get some shots, but had accidentally showed up on the wrong day. He could not remember my name right away, but he was happy to see me and very surprised. We talked for quite awhile. He told me again that our class was the best one that he had when he was at Orford and that after that, they got steadily worse. They told me about Cynthia Thomson who apparently got a job as a nanny for a family that lived in Colorado. The mother had died and eventually, Cynthia and the father fell in love and married. The Saadahs went to the wedding and although initially they were concerned about the age difference between Cynthia and this man, they were won over when they saw how she interacted with him and with the children. I explained to them why I was there at the hospital. They expressed their sympathy, but they somehow did not seem to fully understand the gravity of the situation, or maybe at a certain age, some people become somewhat inured to terminal illness and death.
When I left the Saadahs, I walked back up to the waiting room. Suzanne Woodward, my godmother came by. She had heard about what happened to my father and wanted to give her support and see if there was anything she could do. I had not seen her in years. Uncle George and Uncle Hal also showed up and I was happy to see both of them. I talked with Hal a bit about what had been going on and he very sympathetic. Uncle George and I mostly stayed on other subjects: their trip up here, my job. We talked about the Force XXI experiment in which my battalion had been participating. George enjoys talking with me, because not long ago, he retired from Raytheon where he had helped develop the Patriot missile and I think he misses being able to talk about his work with someone who at least sort of understands. As we were talking, I found my mind wandering, but was still grateful for the opportunity to temporarily think about something other than what had been going on. Some of us--including my aunts and uncles--went down to the cafeteria for lunch.
Everyone but Uncle George and Uncle Hal was there for the meeting that afternoon. The hospital staff arranged for us to use a room very close to my father's room. A couple of the surgeons were there, including Dr. Sanders. There was a Catholic priest and a Protestant minister who were both chaplains at the hospital. A neurologist was also present to answer any questions that we might have concerning brain function. It was difficult to tear Susan away from my father's bedside. We all sat around a couple of big, rectangular, conference tables. The doctors explained that this meeting was for us to discuss what should be done and to provide an opportunity for them to answer any questions that we might have. They emphasized that they were only there to facilitate and answer questions and that they were not trying to dictate to us what we should do. We all agreed with them, that we wanted to make any decisions as a family, and we thanked them for providing us with this opportunity to meet and help us to come to terms with what was happening.
We talked for about a half hour. Everyone who wished to speak was afforded an opportunity. Naturally, I spoke too much. Once again we came to an understanding that there really was not very much that we could do or have the doctors do for my father. It came down to whether we should have them continue on the course that they were or whether we should have them reduce the amounts of medication slightly, thereby possibly speeding the inevitable result: my father's imminent death. The doctors told us that he was in no pain whatsoever then, nor would he be in any if they were to reduce the medication. In spite of all the advancements that have occurred in medicine, in that room we realized that there was very little that could be done for my father and still, we had the illusion of making a decision. To some extent, we fooled ourselves into believing that we were making choices that mattered. Some, Susan particularly, did not want to reduce the amount of medication. Dr. Sanders said that we did not need to, but nor would we increase what was being done and, he estimated, my father would probably die within a matter of hours. We thanked the doctors again for making time for us in their busy schedules, for their patience and compassion.
When we left the meeting room, we gathered again at my father's bedside. Dickie Gray, a friend of my father's from the Lion's Club, was also in the room. The minister said a few words. We held hands and sang hymns, trying to remember ones that my father had liked. We also told stories about my father, how he had been special to us, or affected our lives. Linda told a story from when she was about seven or eight years old and how the family had gone out to the meadow in the summertime and then, when she got home how she had bathed and put on some powder, the smell of which she particularly enjoyed, and then put on her nightgown and went to bed and how she had a wonderful feeling that everything was right with the world. The smell of that powder, she said, still reminds her of that time and that feeling which is linked with our father. Alice was next and told of how one time when we were living at Indian Pond, she was home sick from school and dad came home in his truck. As she was looking out the window, she noticed that his truck was rolling down the driveway. Apparently, he had not set the parking break. With a smile on his face, he chased the truck down the driveway, caught it and put the break on. It was just that moment and his unlikely reaction which stuck in her mind. Deborah remembered a more recent time when she had taken her sons to visit my father at the farm where he worked and he had taken the boys out to see the cows. Deb said that she had always been afraid of cows and still sort of was, but that she still enjoyed the joy that he took in introducing his grandsons to this piece of nature which he loved so much. Katy related another story from the farm of how my father went out for a walk in the meadow and came back to tell her all of the things that he had seen, all of the small details that he had noticed which were very important to him. When my turn arrived, I spoke of the time--I believe it was the Christmas of 1991--when I had come home to visit my parents and one night dragged my father out to have a beer with me at the Third Rail. What I did not say is that, thinking back to that time, I believe that my father may have been trying to hint to me that he was unhappy with his life.
As we waited there by the bedside, my fatherâ's breathing became more and more labored. A couple of times the machines seemed to indicate that he was about to die and then his signs would recover somewhat, but his blood pressure had lowered throughout the day. It was easy to become fixed on the machines, to hang on each digit that changed. Eventually, I found myself wishing for the end, when the lines would go straight and the numbers go to zero. At some point in this waiting my mother called and I spoke with her. She mentioned that no one had gone to lunch with her. I told her what was going on. She asked about whether Susan had made arrangements for her daughters for that evening, since she would not be able to watch them because she was playing bingo. I told her that I would find out. In my father's room there was much crying. Even Dickie Gray was in tears. Finally, at just after 5 P. M., Erva Barnes died.