In the movies, relatives gather around for last words from their dying loved one. They lean in for that last pearl of wisdom or poignant plea for forgiveness. Real life is a little different.
Lawrence Vincent on his 91st birthday
My sister Cathy bent over my father’s bedside and said, “Dad we all love you. We’ll always love you.”
The shipwrecked form on the bed responded, “Yeah, yeah, yeah…” and a few moments later, “Phony baloney!”
By then, I had figured out it was best to keep final words to a minimum. So I sat on the other side of the bed holding his hand, the skin thin and blue as an airmail envelope, the veins protruding like tributaries to the tips of his fingers. I could still feel his pulse. I anchored on that.
He kept trying to get out of the bed. “I gotta get outta here,” he said, grasping the railings trying to pull himself up, then yanking the plastic oxygen lines out of his nose.
“You’re gonna get outta here, Dad,” I said, “but you can’t get out of this bed.”
“Help me! I want to go,” he begged.
“We are helping you,” my brother Paul said. “You have to take this journey on your own, Dad.”
“Can’t you just push me over?” His milky blue eyes were pleading, barely focused.
We looked at each other. OK, who’s going to handle this one?
“No, Dad,” Paul said.
“We could put you out on an ice floe,” I said, “but I don’t think they have those in the Hudson River.”
My father actually looked at me hopefully as if I could go find an ice floe, transport him there, and make this whole damn death thing proceed a little faster.
That was the scene at my father’s bedside on Tuesday, February 12. My siblings and I left the next day, returning to lives, jobs, and families in Ohio and California.
For the next three weeks Dad’s agitation ebbed and flowed, but his children were not there to witness it. Instead, we got reports by phone from the angels at the Actors Fund Home in Englewood, New Jersey, who administered Roxynol and Atavan, bathed and changed him, and sat by his beside to comfort him.
Dying is no picnic, and when the cause is Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease, it’s a fight for every morsel of precious oxygen.
My father died peacefully this morning, at the age of 92, with one of the nurses at his side. A few hours later, I spoke with his favorite nurse, Lisa. She called him “My Larry,” and often told him they were going to get married.
“I loved seeing the terror on his face,” she joked. “He thought I really meant it.”
Lisa visited him for the last time yesterday, rubbed his head, and told him she was there with him. He could no longer speak, but he gave a little groan.
Love is complicated. It includes holding the hand of a man who loved me deeply and harmed me terribly when I was too young to defend myself. My heart was wide open to my Dad as he lay dying, and that is simply a miracle. I’m sorry we couldn’t be with him at the very end, but we were there when he could still talk and enjoy the last morsel of dark chocolate I placed on his tongue.
When my brother asked Dad what he saw when he was gazing intently at the ceiling, as dying people do, Dad didn’t skip a beat. He shrugged and said, “Quien sabe?” Who knows? In the face of life’s great mysteries, my father never lost his sense of humor.
I practically fell off the side of his bed I laughed so hard. This is how I will remember Lawrence Vincent whose motto was “Happiness above all,” and whose frailty and love sent me into the hall to weep with my forehead pressed against the cool tiles, nurses passing tiny paper cups of medicine behind me.
So sorry for the loss of your father Ellie. Once again, you have the ability to chose 5 – 10 simple words for a sentence and string them together making the loveliest necklace of all.
Lovely words. I felt I was there observing some of those private moments. Thanks for sharing these moments with us.
Lovely tribute to your dad whom I’m sorry to have never met. I hope I go out with some chocolate on my tongue. Reminded me of the last time I saw my mom alive after she had spoken on the phone with the resident “born again” in our family. After she handed me back the phone, I asked what my cousin had said to her and she replied, “Come to Jesus and all that crap!” I encourage you to tweak this and submit for a KQED Perspective or in NYT Sunday Magazine piece-it’s too good not to get out more in the world.
I worked with your father at the Kenley Players and at CCC . He was so kind to all of us backstage. Larry Vincent received our respect and made us smile warmly. It has been good to read your thoughts on this posting. Thank you , Bill Stabile
Bill,
Thank you for your comments – I’m so glad Dad brought humor and integrity to the work at Kenley Players. I know he loved every moment of it. I can only attempt to emulate his work ethic. He was amazing. Paul has submitted an obituary to the Cleveland Plain Dealer and the papers in Northern New Jersey, and of course we mention Kenley among the many places Dad worked. Be well!
A friend called to tell me of Larry’s passing just an hour ago. Have been searching for a printed notice of his death to learn more of the details but to no avail. Somehow I managed to accidentally type in the words that took me to this posting. Though we were personal friends for many years, I knew of but had never met his family. I extend my condolences to all of you. Such a brilliant man, so vigorous and enthusiastic about his loves and beliefs; and so very much his own person. I feel honored to have known Larry and have been missing having him in my life for such a long time now. His death will not make much of a difference since I will simply continue to miss him — he was the kind of person you just never can forget.
Janice,
Thank you for this beautiful tribute to my father. He was – and is – unforgettable. He was fortunate to have good friends like you. I will share your condolences with my brother and sister.
Beautiful sentiments. The details make him and your experience so real. Thank you for sharing Mr. Larry with us. It is so wonderful you were with him while he still had his sense of humor and could speak. I am deeply sorry for your loss. xoxo
Thank you, Madeline. Dad was memorable up to the last moments of his life. Plenty of material to work with!
Once again I am astonished at your ability to capture all that you have observed and participated in this last month…..wow. For anyone who has done this too (been with a loved one as they proceeded through this journey) I truly believe that your “How We Die” has nailed it on the head.
Wow.
Patti,
Thank you! Finding words for all that has happened is a little like dipping my hand into a grab bag and coming up with a prize. There’s so much! You have been a big part of that. There’s more to say, but for now, just know how grateful I am for our visit and your words.