My Dad’s Heart Beat About 3,423,772,800 Times, Then it Gave Up and Now I Finally Understand the Power of Hope in a Resurrection

Stucky  /  The Burning Platform

I am talking about this man’s heart below, my father. I ask you; is he not a most dapper looking fellow?

I have a few things to say about his death, especially his last 24 hours, and how it affected me. I don’t have anything interesting or profound to say. Really. Not my goal. Thoughts have been flying in and out of my mind at an insane level this past week … imagine each thought as a drop of water flowing over the Niagara Falls. It’s like that. Good memories. Bad memories. Weird thoughts, and even mundane. So, there will be no logical progression with this thread followed by a neat tidy summary as is my usual method. Mr. Quinn graciously granted me the privilege to write whatever I feel like writing. So, I am writing these random thoughts only to preserve for my own posterity some memories still fresh in my mind which I do not want to forget … because memories fade over time, or worse, become altered.

“So, this is it?? This is what death looks like?? THIS IS ALL THERE IS??”

Holding my dead father’s hand this is what I thought over and over and over … for what? Ten minutes? Twenty? Time slowed down for me, then it sped up, for a while I existed in a timeless state of mind, almost disembodied. I heard nothing, felt nothing, saw nothing … except the dead body of my dad, while a million thoughts simultaneously stabbed at my brain..

I thought about him,deeply. A man is born into extreme poverty, and a horridly physically and mentally cruel home life, and escapes that. He is drafted into the German Army in WWII, gets shot and survives that, and winds up as a prisoner of war, and escapes from that. He works as an indentured servant in Scottish coal mines and escapes from that. He goes to Austria, meets his bride, but due to tough economic conditions has to leave behind all he knows and loves and come to a strange land far away where he knows no one. He works his ass off to save, buy a small house, and have a little money left over for retirement. Then he dies. That’s it? This is what life is about? Work, work, work, suffer, laugh a bit and love a bit, then die. That’s all there is? You mean to tell me that I will never laugh with my dad again?? What a damned cruel universe! Then again, is the universe obliged to acknowledge our existence, much less give it meaning?

A man said to the universe

“Sir, I exist!”

“However,” replied the universe, “The fact does not create in me a sense of obligation”

Stephen Crane, The Red Badge Of Courage

“O death, where is thy sting?” —- 1 Cor 15:55

I’ll tell you where the sting is.

“Recall your favorite memory: the big game you won; the moment you first saw your child’s face; the day you realized you had fallen in love. It’s not a single memory, though, is it? Reconstructing it, you remember the smells, the colors, the funny thing some other person said, and the way it all made you feel.

Your brain’s ability to collect, connect, and create mosaics from these milliseconds-long impressions is the basis of every memory. By extension, it is the basis of you”

—– Your Brain Doesn’t Contain Memories. It IS Memories.

Dad’s brain had about 100 billion neurons (even the heart has neurons!). Each neuron could be connected to 10,000 other neurons. These neurons pass signals to each other via synaptic connections … as many as 1,000 trillion of them! Some estimate the memory capacity of the human brain can be as high as 1,000 terabytes (by comparison, the 19 million volumes in the Library Of Congress represents only 10 terabytes of data).

Somewhere in that vast network my dad’s brain remembered the very first time he met my mother, about 65 years ago, even the clothes she was wearing (for he told me so), even though that moment in time lasted only seconds. And within seconds of his heart stopping to pump blood, those brain cells also died. Dad’s body is there in front of me but, the him that made him him, is already gone. Within hours, or is it minutes (?), decay is already ravaging that wonderful organ. Mom is still alive, but not in dad’s brain.

What am I to think? That dad’s 1,000 terabytes of memories at the moment of death are stored somewhere so he can be reanimated at some future time? Where? Heaven? How? A gigantic storage device? How does God go about this storage process? Or, are dad’s millions of memories in God’s mind, and God can just recreate them in total whenever He wants?   Is there something called a “spiritual body” with a “spirit brain” that is an exact duplicate of dad’s earthly body? But, a duplication, no matter how perfect, is never the original, is it? What if I want my original dad is back?  Will the atoms and patterns be resurrected, or just the patterns? One day I pissed off dad so much that he punched me in the head. Really. Will that memory be saved … or only good memories? And if only good memories, is it really dad? So many questions, so few answers. It’s been almost a week now. I’m pretty sure dad’s brain is turning to gray mush.  That’s the sting of death.

Am I being to dramatic? After all, many here have experienced the death of immediate family members. Some of you were even children when you were introduced to death. It’s a bit different for me. Plenty of my family members died. But, I was barely out of diapers when we came to this country, the three of us; dad, mom, and me. I have never personally experienced the death of an immediate family member. It is shocking and life changing, even though I am in my early 60’s.  In fact, it might be worse .. especially since I think so much about it … than if dad would have died when I was a teenager … although that’s just a guess. Nevertheless, it has been a life-changing and mind-altering experience for me.  Having now joined the club that has seen and tasted death up close and personal, I frankly don’t know who the death of a beloved would not change a person.

Dad’s last 24 hours.

“Jeez.  I don’t think dad even knows he’s dying. Should we tell him?”

The morning before he died, Dad pushed his covers back and, unbelievably, he tried to get out of bed. He said he wanted to make breakfast for himself and mom, as was his custom. On more than one occasion he made other comments about his future;  how he wanted to go to the liquor store to get some German beer (“surely, we must need some by now”), or that he wanted to make it to the German singing club practice on Saturday (“I bet they miss my voice”).

We all decided not to tell him. It seemed the most kind thing to do. Also, how in the heck do you say it”  “Hey, dad. You know I love you but I got some bad news for you. You’re gonna be dead soon!”  Ummm, no thanks. Yet, I’ll forever wonder until my own demise — (boy, oh boy, the REALITY of my own death … I have far more years behind me than in front of me … has never been clearer!) — if I/we did the right thing.

Yet, about 8 hours before he died, he cried out quite loudly in pain for about 10-15 seconds. It was his right arm. I quickly massaged it until the pain went away.  I suspect he was getting cramps due to his not drinking enough water.  He was so discouraged. He asked why this is happening now because he never experienced pain in that arm before. I simply told him that if he would just drink more water then it won’t happen again.  He looked at me sadly and said; “Alles wirt gebrochen, Nikilein. Und so geht mein Leben zu Ende.”  — Meaning;  ‘Everything is breaking. And this is how my life comes to an end.’.

It is one of the very last things he said to me. I think he knew. At least at the end. Then he fell asleep, again. For which I was grateful. Because I wept bitterly for a long time, and not the last time.

“I think we made a mistake bringing him home. Maybe we should have put him in the hospice center.”

That’s what mom said after a few days. I don’t blame her. Sure, the hospice nurse came to the home once a week, and the nurse’s aid came every day for two hours. That was nice, helpful, and appreciated.  But, caring in home for a dying loved one is a 24-hour a day job.  It is very very difficult.

It’s not even about the work and lack of sleep. It’s the emotional toll of seeing your loved one literally waste away before your eyes. I condemn no one who elects to put their loved one in a hospice facility. My dad was a house painter for a long time. Standing on ladders for 8-10 hours a day, sometimes 7 days a week, resulted in a man with very very strong arms and legs! And, now, here he is laying in the bed, weighing 130 pounds and looking like a concentration camp victim. How many can handle that?

When my dad was still peeing and pooping — although even that stopped in the last week — it was me who pulled down his pants, and wiped his behind. We were never a touchy-feely family, not too many hugs even, so doing this was quite a shock to me. Well, only the first couple of times. After that, I counted it as a privilege to help my dad in the most private of human endeavors. His poop and my hand brought us closer than ever!

I was with him the last 30 hours of his life. He couldn’t even swallow water! So, every 15 minutes he would cry out that his mouth was “dry as dust”, and all I could do for him was put a few drops of water in his mouth, and then take this wet mini-sponge on a stick the hospice folks left with us to rub the inside of his mouth and tongue.

Then I would go to the back room to rest a bit for I was so exhausted from the days previous.  He calls out again.  And one time I think to myself; “Oh, sweet Jesus, not again!”. So, I waited a couple minutes before I went to him. I am ashamed of this, and will regret it the rest of my life!  But, as I said, I’m writing this to preserve memory … accurate memory … and, so, there’s no sugar-coating my despicable act.

The last three hours or so, he cried out for drops of water every five minutes, or less. Really.  I highly doubt even a hospice center can give that amount of time and care to a patient. How could they? Dad would have died being thirsty.  So, I’m glad we had him at home. I’d do it all over again, regardless of the emotional cost.

There’s also this; — “To bear witness to a loved one’s death is an extraordinary gift. It’s a gift from the person, to allow you to be there as they transform into something else. To be shown death! To be shown how to die! What greater gift is there?”  You can read that article here;

The Extraordinary Gift Of Watching Someone You Love Die

“Yes. I remember that!  That was funny!”

That was dad.  When he did open his eyes, I tried to engage him in speaking by recalling fun memories.  We had a small TV at the foot of the bed. He liked watching the 10 o’clock news, … and soccer.  We had a Roco device so we could also watch YouTube vids. I found one with highlights of the old NY Cosmos soccer club.  I said to dad; — “Remember the time we saw Pele score two goals, and on the second goal you got so excited that you jumped up and down … with the umbrella in your hand, and you stabbed the guy in the head in front of us, and how he wanted to start a fight with you until the guy saw that I was with you?”  (To those who don’t know me, I’m 6’7″ and back in the early 80’s I was fairly fit.) Oh, my oh my, that brought a huge huge smile to my dad’s face!  This was dad’s last smile.

That is not to say dad was in pain.  Except for the occasional cramp, and as the end approached the tips of his fingers hurt him (there were turning purple, literally), he was in no pain whatsoever.  He died a very painless death. And he never lost his mental faculties, not even a tiny little bit. For that I am eternally grateful to the good Lord.

“What the hell?? Did I just hasten my dad’s death????”

The nurse’s aid came that day to change sheets, dad’s pajamas, and give him a shave.  After she left I said to John (my sister’s husband) that Dad has now been in bed for over almost a week, so why don’t we put him in the wheelchair and take him through the house.

So, we did. As we did he cried out “Help me! I’m falling! Help me!”. He even said it once he was in the chair.  So, I bent over him and said; — “Papa, don’t you worry about it, OK? You know I’m strong enough to carry you. You know I would never ever ever let you fall. Right?”  He gave me a slight smile. That was good enough for me.  Little did I know it would be the last words we would speak to each other.  I HATE myself for not adding …”because I love you.”

We rolled him into the kitchen.  One of the reasons I wanted to give him a house tour of his house is because he was slightly delusional;  he kept saying he wanted to “come inside” and that he wanted to “go home”. When we reminded him that he was inside, and that he was home, he would roll his eyes and wink and say “Ach, I am such a dumpkopf in my old age.” Clowning around even as he’s dying.

So, we’re in kitchen.  I immediately notice  change in his disposition. His eyes are a bit glazed over and not focusing.  He didn’t react much to being in his favorite room. Rolled him through the house and ended in the TV room. A soccer game was on. No reaction.  He just closed his eyes, and slumped his head on his chest, breathing a little heavier than I liked.

Well, I had been up 30 hours.  So, I decided to go to the mansion (1 mile away) to freshen up and make dinner before returning. I was making steamed asparagus and buffalo burgers.  I get a call from my sister. She’s not saying a word, just crying hysterically. I knew. I’m over there in three minutes. Dad died while she was trying to take his blood pressure. Dad in the wheelchair in the kitchen, her on the floor with her head on dad’s lap sobbing hysterically, John holding on to her, and I let out a primal scream such as you’ve never heard before.

I wanted to be there when dad died!!!!!   I wanted to hold his hand!!! Instead, I’m home making a f*****g hamburger!!!  I hate myself for this. Not to mention that dad might have lived a day or so longer had I not put stress on his heart by taking him out of bed.  I know this may not be logical, but I don’t give a damn. These two things will haunt me the rest of my life.

Christine and John eventually went to the back room for reasons I won’t state here (but, I will never forget).  So, it’s just me and mom.  Dad’s head is of course, slumped down on his chest. Mom asks me to put him in bed, so she can see his face.

No problem. I wheel dad to the living room where the hospital bed is. No problem. Except I’ve never picked up a dead man before. No problem lifting him up out of the chair. But, then the “dead weight” kicks in as I approach the bed. I almost let him fall to the ground. I have to grab his pajama pants to lift him up. Do you understand what happened?  His arms, legs, and head were flopping all over the place.  It was freaking horrible. I felt like I was hurting him … stupid as that sounds.

And when he was in bed, I put my right arm behind his head, my left arm across his chest, and put my cheek on his cheek, and cried a good long time. I hummed to him over and over “Amazing Grace” … the Cherokee Indian version which I showed him three weeks ago, and which he loved and sang loudly throughout the day.

My dad’s obituary is below. I apologize for the political sidetrack, but I just have to say this. On the way into the library to finish this up I heard Sean Hannity (cuz I no longer have Sirius radio). He was going on and on about Trump — how it just doesn’t matter not even one little tiny bit who Donald Trump had sex with; that it is a personal matter and doesn’t interfere with his duties as a President. First of all, Sean is a raving lunatic hypocrite for he was singing an entirely different song when Billy Boy was getting stimulated in the Oral Office. Then it mattered … a lot. Secondly, since when does a man’s character not matter? Have we sunk so low that we no longer care about such things?  If a man can not keep a solemn vow made to his beloved wife …  then how in the world can you trust him to keep his promises to you, a total stranger? I’d like to know the answer to that. My own dad was not a perfect man. Far from it. But, he was a good, decent, and honest man. If he stripped your wallpaper and found a hundred dollar bill glued to the wall, he would return it to you, even if you weren’t in the room when he discovered it. And, despite the rocky marriage between him and mom, he never not once ever cheated on her. It just wasn’t in him. He was a man of his word. He kept his promises, always. If Trump was half the man my dad was, he might actually have a chance at making America great again.

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Victor K., 92, passed away on Wednesday, March 21, 2018, surrounded by his loving family in his home. Victor was born in Chernivtsi, Romania, Sept. 19, 1925, to Eugenia and Josepf K. and was raised there until he was a teenager, then drafted into the Army during World War II. Following the war, Victor resided in Scotland for some time after World War II and then worked in a coal mine for three years before relocating to Austria, where he met his wife, Anna. While living in Europe, one of Victor’s proudest moments was becoming nationally recognized as master interior house painter by the European community, a notable status that takes a lot of time and dedication to achieve. He also became fluent in seven languages, which he learned simply by listening to others speak. Victor immigrated to Newark, N.J., and after many years of saving from his many jobs, he earned enough to buy his first house and moved to South Plainfield, N.J. in 1966. After arriving to the U.S., he became a machinist for the Ruesch Co. in Springfield, N.J., until his retirement. But after a year, Victor decided he needed to keep busy, and went back to work for many more years at Siemens. A dedicated, loving family man, his family was so appreciative and so proud of his committed work efforts he put forth to provide, support and care all of them. And he was so proud of his first home in South Plainfield so much he never wanted to leave and he never did. Victor had a beautiful voice and loved to sing. He sang at home for his children and his wife almost every day, and even for his cat, Bootsie. He loved to dance and he loved to laugh and never stopped joking around, even when life was difficult. He made everyone smile. He was a proud member of the Plainfield Gesang Turn Verein, a German singing club. He never missed a concert, and it brought him so much joy. Victor was also the bartender for all the events, and loved serving his favorite German beers, which he made sure everyone knew were brewed under strict German purity laws. In addition, Victor was a passionate soccer fan and followed both the German and U.S. national soccer teams. He was such a devout fan, he was interviewed by the local paper and made the front page during the World Cup. He loved following the New York Cosmos as well, and never missed a game. Anyone sitting near him had to duck and cover because when a goal was scored all his food and drinks went flying into the air with his happiness. He will be missed for all the joy and all the love he brought to every single person who was lucky enough to know him. Predeceased by his parents and sister, Valeria, Victor is survived by his beloved wife, Anna; daughter, Christine of Edison, N.J.; son, Nicholas; two grandchildren, David and Samuel, and four great-grandchildren. Honoring his wishes, all services are private. His children will plan a memorial to celebrate his life in the coming months.

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I’m going to see my dad again! I now see that Christianity is about Hope. Hope is such a beautiful thing. I know it makes no sense. I don’t care.  I know I may be irrational. I don’t care. I know it may be stupid dumb wishful pie-in-the-sky garbage. I don’t care. I know all the arguments against seeing dad again … I’ve made many of them here, including in this thread.  I don’t care.

I’m going to see dad again.

Because this can’t possibly be all there is.

https://www.theburningplatform.com/2018/03/26/my-dads-heart-beat-about-3423772800-times-then-it-gave-up-and-now-i-finally-understand-the-power-of-hope-in-a-resurrection/#more-173239

Read more great articles here: https://www.theburningplatform.com

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