He Ain't Heavy - He's My Brother

Originally Written June 2017                                              

 

It is late afternoon Friday, June 16^th.  I’m sitting next to Steve’s bed and watching him sleep.  By “sleep,” I mean, he is resting comfortably, his glassy eyes are sort of closed, and his breathing is slow, but even.  His lips sort of “puff” in and out like he’s snoring; however, he makes no noise.  His forehead is warm, but his hands and arms are cool.  He is in the third day of being unresponsive.  He refused food and medication four days ago.  We tried giving him water then, but he couldn’t swallow.  The water just dribbled down his chin.  I gave him his last chocolate malt Wednesday afternoon.  Six small spoonfuls of thinned ice cream. The ice cream just melted in his mouth.

 

Steve is still a tall man.  But, so thin.  His hair is oily and his beard could use a trim.  I bought a can of dry shampoo and used it on his hair.  He looks so much better now.  I wipe his lips with a sponge soaked in cold ice water.  I want to think that he feels the coolness and that it feels good.  

 

I spent some “alone time” with Steve this morning.  Not very long.  Maybe a half an hour before Steve’s sons Brian and Matt arrive.  I didn’t plan on this time; it just happened that I arrived sooner than the boys.  But, I’m so glad I had that special time. I just held Steve’s hand and talked to him.  For the next couple of days, I tried not to “hover” so both Matt and Brian could have his own special alone time with him.  It’s only been a few hours since I had my alone time with him; but, for the life of me, I can’t remember what I said.  

 

I do know that I did not tell him that it was “okay to let go.”  Why? Because I am selfish.  Steve is ready – my goodness, he is ready.  But, I’m not. He used to be very witty and would act out the funny things that happened to him.  And even though he cannot speak now, I still want to hear his stories.  I know he hears me.  Now and then he will sort of smile.  Maybe it is a grimace because he is uncomfortable and not really a smile.  I don’t know.  But, I’d like to think it is his way of telling me that he hears me.  I let the nurse know that he needs more morphine. 

 

The Hospice RN, Chaplain, music therapist and home health aide have been terrific.  Ellen, the RN, explained everything to us.  What to expect.  What stage he is in now.  How much time did he have left?  She couldn’t say – because no one knows.  She just said “soon – no more than a couple of days.”  She gave us a small booklet that detailed what to expect when one is “near the end.”  I didn’t want to read it.  But, later the next day, I did.  Steve was close.  I googled the word “mottling.”  He had mottling on his feet and knees.  It would later reach his arms, hands, and face at the end.

 

Brian stayed with Steve in his room Friday night.  I came Saturday morning and decided to read to Steve.  I had given him my book of stories that I created a few years ago.  The first section covered “The Vogel Years” growing up in Forest Lake.  

 

I read him stories about his dog, Butch – a sort-of golden retriever who loved to chase trains.  Our sister, Joanne, and I would dress Butch up with mittens, an apron, jewelry and a scarf.  As soon as he heard the train’s whistle, he’d jump out the porch screen door and chase the train.  Butch went on vacations with us to our cabin up north.  Butch was Steve’s dog since he got him when Butch was a puppy.  Steve gave him a 21-gun salute with his BB-gun when Butch died.  Steve has had many dogs since then, but Butch was his first and the finest.

 

As I read through other stories about our odd Christmas trees that our Grandpa would always cut down for us, our State Fair adventures, and the 4^th of July celebrations, I reminisced about Steve’s awful years having to take swimming lessons the first week in June at 8:00 in the morning in the lake and also how he hated riding the school bus with his two sisters.  Steve was always so embarrassed with our antics.  I remember always throwing my shoes at Steve whenever he teased me (which was almost every day).  Of course, I threw like a girl and all he had to do was move a few inches to the left or the right and never get hit!  And then he’d laugh and laugh!  Oh – what I would give to hear him laugh again.

 

I was fifteen when Steve signed up to serve in the Navy.  Lucky Steve – he missed the worse of my awful teen years!  He spent five years on a Destroyer – the USS BLUE – and enjoyed many times in Japan.  He returned when I was out of high school and worked at 3M.  He was my hero – he looked so good in his uniform.  

 

He got a job at Univac in the Payroll department and retired from that company many years later.  Steve fell in love with a young gal he met at Univac, Melanie Pasket.  They married and had two sons – Brian and Matt.  They settled on a hobby farm near Ellsworth, Wisconsin.  Steve carpooled to Eagan to continue his job at Univac – then it was called Unisys – and maybe other names - ending up as Lockheed Martin.

 

He started noticing the symptoms of Parkinson’s after he retired.  However, it took five-to-six years before he received a final diagnosis.  He had Progressive Supranuclear Palsy – or PSP for short.  The major difference?  Instead of tremors, Steve’s muscles would freeze up.  Eventually, all of his muscles would remain frozen and of course, the heart is a muscle.  Melanie died ten years ago from cancer – just as Steve’s PSP symptoms were getting quite noticeable and worse.  Steve stayed on the farm by himself for 1-1/2 years after Melanie died.  An accident when he was burning leaves forced him into assisted living.  Norm and I were able to visit him at least once a month and loved taking him for field trips to various bars and cafes in Wisconsin.  Oh, how he loved to eat!  

 

But, the assisted living centers could no longer give him the extra care he needed so, about 2-1/2 years ago, he moved back to Minnesota to an advanced care center to be closer to me and his son, Matt.  Caring for Steve was never a burden.  I was so glad he was closer so I could see him two-to-three times a week – or more.  I was his medical POA and I’ve lost count as to the times I authorized an ambulance ride to Mercy Hospital.  It was my privilege to care for him.  I feel very honored to have been able to care for Steve all these years.  As the song goes..... "He ain't heavy; he's my brother."

 

Sunday, June 18, 2017 - Father’s Day.  Both Brian and Matt stayed over Saturday night in Steve’s room.  When I left the night before, I kissed him goodbye and said something to him.  I honestly do not remember what I said. But, he raised both eyebrows.  I know he heard me.  I knew then that he had heard all of the stories I had read to him!  I knew he heard me tell him I loved him.

 

I called Brian to see how Steve had done overnight and told him we would be there soon.  A couple of minute’s later, Brian called back and said that Matt and he had turned on the light and said, “Happy Father’s Day” to Steve and then noticed that the mottling had gone to his hands and face.  Norm and I rushed out the door to the car.  By the time we were in the car, Brian called again and said that he was gasping for breath.

 

The famous Vogel lead foot kicked into gear and I said out loud: “Lord, please give me all green lights!”  He did.  I ran into Steve’s room.  Brian moved away so I could be next to Steve.  I kissed his forehead, rubbed his hair and face, said,  “I love you, Steve” and I watched him take one more breath.  That was his last one.  I know he waited for me.

 

He is finally out of that crippled body and I can visualize him walking, talking, laughing, and running to his wife, Melanie, and to our parents – who, I know are welcoming him with open arms.