Originally published June 15, 2018
Dad has spent much of the past two years relatively confined to home. Except for the occasional haircut and grocery store assignment from my Mom, the most he drove was down the driveway to the mailbox each day. Debilitating arthritis that chewed away at his back and hips, failing eyesight and a bladder loosened by treatment for prostate cancer years ago kept him mostly at home, where he loved to sit on the porch and read his Kindle. He once wondered aloud to my Mom, "What would I do without my Kindle?" He loved his Kindle so much that he had three. My Mom continued to travel a bit; Dad could manage short stints by himself, and I was able to stay with him when she went on mission trips or to visit her sisters for a week. Those weeks were, for me, as an adult child, a time to pay close attention to my Dad and appreciate his love for his family. In late May, Mom planned to come to Isabel's high school graduation, a three-day affair at St. Andrews-Sewanee School on the top of Monteagle Mountain. Isabel is the oldest grandchild who grew up on regular visits, meals and overnights with her Grandma and Papa, as she calls Dad. So my Mom was in tears when she called that Friday morning to say she couldn't come, because Dad had fallen while trying to get out of bed in the middle of the night.
Right, Isabel as the first-born grandchild. She had Papa wrapped around her tiny fingers.
My Mom comes from hardy Norwegian stock. She seldom cries. So when she does, it's heart wrenching. My Dad has fallen before, and has never broken anything. He's a soft faller, we joked. But this time it was different. He wasn't feeling well, and EMS had to be called in the middle of the night to help him up. It was the first time he couldn't get up by himself. They were both worried. I assured her that to be with Papa was the right thing to do. I cried with her; actually, when we both cried we knew it was time to hang up. Ain't nobody got time to cry. I couldn't be mad or sad about it, because it is life. It is the circle of life. My Dad was 83, and had outlived his Dad by a lifetime. When his Dad was 41 years old, he came home from work at the tire store in Whitefish, Montana, had lunch with his children, began to leave for work, stepped outside onto the porch, fell over and died. "That's how I want to go," my Dad once told me. "Quickly." My Mom and I speculated once that everyday after age 42 my dad might have thought he was on borrowed time. Still, he lived life simply and quietly, in service to his family and his church. I think he lived each day deliberately and with great respect. But I knew he did not want to linger between here and the hereafter. When it was his time, he wanted to get there. I get that. I'm the same way. I get that from him.
The 70s made everyone goofy.
One of the major disappointments of Mom not coming was that - under pressure from those of us in a younger, more cellular generation - she had recently purchased a new smartphone. Not one of those $19 ones, which she retired for this purchase, but a complex, multi-functional, high level phone that is not necessarily all that intuitive to a 77-year-old. Isabel had spent time with her on a break and on the phone coaching her how to use it. And Mom had been practicing with the camera, so she would be able to take good pictures at Isabel's graduation. Not yet able to tell the difference between a text message and a Facebook Direct Message (DM), Mom DMed me just a few hours later to tell me they were in the ER at the Greer Hospital, not the acute care hospital, but a smaller version of it closer to home. Mom had walked down to the mailbox at the bottom of the driveway and returned to find him on the floor in the bathroom, coiled around the toilet. Dad had fallen again, and while he was on the floor, his doctor's office called to check on him. The nurse instructed Mom to get him to the hospital. They needed to find out why he was falling. His left foot was swollen and red; it was an infection, something not uncommon in someone with diabetes. They expected him to be in the hospital for the week, so they could treat the infection. Not 24 hours later, he was transferred to the ICU because the infection had become septic. We had to look that word up. It meant the infection in his foot had infected his blood, and was carrying it to all his organs. My brother and his family had arrived in Sewanee by that time, to attend Isabel's graduation. He and Renee have three kids, triplets, who are 4 years younger than Isabel, and have, over the years, looked up to her. I'm gonna say they still do. The grew up together at Grandma and Papa's, going to "Camp Grandma" in the summer, the beach in July, Cooper River Bridge Run in April, and sharing regular meals over the years. Now that they're 14, it's difficult to tell when they're excited about anything, but I think they were excited to see a high school graduation. Karl, my brother, inherited my mother's Norwegian sensibilities. He doesn't say much.
Then came the triplets. They also wrapped Papa around each of their tiny fingers. Every year for about 10 of theirs we went to Isle of Palms each April for the Cooper River Bridge Run. Papa was chief babysitter while we ran the race.
We talked about Dad at the quiet end of the dinner table Saturday night. He knew that Papa had been put on a ventilator by that time. "This is serious," I told Karl. "Dad is really sick." Karl nodded his head. "I know," he said. "You have to go see him next week," I urged him. "I know," he said. We could not go home yet. We were scheduled to fly to Florida Monday for a job interview for Michael. I asked Mom if we should cancel. No, she said, it's for a job. That's her Norwegian sensibility. But, she added, come as soon as you can. The next morning, Dad was moved to the Critical Care Unit at the big hospital, downtown. Karl and I talked again. "You have to go see him tonight, as soon as you get in town," I told Karl. "I know," he said. Karl, Renee and the kids left right after graduation and lunch. They arrived in Greenville late that night, but visited Dad in the hospital. The ventilator tube had come out, but he was non-responsive and unable to communicate. Mom kept me updated during our trip through a variety of electronic means on her new phone. Breathing on his own, eyes closed, responsive to commands, not eating or drinking, intravenous food and hydration. Doctor was still estimating a recovery chance of 50 percent. He was still in CCU. But on Wednesday the palliative care team wanted to schedule a meeting Thursday with the family. Palliative care means: make him comfortable, we can't cure this condition. Mom pushed them until Friday, when both Karl and I could be there. Our plane landed in Chattanooga Thursday afternoon, and we drove straight to Mom's house in northern Greenville County. The next morning, we gathered ourselves and went to the hospital. Michael and I went first. Isabel and Grandma followed. Isabel and Grandma had to follow because they had to wait for the contractor to finish installing the glass door on their new shower. You see, this new shower - installing a modern tile shower in place of the 16-year-old plastic shower insert - had consumed my Dad since February. He needed more support in the shower as his physical condition deteriorated - handles and such - and, it was just time to update it. But a two-week project turned into months of work, and the wrong work at that: totally wrong color tile, mismatched plumbing, missing door hardware, and just the frustrating general malaise of contractors. It gave my Dad no end of grief, this shower, but also gave him something to work on. My Dad could manage a project. So with great joy Michael and I entered the room to announce to my Dad that "THE SHOWER IS FINISHED!!" His eyes were open, darting back and forth, and he panted for breath. His hands were hidden away in clinical mittens to prevent him from pulling at the nutrition tube in his nose, the oxygen tubes that layered over it, the wires leading to the pacemaker in his chest, or the IV tube stuck in veins on his arms. "CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?" Michael and I both laughed so we didn't cry. I put my cold hand on his arm, the bit of flesh not wrapped in sterile protection or taped to preserve a lifeline. His grey hair flew back from his head, a little long because he had been due to get a haircut that week. He still had a belly from years of my Mom's good cooking, despite a week of no food. He looked like my Dad, but, in his eyes, I don't think he was there, with us. Still, we talked and talked, about the shower, graduation, Florida, what might happen next. Mom and Isabel arrived, and Isabel, or, Isa-Bub as Dad affectionately called her, told him about graduation and working this summer and going to college in the fall. Mom leaned over and finger brushed his hair, and wiped a bit of spit from the corner of his mouth. Karl arrived. He touched Dad and uttered some Karlesque briefness. Michael said, as usual we swirled around him, talking and talking, as he quietly listened. Which is how it always was.
The palliative care team entered, and the palliative specialist Dr. Gomez, a small, young brown man, spoke very gently and lovingly to us. He didn't wear a sterile white physician's coat; rather, khakis, a plaid shirt and a fleece vest. It was like talking to a neighbor. The medicine was not beating the infection, and his kidneys were beginning to shut down. We could try dialysis, which, if it worked and allowed him to recover from the infection, meant he would have to go to dialysis 3 days a week for as long as he lived. This, for a man who only goes out for a haircut these days? This, for a man who wanted to die, quickly? "What if we don't do that?" my Mom wanted to know. "Then his kidneys will shut down, and he will sleep away," Dr. Gomez said quietly. Sleep away. My mom was struck by those words. What a peaceful way to think of death, and what a peaceful way to die. Dr. Gomez left the room for us to talk about it. We talked over Papa, like we always did. "He wanted to die quickly," I said. "Are we sure he won't recover?" Mom said. "Could he not do dialysis?" Karl wondered. "What will his life be like?" Michael posed. Isabel said, "Why don't we ask Papa?" We all stopped talking and looked at her. She was right. Isabel, 18 and of the old soul, was right. Then we looked at Dad. Eyes wide open, for longer than they had been in 6 days, panting for breath, looking beyond all of us, but laying beneath us and in between our conversation. Mom took ahold of Dad's shoulders and spoke closely and loudly. Her voice broke. "Papa, are you ready to meet Jesus?" Dad nodded his head, yes.
My parents loved the beach. Left, Circa 1994.
We cried. Dad was ready, I knew it. He had always been ready, really, so this time would have been no different from any other time in his life. But for those of us left, it's still difficult to let go, even though we know where he's going.
Letting him go meant removing nutrition and hydration, unplugging the regulated pacemaker, and stopping the antibiotic drip that was unable to overcome the infection. We would bring him home the next day to hospice care, where he could sleep away. Dr. Gomez estimated 5-7 days. We said goodbye for the afternoon, and planned to meet the hospice nurse the next morning to coordinate the move home. We went home to prepare the house.
Mom's phone rang at 2 a.m.
Dad had died.
Even though it was a shock, it was a beautiful moment. Most of all, it was quick, just like he wanted.
What I am saying, brothers and sisters, is this: flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable. Listen, I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable, and we will be changed. For this perishable body must put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When this perishable body puts on imperishability, and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will be fulfilled:
“Death has been swallowed up in victory.”
“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” 1 Corinthians 15:50-55
My Aunt Betty told me that when people said to her "I'm so sorry you lost Russ" after her husband of more than 60 years died, she would chuckle and say, "He's not lost; I know exactly where he is!" And, of course, she meant with Jesus, in Eternal Life.
I was so happy that my Dad was now with Jesus in Eternal Glory. That he was free of earthly pain, of binding everyday work, of incompetent contractors. He was getting his reward, for living a steadfast and spiritual life in which he supported his family and his church. I marveled that we were able to say goodbye in our earthly way, seeing him just one more time. I wondered, later, if he had been waiting on us to get there, on Michael to get a job as a priest, on us all to say goodbye. Or maybe he was just relieved that the damn shower was finished.
I wrote his obituary:
Robert Harry "Bob" Johnson, 83, died Saturday, May 26, 2018, in Greenville, SC.
Bob was born Feb. 20, 1935 to Harry and Olive Johnson in Whitefish, Montana. He graduated from Chinook High School in 1953 and the University of Montana in 1961. He also served in the United States Navy from 1954-58. He moved to Seattle, Wash., in 1961, where he met Robin Adele Rygg, whom he married in 1962. He taught math at Seahurst Junior High School and later worked in computers at Boeing Co. By 1969, they had two children, Karl and Erika, and moved to Spartanburg, SC, when he went to work at Milliken and Co. on the supercomputer, and later Union Camp, Spartanburg Technical College, and then owned Creative Business Services in Gaffney. They attended Lamb of God Lutheran Church for 20 years, and later Providence Presbyterian. Bob was a trusted member of each of their church homes, including Locust Hill Baptist Church in Traveler's Rest, and his most important ministry was always that of helping in the management of Sunday collections. In 2002 they moved to Traveler's Rest, where Bob made a valiant effort at golfing, but succeeded in sitting on the front porch in the morning, and the back deck in the afternoon. Bob loved Jesus, his family, and his Kindle.
He is survived by his wife, Robin; son Karl Johnson (Renee) of Spartanburg; daughter Erika Cannon (Michael) of Sewanee, Tn; grandchildren Isabel Spinelli of Sewanee, Tn., and Charlotte, Daniel and Madeleine Johnson of Spartanburg.
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