Spectacular Send-off For A Spectacular Man

“I’m Judy and Bob Schutz’s daughter.” That gets me every time I say it. Mom asked me to call a list of old friends for her tonight to tell them of Dad’s death. I figured out real quickly that I couldn’t identify myself that way. Out of no where, I crumbled on the first call when I thought I was full of composure.

On Saturday night, my five siblings and I, plus my mom and some of the grandchildren, gathered around my dad as he took his final breaths. We all crowded around his bed, put our hands on him and sent him off with the perfected timing of a Hallmark Movie of the Week. Dad was surrounded by the people he loved most in this world and sent off with kisses and prayers, laughter, music and tears.

Death and birth are the only events I know of that come close to showing the intensity of emotion we humans bear. Streams of sadness run down my face now, just as tears of joy did the moment my babies were born. Both events incomprehensibly change us.

That my dad won’t be here anymore hasn’t really settled in my mind yet, though waves of reality sneak up and torture me. Then strangely, after a few sloppy sobs, they vanish and I’m on my way again. This Grief puzzles and challenges me.

Dad’s cancer spread with a vengeance. Although his surgery five weeks ago to remove a large legion of melanoma on his brain was successful, he only experienced about a week of “better.” These last weeks have mostly been a slippery slope slide. Through it all, Mom has predictably been the beacon of all strength. Researching the internet for hours on end in search of the best care and alternatives for Dad, in addition to lovingly attending to his every need with the power and stamina that could outpace a woman half her age, Dad had a living angel at his side 24/7. She even made protein shakes taste good.

Dad declined most apparently as the melanoma spread to his tongue and painfully ate away at his ability to not only speak but eat as well. He winced through the pain as he struggled to speak or even drink in those last couple weeks. I thank him for the gift of sitting up with us each day we visited…defying the pain longer than he should have. Everyday he patiently listened as the kids and I told him about our busy days. With each passing day his participation in the conversations waned and he struggled to stay awake. By Wednesday of last week he couldn’t walk. On Thursday, Hospice arrived and a hospital bed was installed in the bedroom. On Thursday night, he asked to see all the grandkids together. After a short conversation, struggling to string a few words together, he said “Goodbye kids.” I had a feeling time was running short.

By Friday Hospice was administering a steady stream of morphine to soothe Dad’s battling body. One or many of us was always at Dad’s side with hours of everyone strewn around the room. Several of the Hospice nurses commented on the involvement of our family, which seemed so natural to us all. One said she had never seen such participation and care in death as she had with our family. I asked her how long she had been doing this kind of work, assuming it to be not very long. She said 27 years. My heart sank to think that in all those years, we were the first family she witnessed to ever come together at this most significant time. Death need not be feared. Nor should birth. Both miraculous events need be celebrated, respected and embraced.

The hours passed quickly as we chatted, laughed and cried, all the while with hands placed lovingly on Dad. His eyes never opened after Thursday night, but I have a good feeling he knew we were all there and heard both our profound and inane talk. I’m sure he laughed along with us as the subject of bodily function ringtones came up. Benjamin lightened the mood today with his remote control fart machine, an unrealized grief-relief wonder.

By Saturday, Dad was fading fast. We all paced around busying our time and minds and continued our new routine of just being together. Waiting and comforting death hasn’t been an experience of ours, but being together always has been. So we did what we knew best. We marinated in each other’s presence as we have enjoyed doing for years. It seemed the only way to do this strangely celebratory send off.

Saturday marked my Mom’s 77th birthday as well. I imagine my siblings were as puzzled as I at the thought of this day and all it was coming to mean. But as with all things I’ve known about my family, everything somehow always beautifully unfolds. Regardless the bumps and bruises along the way, we always come together and make it through together.

On Saturday morning I scurried together a few photos of Dad with his airplane and assembled them in a photo collage with the words to the Good Morning song he sang every morning. I quickly got copies printed for all my siblings and Mom then stuffed them all in the plastic Walgreens bag and set it aside, not knowing when to bring it out. Shortly after we ate dinner, something moved me to get that bag as we all sat around Dad, marinating. He was laboring as he breathed yet visibly peaceful. I gave Mom a framed print and my siblings their copies. At that point we decided to sing Dad his Good Morning song, followed by Happy Birthday to Mom.

As soon as we finished those two short songs, we heard Dad take his last two breaths at 8:16 pm.

The nurse confirmed he was gone. I think I could safely speak for all 16 us and say that what we witnessed was nothing if not miraculous. Hollywood could have never gotten this on the first take like Dad did.

We all gathered around and held each other as Mom lead us in the Our Father. We each kissed Dad goodbye and began our new Grief. In the hours that followed we wept and shuffled about as we managed the business of death.

The power of the love and devotion in that room was unmistakable. A spectacular send off for a spectacular man. Dad’s stature of impeccability and kindness will be remembered by all who knew him. He raised the bar for all.

Waves of tears wash over me some more.

Am I still Bob Schutz’s daughter?

Always.

Robert Charles Schutz (1928-2009)