“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)
Monday, October 26, 2009
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Maria, crying for you, praying for you, thinking of your whole family, and loving you!
ReplyDeleteJulie
I've wanted to tell you this story for a while, but decided to wait until a better time. No time is better than this one, I believe.
ReplyDeleteMy Momma was raised Episcopalian, though she married two Catholics, she only converted to Catholicism in around 2002. Until then, she was not particularly religious, not at all.
In 2000, my Momma was diagnosed with breast cancer. She survived her double mastectomy and reconstruction with poise, dignity, and grace. Grace, literally, was her middle name.
In 2002, my Mom started having trouble with her right foot. It would flop around sometimes, and she couldn't control it. She baptised this new problem as "floppy footitis of the worst kind."
As the problem endured, she and her doctors began to be concerned. She underwent tons of tests, hoping beyond hope to have cancer or Parkinson's or any such either treatable or relatively long-term illness. The one thing she hoped and prayed she wouldn't have, the one thing she was direly afraid of, was ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease), as ALS generally causes death by suffocation and she was afraid of that.
On September 11, 2003, her diagnosis was confirmed, she had ALS.
My family was never a close family. We were a more dysfunctional family than most, to say the least. My mother and I were never close. She had an easier relationship with my two sisters, who are more like her than I will ever be.
Nonetheless, shortly thereafter, I began a monthly or every-two-months' pilgrimage to visit my Mom. Sometimes I would stay just a weekend, sometimes a week or so.
Those visits, like your recent time with your Dad, I am sure, were a gift beyond measure. We talked, we watched TV, and we sat around and did nothing. Unlike many families, the greatest gift in all of this was the healing of past wrongs and misunderstandings that those visits allowed.
Unfortunately for me, at each visit, my Mom's deterioration was shockingly sad, and along with her declining health, I was struck with an increasing fear of flying, to the point where I now have to be sedated to get on a plane. Thankfully, those drugs give you amnesia, too!!!
But none of that is the reason I am telling you this story, Maria. I'm sorry for selfishly taking up my comment telling my own story, but I think the ending may be meaningful to you.
In June of 2005, the day of the 40th birthday cruise on Lake Minnetonka, that Dawn Lofgren had the kindness and thoughtfulness to organize for us AVHS Class of '83-ers; I finished one of those visits with my Mom. I lingered more with my goodbye than I usually do. It had been an interesting visit. She and my father, who had been married for 24 years, and divorced for 15, made amends, something I never thought I would see.
As I lingered in my goodbye, saying too many times that I loved her, etc., I looked into her eyes and knew that I would never visit with her again. The look in her eyes told me that she knew that was to be our last visit as well.
But that's still not the point of the story, Maria, please bear with me!
In July, my Mom asked me not to come visit, she was tired, and I had spent over a week in MN in June. She said an August visit would do just fine. I allowed her to call the shots.
ReplyDeleteWe communicated by email a few more times. Her last email to me was so touching that it is one of my most prized possessions.
Since converting to Catholocism, my mother had become deeply devout, and a great follower and fan of Pope John Paul II. She even went to Italy when she already couldn't walk and was fed through a feeding tube, to see him. She dreamed of an audience with Pope John Paul II, and she adopted one of his catch phrases (do popes *have* catch phrases?), "Be Not Afraid."
On July 30, 2005, my Mom's favorite priest was visiting her. As he got up to leave, he, like me in June, knew that something was up. He looked into my mother's eyes, and asked her if he should stay. She looked into his and (she could no longer speak from the ALS, and chose not to use her talking machine in this particular case), so, anyway, she looked into his eyes, and spelled out with her finger in the air,
"BE NOT AFRAID"
Father Dan left at that time.
Within fifteen minutes, my brother-in-law called to let me know that my dear, sweet Momma, whom I had finally been given the opportunity to love more than I ever had before, was gone.
The moral of the story, my dear friend?
Be Not Afraid.
Love you!
Danielle
Maria and Family,
ReplyDeleteA spectacular FAMILY, your father and mother sure raised! Thank you for sharing, so eloquently, the last few days with your Dad, as I enjoyed reading even with blurry, soggy eyes. He was surrounded by his precious family and that gave him the comfort he needed to Let Go and Let God.
Our heart goes out to the whole family, however particularly to the grandchildren, as 2 years ago my children lost their grandfather to cancer. It seems so much harder on them, but they got through it by cherishing all the wonderful times they did spend together!
When the important matters are attended to, I would love if you could take a picture of your collage and post it. A gift that your siblings and Mom will cherish forever! As I've heard you say countless times...somehow you pull it together and you did it again, when needed the most!
The wonderful love & amazing bond that the Schultz family shares will give you the strength needed as you open a new chapter in your life! Our thoughts and prayers will be with each one of you daily!
Hugs and smiles,
The Rice Family
Beautiful post Maria!! How awesome that your whole family could be there with him as he passed. I am praying for peace and comfort for your family during this time.
ReplyDeleteMaria,
ReplyDeleteI am so terribly sorry for your loss. I lost my father 4 years ago on Oct. 13th. It is so hard to watch the man you have known longer than any other man in your life, slip away in sickness. My father died of heart failure, which, similar to cancer, ate away at his once strong and healthy body. How hard it was to see my father, formerly so strong, so incredibly weak.
I understand what you are going through, the laughter followed by unbearable sadness and tears. Time does heal, the sting never will fully go away, but it does get better. I can look at the stars in the sky now, and smile when I think of my dad. But as I am writing this, my eyes are filling with tears.
Take comfort in knowing that your father is now with our Heavenly Father. That his pain is no more, and he is once again the strong, healthy man you remembered when you were a child. His earthly pain and life are over, but his eternal joy has just begun.
May God comfort you and wrap you in His everlasting love, may He turn your mourning into dancing, and may He cover you with peace that surpasses all understanding.
Blessings to you and your family.
Terri
Thank you everyone for all of your kind and thoughtful words. I'm sure my dad is in complete awe at the outpouring of love and support that has been coming our way these past few days. I'm happy to believe that he is skipping around in the outer-everywhere singing and smiling with his ever joyful heart.
ReplyDeleteGiant warm hugs and much love to you all,
Maria