Living Without in 2020
Everyone had to learn to live without things in 2020. Without working together in the same space. Without open schools. Without work. Without travel. Without good health. Without help or care.
The most heart-wrenching, in my opinion, is being without a loved one at the end of their life.
The news reports of people dying in hospitals with a nurse holding a phone up for their family to be present only over Zoom or Facetime got me every time. Every time. How was this possible in 2020?
My Dad, “Buzzy,” or “Buzz” to me, passed away in July at age 86.
He was one of my favorite humans, and the 1,000+ photos of him on my phone would confirm my love. The sweetest, kindest man who never complained and was always the positive, encouraging light in my life; in many lives. He always had a compliment to give — noticing a new dress or haircut. He loved attending every live event with me — from Welcome America to the Army/Navy Game. He loved hearing about my work schedule each week at Sunday dinner, and giving me stock tips that he heard from Cramer on Mad Money. His voice is set on my Waze to give me directions, so he’s always riding shotgun.
About 12 years ago, Buzz started to shuffle while walking. After many tests that he hated (the only thing I ever heard him complain about) we discovered he had many mini strokes over his life, which led to a form of dementia. Add to it chronic kidney disease, and it all led to a bad quality of life in the months leading up to his passing. Each time I saw Buzz I thought it could be the last; and was slowly mourning my Dad while he was alive for more than a decade.
Throughout it all my Mom, Barbara, was Buzz’s fearless caregiver. She took great care of him so they could remain independent. Aside from some support from Veteran Affairs, she refused any help until the very end, which caused her countless sleepless nights and added stress on her. And him.
Last December, Buzz’s doctor said it would be best if we put him on hospice. I remember hearing that word for the first time. Hospice in my mind = immediate death. I sobbed uncontrollably for days. What I didn’t know was hospice can go on for months (eight in Buzz’s case), and it unlocks some of the most amazing caregivers on earth. Angels.
Month after month, Buzz would hang on; at times he would really rally. We met for dinner each week at Not Your Average Joe’s — his favorite for pizza and margaritas.
And then COVID hit.
During this time, I Facetimed my parents every day for about an hour to talk about nothing really. My Mom was still trying to figure out how to work her iPhone, so I finally sent her a mini tripod. That way, she could leave the room when my Dad and I caught up, and I could stop looking at the ceiling with my Mom in the background for the entire conversation.
We watched music videos (Let it Go by Idina Menzel and I Need You Now by Lady A were Buzz’s favorites). I would virtually take them on beach walks with me to see the sunset. We chatted over dinner. I actually felt pretty connected to them.
In preparation for a dreaded call from the hospice nurse about my Dad’s imminent death, I did not see anyone nor go anywhere for four months. Only deliveries by Instacart. That way, when I got the call, I could safely go in and not be a risk to my Mom or the staff.
On three separate occasions we got notified by a hospice nurse that it was time to come see Buzz as they thought it was end of life. The final call came on a Wednesday, when the hospice nurse said, “You should come today, and come sooner rather than later.” I was two hours away and called my sister, Jen, to tell her to meet me there. Our other sister, Soozie, lives in Florida and Jen was keeping her posted along the way.
When we arrived, Buzz was not doing well, but Jen insisted we get him out of bed, and he loved the sound of that. We lifted his 5'11", 90-pound body into his wheelchair and rolled him to the table where we ate a little bit of everything he loved. His four favorite food groups: hotdogs, Peeps, tiramisu cake, and beer. He then recorded short videos to every person he loved.
Immediately after, he asked to get back in bed. His retirement community’s protocols said we were supposed to leave after our visit. But there was no way we were going to let Buzz and Barb go through this alone.
Like a stowaway from those Love Boat episodes of my youth, I decided to hide out in my parents’ apartment. For three days. Yes, I would hide in the bathroom or closet when anyone would come.
Buzz was hallucinating at times saying he wanted to go through a window, while pointing to a closet door. The hospice nurse, who knew I was making a compassion care visit would come in to take care of him as I slept in a mask in the bed next to him. My Mom got some well-deserved sleep that she hadn’t had in nine months.
That Friday, intense pain took hold of my Dad, and the hospice nurse came to show me how to provide medication overnight. I stayed up all night giving Buzz medicine that made him comfortable while my Mom slept. We listened to music with a beautiful Zen vibe, which my Mom did not love, but kept Buzz in the right mindset. I cannot imagine if my Mom had to tend to him alone on the last night of his life.
It was Saturday, July 11, Jen’s birthday. A couple weeks before, Buzz had told me he couldn’t wait for the four of us to be together to celebrate his birthday. He envisioned there was a cake, and we’d all sing Happy Birthday. I now realize this is the birthday party he was talking about. We sang Happy Birthday to Jen, surrounding Buzz in bed, tears rolling down the three of our faces.
Later in the day, Jen was in the living room laying on the couch looking out the window. She opened the window as it started to rain, and then about an hour later the sun came out, and we could hear the birds chirping. I went to Buzz’s room to open the window, and let in some fresh air. I laid down, played his two favorite songs, and slowly watched my Dad’s breaths get further and further apart.
I got up, walked over to the bed, and called my sister in. We stood around the bed watching his breath slow for a couple of minutes. We looked at each other, knowing this is the end. We called Mom into the room. And maybe two breaths later, Buzz was gone.
The hospice nurse came back, and said, “Oh, I’m so glad somebody opened the window. A lot of people are looking for a way out — for their soul to fly.” I absolutely believe this is true and happened for my Dad.
My heart absolutely breaks for all of the families whose loved ones died without them by their sides in 2020, and at other times. We were incredibly lucky as this happened at the time during COVID when restrictions were lifted slightly, and he was not in a hospital but a private apartment. We had a perfect small cemetery funeral with the people we love by our sides — actually 6 feet apart wearing masks. We had Shiva in Jen’s yard where we were surrounded by people who meant the most to us and shared our love and laughter of sweet Buzz.
If this experience with Buzz taught me one thing, it’s that no technologies nor processes for elder care or longevity can replace the human element. Nothing mattered except Buzz.
I feel so grateful to go through this experience with my Mom and sisters (and that we’re actually still talking to each other). Feel lucky to have the privilege to work remotely for an understanding company with empathetic coworkers who are like family. And supported by caring friends (including my parents’ friends) and the kindest boyfriend on the planet.
The end of life is magical, and I am so grateful to have been there during the last days of Buzz’s life. By his side, in-person, fully in the moment. These were the most meaningful days of my entire life. My wish is that everyone can have this same experience when the time comes; for you and your loved ones.
Thanks to the team at Pivotal Ventures, The Holding Co., and my Mom and Sister for encouraging me to share this very personal story with you about the most meaningful days of my life. I hope you’ll share your own experiences in the comments.
