My 92-year-old stepfather Ralph entered hospice care this past Thursday. For the last six months, as his body was deteriorating, he’s been saying that he’s ready to go. He’s lived an incredibly full life, with his health only beginning to fail once he hit the age of 90 (he didn’t even retire until he was 80).
When he first entered hospice, the doctor didn’t think he’d last more than a day or two. Three at most. “Should I come out?” I wondered. (I’m in Pittsburgh, my folks and two of my sisters are in San Diego.) “Wait,” was what we all determined. Ralph was mostly unconscious. I could be more of a help after. Plus, my nephew Tyler is staying with us this summer. It seemed better not to disrupt our household routine just yet. And I had said my goodbyes during my last few visits, most recently over Memorial Day.
Now we’re on Day 5. Some days Ralph is awake — rarely able to speak, but aware of the presence of my mom (even puckering up for a kiss), my sisters and brother-in-law, their kids, his grandson from D.C. Over the phone yesterday, I teased him that he’s holding court just like he’s always loved to do.
It feels strange not being there. I’m going about my regular life routine while most of my family has halted theirs and huddled together to make sure Ralph’s last moments on Earth are enveloped in love. I have to fight feeling guilty and wondering if I’m doing the wrong thing, waiting. I remind myself that there is no right and wrong in these situations. That no one is judging me. And, most importantly, that it’s not about me at all. It’s about Ralph, and he’s surrounded by a roomful of family. He is loved and cared for. And when it is his time to go, he will, knowing that I love him, too.
And so I wait.
