Dad fell. He slipped on some gravel in a parking lot while getting out of his car on his way to get a haircut. It was an hour before a passerby found him lying helpless on the cold ground that early April morning. "Hey, buddy, can you give me a hand? I cant get up!" Dad cried. The stranger saw the pain my father was in and called an ambulance. Dad had broken his shoulder in three places and suffered a compression fracture in his lower back. He was 81, widowed after his wife passed away from cancer 15 months earlier. 

The plan was he'd spend a few weeks in a nursing and rehabilitation center. There he'd get physical therapy, then be sent home to resume his independent life with the aid of visiting nurses and home health care services, it didn't work out that way. Once he entered the nursing home a strange thing happened. His condition got worse instead of better. 

Falling as he did gave dad a fear of standing on his own two feet again. That mental block plus pain from the physical injury hampered his progress in physical therapy. Although his shoulder eventually healed, his back did not. The prescribed bed rest for the compression fracture worked at odds with the prescribed exercise plan to keep his circulation flowing and diabetes at bay. A previous arthritic condition caused dad additional pain doing the minimal exercises prescribed for him. Doctors then 
prescribed painkillers to get dad through the physical therapy but didn't want to overmedicate him because then they wouldn't be able to evaluate how the healing progressed. The result of this Catch-22 situation was that dad was always in pain, especially during physical therapy. But as long as he was receiving physical therapy, his HMO medical insurance continued picking up the nursing home tab. One day dad exercised his patient rights and decided he wasn't going to endure physical therapy any longer. This disqualified him from having his HMO coverage pay for his nursing home expenses and he became a private paying patient. His attorney suggested putting his house up for sale to pay for his care. "There go the family assets" she sadly told me long distance. 

Initially I thought about transferring dad from his Pennsylvania nursing home to one near me in Massachusetts. But with his medical condition the way it was, this move was out of the question. His returning home was now also out of the question. No longer able to walk, drive, or even set himself in and out of bed, dad needed 24-hour nursing care. At first I comforted myself with the thought that his staying in Pennsylvania would be in his best interest. I figured that his nearby relatives and church friends would stop by to visit, encourage and nurture him in his healing process. I was sadly disappointed. For the most part they abandoned him, maybe finding the idea of visiting a nursing home too depressing. Dad never asked me when he could return home. Instead, an aunt told me he asked the nurses if he could move in with me. Hearing about his request tore me up inside. Although the social worker told him why that wasn't feasible, I worried that dad maybe felt I didn't want or love him. For a long time I agonized over how it might have been different had dad been located in a nursing home near me. My self-inflicted worries were unnecessary because we never had that option. Although my logical brain understood why things had to be the way they were, my emotions caused me to see visions of dad being frail, helpless, alone, and abandoned in that out of state institution. I became weepy and obsessive about calling his nurses long distance. I'd agonize or read into the information they reported. Wracked with worry, longing and guilt, I would get off the phone and cry. Whole days and weeks were spent this way. Feeling helpless, I wrote dad daily letters. Since he couldn't answer back, I felt I was writing into a vacuum. I became distracted, morose and constantly worried. My job concentration was impaired and I was on edge with my own family. 

Since none of the nursing home rooms had telephones, I'd have to set up an appointment in advance with the staff to talk to dad. It took three nurses to transfer him from bed to wheelchair, costing dad considerable discomfort with his broken back. Being a private person, dad felt inhibited talking in front of the nurses. Vacuum cleaning and other background noise from the nursing station compounded dad's hearing problem. During a typical conversation I'd be screaming on one end of the phone while dad would be saying "huh?" on the other. These conversations were stressful and unsatisfying but I didn't want my father to think he was unloved and abandoned. 

Although I'd rearrange my entire schedule to beat the phone at the pre-appointed time, sometimes the busy nursing home staff would forget to put a note on dad's chart. Several times I waited in vain for the collect call to come through. Then I'd call them in frustration only to learn he was unavailable in the whirlpool, busy eating lunch, getting washed or asleep in his bed. Other times I'd arrange to call them, but if a nurse from another shift had forgotten to note his chart, sometimes thin staffing would make it impossible to spontaneously round up the three people necessary to transfer dad to the phone. The staff was always apologetic and empathetic. I'd try to be understanding and curb my tongue, figuring any criticism would alienate my only contacts with my father. For awhile I gave up calling altogether because I thought that the inconvenience to dad outweighed his joy of hearing from me. When nurses told me dad wasn't on any schedule, I switched to calling spontaneously, hoping to catch him when he was in his wheelchair. I'd ask a nurse to ask dad if he wanted to come to the phone that day. This arrangement seemed to work out a little better, but on his bad days I'd have to satisfy myself with second hand information from nurses. Then I'd agonize over every nuance and wonder whether he was getting the best care he could—given they knew his only child lived out of state. Would they short shift him or neglect him in favor of the other patients who had regular visitors? Media-induced horrific images of him lying in his own wastes would haunt me. 

I felt guilty I had a life here and couldn't visit dad as often as I wanted. When I did see him, it was a shock. Each visit showed me his progressive physical deterioration. Seeing dad in pain brought tears to my eyes. One day I brought him a present of new underwear to find him wearing diapers. Later he was catheterized. The trips back to Massachusetts were filled with tears. 

From lying in bed dad developed two bedsores. Diabetes, rather than poor nursing care, worked against their healing. One day I volunteered to help the charge nurse change the dressing on his bedsores. When I smelled the stench emanating from his rotting flesh and saw his wasted body, I had to look up at the ceiling not to reel. I reached a turning point in my thinking where I began to think maybe it would be more merciful if dad were dead. I began to view my attachment to him as...selfish. Two surgeries were necessary to remove the decaying skin tissue. After the second operation, the surgeon frankly told me dad's sores would never heal. At that moment I think I "let go and let God." Soon after that I made peace with my dad. I made up a list of everything I wanted to say to him before he passed away. What I didn't say didn't seem appropriate during my next visit because of what he said back to me. It was a special visit because we made peace with each other. The healing that took place between us prompted me to want to make peace with all the other people in my life. 

Dad was always happy and grateful to see me. We shared special moments eating his favorite ice cream. I'll always remember his face lighting up from the flowers I brought or the portable fan for his room. Dad is still happy to see me, although now his voice is weaker and he tires more easily. One day he told me there are two other people in his room with him a lot (that I can't see). Dad told me one of them said I was "in the way." Although I felt initially insulted by words from what dad calls an angel, I examined how I might be in the way of his dying. I realized it was true that I was not ready to let dad go. So I stepped back from dad's bedside to work on my pending loss. I am still receiving very helpful counseling. 

After I did some inner work on my grief, I stepped back to dad's bedside and saw things differently. I was able to see that dad is content where he is and that I was the one with the problem about his situation in life. I began communicating my concerns more openly with the nursing home staff and am now convinced that they are doing the best they can to make him comfortable, and to help and entertain him. Dad is in the best place he can be, surrounded by caring professionals who genuinely like him. Now that I've accepted what I can't control, I can let them do their jobs and even accept their comforting me. Sharing my feelings with dad's social worker has been especially helpful. Observing the other nursing home visitors tells me I'm not alone in my situation. One day an unknown visitor placed her hand on my shoulder and said "it's not easy, is it?" I appreciatively turned around and answered "no, but at least we're not alone and are all going through this together." Her healing empathy was a much needed gift. 

Now when I visit dad, I no longer see a body with bedsores or his emaciated form. I now see dad as the Divine column of Light he always will be. I see our love for each other as eternal, crossing all dimensions, all time and uniting us in The One. I've grown to realize dad is my teacher who has only been lent to me. He's recently taught me to face my fears of losing him, of being abandoned and being alone without parents. Dad continues to teach me as he dies. Now dad is teaching me how to die and that grieving is a natural part of life. 

Some of the best times dad and I have spent together have taken place inside his nursing home. I feel I've been given a great gift to be allowed to witness all this in a place where time slows down and there are less worldly distractions, I've watched dad resolve personal issues and spiritually evolve inside the home. I've seen how both he and I are going through different transformation processes simultaneously. I've learned to let go of judging his process from my point of view. I've found peace by realizing his process is totally appropriate for him but different from mine.

...I love my father very deeply and always have. I don't know when the last time will be that I will be privileged to step up to dad's bedside, take his hand, and tell him I love him. It could be that I've already experienced our last visit together. It may be today that I get the long distance call telling me he's gone. May the last words we speak to anyone be of peace.

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Nancy Wright is a freelance writer, author, speaker, and Reiki Master specializing in metaphysical, inspirational, alternative healing, paranormal and travel topics.  She is author of Suitcase Down The Nile: A Spunky Woman's Transformational Journey Through Egypt which is now available through Amazon.com. For an autographed copy of her nonfiction book, send a $19.95 check made payable to Lexigram Books/PO Box 693/Westford, Mass.  01886.  For book signings, writing, speaking or paranormal research engagements, email: NancyWri@aol.com, Website: www.lexigrambooks.com.