The Death of My Dear Father

My father died yesterday July 30, 2008 at about 10:30pm. He was 90 years old, born May 5, 1918.

He died after about a week in the hospital. The first day or so, the doctors thought that he had gout. But they began to suspect an infection. I called his room and talked to him briefly. He was very agitated and complained that he could not even remember his social security number. He told me that Mary, a woman who lived next door and who was a CNA, was staying with him at night so that my mother could go home and rest. (Mary saw me the next day and said that he liked my father. They talked. My father told her that since they were going to be together for some time that they should leave some things to talk about. Dad told her that next time they would talk about war. My father retired a Major after being in the Army for 20 years and serving in WWII and Korea.) He told me that I need to talk to my mother because he was too busy. I could hear him yelling at someone in the room not to do what they were doing, whatever it was -- like moving a pillow. He was in pain. This was the last time I ever talked to him.

The next day he went unconsious. They discovered that he had a bacterial infection, and it went into his blood stream. The bacteria was a dangerious E.coli bug (ESBL producing), and only one antibiotic could kill it. So he had what they call "septicemia," or blood poisoning -- to use a more common name. Unfortunately, this condition is very dangerous and advances rapidly, especially in the elderly. Any delay in treatment can be deadly. The bacteria "seated" (it is called) into many, if not all of his major joints. This is very unusual. Once the infection gets into a joint, it becomes very difficult to kill the infection. I was told that some people have to take antibiotics for months. Once it is in the joints, the pain is very intense, like gout, and one is unable to move the affected limbs. My father, if he recovered, would have faced many weeks of rehabilitation and would have to be confined to a nursing home for the rest of his life. One of my brothers, who happens to be a doctor at Johns Hopkins, told me that our father also had Mutiple Myeloma, which can seriously reduce the ability of his immune system to fight infections.

The treatment was to drain his joints, if they had infection in them, and give him the antibiotic that could kill this bacteria. My father never regained full consciousness enough to speak and communicate. I saw him after the operation. I had to wear a gown and gloves. I told him I was there, that I loved him, that they drained his knee, and that he was okay. He responded to me. His pulse rate went up, and lights went on. He seemed to try to speak, and his eyes were slightly open. When I told him to relax, that he was okay, his pulse rate went down. They pulled the respirator tube out of him, and I watched him respond to the nurse. He breathed in when they told him to. He attempted to cough when they asked him to. That was the best condition that I saw him in, as things went down from there. My main concern was to tell him that I loved him. As I write this, I wish that I had stayed with him longer and talked to him at this time.

He was in the ICU for four days (if I remember correctly) after that and then my brother called telling me to come now because dad was not going to make it. I was with my dad the last two days, as were my mother, my two bothers, and their wives. Dad died Wednesday night. My big brother and mom were with him when he died. Me and my other brother arrived 10 minutes later. We entered the room and the four of us together stayed for a while with the body of my dear father. (I will write more later.)