Wednesday, April 8^th, 4:30 pm, the charge nurse at Dad’s care facility called to inform me that Dad was having difficulty breathing, and they had called an ambulance. I wasn’t alarmed. Dad might be having an allergic reaction to medication, which could be easily treated. He’s been taken by ambulance in the past for chest pain and was quickly stabilized. The doctors diagnosed and treated him for atrial fibrillation, discharging him with a prescription to regulate his heart rate.

I felt confident the doctors would evaluate him now and help him breathe easier and decided to go ahead with my scheduled oil change at 5:00 pm. Within five minutes, while the car was up on the rack with no oil in it, the ER physician called me.

“Miss Penick, I am Dr. Li. I’m caring for your father in the ER and need to confirm that your Dad’s “Do Not Resuscitate” (DNR) directive is still active,” he said.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

“Your father is experiencing severe respiratory distress. When we follow DNRs, we typically don’t intubate a patient. In the meantime, we will do everything possible to keep him comfortable, but I consider this an end-of-life situation.”

Dad might be dying, and my car was sitting on top of a rack. I called my brother Gene to alert him of Dad’s predicament and got his voicemail. The oil change was about done when Dr. Li called me a second time at 5:30 pm.

“Miss Penick, are you okay with us inserting a central line for your father?” he asked.

“I have no idea what a central line is! Is this something that sustains him, or comforts him?” I asked.

“A central line is basically an IV in the neck, and I think it would help regulate his blood pressure, which should make him more comfortable,” he said.

“If it keeps him more comfortable, then by all means do it,” I said. “The main thing is that he does NOT want procedures that artificially sustain him.” I called Gene and left another message with the latest update.

The car was ready, so I took off into traffic that was barely moving. Rush hour. It took me 45 minutes just to get to the toll roads where I could go 80 mph and bypass most of I-35, which is always congested. As I began my trek to the hospital, my phone rang again at 6:30 pm. This time it was Dr. Patel, another attending ER physician.

“Are you on your way?” he asked.

“I am trying to get there as fast as I can,” I replied. I explained that I was stuck at a service station waiting on my oil change and then was delayed by traffic. “I live in far north Austin and the hospital is fifty minutes from here using the toll roads.”

“I need to tell you that your Dad does not look good, and it is my recommendation that we let him go.”

“What exactly does that mean?” I inquired.

“We are using a bi-pap machine to help him get more oxygen. Once we remove the mask from his nose and mouth, he will have to breathe on his own. He may go in a few minutes, or it may be a few hours.”

“My Dad is more than ready to go. I affirm your recommendation and hope I get to see him before he dies.” I thanked him for the clarification and told him that I was on the road and would get there as soon as possible. I left a third message for Gene to let him know what the doctor recommended and my support of it.

I finally got to the hospital around 7:15 pm and rushed in to find my father. A male nurse led me to an open room that was divided into three sections by thin curtains. I found him with the bi-pap mask still assisting him with oxygen while gasping for each breath.

“Can my Dad hear me?” I asked.

“He can. His level of consciousness is reduced, but his eyes met our eyes when we asked him a couple of questions, so he is aware of what’s going on.”

I stood by his gurney and told him I was here. His eyes tried to move toward me. For the next fifteen minutes, I held his hand while giving him words of encouragement, interspersed with kisses on the cheek. I assured him that I was here to stay and would not leave his side.

The nurse explained three different numbers they were watching on Dad’s monitor: blood pressure, pulse rate, and respiratory rate. The key metric was the respiratory rate, which was the bottom number on the monitor. It reveals the number of breaths taken per minute. While his oxygen mask was on, he was taking approximately 75 breaths a minute.

Since the nurse knew Dad was dying, he offered to move Dad into a real room where we could close the door and have privacy. That was 7:30 pm. He suggested that we turn the bathroom light on and leave its door open and turn the room light off to create a more dimmed, peaceful environment. Before he stepped out of the room, he silenced as many alarms on the monitor that he could and removed Dad’s mask. As I watched the monitor, his number of breaths trended downward. It dropped from 75 to 60 within minutes of the oxygen mask being removed.

Since I didn’t know if I had five minutes or three hours, I started loving on him. I poured words of affirmation into his heart. I told him to be prepared to hear from the Lord, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” I affirmed his gift of intercession and how I coveted the daily prayers he said for me over all of these years. I shared that God used him as my greatest influence in helping me find salvation in Christ. I applauded his faith. He never blamed God for the many difficult life circumstances he endured. I reminded him regularly how much I loved him. I promised to take care of Gene and that we were going to be okay. I assured him that he had my blessing to go.

I felt led to start praying over him. This is what Dad modeled for me over the years. It didn’t matter if we were on the phone, or face to face. If he heard a need or a request, he would stop our conversation and say, “Let me pray with you right now while we’re talking about it.” It was my privilege to minister to him through prayer. I prayed for the “peace that surpasses all human understanding” to fill his heart, mind, soul, and spirit. I asked the Lord to grant Dad’s wish to take him home. I thanked God for blessing me with a godly father whose life was an example of great faith.

Before I knew it, twenty minutes had elapsed. I looked at the monitor, and Dad’s respiratory rate had dropped significantly to the low 30s. I knew that Dad wasn’t going to last much longer. I believed it was important for him to know his children were with him. I told Dad that I was going to call Gene and try to get him on the speaker phone so that he could hear his son’s voice. I tried Gene one more time, and he answered.

“Gene, have you had a chance to listen to my voicemail messages?” I asked.

“No, I just got home from a long day at work,” he said.

“I am at the hospital with Dad, and I need you to listen to my messages and then call me back so I can put you on the speaker phone and let you talk to Dad.”

“What’s going on?!” he asked. I knew Dad could hear, so I scrambled for words that didn’t sound so morbid. “His health is failing. I really need you to listen to your recorder and then call me right back.”

“Can you step out of his room and fill me in?” he asked.

“Gene, I can’t. I’m not leaving his side. Please call me back after you listen to your answering machine.” Gene agreed to call me back.

My phone rang at 8:00 pm, and Gene was ready to speak to Dad. I put him on the speaker phone and turned up the volume so that Dad had every opportunity to hear Gene’s voice one last time. Gene took a few minutes to share how much he loved him and how much Dad meant to him. I thanked Gene for talking to Dad and told him I would call him later. Feeling relieved, I looked at the monitor and his respiratory rate was in the 20s. Dad was cold and clammy from the lack of oxygen, and the color was gone from his face.

I decided to sing hymns to my Dad, but discovered that I only knew the first verses of most of them, and that was it! So I took advantage of the iPhone and Googled “popular hymns” and pulled up some of Dad’s favorites. I sang through Amazing Grace, Great is Thy Faithfulness, and How Great Thou Art. I looked at Dad’s respiratory rate on the monitor, and here’s what I saw:

The military time stamp showed 8:19 pm. Dad was about to slip into the arms of Jesus. I pulled up When I Survey the Wondrous Cross and sang it to him. While struggling with tears off and on throughout the hymn, I felt strengthened on the last verse:

“Were the whole realm of nature mine that were an offering far too small; love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, m-y-y ALL.”

As soon as I landed on “my life, my all,” I looked at the monitor:

He entered into his heavenly home at 8:22 pm. Dad, you gave your life, your all, to the Lord. I couldn’t be more proud to call you my father. I love you.

Blessings,

Lee Ann

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