The change in Dad was amazing. My gratitude, to hospice, is unending. Dad was given a very small dose of morphine. His breathing was regular, he was relaxed. He even smiled with recognition when I went to see him each morning. The hospice pastor and the social workers were good with Mom. Of course, the nursing staff and CNAs at Rosewood, who knew them both so well, were part of the team. They were, as always, exceptional.
It was so obvious to me that Dad was more content and physically comfortable, and when he slept, he slept well. I can't even remember how long Dad lived with hospice care. Being at Rosewood was so much of our lives that nothing much really changed except for Dad's level of comfort. He was comfortable for the first time in months. Mom saw that and felt better. The whole family felt better. Dad was as close to being himself as his demented mind would let him be.
Of course, his health continued to go downhill. We knew he was dying. Late one day, Sarita called me at work and said Dad was slipping. She said I should probably come over. I called my sister, Beth, and then went right over to Rosewood. Beth drove her 40 miles into town, and met me there.
We sat with Mom and then sat with Dad. We held his hands, touched him, talked to him, and traded places to keep supporting Mom. She couldn't bring herself to sit with him. She wasn't strong enough and she wasn't totally comprehending what was happening.
The nurse came in to turn Dad and wipe his skin off. He seemed to rally some (not unusual, before death, I now know). He seemed good for awhile, so Beth left to drive back home and take care of her kids and dog. She had no more than gotten on the road, when the nurse said quickly, "Carol!"
I slid next to him and held him, as his body slipped into death. For the first time in a decade, I felt my real dad with me. His spirit was freed from his body. I was crying, both with grief and joy.