When he first entered the hospital, he’d been identified as a “DNR” patient—do not resuscitate. It seemed like a natural path to choose, given his advanced years, his declining physical state, and his dementia.

The decision had actually been made a couple years ago, and that was a good thing. After all, who wants to make that choice while in the throes of a health crisis?

But now that we were there, the strength of that conviction was wavering.

Ten days ago, after Dad broke his hip, we didn’t even know if he was strong enough to undergo surgery. When the doctors determined he was a good candidate, we took it to be a positive sign.

Ever since, it’s been a roller coaster. One day he was agitated and removing tubes and dressings. The next day he appeared calm and able to communicate a bit. His oxygen needs changed frequently and dramatically. Thankfully, there was no pneumonia. Still, his lungs remained congested.

We were hoping and praying for signs his condition was moving on an upward trajectory. Then we learned that that was not and would never likely be the case.

Sadly, we had to accept that Dad was not going to get better. With that realization came our shift to focus entirely on comfort care. From that point on, there would be no further diagnostic tests or procedures. Nothing that might add to his stress. So, when the medical personnel talked about inserting a feeding tube, we said “no.”

Then he officially transitioned to hospice care. Our new goal was to keep him as comfortable as possible.

Comfortable? How could we guarantee that when we could’t even be with him?

As it turns out, in the days of COVID-19, some hospitals allow one family member to stay with a hospice patient. We’re grateful for that. We’re also very grateful that Dad didn’t have to be shuffled to another facility or even another part of the hospital. Thankfully, he remained in the same room. The hospitalist turned Dad’s care over to the palliative care physician.

One of my sisters offered to be the one to stay with him. Shortly after she arrived, a hospice nurse let her know it looked like he may just have 24 hours more.

The full-face oxygen mask he was wearing when she arrived was later switched out for a nasal cannula. Initially agitated, she watched him relax as the morphine drip took effect.

Even though he appears unresponsive, we’re holding on to the belief that hearing is the last sense the body loses. My sister plays music for him, a playlist she created from what we remember were some of his favorites. She plays music, and she reads to him. The rest of us take turns checking in via FaceTime or phone calls. Each of us wants our chance to express our love and to say goodbye.

When our turn came, my husband and I chose FaceTime.

Dad’s eyes remained closed and his mouth open for the duration. He gave no sign of response when we spoke to him. Before we hung up, my husband played his guitar while we both sang “Amazing Grace.” It had been Mom’s favorite song, and we thought it might comfort him as well. With our voices quivering, we sang one verse, trying our best to finish before we both gave in to the tears.

My sister had been reading my blog to Dad when she came up with another idea. She asked me to write a tribute that she could add to the other readings.

I sat at my desk and began to compose a letter, my feeble attempt to tell him all the things I most admired about him. It was my last thank you for all he’d done for us. And it was my promise to him that we would all try to honor him. We’d do it by living up to the legacy of loving and helping others that he and Mom had created.

Godspeed, Dad. Mama’s waiting for you.