My dad died five years ago yesterday. He was a great man on so many levels, and I really miss him.
He was one of the toughest people I’ve ever known, yet one of the most loving as well. I remember one time when dad was cutting a tree down in our yard with a chainsaw. The saw had gotten stuck, and in trying to get it free, dad managed to split his pinky finger open, cutting the finger nail diagonally in two. It was not a pretty sight.
Dad’s response? He wrapped his finger up in a dirty rag to stop the bleeding, then proceeded on with his work. Overall, he was a pretty tough hombre.
And yet he would cry at a moment’s notice if any of his kids met with success or did anything to make him proud. I remember the aftermath of one little league baseball game, where I had won a game ball as the winning pitcher that day. Dad was so proud, he proceeded to hug most of my teammates en route to finding and hugging me with tears streaming down his face. I was 12, and embarassed because this was SO not cool. Looking back, I realize how absolutely cool it was.
The week leading up to my dad’s death was one of the craziest and most unpredictable times in my life. I was living in Texas at the time, about 900 miles away, when my mom called me on 9/11/03 to tell me that dad had been admitted to the hospital.
He had earlier been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis, a condition where your lung capacity progressively deteriorates to the point that you literally suffocate from the lack of oxygen. He also had heart problems, and had been in the hospital before, but this time was different. Sensing this, my wife Lee and I eventually decided to take our two oldest kids out of school, pack up the family, and head off to Atlanta. My fear in making the drive was that we would be too late to see him. So we prayed, and drove.
We got into Atlanta around 1:30 am on a Tuesday morning and spent the night with my mom. My aunt, who lives several miles away from my parents, woke me up around 6:00 am to tell me that she had called 911 for an ambulance to come take my mom to the hospital!
Apparently my mom’s heart was out of rhythm, and she had called my aunt to come over because she thought that my wife and I needed our sleep! Fortunately, my aunt decided that this was something I would want to know about so she woke me up.
That morning, I found myself at the hospital, with my dad in intensive care, and my mom undergoing tests to determine what was wrong with her heart. I was exhausted, fearful, and overwhelmed — and had no idea how to handle the situation. So I prayed, and picked up a Bible. I opened it to 2 Timothy and read this:
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” [2 Timothy 1:7, NKJV]
What a gift! In the midst of madness, God empowers us, reassures us of his love, and brings sanity. Which is what I and other members of my family so desperately needed…
Later that morning, Mom was diagnosed as having an atrial fibrillation, which, though serious, is fairly common and treatable with medication. She had to stay in the hospital for a couple of days of observation, however, in a room a few floors down from my dad.
In the meantime, my dad’s condition continued to grow worse. This was a really difficult and confusing time, because we had two sets of doctors who were telling us different things. The heart doctors thought it was possible that his condition could improve, giving my dad some hope that he could regain his strength and return home. On the other hand, the lung doctors saw his condition deteriorating, with little hope for recovery.
The thing that threw everyone off was that my dad had continued working, and had only reluctantly consented to begin using portable oxygen tanks a short time prior to all of this. All the literature we had read and studied spoke of this type of condition worsening over the course of a couple of years, so we were confused by how rapidly his condition seemed to be deteriorating. The reality was that he was much sicker than anyone realized. The lung doctors especially couldn’t believe that he had gone so long being active without using the portable oxygen. By the time he did begin, he had to have it near the highest settings.
Later we heard stories of how he stopped taking the stairs at work, as was his usual habit. Others spoke of how they saw him struggling to catch his breath at times. I noticed this as well a few months prior, when my dad took me and my two oldest kids out to a trout farm. He wanted to see them catch some fish, but apparently wasn’t up to doing one of his typical fishing trips, which involved hiking and wading for several miles along some hidden North Georgia creek. I noticed then how he struggled to catch his breath just walking and talking…
Even in this last week, he continued to fight, and was determined to keep on living despite the fact that his lungs were giving out. The practical choice that was looming, however, was whether or not he should be placed on a ventilator. Dad had made it clear that he didn’t want heroic measures to extend his life beyond what was reasonable. What wasn’t clear at the time, however, was whether the ventilator would serve as a temporary tool for recovery (position of the heart doctors), or a permanent crutch to extend his life artificially (position of the lung doctors).
Mom’s admission into the hospital actually served as a blessing in this regard. In addition to the forced rest, it also gave her the chance to speak with the doctors more at length, and to clarify all the disparate messages we were hearing. Eventually, as the heart and lung doctors began comparing notes, it became clear that if dad did go on the ventilator, he would never go back off
of it.
We worried about how dad would take this news. Prior to this, he would always latch on to whatever bit of positive news he’d receive, as he was determined to recover and go back to living his life. So we worried about how he would react to being told that there was really nothing else that could be done for him. We shouldn’t have worried, however.
There’s a quote from one of my favorite movies, The Shawshank Redemption, that I’m reminded of: “Get busy living, or get busy dying.” Somehow, my dad managed to do both at the same time.
I was with him after he had received the news, and he asked me to bring a notepad and paper back the next morning when I came. I did, and he used it to start listing out some of his most prized possessions: his hunting rifles, shotguns, knives, and the like. He then asked my older brother and me to decide between us what things we would like, as well as what things other family members would want.
This wasn’t the only list he had made, however. He made lists for folks at his work, passing along info they’d need to effectively carry on without him. He had also made lists of things to do around the house, repairs that were needed, etc., so my mom would be cared for. The fact of the matter was that he had been doing this for some time. He knew death was nearing, and as he fought to cling to life, he also had been preparing for his death and for the lives of those he would be leaving behind.
The last days of his life he was surrounded by family and friends. Lee brought the kids up to see him on Friday the 19th. Pulling his oxygen mask aside, he proceeded to tell each one of them how proud he was of them, how much he loved them, and that he was going to miss not being able to see them grow up. He spoke words of encouragement and blessing to me and my wife as well.
I had planned to drive Lee and the kids home on Saturday, so I said my goodbyes to Dad late Friday night in case I would not be able to make it back before he died. Dad told me not to worry, and that if I didn’t see him again, he would see me in heaven. A half hour after my mom and I got back to the house, we were called back to the hospital. About 3 hours later, at 1:35 am, my dad passed away. My mom, sister, brother, and I were all able to be with him when he died (which was an answer to prayer), as well as several other family members.
Watching him die was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life. He was unconscious and on medication to alleviate pain, but his body was struggling to breathe, taking rasping, heaving breaths. As I watched this, everything in me screamed out for someone to do something! Had I been the one to make the choice in that moment, I can easily see myself telling the medical staff to do whatever they could to save his life.
But dad had made it clear that he didn’t want to be put on a ventilator, or have any other heroic measures taken. He felt he had lived a blessed life, and did not want to be kept alive just to be kept alive.
So we honored his decision. And watched as his breathing became progressively more and more labored. I remember praying silently that God would bring him back — do some miraculous healing and bring him back to us. But at some point as I watched him die, I realized how self-centered this attitude was. And how much better off he would be if he could escape his failing body and be with the Lord. So my attitude changed, and so did my prayers. I prayed for God to take him — to release him from the pain, from the struggle, and the suffering that his life had become. And God honored that prayer.
I realize now how much dad taught me about living, and about dying. He was the one who led me to Christ when I was nine years old — who introduced me to the idea of sacrificing our lives to Christ, and trusting God to raise us up to new life. In the end, that’s what he did. His life was a sacrifice, and he was willing to offer it up, and bravely trust God with the circumstances.
I do believe I’ll see him again. I know my dad believed that. And I look forward to that day, with great anticipation. In the meantime, he is greatly missed, yet still loved.
In loving memory of James “Harold” Bradley, April 26, 1934 to September 20, 2003.
