“Hey Daddy, congratulations on getting sprung from the hospital,” I said.
“On getting a sponge?” Dad asked.
“No sprung. I’m glad you got sprung,” I said.
“You are glad I got a sponge,” Dad said.
“That you got out of the hospital, Daddy. I’m glad you got out,” I said.
Dad had driven his motorized wheelchair off of the ramp, as he headed out to close the garage door. The chair tumped over on him (tump meaning “to tip over accidentally” in Texan), breaking Dad’s hip.
Dad was taken to the hospital, then a few days later got “sponged” to the rehabilitation facility–except that was an earlier sponging a few weeks back. This was his second sponging, after another hospital stay, this time for COVID-19.
Dad caught COVID while in the rehab facility for the hip. And his heart, which was already wonky and kept steady with a Pacemaker and an internal defibrillator, didn’t appreciate the virus’s intrusion. His heart rebelled, but the doctors and nurses ultimately made it behave. After a few weeks, Dad was sent back to the rehab facility.
“I got out of the hospital?” Dad asked.
“Yes, Daddy. They moved you from the Methodist over to a rehab facility,” I said.
“That’s not the Methodist you’re thinking of, Lucie,” Dad explained. He got professorial. “Though the Methodist does have an extensive rehab network. It’s the second largest business in all of Texas.”
“It is?” I asked. I had no idea.
“You’re thinking of the IRS.”
“The IRS?”
“Yes, the Internal Revenue Service.”
“Oh yes, the Internal Revenue Service,” I said.
There was no use trying to sort this out. Dad’s brain was addled from the stress of the COVID, the medications, and eighty years of living.
“Well, I’m glad you’re there anyway,” I said. “How are you feeling, Dad?”
“I’m just glad they brought me my camera,” Dad said.
“Oh good,” I said, knowing that surely the camera was a gift that his brain, and not any family member, had brought to him. “Are you taking a lot of pictures at the hospital?”
“No, I don’t expect that I am,” Dad said.
That was the last conversation that I had with Daddy. The next day, yesterday, Dad’s heart decided it was done cooperating. And last night, Dad’s heart stormed out of the room.
Dad’s been sprung, for good this time. I know he’d be glad that he had his camera with him.
A sweet and charming exchange between the two of you. A lovely way to remember your dad.
Dear Lucy
We didn’t expect John’s call as the last time Bob talked with him he sounded pretty good. Bob worked for and was Joe’s friend for over forty years. He always talked about how smart he really was and so very well. They certainly experienced some adventures together. We send our love and sympathy. Judy and Bob
Lucie, we are so sad for you. As you probably know we lost out best friend , Clyde Tew, last April Easter weekend to this terrible disease. It was like a part of me just disappeared. So hard to get a grip on it. My heart goes out to you and your family and many prayers,there are no words for the loss you feel. 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏❤️
Lucie, I’m so very sorry but I love this remembrance of your dad! Becky
Thank you for letting us in on this moment. We are sending you, Lilly, John, and the rest of the family so much love. I was absolutely heartbroken when I heard this morning.
Lucie, I love this. Thanks for sharing it with us. (Of course, you know my thoughts and prayers go out to you (you should be all set now) — do with them what you wish.)
Lucie, I am SO sorry. I lost my grandfather early on in 2020 to Covid, so I can understand the isolation and separation that comes with this. Prayers for peace and comfort during this most difficult time.
Jeff Anderson
Oh Lucy, I’m so sorry! I love how you “went with it” as he talked. There is also something called Covid brain. My heart goes out to you, your boys, and family! OXO❤️.
This is beautiful Lucie. So you and such a perfect description of the loss. I am so sorry.
Oh Lucie! I am so sorry – this loss is so big and so real. I am sending you a big virtual hug. Not being able to be with him must have been just awful. This disease is so isolating!
Such a beautiful tribute in your memory of your dad, Lucie. Hugs to you.
Oh, Lucie, what a lovely story. My first thought, was he and Joe Peterson would be taking the boat out on the water to have some fun.
What a wonderful story. Thank you for this. It’s all very sad here.
Lucie, I always love your pieces and this one, was yet again, a personal one for me.
I am so sorry to hear of your loss. May this be another joyful memory you carry in your heart. You dad must be proud. I know I am of my friend. Love to you.
Thanks for sharing this. Love to you, John, Lilly and Edith. I am glad you got to talk to him before you lost him – it feels like a small win, at least.
Lucie, as usual, through your writing you leave a wonderful and touching remembrance of your Dad. I’m grateful you were with him the day before and had a conversation with him. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Your wit and way of expressing things has always been and remains awesome. Big hugs during this very sad time but continue to share with everyone we love your words.
Lucie, I love your blog and this sweet conversation is a nice reminder of the cool small things that we miss most about them when they’re gone. Cherish every one of them. Sending you so much love and thoughts my friend. He’ll always be with you. So so sorry for this big loss. ❤️ xo xo xo, RICK
Lucie I am so sorry to hear about your loss – your Daddy was a great man! I know it is so tough to lose a parent. You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. Love, Katherine
Lucie, you are so blessed to have spent that time with your Dad. You are just amazing to be able to write so eloquently through your grief. Hugs, love and prayers to you and the boys!
So very sorry to hear about your beloved dad but what a smile your last conversation with him brought to my face. Made me think of my last conversations with each of my parents many years ago. I know what a difficult time this is and hope you and your family
are deep into wonderful dad stories now. Surely, no one will hear the word sponge without thinking of him. And you. Hugs. Alison
As a caregiver for a father with Alzheimer’s, I can appreciate conversations like this. I’m sorry he was sprung from more of these interactions, but glad he found peace and his camera. *hugs*
Lucie this is just such a wonderful snapshot of that last exchange. So everyday and yet so poignant at the same time. Thanks for letting me relive that last conversation with you. Love you and love your outlook on the world.