Saying Goodbye to Gary Riley, Pt. 1
(In Three Parts)
My father, Gary Riley, was one of many that was hospitalized last year, isolated from loved ones as he struggled to live. A three-plus-hour ambulance ride took him away from his beloved home on the Mendocino Coast. That journey was terrifying for many reasons, but most of all because my father was blind.
Life changes in a blink.
It was a breathtaking forty-five minutes that changed everything. On a conference call with Gary Riley, his doctors, nurses, my younger siblings, mother and aunt, our purpose shifted from what we wanted for Dad to what he wanted. His kidneys had failed and dialysis triggered his blood pressure to drop through the floor. With dialysis no longer an option, Dad was determined to take advantage of this sweet spot to return to his beloved Mendocino Coast home and die, surrounded by loved ones. If you are unfamiliar with the journey leading up to this call, I encourage you to catch up via my prior posts.
I’d only just returned to Seattle from a week-long trip to Fort Bragg to support my mother, so as it happened, other family members experienced the joy of seeing Gary Riley’s first moments back home after the four hour ambulance trip from the hospital. Signature Gary, the EMTs were charmed by him, shaking his hand and telling him that it’d been an honor to know him before they left. Mother, Kate, took a video of our dog as she greeted Dad. He’d been gone for close to four weeks, and she’d been deeply affected. I can’t manage to post it here, but if you’d seen it, you would have heard the sound of my father’s beautiful caramel-timbred voice.
Those first days of Dad’s homecoming when I was in Seattle, I called a few times a day and spoke to everyone back in Fort Bragg on loud, funny conference calls. I also built Lego models as I tried wrapping my brain around what was to come. I cried. I was also grateful we’d gotten Dad home in the time of Covid when others across the world were left to die in isolation.
Was I strong enough to be there while my best friend and beloved father passed? I didn’t think so. But then again, this journey wasn’t about me. I knew that much. I needed to be there in support of Gary Riley and my family.
Jesus, would Dad be okay once he passed away? That was the question that haunted me most. I asked the question out loud one evening as the sun set behind the Olympic Mountains. “Universe, show me Dad will be okay in the afterlife. Not even okay, thriving.” Tap, tap, tippy tap! For five minutes, there was tapping on the glass door that I didn’t register. When I finally turned around to find the source, I saw a hummingbird tapping on the door. Side-note; hummingbirds began showing up after my beloved dog, Quincy, died, and both my eldest kid-Nora and I have associated hummingbirds with him ever since. I knew at that moment, hummingbird tapping on the kitchen door, Dad would be greeted by Quincy and all the other dogs that loved him when he passed.
Before Nora and I left home for the trip to Fort Bragg to say goodbye to Gary Riley, I was shaky, but focused; getting ready, finishing my packing, but when it came time to dress, I hit a wall. My face flushed. I fought tears. I could feel the panic coming on and a shirt fell off of a hanger, landing on my feet. The Universe had picked my clothes.
On the plane, Nora and I talked about the podcast we’ve been into lately called the Duncan Trussell Family Hour. He is the creator of Midnight Gospel which is available on Netflix and I highly recommend. Nora had said earlier in the week that Episode Four about life and death was to be our homework before going to say goodbye to Gary Riley. In it, the show creator interviews his real-life mother who is in the final stage of life. It is raw and funny and sad and beautiful. The episode galvanized our purpose for the trip to Fort Bragg.
Our trip was a spiritual journey. Our purpose was singular; help someone we loved deeply pass on to the afterlife and support our family that had been his medical and physical support in the days prior.
We landed. The grape fields of Santa Rosa were socked in with gray clouds. Nora took the wheel of the rental car and we drove, listening to music and talking.
Kate sent us a text, “Excited to see you soon! Just wanted to warn you that Dad has taken a remarkable downturn. He’s fairly incoherent and may not recognize you. We had to give him a bit of morphine a few hours ago. Laine is playing 50s music. All is well for now.”
We arrived at the house sometime after 4pm. We didn’t know what to expect, but in spite of the uncertainty, Nora and I felt serene. Kate met us on the porch. She said to come inside and hugged us for a long while. Inside the doorway that led to the parlor, we hugged Laine and Harr (my younger siblings and Nora’s aunt and uncle.) Harr stood beside Dad’s rental hospital bed, placed where his recliner usually sat.
“Go. Say hi.” I don’t know who said this to us. Maybe Laine? “Say hi to Dad.”
Without speaking, Nora took Dad’s left hand and I took his right. We held his hands and he recognized us.
“It’s Sunday night!” (He’d asked Friday on the speakerphone call when Nora and I were arriving in Fort Bragg) “My Nora’s here!”
He made a joke about Piacci’s (an inside joke from a prior visit) and he asked us what we were having for dinner. “Did Harr go to pick up food?” He couldn’t really eat anymore, something that had only transpired in the last few hours, so we didn’t really answer. Laine may have said we already ate, to set Dad’s mind at ease.
Inside scoop: When anyone comes to visit, the Riley-way is to ask, “What are we eating?” followed next with, “What are we watching?” Those are the Riley priorities. Once those questions are answered, everyone settles back into their chairs.
Back in Fort Bragg, Nora and held Dad’s hands. He cried. I laid my hand on his chest and told him we were here; that he wasn’t alone. Nora told him that we were there and he was safe. He was uncomfortable, restless, and we witnessed the babbling and wide-sweeping gestures that Kate, Laine, and Harr had described. Dad shouted out in a tone like a boy after returning home after being away for months, “Mom! Mom!”
We helped him pee.
We gave him glucose because his blood sugar was dropping, but he had a dose of 24-hour insulin on board, so we didn’t want to cause him pain. He didn’t want the glucose, so we said it was something I’d brought from Seattle, desperate times and all that. He opened his mouth and swallowed the goo. His expression soured and I told him to breathe through his nose, which he did.
Kate said, “Mr. Riley! I have to check your blood sugar. I need a finger!” He raised his middle one which was funny. He was still making jokes, making us laugh.
His blood sugar was unchanged. After giving him more glucose, I said, “Dad, I’m going to dab your mouth.” He asked why. “I’ve seen it done in movies, Dad.” I dabbed his lips with a washcloth and he said, “A little dab, dab! Piacci’s Pizza and a dab, dab!” He was making new inside jokes.
When Nora released his hand, albeit briefly to help with something, Dad asked, “Where’s my Nora?” and they would return, offer their hand again.
He cried a second time. Said he was sorry he’d been in bed all day. “God. I’ve slept the day away!” Nora and I reassured him. We told him it was okay. He cried a third time. I said, “I love you, Dad. You are wonderful. You are wonderful!” and pressed my hand to his chest. He said, “I am wonderful,” and he settled.
Not long after that, Nora and I left so that Kate, Laine, and Harr could rest while Dad was a bit more peaceful.
Nora and I drove in darkness along the 101 towards Mendocino, not quite knowing the way to the Inn that we’d booked.
We talked about how we felt the others were, understandably, hollowed out from taking care of Dad this last week. The last two nights had been rough. Nora and I felt such purpose being their reinforcements. We were grateful to be there and glad we’d made the trip.
We checked into our room and found out it was too late to order food from the kitchen. We made a meal of Luna bars – our appetizer, trail mix – our main course, Sour Patch Kids – our dessert. We drank teensy cups of half-and-half we found by the coffee machine.
Out the sliding doors, the view was pitch black. Though we knew the ocean was there, our cones and rays weren’t capable of seeing anything.
*****
*Two days later, I would connect this observation to what Dad said to me on his last day, “I see the darkness.” Dad’s last words would haunt me in the days after my father transitioned from the earthly world to the great beyond. I would come to understand that the next dimension coexists with us, but our human senses aren’t fit to see the darkness; limited like our cones and rays. Dad, though, one foot in the earthly world, and one foot in the beyond, could see the darkness. And it wasn’t dark at all.
*****
Sated by our makeshift meal, I turned on the television and we watched Storage Wars until we both fell into a fitful sleep.
(Look for PART TWO next week as I share our tandem dreams and my father’s last hours)