The last quarter of 2012

Well loyal blog followers, as everyone can tell, from October 15th on life got pretty chaotic.  Guppy got sick in a different way.  His brain left and he was completely out of it. At one point in time, he rambled for 48 hours straight about total nonsense. Full stories that were made up. It was horrific.  When this happened, we took him to the hospital to have him checked out because he had left the house in the middle of the night confused and fell.  We thought maybe he hit his head and was bleeding.  When that came back as normal, the physicians informed us this was the new normal and that he could not recover. He spent six days in the hospital, including Halloween.  Then he was discharged to a nursing home, which was devastating for us all.  At the nursing home he was in a locked unit, for people with dementia.  He had free reign of that unit, but couldn't leave if he wanted to.  We had to have a code to get in to see him.  During his 8 days at the nursing home, he had a level of clarity we hadn't seen in a long while. He felt safe and secure and structure that he hadn't had for a long time.  He lived at the nursing home for his 73rd birthday, but we celebrated his and Ben's birthday at Red Robin. The following weekend we brought him to Ben's birthday party on the train at the Wilmington Western Railroad.  We took a picture of Mom, Dad and the five siblings outside that train, which was a blessing. During that train ride, Dad who had been cathetertized for a few weeks, started to bleed profusely. It was horrible.  As soon as the train got back into the station, he went back to the nursing home and waited for the ambulance to pick him up (for liability reasons it had to be an ambulance that transferred him). He was admitted to the hospital with hematuria, which is blood in the urine.  He had awful clots that they couldn't get under control. Once they thought he was in the clear and were preparing to send him back to the nursing home, but when he stood up the clots started pouring out again. So emergency surgery was scheduled for the next day.  We thought the surgery would indicate some underlying prostate issue or bladder cancer. It came back fine, with just an irritated bladder that was cauterized.  I remember Mom and I were devastated because it didn't answer any question for us, but happy too that it wasn't something more serious.  He stayed in the hospital for three more days, and because of that he lost his bed at the nursing home.  So he was discharged back to his house with Mom. We knew it wasn't going to be easy and eventually he got reconnected to hospice.   Thanksgiving had Kim and Tom in town just before they moved away and Dad was able to spend it with us all.  His cognition would come and go during the days. Sometimes totally lucid; other times confused and couldn't remember anything.
The week after Thanksgiving he was requiring extra help with bathing and activities of daily living. His  Hospice CNAs and nurses were watching him and things were just moving along.  He'd make totally random inappropriate Guppy comments one minute and then be asleep for hours on end.  There were a few times when Mom called me and I left work to go to their house because things weren't seeming right. He was on a routine of pain medication. On December 6 he got sick with a stomach ailment and overnight was in really bad shape. His PCP made an appointment for him to come in on the morning of December 7 to get checked out. I went to work that morning knowing full well that I was going to be leaving early.  Mom sent me text pictures of Dad and how bad he looked and I left, in my mind to help her get him in the car to get to the doctor. When I got to their house, the CNA and Mom were with him and he looked awful.  His skin was all gray and he was so incredibly weak.  He couldn't hold his head up at all and he just looked deadly to me.  We ultimately decided there was no way we were able to get him out of the house. When the nurse got there I took her into the kitchen and said "could this be it?" and she said "It may be. He's in bad shape."  I went to the store to get him some Immodium to stop the GI distress. We gave him the medicine at noon and he fell asleep.  Mom and I spent the afternoon watching him sleep, listening to him deep breathe.  We talked about how weak he was and wondered what his mind would be like when he woke up.  At 6pm we went to give him his next dose of medicine and when we tried to wake him, he was unresponsive.  Mom, me, Brian, Addie, Ben we were all screaming at him, shaking him, shining light in his eyes, splashing water on him, the whole gamut and nothing was waking him.  I got video chat on the computer and called everyone on my cell phone and held the phone to his ear so everyone could say goodbye and see him.  We called the hospice nurse freaking out and she rushed over.  We called Wendy to come over. Dad let out a cough that woke him out of the deep sleep, but his vitals continued to be awful.  The nurse told us "this is it," and we all prepared ourselves to say goodbye. Brian and I asked if there was any chance of him rebounding and she said, "some people do for a day maybe," and I said, "but there's no chance that next week he'll go back to like before?" and she assured us not. Needless to say, it was much quicker and sooner than any of us ever expected.  Eventually Brian took the kids home. Wendy went home. I slept on the floor next to Dad's side of the bed. I was supposed to call TJ, Jeremy and Kim in the morning to tell them when/if to come down. Overnight Dad got really combative. Mom and I had to essentially restrain him to keep him in bed, because he was fighting and saying that he needed to go to the bathroom. We kept reminding him that he didn't need to get out of bed to use the bathroom etc.  Saturday morning, the 8th, he looked better physically. He didn't ask for anything to eat or drink. He slept most of the day. The hospice nurse was shocked to see him and his vitals were near normal. It was unreal.  We knew he wasn't going to miraculously get better, but his vitals were looking ok and we realized this was the start of a roller coaster of emotion.  The kids and I needed to get out of the house and we had committed to ringing the Salvation Army bell for two hours that afternoon, so Brian stayed back with Mom to keep an eye on Guppy.  During those two hours, he was really lucid and having great conversations with them, making peace with the world, etc.  When I got back he was awake and I said to him, "Dad, you know you're dying and we've talked about this before. You don't want to be in pain and I'm keeping my promise to you to not let you die in pain." And my Dad stopped me and said, "Cory, how the hell are you going to do that? I'm in so much pain." At that moment, I looked at Mom and said we need to call hospice. We talked to the nurse and immediately the medications for pain and agitation were increased and we started a new routine. During those two hours of lucidity, he asked for some ice cream and had a few tablespoons fed by my Mom.  That night we asked Brian's parents to take Addie and Ben overnight so Brian could help with him overnight.  We slept on the floor next to his side of the bed again and were up all night struggling with him to keep him in bed and comfortable.
Sunday TJ came down and immediately began 24/7 care for Dad in his bedroom.  We had a calender of medication administration and had it down to a science.  He slept most of Sunday, except for the afternoon when his friend Jake and Gwen drove up from Washington DC to see him.  We shook Dad to tell him Jake was there and he lit up with excitement. He opened his eyes, sat up, grabbed Jake's hands and said, "Well hello there old man" and "Jake, I love you" and that was it. He fell asleep immediately and didn't wake up again for the whole afternoon/evening. It must've taken every single ounce of energy to muster those words to Jake, but I'm so glad he did.  Brian's parents brought the kids back that night and as we were all sitting/standing around him in bed talking, Dad opened his eyes and said, "who died?" Then he looked really confused.  We spent some time trying to comfort him and explain we were his family and we loved him.  He fell asleep again.
Monday he slept just about the whole day. We were solid with the medication administration and he only winced in pain whenever someone moved his shoulder.  He was awake for maybe 45 minutes the whole day. But part of that time he was lucid and we all spoke with him. I gave him a kiss and he said, "I love you Cory. I'll never forget you" which means more than anyone will ever understand.  The kids kissed him each night when they went home to bed, knowing they may not see him awake again.
Tuesday his eyes were opened for maybe 20 minutes total, but when they were open there was a glassy look in his eyes and we knew his brain wasn't there anymore.  Mom, TJ and I sat with him all day long each day.  We went through all of our photo albums and put together 12 huge picture collages of Bucky/Dad/Guppy's life.  It was awesome.  There were many pictures where we laughed and commented on things he said, etc.  All the while his dying body kept hanging on. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything since Dec 6, with the exception of the few tablespoons of ice cream.
We remained in this pattern for the rest of the week.  We were with him non-stop. As soon as the kids were done school they were over with him, talking with him, loving him.
Thursday-Friday the 14th overnight Mom called me to say she thought it was happening. I rushed up there and listened to his breathing, which was different but kept he kept fighting. Friday night Brian the kids and I started to watch a movie that Mom recommended, but paused it and said we'd finish it the next day after we slept.
Saturday the 15th, his brother and his wife came down and they spent some time alone with Guppy. We spent the day with him as usual.  We listened to meaningful music with him and tried to keep him comfortable.  That evening his left leg started to change color and eventually his foot turned black. We're pretty sure he developed a clot.  His toes were starting to cool. That night we put the movie on, and cuddled on the couch with Brian and Addie, with Benjamin sitting across from us we finished watching the movie.  It was about 10:00pm.  I went in to say goodnight and stood at the foot of Dad's hospital bed, still.  I noticed he wasn't breathing anymore.  TJ was in the room with him, using the computer with some Christmas music playing. Mom was asleep next to Dad in bed.  I stood another few seconds and TJ said, "what?" and I said, "I think he's died." TJ recalls hearing his labored breathing a few minutes before, so I'm confident I must've walked in just as it happened.  His face was still warm.  We started trying to find a pulse or feel any breath and there was nothing.  Mom woke up and asked what time it was, all I could say was "I think he's gone." With much sadness we counted for five minutes there was no pulse and we were sure he was gone.  Addie and Ben and Brian were there with him. The kids were stroking his legs and hands.  I called Kim and Jeremy and we video chatted so Kim could see him.  Wendy came up.  Then we called hospice.  The nurse came and listened with her stethoscope for three minutes before announcing his time of death.  And that was it.
My Dad was gone forever.  The kids' Guppy was gone forever.  It was, and is, surreal.  The physical transformation he underwent in the course of four hours was substantial.  He will be missed beyond words.  He left such a legacy of goodness in the world and we are all better because of him.
He died at peace, without pain, cuddled next to my Mom, with us all there with him physically and in spirit.  It was sad, but also relieving because he isn't in pain anymore. He doesn't have to live with the indignity of a mind and body that were giving out. He said goodbye and made his peace. I will love him and think of him everyday of my life, as will all of my siblings and their spouses, and my Mom and Addie and Ben.

Here's what I said at my Dad's celebration of life ceremony:

Hello. I’m Cory, Bucky’s daughter. One of my Dad’s favorite authors is Robert Fulghum, who is famous for his “All I really need to know I learned in kindergarten” story.   He shared his love of his stories with me and I thought it would be an appropriate way for me to share with you who my Dad was as a person and the legacy that will continue.

Robert Fulghum wrote, “We’re all a little weird. And life is a little weird. And when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall into mutually satisfying weirdness—and call it love—true love.”  My Dad fell so deeply in love with my mom that he didn’t balk at the idea of taking on six kids and all the drama that includes. And let’s be honest, you’ve got to be a little weird to do that.  Until my mom met my Dad, I didn’t have a real sense of what true love was. When they got together, I loved the idea of someone loving my mom so much. We’d be in the car and at each red light they’d kiss each other.  The very sight of them kissing showed me and my siblings that this man loved her so much and was going to take care of her for the rest of his life.  Mom and Dad held hands everywhere they went. Their love served as an example of what true love is for me and my husband Brian. When Dad was sick, I asked him his top five life experiences or memories.  While some people may rattle off “1. So and so. 2. This and that, etc, in typical Bucky Wellman fashion I got a long story about his top experience was meeting my mom, developing their friendship, falling in love with her, convincing her he really loved her, marrying her and having our family.  That my friends is a 21 yearlong top experience.  As a side note, he did mention that his 2^nd top experiences were tied between being able to watch the birth of Brian and my children, Addie and Benjamin.  Meeting them for the first time sealed a bond that words can’t ever begin to express.  This man saved our lives and forever changed the trajectory of our lives.  He was incredible.

Robert Fulghum wrote, “It doesn’t matter what you say you believe - it only matters what you do.”  My dad was a do-er.  He was always doing something for someone else.  He taught me to drive stick shift. He taught me to ski.  He taught my 12-year-old self that not everything is black or white, there is a lot of gray, which was hard as an adolescent to see.  He taught me how to stand up for myself and others.  He taught me it doesn’t matter which way you’re driving on a one-way street, as long as you’re only driving one way- true story and that was a terrifying but hysterically fun car ride! He didn’t just say he believed in the goodness of others, he demonstrated it daily.  Take a look at those pictures in the back, and you’ll see a man who openly welcomed people into our family, if only to share a Christmas dinner, so they felt included.  Over the years he welcomed our foster children, friends who couldn’t go home for the holidays, and the men I worked with in groups homes into the Wellman house to experience what a family was.  In the recent years Dad became well aware that older adults are devalued in American society and instead of just complaining about it, he decided to DO something about it.  He started his Master’s Degree in Mental Health Counseling at the age of 70, determined to help older Americans through life’s transitions and not lose self-respect or feel forgotten. Dad had a 4.0 GPA and completed all of his course work. He was a field placement experience away from getting those letters after his name.  He did it.

Robert Fulghum wrote “Without realizing it, we fill important places in each other’s lives. It’s that way with the guy at the corner grocery, the mechanic at the local garage, the family doctor, teachers, neighbors, coworkers. Good people who are always “there,” who can be relied upon in small, important ways. People who teach us, bless us, encourage us, support us, uplift us in the dailiness of life. We never tell them. I don’t know why, but we don’t.

And, of course, we fill that role ourselves. There are those who depend in us, watch us, learn from us, take from us. And we never know.

You may never have proof of your importance, but you are more important than you think. There are always those who couldn’t do without you. The rub is that you don’t always know who.”

We had the blessing of being able to tell Dad what he meant to us in his last week.

All of you are here today because you either loved my dad personally or you love one of us and therefore you loved him.  Dad played many roles in life, but most importantly was that of husband, father and the best Guppy in the entire world.  Whether building tree forts 20 feet in the air (and promptly falling off of said tree fort and breaking both arms and his face) or building tree forts in grandkids’ backyards, whether hiding behind a corner to let out one of his classic Guppy roars, or posing for a picture while waving his hand, Guppy has left so many awesome memories for us to cherish.  He was a good man. An honest man. A man who loved unconditionally. A man who was proud of his family and loved life.  He kept us on our toes when any of his stories started, because God only knows which direction it was going to take and he kept that tradition going right until the very end. He led a full life, in fact just last month Addie had an assignment to ask people if they had ever done a whole host of things.  Guppy was the only one had done every single thing on that list. My dad lived a good life and left a legacy of love and humor and laughter and sharing.

My wedding day was a special day not only for Brian and me, but for my Dad too.  The ability to walk me down the aisle had special meaning for both of us. I had picked out the perfect song to dance to with him, with beautiful lyrics about him being the dad he didn’t have to be.  All I wanted him to do was listen to the lyrics and take it all in. Instead he wanted to tell me how much he loved me and was proud of me and I actually had to say to him while dancing, “Dad, shut up and listen to this song!” But now, I want to make it really clear that I thank God for the Dad he didn’t have to be.

In closing, I want to share with you one final thought from Robert Fulghum, which I think really symbolizes how we all want to remember my Dad and Addie and Ben’s Guppy. “Every person passing through this life will unknowingly leave something and take something away. Most of this “something” cannot be seen or heard or numbered or scientifically detected or counted. It’s what we leave in the minds of other people and what they leave in ours. Memory. The census doesn’t count it. Nothing counts without it.”  Thank you for honoring his memory and for keeping him with you today and in the coming days.

____

I will be adding pictures of the life events that went on simultaneously while this was happening, just so they are documented.  Everything was different.