One Long Holy Week

At 10:15 tonight, Good Friday 2008, my Dad, Art Ialongo, died peacefully. My brothers, sister, and I were all there, sad and relieved at the same time. Dad has spent the last four years in nursing homes suffering from a dementia which affected him cognitively and produced a profound aphasia. He knew us to the end, however. That was a blessing and a curse. He remembered enough to make him incredibly frustrated with his situation in life on a regular basis.

My mother died on All Saints Day and my dad on Good Friday. There's a lovely symmetry about that. My mother outlived her doctor's prediction of the time of her death by seven days. She died when we all left her room to argue about where we should purchase take out food. She was finally alone, she knew we would be all right, and, so, she died. My Dad was in the same mode. His doctor predicted he would not live past Tuesday evening. So, we decided to go out for dinner tonight and kissed him goodbye. Five minutes later we received a call that he had no discernible pulse, so we rushed back. He was only breathing every 10 seconds or so. This went on for an hour, so we decided to tell him we were going out to eat again. We just went as far as the front lobby. After about 20 minutes, his nurse told us to come back. She thought he had died, but we noticed that every 25 seconds or so, his jaw and throat would move. This lasted only 10 more minutes or so. He finally rested. I, on the other hand, am very tired.