The Saddest Word

ter'mi-nal - (adjective); definition - Final; also known as 'the saddest word in the English language' - as in, "I'm sorry but your father's pulminary-fibrosis heart disease has entered the 'terminal' stage."

My dad, Doug Pegg died last night at home and at the age of 81, from pulminary fiborsis. Apparently, it's a heart condition that gradually weakens the lungs so you can't breathe anymore. He found out about it five years ago - but didn't bother to tell anyone. I can't blame him. I would have played it the same way myself.

But he WAS old and even though you could tell during the past year or so that he got easily winded, I just assumed it was just one of those getting old type things. When we went to the family picnic a two-hour drive out of town, the first weekend of August, he was the one who drove us there and back. He was fine behind the wheel. But just try asking the guy to carry the cooler into the house. Even then, relatives and people who know him better than I were taking me aside and asking - "Is he okay to drive home?" Lots of huffing and puffing and being winded just from walking from the driveway into the house.

Two weeks later my parents came over for my birthday the last week of August. He could barely make it from the driveway (and yes, he drove,) then up the three steps to the porch before gratefully collapsing onto the couch in the front room where he decided to settle for the afernoon. Couldn't even make it to the kitchen, where my family does most of our hanging-out when they come over.

He said he was going for respirology tests the next day. When the tests came back a couple of days later, they put him on oxegen. And it seemed to help for a bit. But then he needed more and more.

I saw him about a week later, and he looked good. Well, about as good as you can while walking around with a tube up your nose attached to an oxegen tank.

But about a week ago, he wasn't doing too well. My sister came down and found out about all the pulminary fibrosis stuff and that his repirologist gave her the news that he had entered the 'terminal' stage of the disease.

I went over last Thursday morning. He was able to sit up on the edge of the bed to talk, get a bit weepy and then get onto his commode to get rid of the cornflakes and bran-buds he insists on having for breakfast. That said, he had been basically in his bedroom for the past two days. Even making it to the bathroom, five feet away would have wiped him out.

Yesterday - was our Family Thanksgiving dinner. All his kids and their wives and his grandchildren would be there. And we get there and he was still in somewhat good humour for a bed-ridden guy, but didn't have the energy to even be able to sit up in bed.

He lay there while a procession of family came in and told him how much they loved him - or like me, talked about everything else under the sun. The last I saw him, he was tuckered out and just wanted to roll over into his favorite sleeping positon and go to sleep. Me and the boy helped him do that.

Then we ate and went home and a few hours later, he was gone.

It's like he was just holding on long enough to say 'goodbye' to EVERYONE and once that was done, it was okay to go.

When my brother called shortly after midnight to say that he was gone, I wasn't surprised. And I wasn't the only one who thought he was hanging on just to say goodbye one last time.

For five years, the guy knew his time was coming sooner rather than later and that he could never be sure when he saw any of us, whether or not that would be the last time. But being the true parent he was, he didn't want anyone to know.

Obviously, he's the kind of guy that didn't want a lot of fuss made about his passing. And according to his wishes, there won't be any funeral, etc. But he shan't go unmourned. So I'll say it here - he was the ultimate nice guy. If you walked into the room, he'd look over and there'd be smile on his face just from seeing you. He was that kind of guy.

Not to cheapen his passing with a reference from a pop song, but for past few days, I had been listening to 'Coney Island Baby' by Lou Reed. Know the one? It's a soft, gentle then angry ballad-type thing circa 1976 that starts off with Lou monologing,

"You know, when I was a young man in high school/Believe it or not but I always wanted to play football for the Coach ... Because, man, you know, someday you're gonna have to stand up straight - or you're gonna fall - then you're gonna die/And turns out, the straightest dude I ever knew was standing right by me all the time./So I had to play football for the Coach/And I want to play football for the Coach."

After my brother called with the news tonight, we went over and I only went in to see him the one time. But it was right after we got there. Body still warm. I know for a fact that he had moved around and had lifted his head enough to take his pills in the hours in between. But I can't tell you how nice it was to see that when the time came, he went away in his favorite sleeping position. Just like when I had last seen him.

*** Photo at the top *** - my dad, and his shortlived Shirley Temple-locks sitting in his own father's lap, my Aunt Betty and my own namesake, Uncle Bob (who died in World War Two,) beside them.

Together again - with the exception of Betty, who will hopefully outlive us all.