The amazing human that was my father passed peacefully a week ago. It was not an easy road to get there. But when he was finally gone, he looked at peace, like he was finally done fighting and okay with letting go. He looked perfect in death. It was a beautiful end to a life well lived. 

He had finally made the decision to go off dialysis. After nearly seven years, he’d had enough. He was coming home exhausted and irritated. He didn’t want dinner anymore. He’d try to sit at the table but found that difficult too. He just wanted to go to bed.  

Before retiring to bed without dinner last Wednesday, my mom and I talked with him about continuing. And he very clearly decided he no longer wanted to do dialysis. He was tired. And he was done.  

It was bold for him. He’d never said he was done out loud before. He’d wondered what it meant many times. He would always conclude it was quitting to stop.  

He stopped kidding himself. He wasn’t quitting. His body was done. Kept alive by dialysis, a pacemaker, and drugs. 

I heard him several times early Thursday morning ask, “Who do I tell?” or “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.” It ate at him. It was like he’d decided and it was supposed to just happen. 

Friday he went to dialysis. It was the right thing. We knew it was his chance to truly decide if he was done. Or if he wanted to keep fighting.  

He left dialysis that day announcing he had said goodbye. The big black former Marine who often cared for and adored my dad shed tears over the news. My dad had been a fixture. And a fellow Marine.  

Semper Fi. I think it honestly means never die. 

He really had committed to the end.  

My brother’s family came Saturday to say goodbye. My kids flew in to say their goodbyes. It was his last wish. 

My oldest daughter arrived early. She got to sit with him while he could still talk. His body had not begun the official shutdown process. After all, Monday would have been just another day of dialysis, his body in its usual state of toxicity. 

Monday afternoon I encouraged my mom to get out of the house. She had been steadfastly by his side, often afraid he would choose those few moments to die. But my daughter and I were there. He’d be napping. A Costco run would be good for her.  

It would not be good for me. 

In the latter months of my dad’s life, he had become consumed by bowel movements. He was excited by big ones and disappointed with small ones. Sometimes I could hear him ask my mom why they weren’t bigger. Or why it was so hard to go.  

He took a laxative regularly. He pooped at least a couple of times a day.  

So why would that day have been any different? 

It wasn’t.  

The only difference was that my mom wasn’t there. And she was the one who made sure he was cleaned when he finished. I imagine there were plenty of other things she did for him. I try to erase those mental images from my mind.  

I remain steadfast that I never, ever want someone to wipe my ass. And vice versa. 

My dad was sound asleep when my mom left. I was enjoying some time with my daughter when I heard him call. He could no longer get up from the bed without assistance.  

I went in the room to check on him.  

“I need help,” he said.  

“I can help, Dad. What do you want to do?”  

He pointed to the commode that sat in the corner across from his side of the bed. I cringed.  

I helped him get upright.  

“Just help me get to the toilet,” he commanded. 

“The toilet?” I asked pointing to their bathroom with the actual toilet. 

“No,” he nodded to the commode tucked in the corner. “Just get me that.” 

“You can’t wait until Mom gets back?” I asked, desperate for him to change his mind. “You know I don’t wipe asses.”  

He knew this. At least, he used to. Later he would remind me of it, so he clearly did.  

Was this some last test of loyalty he had for me? Was I supposed to prove my undying daughterly love by wiping his ass? Helping him shit? 

“Just move the toilet.”  

I did.  

I pulled it from the wall, moving it directly across from him. 

“Now move it eight inches this way.”  

He was so exact. I wanted to laugh. Still so precise. I moved the commode an estimated eight inches.  

I miscalculated.  

He corrected me.  

“A little more toward me,” he said. I did as instructed. 

Once he felt satisfied with the commode’s positioning, he told me I could go and that he could manage from there. I didn’t question. I didn’t want to see him sit to shit.  

I left the room. He told me to shut the door as I walked out. I did. But not all the way. I knew I needed to be able to hear him. 

I popped my head in several times to make sure he hadn’t fallen. Each time he was hunched over, arms crossed overhead, his head resting between them on the mattress. His eight inches had strategically placed his body so that he could hunch forward and rest while he pooped.  

After many minutes, he finally called. He needed to get up. I looked and saw poop on the carpet. There was a mass of poop on the rim of the commode, in the creases where the seat and cover connect.  

I would later try and clean it and almost threw up. I failed, leaving a clump of poop for my mom. I know it sounds horrible, but I couldn’t process any more shit at that time. 

He mocked my inability to wipe his ass. But I told him we can get him back to the bed and Mom will help with the cleanup. I put down a potty mat on the bed just in case there was poop residue. Fortunately, he didn’t actually need wiping.  

I couldn’t get him up myself. When I suggested asking my daughter to help, he said in a tone that suggested I should have just walked in with her, “That would be smart.” 

I enlisted her help. I told her I hope what she is about to see doesn’t ruin her on ever having sex again. The visual would not be pretty. His butt was literally just a tailbone with some skin covering it. We did not see any of the front, which my mom assures me is nothing anyways. 

I went around to his right side. My daughter takes the left. We lifted him. Then we slowly - “not in a hurry” - pulled up his boxer briefs that sat at his ankles. We inched them up slowly, carefully, making sure we didn’t “slide” along his skin as we pulled them up the bones with a fragile flesh covering. 

The boxer briefs hung on him like actual boxers.  

We held his weight. We helped him balance. Then he froze. He was confused about what to do next.  He knew he couldn’t turn and get on the bed.  

Then he fell forward. It was so sad. He was like a quadriplegic. No arms. No legs to support him. He fell face first into the bed, moaning. He panicked but couldn’t move.  

“I need a little help,” he mumbled.  

It was awkward. It was pathetic. My warrior dad could not move.  

I told him we would lift him.  

I pulled his upper body while my daughter lifted his legs onto the bed. We had total control of his body; he had none. After several attempts to find the right position, we got him there. Then he told me to pull the covers up to his chin. It was dictatorial. It was not kind or appreciative. It was just anger.  

I recognized it wasn’t who he usually was. But I think my mom does this all the time.  

He called a few seconds later. By then, I had discovered that I was tracking his poop through the house. I hadn’t realized I stepped in it. It had been frenetic and chaotic rescuing him from the toilet and getting him back to bed. 

The poop was disgusting. I came back irritated and told him I had to clean off my shoes. He told me if I would have done it right and cleaned up his shit on the carpet earlier, I wouldn’t have stepped in it. I thought: he wouldn’t have let me. His need to get off the toilet had been urgent.  

“If you would have had a plan for this and done it before,” he said.  

“Dad,” I snapped, “no one should have a plan for stepping in their parent’s shit. Ever.” I actually raised my voice.  

I had never had to manage anything like this before. Never in my life did I imagine my dad would miss the toilet and shit on the carpet.  

How do you even begin to plan for that? It’s awful. It is not something there should be a plan for.  

My daughter stayed calm. She cleaned my trail of shit from the hallway. I wiped down the stains on the carpet. I picked up from the floor the bits of poop.  

The mass on the toilet stayed. At least no one would step in it.  

He could smell it. I told him, “Mom will get it.”  

“That’s right. You don’t do that.” It was snarky. 

I finished getting ready for the commitment I had planned before the shit hit the proverbial floor. I thanked my daughter– and apologized – profusely. At least, it will always be a story we share. 

I called my mom when I got on the road. She didn’t even say hello. “I’m almost home,” she said. I told her the story. She laughed. She did forget that I’d mentioned the poop I’d left. Later she told me she wondered what that smell was. We laughed about that too. 

The last coherent words my dad said before he died were, “Love you all.” That was a much better gift than the last story he gave me. But my mom has made me tell the story on repeat. It was funny in hindsight. And will forever be part of his ending. 

I miss my dad.  

I continue to be in awe of my mom. While I have taken over making sure everything runs smoothly after his death, she can finally cry, grieve, and share stories on repeat in his absence. He lived a big life. And I’m grateful for all the parts and pieces I got to share with him. 

But I absolutely, positively will not miss hearing about his bowel movements.  

*If you don’t know my story and why I’m here with my parents as a card-carrying member of the AARP, you can read that story here. It was the impetus for a book I am currently writing about the last year of his life.  

It started with a shitty story. And it’s ending with one. Which feels fitting.  Exactly as he would have wanted it.