Because of Winn-Dixie

The day my father-in-law died was a comedy of errors.

In the year he had cancer, he always said two things: he didn’t want to suffer, and he wanted to die at home. My mother-in-law tried her best to fulfill these two wishes, but in the end, he was suffering, and it was unsafe to keep him home. So on December 30, she called Hospice to take over.

She felt guilty, even though we assured her it was time. She had run herself ragged being his caretaker. She was exhausted. 

There was nothing more we could do to make him comfortable at home.

The day it happened, we sat in their living room and talked to the hospice nurse about what to expect. My father-in-law was past the point of speech, but every once in a while, he mumbled a few words. At one point, he became very alert and said to my husband give me a cigarette. 

We rotated in and out of the bedroom, spending time with him. My father-in-law‘s best friend came and snuggled in the bed with him. Two old friends who had known each other longer than my in-laws had been married. We gave them space, and the three of us gathered in the living room to wait for Hospice transport. In the midst of our waiting, we get a phone call from Ben’s grandmother.

Ben’s grandmother is a 93-year-old woman whom we affectionately call Ja. She is fiercely independent, sharp as a tack, but she also really, really loves to be catered to. She has a little apartment at this retirement village, five minutes away from the house. It’s spacious, and she has autonomy, but she also has people taking care of her. She has friends. And at this particular time, rumor had it she even had a boyfriend. A retired Methodist preacher who lived in the apartment nearby. 

And on this day, of all days, she calls to tell us that her TV is not working. She always starts every phone call with now, I don’t mean to be a bother, and then proceeds to say something that does, in fact, make her a little bit of a bother. But she’s 93, and she’s earned that right.

While Ben‘s father is actively dying, the two of us bring an extra TV to his grandmother. We’re frazzled and stressed and very worried, but my husband goes straight to work, disconnecting her old TV and connecting this new one. Or rather, disconnecting the retired Methodist preacher's TV that he so kindly lent her in the meantime.

Ben is doing his best to be patient while his grandmother asks questions. She wants to know how everyone’s doing. She’s glad that we’re spending the day with his mother. She says that she’s praying over my father-in-law every day, or as she says, being a gnat in God’s ear. It’s then that I realize she does not know what’s happening. While Ben fixes the TV, I sit next to Ja and explain. I tell her that Steve is going to hospice, that he’s probably going to die very soon, and that we were at the house with Ben’s mother because we were waiting for transport to come take him. 

She exclaims. She tells me she didn’t realize it was that bad. Last she heard, she thought he was going to live until February. Secretly, I hoped he would pass in the year 2024, so we didn’t have to continue going through this.

She thanks me for telling her, and then she instructs Ben to go ahead and take the kind Methodist preacher’s TV on back to him. The only problem was that he was taking a nap. Ja told Ben to be quiet when he goes in there. Ben politely told her he didn’t feel comfortable walking into a strange man’s room while he was sleeping. She didn’t quite understand why, but when he put it in terms of, I’m a really big guy, and if I woke up to the sight of me, I would probably be scared, she laughed it off. Leave the TV by the door, and I’ll get a nurse to do it later.

We return to the house just as hospice transport is wheeling my father-in-law away. We hop back in the car and follow it to the hospice center. There were five of us. Me and my husband, my mother-in-law, and my father-in-law’s two best friends. 

The five of us sat around an uncomfortable table, staring at her hands and not sure what to say. Eventually, we talked about the last coherent thing we’d heard Steve say. I chimed in with the last thing I remember. It had something to do with him being worried about the seats in his Tesla. A few weeks earlier, Ben was going to borrow it, and Steve said if the dog is going to be in the car, make sure to put a blanket down so she doesn’t scratch the seats. At that time, I remember thinking we had much bigger things to worry about than the seats of his Tesla.

My small contribution made everybody chuckle. Yeah, that sounds like Steve. 

When he was settled in his room, they let us come back to see him. He was drugged up and unconscious.

The whole day, I hadn’t cried. I don’t even think I had teared up once. I was the emotional sponge for everybody else. 

Then one small moment made me crack. As the five of us stood around his bedside, he was tucked into the sheets and blankets. One of his friends noticed his toe poking out from under the covers. Without saying anything, he very quietly adjusted the blanket to make sure that Steve’s foot was completely covered. It was such a small moment of care. Even in his very final hours, his friend wanted to do anything he could to show his love for him. I remember thinking I hope when I die, I’m surrounded by people who love me enough to cover up my pinky toe.

It was early evening, and there was nothing more to be done. We hugged goodbye and went our separate ways with plans to get back together in the morning.

At two in the morning on New Year’s Eve, we get the dreaded call. We loaded ours and my in-laws’ dog into the truck to bring them. We’d read that you should let animals sniff their human when they pass so they have closure.

He passed while we were still driving over.

We gather around his bed. My husband writes a Facebook announcement. My mother-in-law calls everybody. Steve’s friends play songs. I brought the dogs in to sniff Steve one last time. My dog licked his open mouth and made a disgusted face. It was funny and mortifying.

The funeral home is called, and we filter out of the room. It was over.

Ben and his mom stayed in the room with Steve for final goodbyes. The friends had left, with the exception of my father-in-law’s best friend. The two of us waited in the lobby.

Now, something to know about this friend. He’s smart. He’s a psychologist who works with kids. But as Ja would say, the man ain’t got no walking around sense. However, you will never meet a kinder man. 

As the two of us sit in these armchairs side-by-side, I stare at the painting on the wall in front of me. And as I stared at this painting, I cried. It was the kind of tears that leak from your eyes as if you have no control. 

And in this moment, when I’ve finally allowed myself to cry and expel some of the heavy weight I’d been holding for a year, he says something I will never forget for as long as I live. 

I can’t tell you the first thing I said when I walked into the hospice room that night. I couldn’t tell you what anyone said. It was all just a jumbled mess of feeling and emotion and consciousness, but in this moment, when all I wanted was a minute to cry and process, he asks me:

Have you ever read the book Because of Winn-Dixie?