My knees felt like they were about to buckle beneath me. I placed my right hand over my heart as I felt it aching and began to rub at the pain, although there was no relief. It was a pain completely unfamiliar to me. In slow motion, I walked to my bed, crawled in, and immediately gripped the covers and moved them up over my head. Curling my body inward, like a baby in a woom, I pressed my palms against my flushed face to block out as much of the day’s light as possible. Similar to a howling wind, the outcry of my grief came roaring up from my belly, through my chest and barreled to the surface.

My Dad…. was gone.

March feels like years ago, but it’s been nine turbulent months. 105 gallons of coffee, a troubling amount of red wine and zoloft, topped with countless hours of wiping tears from my face and my children’s faces has been the theme of these past months. 2020 goes down as the year that wasn’t. Life feels like it has been canceled. Plans buried until further notice, and summer wasn’t summer…. it’s been a grueling reality that none of us were prepared for.

I remember thinking at the early stages of quarantine that anyone who would lose someone they love during this time had it the hardest. No visitors at the hospital, or funerals, or family gatherings. No chance of saying goodbye to an elderly loved one in a nursing home. What sort of terrible prank on humanity was this? Was this really happening?

Before our office shut down for quarantine, my dad had a doctor visit scheduled for a pet scan and to hopefully uncover what all his back pain was caused by. It had only been about 7 months since his whipple procedure to remove half his pancreas, his gallbladder, a portion of his small intestines, and engineer the man a whole new digestive system! This very intense surgery took out the cancer mass in his pancreas and his doctor had high hopes for his recovery and tacking on some extra years to his 77 year old life. Pancreatic cancer has about a 9% survival rate, so you can imagine how fearful our family was at the time of his diagnosis in early 2019. A year later, and we were now faced with a second diagnosis in his back/spine and dad was tired. Chemo is shitty. No other way to put it! It’s just plain shitty. He gave it another go to try and knock out this small, but notably more painful, cancer. One round and he was spent. Who were we to tell him what to do? Who were we to say he had to keep fighting? There’s a point where you have to choose… QUANTITY or QUALITY?

Quality. But would it really be quality of life? To watch someone you love fight against their own body for strength? To witness the evil of cancer consume them?

Quantity. But would adding days/years on to the life of someone you love by the hands of debilitating chemo be worth it? The countless hours of hospital visit, chemo treatments, days in bed, sick… suffering.

Honestly, there’s no real win here.

Dad had made his choice, however, and for him, it was quality.

May

Mother’s Day weekend was a blur. We spent the day sitting outside of my parent’s bedroom patio door to keep our distance from dad. It felt unreal. I had wanted nothing more than to sit next to him and put my head on his shoulder. Our family was now facing what I had feared the most. Losing a loved one during times of Covid.

I could tell that Mom was growing tired and overwhelmed as dad’s health was rapidly declining, so we decided it was time to call Hospice for help and learn what’s ahead for dad and our family.

Over the next couple of months, there were frequent trips to Oak Harbor to visit, spend time with Dad, help Mom with miscellaneous, meet with Hospice nurses, review my parent’s finances, and plan for what the near future may look like. Dad was gradually losing strength and appetite. He was whittling away. Each time I returned, he was looking less and less like himself. His cheeks and eyes were sinking in, his ribs stood tall, but his stomach was like an empty barrel beneath them. He had transitioned to wearing adult briefs and hospice placed a catheter. My parent’s bedroom quickly turned into a hospital room with a side commode, bath aide supplies, bed pads, we attached a portable door bell to the bed for him to ring for help, the nightstand quickly filled up with prescription bottles, notes of his daily diet, bowel changes, medication doses and a circulating bottle of juice or gatorade.

We learned quickly how to change him without moving him from the bed, applying dressing to his bed wounds, elevating his feet to prevent heel sores, moving his pillows to his liking, and how to speak to him softly to keep him comfortable and less agitated. He would throw his legs over the bed and announce he was getting up and taking a shower. Little did he actually know, his legs had no muscle and his core would fail him as he’d try to sit up. I never thought I’d casually say things like, “Dad? You need to remove your hand from your catheter please. It isn’t a purse”, as he’d hold it up high in the air and acknowledge the contents. We would swab his mouth with small sips of water and medical mouth wash, gently massage his thinning hands and feet, and roll him from one side to the other to give his backside a break from the deteriorating skin. Midnight dosing and cleaning accidents became routine and so did loss of sleep. Many nights I could hear him breathing in the other room, in staggered, inconsistent breaths. His snoring comforted me. When morning would come, I would anticipate Mom sitting down next to me, gently shaking my shoulder and telling me he had passed in his sleep.

Mom was silently strong. She hadn’t led on to just how hard things had become until we were able to see for ourselves. She had taken on the burden and the load on her own, mustering as much patience and strength she could… and it took a lot. I continue to be in awe of how she journeyed through the past year and a half.

Hospice said Dad was an anomaly. They enjoyed visiting with him, as he never broke his good spirit. He joked with every nurse or caregiver like it was just a regular day in the life of Ed Hammond. He wouldn’t eat for days, then all of a sudden, he’d make requests for bbq wings or pepperoni pizza and he’d clean his plate! Of course, we’d end up cleaning up quite a mess later, but those small moments of delicious familiar food brought him so much joy. He didn’t complain, he didn’t get angry but maybe a few times as his body began to shut down and his brain wasn’t functioning as usual. It wasn’t his fault.

July

Dad’s favorite month and favorite holiday. July 4th. Like a typical Navy vet, this holiday held significant value, as well as fond family memories. He’d enlisted in the Navy at the ripe age of 17, fresh out of high school in Norwalk, California. He loved to share that his school, Excelsior Union High, was famous for being the high school in the classic movie “Grease”.

As a kid, I hated the sound of firecrackers going off. Like, couldn’t plug my ears hard enough to drown out the noise. Meanwhile, my brothers and Dad were living their best lives firing those suckers off in the front of the house. Bottle rockets were a favorite of my brother Ed and my LEAST favorite. Especially when you hear “duck”! So, as this July 4th rolled around, it felt more significant than ever. Dad had been pushing through the pain, trying to eat a little here and there to build up enough strength to get in his wheel chair and sit outside for some fireworks. We were just as determined. We got him wheeled to the garage, hat on, jacket, blankets over his legs, and positioned right next to Mom’s folding chair. Ed and my husband Scott lined up their explosives and Savannah and our lab Brutus hid in the truck to watch from behind rolled up windows. I looked over at Dad, grinning ear to ear, eyes closed, head up as the little bit of summer sun warmed his face. With tears burning my eyes, I asked him how he was feeling.

“My family and fireworks. What could be better. All a man could ask for.”

It was the last time he was able to have enough energy to get in his wheelchair.

God is so good.

August

“Hi Melody, it’s Chris from hospice. Your Dad is really declining and we believe it’s only a matter of days at this point. We really think you should come….. and plan to stay.”

Stay?

I took the call at work one morning in late July. Chris had voiced similar concern a couple of weeks prior, but Dad had turned a corner and bounced back. So, we weren’t really sure what to believe anymore. But, in any case, I packed up my work stuff, hugged my team and through muffled tears said “I don’t want to do this! What if this is it?”

We spent the next several weeks rotating caregivers in and out of the house when Brandon, Ed, or I couldn’t be there. Dad was holding on. For what, we weren’t sure. We prayed over him constantly, we told him over and over that he was free to go and be with Jesus, we let him know we were going to be okay, and we promised to take good care of Mom.

A white board calendar hung on the wall near Dad’s bed side so he could keep track of the long days. Mom placed a mark across each day as they passed. She marked out August 14. Dad made it to August 15… his 77th birthday, and what was to be his final birthday. We celebrated with a cake, only he wasn’t able to eat it. We blew out the candles for him and kissed his forehead.

If I can offer you any piece of advice or support through a journey of losing a loved one, it would be to really lean on the knowing. Research, ask questions, read, ask MORE questions, go to the therapy groups, be a part of the hospital groups, don’t be afraid to be afraid, but don’t let it stall you.

Your ability to keep moving and carry your family through this trying and emotionally draining time is crucial. As a friend once told me…. “You can break later, but right now you need to muster all your strength.”

Preparing for end of life

Address the elephant in the room -
1. Ask about your loved one’s wishes, gain some understanding of where their heart and mind are and how you can support them
2. Communicate - get the family together to discuss how this will affect everyone, roles, and how to support one another through the process
3. Financial - understand the financial burden, what has been planned for financially, what has been paid for (ie: burial plots, funeral funds, etc), Insurance, VA, debt, banking, and estate.
4. Will Executor and POA - is the will up to date, who is the executor, who has power of attorney? Who will be the delegate over financial decisions and healthcare decisions?
Seek out the professionals -
1. Connect with hospice to understand the process, resources, and what to expect
2. Don’t be afraid to ask for help! Find a therapist to help you work through the current and upcoming grief stages
3. Hospice can provide a list of caregivers (personal and agencies) that you can lean on when/if needed
4. Are nursing homes an option? If so, research locations and costs.
5. Read, Read, Read! Crossing the Creek
Normalize the process -
1. It’s going to happen to all of us. We’re promised two things: 1- we are born, 2- we pass on.
2. Let young children and family in on the process and remind them it is normal. It will be sad and they may feel ache, and that’s completely ok to feel. Allow them a safe space to share their emotions.
3. Create a comfortable room for your dying loved one so others can come visit them and it feels welcoming.
Manage expectations of others -
1. Communicate, be honest, tell those close to you how you are feeling. Remember everyone grieves differently, so just because someone can’t sympathize or has had a different experience with grieving than you doesn’t make your experience greater or less than.
2. Share with your partner what your needs are as you process and/or grieve. If they haven’t had the experience of loss, they won’t necessarily be able to relate or give you what you need. TELL THEM.
3. You may feel like everyone around you is going on with life and you don’t understand how come they aren’t falling apart like you are. This is YOUR personal grief, not theirs.
Emotional support & care -
1. This time is sacred. Focus on being in the now and make sure to prioritize things like: sleep, hydration, moving your body for at least 20 minutes a day, ask for LOA from work if possible, and seek therapy.
2. Use what time you have with your loved one to reminisce with old photos and stories. Pull out albums and look at pictures together. Write their life story as a keepsake for you/your family, but also to allow your loved one to share the impact they made in the world, and learn a story or two you may haven’t heard before. Use this template to ask them questions about their life that you can write in the blanks.
3. Respite is A MUST for emotional wellness. If you are the primary caregiver, seek out a 24-48 respite care nurse so you can step away and get plenty of rest. Hospice can provide a list of your local area caregivers.

There’s no text book way to navigate losing a loved one. It will look different for everyone. I feel immensely grateful for my brothers who shared the load. We three have unique home circumstances, so finding the right balance for each of us, discovering each of our strengths, and leaning on each other for support was a saving grace. Brandon resides in California and due to his job and covid risk, it was challenging to find a safe way for him to come to Whidbey. Ed has older children, but a demanding job and also unfortunately lost his father in law during quarantine. I have younger children, so was preparing for homeschool and still working remotely as I was able. My husband Scott’s job was deemed essential during quarantine, which meant Holland and Savannah were left to fend for themselves a good portion of the summer months. Understanding the complexities of each other’s lives and circumstances reduced frustrations and potential hurt feelings or disagreements.

My mother will tell you she wasn’t cut out to be a caregiver. She let us know this from the moment Dad was diagnosed with cancer. It just didn’t come natural to her and she didn’t enjoy it. True, it’s not for everybody. That’s why some individuals are doctors and nurses and some are not! From what we went through, we understand why many do NOT enjoy it. Mom and I spent many hours reviewing medications, dosage, and allowing her the space and grace to fall apart when she needed to. She would pridefully tell anyone that she had done really well not crying and keeping it together, but was incredibly exhausted mentally, understandably so. I reminded her frequently that it was okay to release and let it go. My parents had been relatively very healthy so this was the first experience with the heaviness of caregiving and fear of losing a loved one. Both of her parents had been ailing for years and in care facilities once they had passed. She was learning along with the rest of us.

Though there were many painful and sorrowful moments, there were also sprinkles of joy and laughter. I read something recently that really resonated with me.

“Joy and Grief do not average one another out. They exist fully, sometimes right next to each other.” - Holly Whitaker

There were so many times where I would lie next to my Dad’s frail frame, and even though I knew the road we were on, being there with him brought me comfort and joy. In those moments, the overwhelming emotions of joy and sorrow lived - side by side - fully. What a gift. To be able to let the two cohabitate. A blessing.

My oldest daughter, Holland, is 15 years old and a 9th grader. She had to write a personal narrative for one of her classes and chose to write about her Grandfather, my Dad. It brought me so much perspective to live the experience of grief and loss through her eyes. I want to share an excerpt of her personal narrative with you.

(Excerpt from) Edwin G. Hammond: The Fighter - By Holland Todd

October, 2020

“Chemotherapy was so hard on him that it hurt. Grandpa became so weak because of the chemotherapy and he would always tell us he hated it. Because of all the chemotherapy my grandpa would throw up every once in a while or have to be rushed to the hospital because he was just too weak. I thought that all the hospital visits, besides his chemo, would be over but they weren’t and it lasted until January 2020. The best part of all this was probably when my cousins came up from California for Christmas. My grandparents were so happy and I loved to see the smiles on their faces, especially my grandpa, after everything my family went through he had the biggest smile out of all of us.

Chemotherapy was over and I visited my grandparents all the time. It was nice to see him start to gain weight again and his hair began growing back. He was the happy grandpa that I’ve known my whole life and every time I saw him I made the biggest smile knowing that he is the strongest person I’ve ever met and I am so glad to call him grandpa. January, February and March were the best months, until April came around and everything changed.

Everything was fine. The family finally felt whole again, but I guess all good things have to end at some point. In about mid April is when we found out that Edwin had gotten a type of back cancer and at first I believed that if he could beat pancreatic cancer he can beat this. I just wish someone told me not to be so naive. He could barely get out of bed after just a few weeks so he just stayed there. My grandma's side of the family has a history of dementia and my grandma had been showing signs for a little while but once my grandpa got sick again it was really hard for her. She would forget what prescription she was supposed to give him at what time of day and how much of it, and finally decided it was time that a professional should come in and do it so grandma wouldn’t be so stressed. Hospice was great and they would come give grandpa his medication, bathe him, and just sit and talk with him a couple times a week. We could all tell that he really enjoyed it.

I would go with my mom out to Oak Harbor all the time and it was really nice that we were already doing online school when this all started so I could visit as much as I wanted but still do school at the same time. Every time we went my mom made it a daily thing that we would get dutch bro’s coffee and then hit up snowgoose produce for snacks and once a week we would bring a new thing of flowers for grandma. We even stayed in Oak Harbor a few times with my mom’s best friend so that we could stay late and be there early in the morning. As soon as we got there I would give a hug to my grandma and go see him. I remember talking to Edwin about when he used to take me to the naval air museum where he worked and would let me walk around looking at all the planes. Seeing my grandpa in so much pain made me cry a lot. I would lock myself in the bathroom and just sit there to cry because I didn’t want to make my mom and grandma anymore sad. Counseling the family was my job.

“Hey grandma, how are you doing? I’m here for you so you can talk to me when you need to.”

I would check up on them all the time and make sure everyone was ok but no one was there for me. I would turn to my friends but they didn’t have any idea of what I was going through so that made it harder for me.

The most memorable thing that happened during all of this was the story of my grandpa VP-69 mug. He lost it when he was still serving so it would have been over 20 years ago. One day a Navy man reached out to my mom asking if it was my grandpa’s because the man had found it in the Island thrift store and if you have a Navy family or are in the Navy you know that no one just gives up their VP mug and it was his mug. So one day 3 Navy men went over to my grandparents and personally delivered the mug back to him and thanked him for his service. It was the greatest thing we could have ever imagined. My grandpa had misplaced it over 20 years ago and now on his deathbed someone finds it, it’s like God was telling him not to go until this special mug was returned to its rightful place.

Getting closer and closer to the end is what it felt everyday but grandpa never stopped trying, he made it so see his last holiday, Fourth of July, which was his favorite and made it to his 78th Birthday. In about the end of July-start of August they had to put a tube in his urinary tract because it got harder for him to go to the bathroom and he also was so weak and skinny that he could barely move at all. Towards the end I barely went in to see him because it was too hard to watch him and I could see his systems and organs shutting down, then going through his urinary tract. Even as I’m writing this I can’t help myself but cry because it’s like reliving the last year of my life all over again. Reliving every tear, talks with my grandma and mom about him, every word he said, looking through his den and sheds, crying myself to sleep, and every time I saw him.

Looking back through his den and sheds brought back so many memories of watching him work, seeing all this military stuff and helping him build his birdhouses. I remember he would always tell me,

“Ok you can help me, but stay away from the cutter!”

Once, I was looking around in his den for like the millionth time. Running my finger through all his books and military stuff. I was looking through one of the many binders he made over the years of our family history when I found an old trunk that overflowed with pictures. I locked myself in the den just looking at the pictures of all of us and my mom and uncles when they were younger just crying, wishing that it would all stop for his sake and the families.

At the end of August it became too hard for my grandma to take care of my grandpa with the Hospice nurses only coming a few times a week. He was in the state that he needed to be monitored all the time so the family decided it was time to put him in a nursing home. On September 1st we moved him to the careage of Whidbey nursing home and on September 3rd we could all tell it was his time. My grandma had gone in that day and was with him for hours hoping she would be there when he passed, once she left 1 hour later she got the call saying that he passed. My mom got a call from my grandma and started crying, at first I didn’t know why until she told me.

“Mom what’s wrong?”

“Grandpa passed away hunny.”

I hugged her and we cried for a minute right before running to my room to cry, wishing I had gone to see him one last time.

I believe that when you lose something important, God tells you that it could be tomorrow or 20 years later, but he will return it to you someday. You may be healthy or lying on your deathbed but God will not let you go until that important, lost item is where it belongs.

Edwin G. Hammond was a son, a brother, a naval chief, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a friend, a mate. But most of all he was a fighter till his very last breath!”

Sharing my experience publicly was therapeutic for me. By documenting on Instagram, I was able to connect and learn from others, receive support and develop new relationships based on shared experiences. I realize that openly sharing traumatic or challenging times isn’t everyone’s preference, but privately journaling can be a form of therapy as well.

April 2019 - First round of exploratory chemo // June 2019 - “whipple” procedure to remove half his pancreas that contained the cancerous mass, his gallbladder, a portion of his small intestines and create a new digestive system.

Photos taken by Holland, 14, the day our family decided that Dad would not receive any more chemo treatment and we would help make him comfortable at home.

Dad was honored by Whidbey Health Hospice for his military service. He was happy to share one of his most memorable stories with the hospice nurse. We were able to FaceTime in my brother Brandon and his family in California.

Holland and Savannah enjoyed visiting and getting to make the best of the time they had left with Grandpa. They especially enjoyed going through his old coins and military caps.

Creating a chart to manage his medications was helpful seeing as how we had multiple people circulating through to help around the clock. Using a syringe to draw up mixtures of his dissolved tablets and morphine and slowly administer inside Dad’s cheek was the most convenient way to provide his dosage once he had trouble swallowing. Liquid morphine tastes horrendous, so it’s recommended to mix with a tiny bit of juice to make more palatable.