Dad - Raymond Lewis Lockhart (PETE to all)

Friends often comment that while I bring up my Mom a lot, Dad’s rarely mentioned.

Lots of reasons for that, beginning with the fact that of his surviving children, I’ve always been the most like him.  Where Peter & Mim & possibly Mike are Reynolds, through & through, I’m a Lockhart.   

Like Mom, my older siblings seem more at ease looking away from an uncomfortable situation than to address it openly.  Not me, not Dad. Time & again, he butted heads with Peter, Mike & me, even with in-laws. He was open in a family that preferred to keep things closed.  He never understood that people might say one thing but feel something totally different in their hearts.  That wasn't his way.  

Dad loved a good time, especially entertaining others.  Although we didn't have a lot of money when I was in high school, my parents always encouraged me to ask local dorm students down to Sunday dinner.  As I heard over & over, as glamorous as life in the dorm might look to a townie like me, they were far away from families they loved & missed.

Dad would have gotten a kick out of yesterday morning, beyond the spread I put on at the after-church gathering.  Sure, he would have enjoyed the nibblings, especially the slices of boiled red potatoes topped a rosette of sour cream, dusted with snippets of chive, then smooshed down with bacon crumbles.  But he would have appreciated the process as well as the product, that while the spread looked snazzy, it was simple to prepare.  I whipped it all up without wearing myself out, put it on without overly putting myself out. 

The end of March always gets me thinking about Dad.  In February 1973, he collapsed waiting to board a return flight home from California.  He & Mom had been visiting her sisters.  Ironic – they longed to return to England, which they vacationed the year before, but opted for the West Coast because both her older & younger sisters weren’t doing too well. “This might be your last chance to see Bets & Dot.” 

Six weeks later, it was Dad who was gone.

My thoughts were already on Dad when I read Atul Gawande’s comments about the difficulty doctor & patients share when it comes to openly discussing a terminal diagnosis.  What memories that stirred.

Dad had a seizure as he was about to board the plane home from visiting Bets & Dot.  He would have died on the spot if a doctor hadn’t been there – when the check-in attendant balked at getting him a spoon, explaining a company physician was on the way, he blistered her with, “Wait for your doctor & this man will be dead.” 

Dad was admitted to Penisula Hospital in Burlingame, outside San Francisco.  Mom was grateful her O Best Beloved was in a fine hospital – Bing Crosby was there & that was all she needed to know.  It was better than fine, with doctors who were more clued into their patient's best interests rather than just potential procedures - unusual for that time. 

Still, even those unusually clued-in doctors sent Dad home without breaking the news.  They couldn’t bring themselves to say he was dying.  He was so young – 62 – and they liked him.  Liked him a lot. 

Mim & I had a hissy fit when they arrived home & we heard he hadn’t been told.  She made an excuse for the two of us to leave & made a bee line to his regular doctor’s house.  George Salvarian was wonderful, understood our distress & immediately set up an appointment for Dad & Mom the very next morning.

When Dr. Salvarian said, “Peter, I have bad news.  We're going to lose you,”  Dad responded, “George, I know that.  They released me from the hospital without any treatment & a registered nurse flew home with us.  It wasn’t hard to figure out.”

Dad had a healthy attitude when it came to dying.  In practice as well as in theory.  Back home, he had doctors & two daughters equally open with him.  Forty-three years ago, that was not the norm.  Not for doctors, not for family.  Today, it's better, but still not the norm.

I didn’t need to read Being Mortal to know that a shocking number of doctors shy away from discussing death.  Been there, went through that.  The book cites a study led by sociologist Nicholas Christakis that found 63% of doctors surveyed overestimated the amount of time a terminal patient had left.  On average, 530% too high.  The better a doctor knew a patient, the less likely they were to be anywhere near close. Even Dr. Salvarian couldn't bring himself to use the word terminal.

Mom, Mim & I were grateful that – other than not bringing themselves to say it was terminal – Dad had exceptional doctors at Peninsula, more focused on him than possible procedures. 

Atul (after reading his book, I feel a kinship to Dr. Gawande) points out that most patients & their families wait to face the finality of a diagnosis until after doctors say there is nothing more they can do.   

Today, that day rarely comes – there is always something doctors can do.  Thank goodness, Dad’s doctors saw a difference between what they could do & what was best for their patient.  They explained to Mom & Dad, there was a procedure they could do, but pointed out that while it might give him slightly longer to live, it could seriously compromise his quality of life.  (Downright radical thinking from medical professionals of that day!) 

This is a discussion John & I have had many times.  While my focus is 100% on quality of life, John's been focused on more time.  If there is a possible procedure, he’d take it.  Being Mortal will, I hope, bring home to him the fact while there might be a possible procedure might be available, possible & appropriate can be very different things.

It is with great pride that I say both my parents faced their final days with remarkable grace.  I almost wrote “courage,” then realized that neither had any reason for courage – they had no fear of what came next.  For his family, yes – that distressed him.  But for himself?  No. 

Unlike Mim & Mom, I didn’t spend every possible minute with Dad at the local nursing home where he was sent to die, his last weeks spent in a coma.  I just didn’t need it.  Dad & I had said all we needed while he was alive.  We understood each other.  He only needed Mom to be there.  He knew I loved him & I knew he respected me.    

Dad died in the wee small hours of the morning, all by himself.   

This was 1973.  All visitors had to leave at 8:00 p.m. – no exceptions.  What a difference between that & Mom’s last hospitalizations 28 years later, when neither INOVA/Alexandria nor St. Mary’s had the slightest hesitation about letting us stay with Mom, even through the night.  On the night Mom seemed to be experiencing a crisis, INOVA even let me sleep in the other bed in the room!

Yesterday was the 2^nd best Sunday of my life (our wedding day being #1), in part because of feeling so close to Dad.  Because my friends are right, I don’t talk about him as much as I do about Mom.  Don't think about him as much, either.  But he is always & forever in my heart & hopefully in my actions. 

Dad was a good man.  He always meant well, always strove to be there for others.  He was generous, to what others sometimes considered a fault.  He never let the Boy’s Club pay for any lumber, gave his time & energies to uses that weren't highly value but needed doing, not only sponsored a coffee & donut breakfast each term for the local college – he drove me to pick up the donuts before going to work.  

In so many ways, Dad embodied stewardship.  And he personified Mother Theresa's words about being faithful in small things, because they are where our strength lies. 

With one exception, near the end of his life, we were never close.  He was Mim’s, heart & soul.  In all my years, I never had a disagreement with her where Dad supported me.  It hurt, but part of me understood.  She needed him in ways he knew I never would & he needed to feel needed.  

It's true that while I bring up my Mom a lot, Dad’s rarely mentioned.  No need.  He made it clear he respected me, and that is enough.  Dad's always with me.  Especially in the spread after yesterday's church service!

Yoda cautioned, "Do or do not.  There is no just thing as try."  Dad never tried - he did.  In thinking of him, I'm reminded of the words Bishop Pendleton used to end Dad's memorial service – Well done, thou good & faithful servant. 

Well done, indeed.