My father Wayne Gustafson was scheduled to have open heart surgery in two weeks.  Last week he was getting easily fatigued and had very little appetite.  Mom (Chris Gustafson) was worried and took him to the ER late Thursday night.  

On Friday doctors discovered a blood clot in his heart.  Although they started him on blood thinners, this is not a workable solution because the medicine caused internal bleeding.  His kidneys are also now impacted by his low heart function.  

This morning cardiac doctors let us know that dad’s heart failure “is a problem we can’t solve.”  He will be coming home under hospice care on Tuesday.

Tonight is quiet.
No more beeps or buzzes
or soft pulses.
I no longer hear the first three notes of
“Summertime” which sounded whenever
the IV line got tangled. 
No more oxygen in your nose.
No more sensor on your finger.
You are untethered.  

The nurses will only take your vitals
if you want them to.
You can drink fully sugared sodas
from Plaid Pantry
and eat ice cream for dinner.
You are untethered,
which is the first step
in letting you go.

featuring Compline 

broadcast live from St. Marks Cathedral

Hark I hear the harps eternal 

ringing on the farther shore

Why is Dad back on the blood thinners?

They say there was a discussion 

but it sure wasn’t with us.

As I near those swollen waters

with their deep and solemn roar.

“The blood clot could come loose

and he could die,” the nurse explains.

We are silent.  

And my soul though stained with sorrow,

fading as the light of day

We know.

We know.

We know.

Passes swiftly o’er those waters

to the city far away.  

Because we made a fuss

the doctor was called

and now the drip is gone.

“No more blood draws,”

we are told.

Souls have crossed before me saintly,

to that land of perfect rest

Morphine dances into our lives today

masquerading as “something for his

stomach pain.”  No one tells us her 

real name until the afternoon.

And I hear them singing faintly

in the mansions of the blessed.

Another night.

A new room.

New nurses.  

Home on Tuesday.  

Hallelujah.

Dad passed away tonight.

We were scheduled to take him home today but this morning Hospice advised us to stay at the hospital.  It was a good call.  

Yesterday afternoon he asked for us all, held our hands, blessed us and said goodbye.  

Today was keeping vigil and making sure he was comfortable.  

Here are a few of my favorite pictures from the last 5 days:

The work of grief is

sorting shoes

eating sundaes

and taking over

loading the dishwasher.

Toby is trying on Dad’s old suits.

How old are they?

From the late 70’s and early 80’s 

back when he sold real estate.  

And because he 

saved, stored and moved them

for more than 40 years

always telling my mother:

“I might need them,”

he has created time capsules 

zipped up in vintage 

Frederick & Nelson garment bags

because

he never emptied the pockets.

In every suit jacket 

inside breast pocket

is a small New Testament

his business card

a comb.

The silver blue wool suit

has a copy of

“The Four Spiritual Laws.”

The gray tweed has a handkerchief

embroidered with a G.

In the end

you didn’t need them, Dad,

but we did.

For Father’s Day my dad 

always wanted his own pie.

He would take it out of my hands

right when I walked in the door

and put it in the garage fridge 

to eat one slice at a time

for several weeks.

Today I made his banana cream pie

blessed it, sliced it,

and shared it with many.

A funeral

is much like a wedding

I think as we are

cutting flowers

arranging center pieces 

and smoothing table clothes.

A clothesline with pictures

is exactly what we had

at our wedding reception.

A funeral 

is much like a wedding

in terms of weather.

It poured down rain 

on their wedding day in September

56 years ago 

and I thought rain 

in the forecast was a

small wink

until Annabeth and I were caught

in the down pour picking up

pizzas from Costco.  

A funeral

is much like a wedding 

because there is

music someone chose

and sharing stories

and laughter

and leftovers.  

A funeral

is much like a wedding

in that it is many 

of the same people

who come to hug you

and tell you

they love you.  

Some nights I would just scrape 

the mold off the top of the tomato sauce

in the jar

and get right to making pizza

but tonight I can’t.

Today mom got a package 

hand delivered

with dad’s ashes.

UPS has a specially

printed box

to let you know you are receiving

“Cremated Remains.”

I dump what’s left in the jar

down the disposal

and open a new one.

It costs $45 to ship

“Cremated Remains”

Priority Mail Express.

I have a new pizza stone

I got for my birthday in May.

It is heavy in just the right way

promising crispy crust.

What with one thing and

another

tonight is the first time

I am trying it out.

The package is so heavy

I ask mom

if they sent an urn as well.

She takes out her small

Swiss Army pocket knife

and we take out layers of bubble wrap

to find

just a smaller box.

Kai is a natural.

He expertly transfers pizzas 

from peel to stone

without scattering toppings

on the inside of the oven

as I frequently do.

It is just this box

filled with ashes 

which is so heavy 

and I wrap my arms around it

tightly

with tears in my eyes.

And there was day,

and then there was night.

Another day of mourning.

Pack your bags!  

It’s almost time for your trip to Rockaway Beach, OR.

”We should tell them about your father,” mom says.

”I would like to let you know my father passed away recently so there will only be 5 adults, 1 child and 1 pet on this trip.”

”So sorry for your loss.”  

Airbnb has refunded you: $25.32

So we went back to our favorite beach

and watched a small town parade and 

weiner dogs race at the park

and both amateurs and professionals 

setting off fireworks on the beach

and all the time we were without dad.

He would have cheered on Remy 

in the all breeds dog race

or laughed at him finishing last.

He would have enjoyed the meat lovers pizza

from the Barview Jetty Store.

He would have sat with mom on the beach

as the sun was setting pink over the water

and the fireworks started going off all over.

Some swam into the sky like eager salmon

before opening into multicolored blooms

others crackled into a cloud of golden sparks.

So many explosions it was

hard to know where to look.

Thirty minutes and still going strong.

When is it the finale?

Surely now.

Now?

Now?

Not every life

goes out with a bang

but fireworks feel like an appropriate

send off for dad

this Fourth of July.

The Columbia Hotel 

in Ashland, Oregon

has mostly two star reviews.

I can sort of see why.

Extra toilet paper has to be asked for

at the front desk

and the decor consists of

mannequins posed artfully

in the common spaces,

walls covered

in cassette tapes

and oversized pictures of people

biting themselves.

But mom and I had a

five star experience

even though we stored our leftovers

in the one mini-fridge available for

all guests

and seemed to be 

the only ones seeing plays

and not hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.

The Columbia Hotel

in Ashland, Oregon

is a five minute walk from:

The Oregon Shakespeare Festival

a Safeway with a Starbucks

an ice cream shop

a bookstore

a bakery

the Ashland Public Library

and an Episcopal church where we

went to the 10am Sunday service

and heard this closing blessing:

Life is short

and we do not have much time 

to gladden the hearts

of those who travel

the way with us,

so be swift to love

and make haste

to be kind.

Life is short

and we do not have much time.

We planned this trip

in the week after dad died.

To gladden the hearts

of those who travel 

the way with us.

We sat down at the Green Show

next to a woman who has seen

every play here for the last 55 years.

She and mom get to talking

about segregation in Seattle 

and Edwin Pratt

and Christian Education 

which is all much more interesting than

the acoustic guitar wielding

Green Show performer who

wants to sing to us 

about his Covid break up.

So be swift to love

and make haste to be kind.

The barista at Starbucks

gives me a refill of hot water 

and extra tea bags

when we come back for the second time

that morning.

She tells us she gives cold water

to anyone who wants it on a hot day.

It is 100 degrees both days we are here.

And may the blessing

of God Almighty

Father, Son and Holy Spirit

be amongst you

and remain with you

now and forever.

Amen.

The Columbia River Hotel 

is a blessing.

As are the stores on main street

where we stopped to look around 

but mostly just enjoyed their AC.

As was seeing the delicious

The Importance of Being Earnest

and the powerful Julius Caesar.

As is being together.

Part 1

(During Lent mom wrote a poem

imagining the afterlife

as the three course Sunset Dinner 

at Anthony’s Home Port

(available if you order before 5:30pm).

This is called foreshadowing.

So because we were going to Seattle

for dad’s memorial

we decided to also eat at Anthony’s.)

Tap, tap crunch

goes my spoon on the creme brûlée.

I take a bite of the topping and the custard.

In my humble opinion

the chef has over-torched and taken us from 

delicious carmelization to

burnt marshmallow.

It’s like the dessert version of the 

maror and haroseth from the Seder, 

the reminder that bitter and sweet

are mixed

together in this life.

But this dinner

was supposed to be a foretaste of heaven,

and I think of my father who liked things

sweet, sweet and sweeter.

I won’t complain.

I’ll savor every bite

and watch the heron standing guard

on top of the building next door

and admire the sea stars

hiding among the rocks with Annabeth.

Someday it will all be sweet.

Part 2

Dad’s memorial open house

has already been going for an hour

when a neighbor brings by a carrot cake.

We started with pizza 

then moved on to bruschetta and feta

and hummus and chips.

She saw we were having a party.

The carrot cake has been in her freezer 

for six weeks

and she’s not going to eat it.

She is slightly horrified to hear 

we are having a memorial

but offers the cake anyway.

And she’s right, we are also having a party.

There are friends we haven’t seen in 25 years.

There are friends mom worked with at Whitman.

There are friends who drove up from Tacoma and Renton.

There are hugs and laughing and stories

and the cool breeze off the water

and the casual but astonishing beauty

of the sun melting into the sound.

I can’t believe there is a sunset everyday.

The cake looks good 

but I worry it will have nuts

or God forbid, raisins.

We cut the cake.

It is perfectly

like the evening

sweet, sweet and sweeter.

Summer

the camp chef

has made fried onions

to go on top of the salad

she’s serving with her homemade dressings.  

The onion fragments are tiny, crisp and delicious

and amaze me even while I am enjoying

the honey wheat bread

she’s formed with hedgehog spikes and cloves for eyes

as well as the smashed mash potatoes

and meatloaf glazed with BBQ sauce.

Restaurants may be the afterlife

but the food at this camp is Eden.

Everything that is created, meal after meal

is good

and very, very good.

Not plated with garnishes

or available only with a high price tag.

The chef is not yelling or sweating

or demanding perfection from her staff.

She is serving up one delicious dish

after another

for a crowd

day in and day out

in the middle of a forest.

Other things that are good but not perfect:

Hiking the Silver Falls loop with Alex when we thought it was 6 miles but it’s actually 8.5.

Spending time with friends when it’s 100 degrees outside.

Our backyard pool, which has a small, slow leak this summer.

Parenting.

Teaching.

Grieving.

Writing.