Dad turned 93.
A few days after his birthday, Dad experienced some heart issues that put him in the hospital for a few days. That stay left him much weaker than he had been and the doctors wanted him to go for two weeks of physical therapy. In the age of Covid, that would have meant total isolation. We rejected that idea. Dad's condition had been declining pretty steadily since March and we weren't at all sure he would understand, much less tolerate the sudden disappearance of his entire family (losing Mom again would have killed him). I think the current neglect of our elderly has been sinful. Calling it concern doesn't change the fact that our nation is packed with old folks who have been completely abandoned in the name of their own safety. I know people who haven't seen their parents in five months. It's not their choice: the facilities won't allow them to visit. It's nuts. It's shameful. It's cruel.
So we put Dad in hospice so that he could have the care (and the equipment) that he would need to come home and be with Mom. And the rest of us. Although just Mom would have been enough for him. The running joke in the family for the last year or so has been that no matter what else is going on, the first words out of Dad's mouth are "Where's Mom?"
In the last 3 weeks of Dad's life, we all got to visit with him as much as possible and as I wrote in the last post, he was doing well right up until the last week, when he developed pneumonia. Both Margy and JP made it to town before he died. After that Thursday that Dad slept right through, he never got out of bed again. But he ate ice cream, talked to us, laughed with us and held Mom's hand.
He waited until we were all together, had Royana's memorial, and then quietly slipped out after Mom had come home to be with him.
I thought Death at a Funeral was just the title of a funny movie. We all went straight from Roy's memorial to say goodby to Dad. About two dozen of us waited with Mom for the Cremation Society to come and collect Dad's mortal remains. We all got a chance to hold his hand, give him a kiss and thank him for being the greatest Dad a huge, unruly gang of kids could ever have had.
The golf tournament formerly known as the Hubbell Open was supposed to take place on Saturday and Sunday. We changed the name to The John G. Hubbell Memorial Invitational Championship. The tee times were kept. There was no push to cancel the event; Dad would have been pissed if we'd cancelled a golf tournament just because he was playing on a much nicer course.
I wrote earlier about how our family has ignored the no parties allowed dictat and we've been getting together all summer. In the first eight days of Hubbellpalooza, we had at least 5 giant get togethers. Sure, two of them qualified as funerals but they were still a ton of fun, even if we did cry a lot. As my Mom told a friend recently, "I've never laughed so hard or been so sad in my whole life."
The morning after Royana's funeral, Mom called the Church and told them we needed to do it again.
2020 continues to be the worst and most bizarre year of my life, featuring some of the best parties we've ever had.