Music was how I grew up. There was a song for everything. A song for driving on the freeway. A song for when my brother broke his arm. A song for when good things happened and when bad things happened. As I sit here writing this right now, I have my dad's old music playing in the background. Each song reminds me of a time, place, and what I was doing when it played. 

When my dad was rushed to the hospital on January 1st, 2018, with very little life or breath to him, I rushed there with music playing, loudly. Every time I get nervous, or need to think clearly, ironically, I play music. As soon as my dad was transferred out of the ICU in January, and starting to come around the least bit, I told my mom that I needed to find a radio and Dad's CDs. My brother found my dad's old radio in the garage. I lugged it all up to the 4th floor of the hospital. I plugged it right in and played one of his CDs. Right away he started to tell me to make sure that I played good songs for his funeral- none of that boring stuff. I told him I knew what to do and I would handle it. He proceeded to tell me and my mom each and every detail in the planning of his funeral. He told us where to go and what to buy, and who to call. He told us what to do with all of his belongings. My stomach wrenched. Tears flowed down each cheek. But I let him keep talking because I could tell it was important to him. When he was done, I asked him why he would tell us all of this right now? Right then, he told us he was tired and was not going to live long. 

Then comes August 27th. I knew my dad wasn't feeling great for a few days. In the morning, I asked my mom how dad was feeling (I often texted this same question since his decline in January). She responded with, "not well." I had chills go through my whole body. I knew it wasn't good this time; I told my husband that I didn't have a good feeling this time. I was right.

Tuesday comes around and I asked my mom what our next step was because I was going to be there for whatever that was. She had asked him all day to go to the hospital to help him. We knew that his breathing was not right, and he had built up too much CO2. For those of you who don't know what that does to a person, it causes increased confusion, restlessness, and a dad who cannot make good decisions. Our family growing up was always based on a father who led the family with strength, honor, and courage. Mom was the one who stayed home and raised the children. We knew from our experience in January (when he previously gained too much CO2) that he was unable to do day-to-day things like eat what he liked, watch his special TV shows and most importantly, make a new oxygen tank set-up when needed. He finally said YES that he would go to the hospital. My mom and I carted him off to my car at 7:00 pm to take him to the VA Hospital in Phoenix, AZ. He was received rather quickly there once we said that he could not breathe. Before we entered the hospital doors with Dad, he asked us to make sure that we grabbed his "matches and a lighter." At that moment, my mom and I were so incredibly stressed that all we could do was stand right there in front of that VA hospital, sweating with the intense heat, nerves and stress, and just looked at each other, laughing hysterically. Right then, it was either LAUGH or CRY. It was intense. My father has not smoked for over 11 years. We are still not sure if dad was asking for matches and a lighter to quickly start up smoking again, or to light that hospital on fire? I guess it will always be a mystery. 

After he was once again admitted into the ICU, I got on the phone with my siblings and husband. I made some familiar arrangements with some amazing friends who step in for my boys when I am hot mess in times like this! We finally got him settled into his ICU room at 4:00 a.m. in the morning. The doctor told us that his CO2 levels were through the roof. We knew that. He also started prepping us for some bad, awful things that were to come. We told him that he was wrong. But, he was right. My dad has always defeated all odds in the past, that we honestly didn't whole-heartedly believe in the medical commentary from these doctors anymore. We believe in a higher up and prayed that God would take Dad when it was time. It was HIS will. 

Although all of Dad's other organs were functioning wonderfully, his lungs simply weren't. 

Dad was hooked up to the Bi-Pap machine, which ultimately helps breathe for him, and pulls out all of the CO2 that his body could not get rid of naturally. He came to and almost remembered what day it was (off by two days). He was asking for ice cream again. He wanted to leave. Dad was coming back, again. All was feeling good. 

They transferred Dad to a beautiful hospice center right by my house. My sister was able to go in the ambulance with him, which brought him an incredible amount of relief. Although he is tough, he always needs his family. I followed behind- all the while he was trying to sit up, smiled, and waved to me from the ambulance. Once he was there, he was brought special bowls of ice cream from home from my little brother, and lots of loud laughter from my older brother. His grandchildren were in and out of his room, drawing adorable pictures for him. He was ready to come home. Although we knew it was not exactly a happy move, we knew that he wanted to be home and he was coming home. At the hospice center, he had talked to his sisters on the phone, and was read loving messages from his brother. He was once again transferred home with my sister right by his side. He was greeted with lots of kisses and smiles from his family and grand-pitt, Missy. He was finally back home and felt good. His sister arrived from Texas that evening and he felt amazing. He blessed us with a beautiful night of memories, pictures, laughs, a clear voice, dinner (solid food for the first time in at least 3 days), and of course, a bowl of cookies & cream ice cream. 

After that night, that very special night, everything went down hill. Hospice nurse visits increased, meds increased, and tears from us increased. He was conscience, but losing coherent thoughts again. We stood guard night and day. We tended to every need my dad had within his body. After days of him literally fighting to stay here with us, he said that he was "ready to go home." His lungs took their final breath on Thursday (September 6, 2018) night at 8:57 pm. We broke. Our bodies were in complete shock; dad had always pulled through and defeated all odds. We just laid with him; even his grand-pitt laid there waiting for him to crack a joke or give a command. Nothing. He was gone. We made some calls, and my good friends came and prayed over my father. 

Dave C. Grotewold was laid to rest back "home" in Simi Valley, California on Saturday, September 15, 2018. He had just made the final payment to the cemetery that will one day hold both of my parents, in August of 2018. Quite ironic, isn't it? We followed every single step my father had laid out for us in January. All but having his service at 1:00. It was at 11:00 instead. I am sure he would understand. 

His escort by his VNVMC Club Brothers from Arizona to California was BEAUTIFUL, even magical. His service was breathtaking with all his old and new friends in attendance. Our childhood neighbor of 20 plus years officiated the funeral. We could not have asked for a better send off for my father. He looked incredibly peaceful; he didn't have an oxygen cannula draped across his nose. He was whole, once again. You guys, it was beautiful.