Monsters

My wife asked, “When you hear this song, does it put you right back in that hospice room?”

We were on a road trip somewhere and James Blunt's song, “Monsters,” had just started playing.

If you’re not familiar with it, check it out. It's a great song about a man and his father, at the point in their lives where their roles have been reversed. He's helping his dad to bed and the title comes from the line, “...it's my turn to chase the monsters away.”

We first heard it during the last year of my father's life. It was a strange development for me, being in the position of making decisions for my father about his care and even where he was going to live. I had tried really hard to leave as much in his hands as possible. It was a shock when I realized that he didn't want to make those decisions, that he was willing to turn everything over to me.

There were some hard times. He'd outlived his wife of seventy years, and at least three sets of friends, and being a little fragile and feeling largely useless weighed heavily on him. He occasionally mentioned that perhaps he should buy a new car so he could drive again, but he took the news that I thought that was a bad idea with good humor. The last year was better. I doubt he was happy, but he seemed content. He was living in a place surrounded by people who'd known him their whole lives, and if he didn't always remember them that was okay. I spent a lot of time with him because I didn't have to punch a timeclock and my schedule was pretty flexible. He was always happy to see me. I know I wasn't the perfect son, and while he was pretty good, he wasn't the perfect father, but we had managed to let all that go.

I was at a meeting in St. Paul when we got the message he'd had a stroke and had been flown to Sioux Falls, about a four-hour drive. We'd received several updates along the way, and by the time we found our way to the emergency room we already knew that he was going to die. He was completely unresponsive as the doctor carefully explained what had happened and what they did to treat him. He gently but firmly said my father’s life would now be measured in hours, and it would be better for him to go to the hospice facility a few blocks away. The move was made, and our son arrived shortly after.

He and my wife and I sat together in the hospice room for a few hours, and then I asked him to take his mother home.

I'm not completely sure why I sent them away.

I guess I didn’t want them hearing the loud and labored breathing as their final memory. I didn't mind staying alone. The staff was incredibly kind, and my dad and I had spent so much time alone together it didn't feel out of place to make this final trip together, too. We'd never actually talked that much, so even the silence didn't feel odd.

After almost twenty-four hours in the room, he died. Some local people knit and donated blankets for the express purpose of covering the deceased. Dad’s was folded and handed to me. The staff lined the halls as I walked behind the gurney to where the hearse was waiting. A nurse about the age of my daughters reached out and took my hand during the walk. It's a big building, where one wing was dedicated just to children's hospice. It was completely empty that day, and I remember thinking that was the best news I'd heard in a while.

I watched my father's body loaded into the hearse and that was it. I walked to our car and headed for home. I was only on the road a few minutes when “Monsters” came up on my playlist. I didn't pull over, but I probably should have.

I stopped for gas in Brookings and asked the young man behind the till how his day was going. He replied, “Fine.” I waited for him to ask me, because I badly wanted to tell someone my father had just died. But he didn't say anything so neither did I. It’s something I think about when exchanging pleasantries with someone, to try to hear whether more than a pleasantry is desired.

I paid for my gas and drove the last two hours home.

It was a year or more before I could hear that song without choking up, but I'm pretty much over that now.

So, there's that.

Copyright 2025 Brent Olson