Dad Seizes the Day
David R. Weiss –February 4, 2026

In my last post I described how, after five weeks in rehab following sepsis, we moved Dad into Trail Creek Place, an assisted living facility just a mile from the house that’s been his home for the past 61 years.

About this move I wrote: “He would’ve preferred to die at home. But he can’t live at home any longer, so he might not get to die there either. (Spoiler alert, I have promised him that if he wishes to go home when the end is near, to take his final breaths in that house, I will make that happen. But he is so weary by now, that I’m not sure he much cares. Still, that’s his call if he chooses.)”

It turns out he does still much care. On Monday night we met with a nurse from Franciscan Hospice at the hospital to discuss his transition to hospice on his discharge from the hospital and return to Trail Creek Place. When the nurse asked Dad if he was okay with that plan, his response hit me hard. “Well, I think it’s the way it has to be.” If you know mild-mannered Fred Weiss, you know that’s Fred-speak for “Hell no! I’m not okay with it. It’s the only option I see left.”

At that point I swiftly interjected—to remind Dad of the solemn vow I made a month ago when he was still in rehab: “Dad, you only get one choice here. Wherever you start hospice is where you’ll end hospice. So, you need to make the choice you want. And if you want to die at home, you need to say that tonight. Because I promised you, if you want that, we will make that possible.”  

His answer was even swifter than my interjection and unmistakably clear: “I want to go home.” His voice was desperate, pleading, but also fierce and resolute. It was his carpe diem moment. He seized the day by declaring where he wanted to die.

So, we switched plans then and there on Monday night. Spent all day Tuesday moving back home all the furniture we had moved into his small apartment at Trail Creek Place just two weeks earlier. (Huge kudos to our cousin Don, who offered very big help on very short notice!) We rearranged our living room and to create a spot for his hospital bed and moved extra seating into place for us kids and other family who might come by. We moved a mountain on Tuesday. And on Wednesday, around noon, we brought Dad home.

Okay, he came home by ambulance, entering the house through the garage, strapped to a gurney, from which he was deftly shifted over to his waiting bed. But we were all there to greet him. He was clearly relieved to be home at last. It may have taken him a few moments to realize this wasn’t a dream. But when he took his first sip of Coke from his sippy cup, the look on his eyes was priceless. And when, for supper, he indulged in some pickled herring in cream sauce, he knew he’d left hospital food far behind.

Not to say there haven’t been a few bittersweet moments when his full grasp of his situation wobbles. Several times he’s tried to remind us he needs to take medications at this time of day or that. And we gently explain, “No more meds, Dad. No more meds from here on, except as needed for pain, nausea, or anxiety. You’re home free now.” To which he sheepishly replies, “Okay.” He’s happy to be done with the strict medication schedule (happier still to be done with all the needle pokes), but it’s hasn’t quite sunk in yet. The habit of his pills still whispers in his ear.

More bittersweet was his request last night that we bring his walker into the living room. Deon and I traded confused glances. I asked, “Why, Dad?” “Well, so I can use it when I get out of bed.” Even more gently, I say, “Dad, you’re not getting out of bed again.” I don’t add “ever,” because that seems cruel. I don’t cry, because neither of us needs that right now. An instant of unspoken recognition seems to pass between us. He tells Deon, “Well, bring it in here anyway. I want it by me.” And she does. And it is. He hasn’t mentioned it again. He will, sure enough, leave this bed one day. But when he does no walker will be needed.

Today the hospice health aide who will bathe him twice a week stopped by to introduce herself. She is comfort and joy. “Well, Fred, when I come, I want you to think of it as having a spa day. It’s all about you.”

After that I remind Dad that supper tonight will be potatoes, corn, and city chicken—a favorite dish from his childhood until today. His mother made it; then his wife made it; then (because I also love it) I made it. And then, after I became vegetarian, I perfected a version using plant-based meats that Dad gave two enthusiastic thumbs up to. The first day I got to the hospital last week Dad tells me in a tone that suggests this is his Make-a-Wish wish, “There is no rush for this, but I want you to make your city chicken for me.” He leaves unsaid the word “soon,” but we both know his dining days are numbered, even though neither of us wishes to know their number.

But today is a feast day. And so, for this meal I tell Dad, “No veggie meat tonight. I bought beef and pork. This will be Grandma’s city chicken, not mine.” He whistles softly. Sometimes wishes do come true. I add (because Bloody Mary’s are the only alcohol he drinks anymore, and he’s missed them these past months), “I also have the fixings for a Bloody Mary, so I can make one to go with your supper tonight. I’ll even join you.”

“I want one now.” It’s not yet 2pm. I ask again, because maybe he’s kidding. Nope. So, I make him a Bloody Mary, served up in a sippy cup with the celery garnish held alongside the cup with a rubber band. And I make myself one, just a bit nervous what an afternoon drink will do to me. But it’s all good.

Just as we finish our drinks his hospice nurse stops by to meet him and do her official intake. She’ll be his nurse now until death takes him. Coming twice each week (more at the end) to make sure that comfort is his best friend from here on out. She’s great. With help from me and Deon she gets a clean sheet underneath Dad, along with a couple of clean pads. And we trade his hospital gown for an old Baraboo Circus Museum t-shirt, now slit up the back for easy access. He has a deep bench of old t-shirts, many from schools his grandchildren attended. I can already imagine a “farewell t-shirt tour”—each of Grandpa’s prized t-shirts slit up the back for one final encore. He will be clothed in love on his way out the door.

Supper is divine if I may say so myself. Dad eats with relish. A couple times with a bit too much relish as he starts to choke (just a bit) and needs to pause for a water break. I watch him, with joy, and I say—not with pride, but with a profound sense of accomplishment, “Grandma would be proud of me. Mom would be proud of me. I’m glad it tastes good.” He nods with something close to glee. This is what he came home for. Not just this, of course, but having his favorite foods in front of him—foods as rich with memory as with flavor—is a blessing. He will be tasting love right up until he pushes himself away from the table. (In his case, the hospital tray.)

After supper, he is chipper and chatty. All three of us kids are there—making the most of the sofa and love seat just positioned around his bed yesterday. We recount the day to Debby who has joined us after work. We joke. Dad smiles. I say, “Dad, I know that lately everyone is asking you to rate your pain on a scale of 1 to 10. But I’m curious how you would rate today—in terms of satisfaction—on a scale of 1 to 10.” “Today? Well, today was very satisfying.” I know, he didn’t pick a number from 1 to 10. But I’m pretty sure that’s because even a 10 seemed too small to capture this day.

I know, too, that not every day will be so satisfying. But, most of all, I know that even on the unsatisfying days, Dad will be glad he’s home. And we’ll be glad, too.

I promised him, this was his call to make. Monday night he made that call. Tuesday, we moved a mountain. Wednesday, we brought him home. And today, all together, we seized the day. Then again, scholars argue that carpe diem is really a horticultural metaphor that most literally means, “pluck the day when it is ripe.” Dad’s days are surely ripe now. Even when our eyes are moist, my sisters and I could not be happier to share in plucking Dad’s days for all they’re worth.

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David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, “writing into the whirlwind” of contemporary challenges, joys, and sorrows around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, peace, and family. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in Writing into the Whirlwind at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.