I. Piedmont Aloha
February 2025: I left Bel Air on Friday morning, one last stop
at Goodwill to drop off donations. My
phone app chose the route to BWI; south on Route 1 and left onto a two-lane
road.
Harford County has two types of roads: developed and rural. The developed routes are newer and have
spawned width, commercial development and exurbs. They are smooth and wide. They overprint on what I assume were older
farm tracks, maybe even pre-industrial routes.
The rural routes are narrow, and wind and roll with topography.
I was on one of the rural roads, curving through agricultural
lands. This part of the county is atop
the Piedmont terrain; broadly eroded metamorphic rock left over from the last five
suturings of North America and Europe: rolling topography. I’ve always found these landscapes
involuntarily appealing; the right scale of vista, nicely framing barns, trees,
and fields, seen from a winding road.
Driving was particularly nice on this cold morning. The sun
was still low and shining through the hazy air.
The road weaved: around hills, through a broad valley. Horses wearing blankets grazed in fields near
the road. It was strikingly
beautiful. I’ve had several early
morning drives on rural roads while on this trip; the beauty of the land moved
me every time.
This contrasted with much of this visit, spent in hospitals
and my father’s retirement complex. This trip was at the end of his life. A good passing, and with the help of family I
was able to sort out his material belongings and make a start on his estate.
As I drove, I realized this was another ending. I could plan a return to Harford County only once
more: for my father’s remembrance, which would be where he lived for the last
fifteen years. He has my main reason for
coming here.
I would not have known Harford, its landscape and roads if not
for family. My sister and her family
moved here from Washington DC in the mid-1990s; my brother-in-law has roots
north of Bel Air. My parents followed
them, caring for their grandchildren and then my sister after she was inflicted
with cancer. My parents moved to a Bel
Air retirement community in 2010; my father remained there after my sister and
mother passed away.
I must have stopped here sixty or seventy times but always
felt a visitor. I wasn’t here for my
usual reasons of curiosity, work, or voluntary travel. My family made this choice. It was never
home, never my place. Some of this was
situational; I was often here in winter: too cold for hiking and running. Neither type of road was safe. Visits were short and the point was being
with family, where they were. I must be
honest and say that initially, Harford felt imposed, even foreign. While I could navigate, I never built a
mental map of the rural roads, much less understood the human geography. Moreover, it seemed I always came here;
granted I had the means and flexibility through the life I had built in
California, but it was on me to become present.
For the last thirteen years, I visited and stayed with my father. On this final morning, as I wove through the country, I realized that my Harford home was with him, and that was ending. He was happy here, in the final phase of his extraordinary life. It’s where he and I grew close, where I knew him best as the person beyond my parent. We spoke on the phone almost daily, so I knew the rhythms of his life. On this trip, I’d heard many stories of his impact in his community, and the gaps that needed to be filled. That was done, he had passed. I intersected a four-lane road, turned left, and got on the interstate.
II. The Thing
My father, Bill Hassler, passed away early on the morning of
February 13, 2025. His health had been
declining for a few months, particularly after an aspiration pneumonia
diagnosis in November 2024. This
returned in late January 2024; he was admitted to his local hospital, where his
care team also recognized other systemic issues.
Our last conversation was shortly after he was admitted in
late January. I tried to call him
regularly, but by that point he was either unable to manage the phone by his
bed, or elsewhere for treatment or tests.
I spoke with his medical team and got reports from family.
Dad improved, moved to a rehab facility, but had a fall. He was probably trying to stand on his
own. He was determined to get back to
mobility and go home. He was transferred
to Johns Hopkins Bayview Medical Center for scans and evaluation.
I flew to Maryland on Friday February 8th, and made
it to Hopkins the next day. When I found Dad in the ER, he was delirious,
speaking in a garbled voice and unable to move except for inchoate
gesturing. He was soon transferred to a
room in the Progressive Care Unit. By Monday, he was still and
uncommunicative. His care team – nurses,
hospitalist and palliative care specialist, expected him to pass soon, but the
strength of his body, and whatever was going on in his mind and spirit, kept
him going. Family, friends, and
spiritual care – his pastor and hospital chaplains - were able to visit and
express their love and admiration for his life. His favorite classical music
station was on constantly for his enjoyment.
Dad was moved to a regular hospital room on the evening of the
13th, which provided more space and freed a room in the PCU. Family members were visiting at the time, so
we all moved up one floor. We greeted
his new nurse, Heaven, and settled in.
Eventually, I was alone for the night. Heaven brought me a reclining chair for
sleep, as well as a couple of light blankets.
I read a bit and drifted off about 10 pm. I woke up at 11:20. Dad’s breathing seemed a
little different. This had been the main
audible clue to his status. I’d been monitoring this closely for days; it had
been very steady. Maybe it was a little
more erratic, maybe faster? I got up and
stood to the left of his bed. Yes, he
seemed to be breathing more arrhythmically.
Likewise, his limbs seemed a little colder, but his pulse was strong, and he still had good color. But I felt it was time to watch. So, I talked randomly, reminding him where he
was, what was going on, that we loved him, that I loved him and that we’d all
be fine, just to give him comfort. Classical
music continued to play. At around 12:30
am, his breathing slowed. He then
swallowed maybe two dozen times; the first time I’d seen him do this. As I watched, his breathing shallowed and
stopped. I watched his pulse, it
continued, then faded to stillness. I
didn’t fully trust my tired blurry eyes, so I kept watch – was there still
subtle movement? Maybe not. As I stood there, his skin got pale and lemony,
and the prominent blue vein on his head drained.
At around 12:50, I said my farewells and called the nurses. They could not find vital signs, and the
overnight hospitalist called the time of death at 1:15 am. A dear friend called me from California and
just sat with me for about an hour. I
stayed with Dad – except for the washing of his body – until he was moved to
the first post-life destination, at around 4 am.
III. Hydromorphine
Tuesday morning, February 11th. The medical team was impressed with Dad’s
resilience. His day nurse had said, with a Caribbean lilt, “he still
here!”.
In the afternoon, a chaplain came by. I assumed he was there for Dad’s comfort, but
then he said, “I’m here for you”. We
spent the better part of an hour talking - Dad’s condition, my family, Dad’s
life, my feelings about what might happen, and where that might leave me. He seemed impressed with my level of
clarity. Towards the end of our time,
Dad had a spasm or seizure, where his whole body jerked erratically for a
couple of minutes. The care team came to
calm him, but it was over before they could implement a response. There was no obvious trigger for this; it was
both fascinating and horrible to witness.
In the evening, I talked to a friend who is a gerontologist
and had been of great comfort and sound advice.
I wanted to understand what else I could do for Dad. This was challenging since he was
unresponsive. Was he suffering? Was he there at all? The responsibility was mine.
I barely slept on Tuesday night. I composed a long eulogy in my mind. Dad had
lived a long, varied and rich life.
Assembling this and reflecting on his experiences, I was moved at its
completeness. He’d made clear he was
happy with how he had lived and was prepared for the next.
What kept me awake was: could or should I aid his transition? I was revolted by any intention of this being
for my convenience, minimizing my suffering at seeing him in this condition,
getting it done. I ruminated. Eventually the word “mercy” surfaced and
resonated – that deep gong like intuitive knowing of rightness. This was about compassion; what was the best
act I could take for the man who loved and raised me, and whom I’d grown close
to as an adult. A small comfort I could
offer.
In the morning, I told Dad my choice. This was hard and tearful; I didn’t know what
would happen with a more proactive approach.
When his hospitalist and palliative care doctor came by on rounds, I
told them my decision. They seemed
relieved and ordered a hydromorphine drip.
This being an opiate, it took some time to arrange. When the IV arrived, it had to be secured in
a lock box. All the time, Dad lay
there. The drip was set at a slow rate
to provide comfort, but not to cause his respiration to stop. This seemed right.
There was no distinct change in his state before he passed. I must trust that compassion was achieved.
IV. The Travel Gene
After Dad’s celebration of life in April, a good friend and I
drove back to California with an SUV of furniture and keepsakes. I-80 – Maryland, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana,
Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah, Nevada, California. We made interesting stops along the way: tall
grass prairie, geology museums, fossil digs.
The was only the latest of many dozens of Long Drives that I’ve been on -
multi-day, thousands of mile,. Well over
100 if I include geology field work.
I’ve realized that The Long Drive is a Hassler trait, a direct
inheritance from Dad. He would have
learned to drive soon after World War II.
Having a license led to him a summer job - helping a family friend drive
to Albuquerque. This was well before the
interstate highway system was built; he likely drove on a large portion of
Route 66. He rode trains back to
Pennsylvania.
I have a photograph album of Dad’s time in the Air Force in
the early 1950s. Tech school in Colorado
led to excursions in Rockies – Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs, Royal
Gorge, and Denver. Aviation cadet training in Houston meant the “Texas Bayous”,
Corpus Christi and the barrier beaches.
While stationed at Kirkland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, he and his
airmen buddies went to Gallup (Native American events) hiking in the Manzano
and Jemez Mountains, and Grand Canyon. He
was also based on Eniwetok Atoll in the Marshall Islands at the time of the Ivy
Mike hydrogen bomb test.
These experiences set a pattern. My family travelled during all of our time
together. We made frequent family visits
to Pennsylvania, Texas, and Oregon. We
had summer vacations – North Carolina, Florida, Texas, and the West Coast. After I left home, my parents toured in
retirement, around North America with my mother’s high school class, to
California to see me, and to Mexico for my mother’s roots.
Dad and I had many trips of our own. This started when I worked for the National
Park Service at Grand Canyon National Park in 1980. I was stationed at Phantom Ranch; the ranger
station and tourist facility at the Colorado River. Dad came to visit me. Besides hanging out at Phantom, we took a
road trip to Canyonlands and Arches National Parks in Utah. This was the first of many expeditions. The Grand Canyon featured in at least eight
of these; we must have hiked over 190 miles together on backcountry trails and
rafted about 100 miles of the Colorado River.
Our final Long Drive ended with his passing. This was the decade-long trip together – just
the two of us. Dad progressively became
more himself – artistic, social, spiritual, and content during his last
decade. We became friends beyond father
and son. He came to increasingly rely on
me for advice and support. I am sure this is a common pattern, but this was our
unique version. We came to a place of
genuine love. The journey ended well.
