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Welp. Here I sit in dad’s hospice room. With mom. Processing (or beginning to process) what the F we’ve just experienced — hope, despair, healing, maybe miracles, bad news, multi-organ failures, no hope… goodbyes.

Dad’s sleeping. They had to give him valium because he’s been stuck in a deep limbo — his body is still here, but his mind is floating elsewhere.

Dad’s had his own business since I was young. Hansen Exteriors. Exterior housework, vinyl siding and trim. He’s been on a job in his mind since yesterday, fixated on hammers and nails and ladders.

I can’t help but wonder what he’s building? Maybe his home in the next realm.

I bet it’s beautiful. He was known for being the best at his craft in Southern Wisconsin.

Last Tuesday after I scheduled my newsletter to y’all was a really tough day.

That morning in the ICU, both the nephrologist (kidney doctor) and cardiologist (I assume we all know that’s heart) came in with bad news. I was alone in the hospital that day with dad. Dad overheard the news — that his heart was still functioning at 15% or less, and kidneys weren’t recovering on dialysis.

Kidneys, Heart, Liver. A heart not strong enough to fix the other two. All vital. All failing.

His dialysis was connected through his femoral artery in his inner thigh. Since getting on that CRRT dialysis machine the Friday prior (Friday the 13th… which checks out), dad was never the same. He was fixated on the machine. Stared at it constantly. Couldn’t move his legs without disrupting it and setting off a bunch of alarms.

So last Tuesday they were taking him down to move the artery input to his neck so he could have lower body mobility again… and it was then that dad had had enough.

Have you ever had someone you love SO much look you in the eyes and tell you you need to let them go? That they’re done and you NEED to let them go?

Dad didn’t want this — to be kept functioning by IV’s and machines with no hope of recovery.

I said, ‘OK dad. OK. We can do that for you.’

That was the day we stopped dialysis. Mom, his sister and I honored his decision together. We still had his IV’s going holding his heartbeat and blood pressure steady. He pushed through for my birthday the following day. Thursday we stopped IV’s.

By Thursday, his mind had mostly left us.

His first night in hospice in a separate ward of the hospital was Friday. I stayed the night with him on the extra bed in the room. We had glimmers of conversation, and it felt like the strangest camp I’d ever been to — bunkmates with someone I knew I wouldn’t be seeing anymore soon.

I woke up every 30 mins or so that night. Every noise dad made I checked on him, wondering if he was dying. Or in pain. I’ll never forget that night. Or any of this.

…so here we sit. Watching dad fade away. Along with all those hopes we had for a recovery, while cherishing all the last little moments we get to hear his voice.

Even if ‘the voice’ we are hearing is dad slowly drifting away from Earth yelling about hammers and nails.

The Hustle

Nobody can prepare you for letting someone go. Honoring their wishes. What goodbyes actually feel like.

You think it's going to be one moment. One conversation. One decision.

It's not.

It's never a ‘let’s have our goodbye chat now,’ but rather letting things come up on their terms. Letting them express the memories that matter to them, or the kind of life they want to live, or the life they believe you will live.

It’s many moments. Many sporadic conversations. Honoring their decisions.

It's sitting in a hospital room listening to doctors list everything that's failing and then looking at your dad and seeing not the failing organs but the man who taught you so many life lessons through his actions. It’s appreciating his one-of-a-kind personality, sense of humor, and impeccably timed comments, even while very sick in the ICU.

It's learning that showing up doesn't always mean fighting. Or forcing. Sometimes it means allowing. It means sitting quietly while someone builds their final project — even if that project is invisible to everyone but them.

Dad's been working since yesterday. In his mind, he's on a job site. Probably the one he started in October and never got to finish.

He never left a job undone.

That's what love looks like when there's nothing left to fix. You honor who they've always been. You let them work. You trust their process.

And you show up — not as the person trying to save them anymore, but as the person who gets to witness them build their final masterpiece.

The Chill

I've been thinking about all the things I want to say to him.

All the thank-you’s. All the stories I want to tell him one more time. All the ways I want him to know how much he shaped who I became.

But I realized, he already knows.

He knows because of the months we had together back in the lockdown. He knows because of our entire life together. He knows from all our conversations over beers or cards or sitting on their back patio. He knows because of the time I’ve always made for him and my mom and grandmas, and how much family means to me. He knows because I showed up to surprise him at his 40th high school reunion. He knows because when he looked me in the eyes and asked me to let him go, I said OK. He knows because we never left his side. He knows because when he passes on, he’ll know everything.

That's the gift grief gives you if you're paying attention. The clarity. The stripping away of everything that doesn't matter. The reminder that love isn't about holding on — it's about honoring what was, being present for what is, and trusting you’ll always be OK no matter what comes next.

I find myself grateful.

I am grateful to have loved someone so damn much that it hurts this bad to see them go.

What a blessing, that kind of love.

And I'm grateful for this time, as strange as it sounds. For getting to be here while he builds whatever comes next. For getting to be his daughter right up until the end.

There's peace in that. In knowing you loved fully. In knowing they knew it. In knowing that when it was time to let go, you chose their peace over your pain.

Dad's still building off to my left in his bed. I can hear him mumbling about where things need to go.

I hope wherever he's going has the best view. And impeccable exteriors on his home.

He's earned it.

Upcoming Shows

I have shows returning in March, many in the midwest so I can be home with mom in between. I have a special to prepare to film… maybe I’m meant to experience all this because it’s meant to help people in the form of comedy.

I have a lot of new writing to do. Maybe some healing first.

Love you all and cheers to the hustle + chill. We build until we are done building.

xx NPH

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