Bea Youngs - Fox College Sports NCPA Commentator

For My Family, both immediate, and up north…

I haven’t gone to bed yet and it’s 530AM when I am typing to you all.
First and foremost, thanks to Kelly and Aunt Pat for all their hardwork, for caring, and for doing so much already to contact all of you, to help with the funeral planning, and doing what they do best - get things done.

This has been the most difficult experience for me dealing with my father being gone. The man I spent 35 years of my life with, almost daily contact, day to day, and he’s gone from our physical vision and presence. My father became like a child to me because I cared for him from the Fall of 2005 when he was strickened with this bizarre, rare neurological disease the doctors thought was Multi System Atrophy (Parkinsons Plus). In July of 2005, I remember seeing my father sitting in a recliner in the dark, in the corner of his master bedroom, his face had a frown he couldn’t control. I cried immediately upon seeing him, he said, “It’s ok? Don’t cry?” My father, at the time, thought it was Parkinsons, the kind that Michael J. Fox and Muhammed Ali have… but what it was, was actually worse than the typical Parkinsons.

In the Fall of 2005, I was there for my father as his primary caregiver until April 2008, when it just got so hard on me both emotionally, mentally, physically… I had to get help because I was the one who took care of my father a majority of the time. If it wasn’t me, it was a private CNA we hired. Mom did her best, so did Billy, but I was the one that did a bulk of the nitty-gritty work and studied, researched, and discovered as much as I could to help my father live the best quality of life possible.

April 2008, for my family’s sake, we moved dad down the street to a full-time CNA’s home, where she was also caring for her 101 year old mother. It was the hardest thing I had to do, but in the end, it was a better relationship between my brother and my mother. My mother felt guilty and angry that her daughter was doing a majority of the work that she felt that she should’ve been doing, but couldn’t. My brother’s coping mechanism was to distance himself, and when he did see dad, the visits were qualitative, and much appreciated by Dad, but brief.
I stayed with dad 4-8 hours in the day when I was not out of town on business for my part-time job. If I had a full-time job, I would not have been able to watch over my father’s final months and have such a flexible schedule.

Dad was my life. I lived for my father’s approval and I continue to aspire to be like him. I love his sense of humor, his genuine, laid-back personality, and his wit, intelligence, and ability to kick my butt in Scrabble every time. He would say, “And you went to college?” after every Scrabble Victory of his (and trust me, I tried to beat him!).

My father continues to be my source of inspiration, especially after seeing what he went through during his long-fought battle with the mysterious disease he lived with. Every day, he still had hope, never giving up, and even at the last day, he still requested for a feeding tube, even though it went against the aggressive measures Hope Hospice didn’t encourage.

Dad wanted something for anxiety, and they gave him a pain killer, something he was on before when he was admitted to Lehigh Hospital, where dad breathed his last breath with both Mom and I in the room. We were planning on bringing him to the Hope Hospice House instead of leaving him in the hospital, but he, at the last minute, insisted on a feeding tube that he indicated by closing his eyes, meaning “yes”, to the question, “Dad, close your eyes to say YES when I ask you, Do you want a feeding tube?” I tested him several times, if not 5 times in a row, to ensure that’s what he truly wanted.

Once they gave him the pain med, not 15 minutes later, dad started acting different. He went from acknowledging us with his eyes to a blinkless stare to the ceiling, mouth wide open. My mom would say, “Jeffrey! Look at me! Whas wrong?” in her Korean accent. I said, “Oh man, I told them not to give them the pain med until after we transferred dad to the Hospice House. I want Dad to be coherent when Uncle Dan gets here so they can communicate with each other!” Then, I said, “Mom, he looks different. His color is not the same.” Dad had gone from pink to yellow to white.

The Hope Hospice nurse, Jen, walked in, while both my mom and myself were standing at my father’s bedside, one on each side. Her arrival was an indicator that Hope Hospice would be transferring Dad out, but she had to evaluate him first. Then, as soon as she saw him, she pushed the call button.

The hospital nurse came in, she did some touching around, and walked outside and said, “Beatrice.” I walked behind her, she had this frantic look on her face, and she said, “I think he’s passed.” I said, “WHAT! I thought I told you not to give him the pain med?” And she said, “No, you said you need something for his pain...” And I said, “No, didn’t Dr. Tucker tell you… Dad wanted a feeding tube. And I thought I had to sign off on something before you administered it?!” She went over to the supervisor, I stood numb, feeling faint, in the hall, and they both went into Room 218, where Dad was.

Dad was pronounced dead at 610PM, they asked, “Now, your dad signed a DNR, Do Not Resuscitate order, but you have the power to override that...” I said, “Mom?! Should we shock him?! Should we try to bring him back?!” The nurse warned me that if we did, he would then have to be hooked up to a ventilator to assist his breathing. A calming came before my body. I stopped crying. I looked at my mom and said, “Mom… we need to let him go… He’s sleeping. He’s at peace.” She goes, “No, no! He’s still breathing! No, Jeffrey!!! No!” She grabbed my dad’s face, shook him a little, the nurse pulled her away, but not completely far, and we saw my father take his last breathe, a slight hiccup, and he was gone. Eyes closed, mouth still opened.

We were shocked, not ready, didn’t know. But, from the moment that Dad was administered the pain med, mom was sitting at his bedside, on his left, slightly leaning on his bed, holding his hand, rubbing his arm, or touching his face. I, too, did the same, feeling the warmth change to a cold, and watching his color change, too.

The doctors, both our family, and the lung specialist, said that dad threw up a clot either in his heart or lungs. The pain med administered was just a coincidence, because dad was bound to go any day. He was not in any pain at all in his final hour, and the hours before, he was only feeling anxiety because my mother and I were crying daily, telling him everything we wanted him to know about how awesome of a husband, father, brother he was to Uncle Dan, and loved by so many other family members and dear friends.

I said to Dad, “You’re the best. I want to be like you. I’ll never forget you. I’m writing a book about you,” and now that he’s transitioned to Heaven, I’m still having a hard time, and I think I always will, about my father dying. It wasn’t just that I was a daughter to him, but it was more about how we got even closer because of this trecherous disease. My dad, too, became an even better man, because of the courageouness, bravery, and strength he showed from the time he was diagnosed with the neurological disease up until the moment he left this earth.

I have so many pictures and videos of my dad during these last few years because I wanted to document everything and remember the reality that was ours to bear, and it was an honor to serve my father that way. I will bring my external hard drive up with me to share it all with you at Uncle Dan’s house.

I have so many different emotions, from sadness, depression, anger, frustration, guilt, and even laugh madly because I wish that he didn’t have to go through that, and then wish I could’ve done more. It’s going to be forever before I get over Dad not being here for me to talk to, get advice from, get assurance from, and get hugs and kisses and dances from. Christmas was our favorite time of year, too, and that’s going to be really rough.

See you this weekend or if you can’t make it to New York and you’re closer to Florida, see you hopefully at the memorial service on Saturday, November 29, at 11AM at Lee Memorial Park, Veteran’s Field of Honor. My dad and I would go to the memorials religiously to remember our veterans and sometimes, dad or myself would volunteer my voice to sing the National Anthem at this same location where the memorial service will be held for Dad. That’s what he wanted. He also wanted to be buried near his brother, my new father, my godfather, my Uncle Dan.

It’s going to be a tough weekend for us all, but I am so glad that we will get to see each other again and remember the amazing man my father still is in all our hearts.

With Love,
Jeffrey’s daughter,
Beatrice Ann Youngs Paxson (my new legal name; I kept my father’s last name to honor him, and added my new last name to honor my husband).

I have some videos I have already shared at my YouTube account at the following link:

http://www.YouTube.com/BeaYoungs

or you can go to my website directly at http://www.BeaYoungs.com

I also wrote alot about Dad at my MySpace Blog. Writing has been a good source of therapy for me and has also allowed me to share my father’s story with so many people. The link to that is:
http://www.MySpace.com/BeaYoungs

A video of our reality of my father’s situation during his final years of life. If you’re related to my father and you’re my family, this is a special message I have written just for you. I love you.