Advice From the World's Worst Caregiver

Hey, I'm not good at the care giving thing, but here's what I've learned:

1) It's okay to be scared. I mean seriously, I've done things that should be reserved for trained medical professionals -- the operative word being "trained". I don't have any training. I should be scared. You should be scared.

2) On some days you're going to get pissed off. That's okay too. Humans sometimes get pissed off. I'm human. You're human too. Right? Right.

3) On some days you may experience a combo of bone tired + fear + anger = border line temporary insanity. Again, as long as you don't physically hurt the person you're caring for it's all good.

4) The love you have for the person you're caring for is your anchor. And God's standing by too, like a body guard, or a bouncer. HE won't let me (or you) deal by yourself. The power of prayer is incredible. I use it all the time. Try it. Can't hurt.

That's about it. Hey, I'll be all right. You'll be all right. We'll get through this together.

Christmas Day!

I can hear Dad's voice (loudly) from downstairs. He's talking to Debbie about the economy and unemployment. Only 2-3 months ago we didn't even know if he would be here to see this day. He could barely walk on his own, he was plagued with horrible hiccups -- that we were told was a sign of his kidneys and other major organs shutting down and that it wasn't going to get any better -- that hospice should be called in. We've been blessed...I know that. I baked the ham Jean bought, made some mac and cheese and some good ole Southern greens that I have to admit were pretty darn good. I bought some inexpensive frames -- I'm into collecting picture frames that tell a story -- inserted some pictures that may not be familiar to everyone else and gave them as gifts. It was fun...for me anyway. There may have been mumblings about Christmas humbug or the weather...or loud obnoxious chatter and gregarious laughter brought on by too much cinnamon whiskey (yum), but all in all I thought it was a good day...more memories we may not have learned to appreciate fully until we're looking back on them through a stilled shot of events that, as soon as tomorrow, will be our past. Isn't that usually how it goes? Dad was pretty mellow...he ate some greens, ham and the cheesecake Vickie brought for desert, then sat in the living room listening to oldies music on the television.

A downside to the day came when I was perusing Face book and noted a comment from a relative in NY that I've never met, that Hack, mom's step father, had passed away on Christmas Eve. He was 91. I never met him, but it was like another piece of my mom slipping away. Life is so frickin' fragile -- and I still don't think we truly get that otherwise we'd omit the pettiness in our relationships.

Anyways, enough of the thought provoking crap. Bottom line, I'm grateful 10,000 times over that Dad is still with us...another Christmas, and I pray 2011 will be as kind.

God, thank you for this day!

Day Before Christmas Eve

It's really difficult getting into the merry season of Christmas. Tony got dad a tree, it's absolutely perfect. I love it. I decorated it with all the bulbs I had to make it special, and I succeeded. Tomorrow we'll put all the presents under the tree, pull out our mixers and booze and get ridiculously festive. That'll be fun. The alcohol will numb us up a bit so we can forget for one brief moment -- 'cause that's all we get -- that two very special people in our lives are missing from our family; Kenny and mom. God I miss them every single day; not one day goes by they are not in my thoughts. But we keep trying to move on like we're encouraged to do. I just wish I knew what I was moving on to. Really, I just don't know. Well, I've got some things to do tomorrow to prepare for the big day. Ciao.

Pain In The Ass!

Okay, first I need to get this out of the way, I love Dad, I really, really do. BUT, he's giving my last nerve a complete aerobic workout. I need to vent.

A lot's happened in the last couple of days sense Dad's meltdown. For starters, Britney reported Dad's outburst to Dr. Jin, his primary care doctor, and docs nurse called to schedule an appointment for the next day within about two hours of the incident in question. Jean drove him and muscled (or mosy'd) her way into the doctor's office along side Dad. I'm surprised he didn't toss her out and close the door in her face. I know he wishes he had now. You see, he's furious with Jean because she told the good doctor that she was concerned about his driving. Dr. Jin responded that he'd told Dad he couldn't drive until he advised otherwise. Well, in Dad's mind Jean was instrumental in keeping him from driving and he's royally pissed. He is of course, completely overlooking the part when the doctor said they had the driving discussion before, and the fact that HE SHOULDN'T BE DOING IT. Jean called me at work to warn me about the day's events. The minute I walked in the front door he started, well, after I gave my opener that is, "Hey Dad." It was like flicking a switch, "Well, Jean went and got my doctor to say I can't drive." Words seemed to spur Dad on so I didn't give him any. Silence. After an awkward moment of no talking I asked, "Is there any medication I need to pick up at Walgreens?" Safe question, which I knew would have an affirmative response since I'd ordered refills the night before. He continued to ramble on about Jean and the fact that she told the doctor she'd take him to every appointment and that she won't be able to do that because she has to look for a job and if at any time she can't take him he just won't go to his doctor appointment. This was starting to sound pretty similar to the incident this summer after I called his doctor to discuss his driving, his threats to not go to another doctor's appointment or take any more medication if his doctor even suggested he could no longer drive. Dad's specialized brand of emotional blackmail. Aaaaah! I could feel my blood pressure rising. Deep cleansing breaths in, negative energy out. So I said, "Anytime Jean can't take you, I will." He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously disbelieving. Still putting forth serious effort to be really, really calm, I said. "We're just trying to help." His next comment was very clear and distinct. "Yeah, well your help is more hurting than anything else." And ho hum, I lost the temper I've prided myself on keeping a tight reign on for years, "WHAT DO YOU EXPECT US TO DO?!" In an effort to call forth a calm, zen state I prayed, but too late. I'd stepped over the edge, and Dad was staring at me like I'd lost my mind. "WE'VE BEEN DOING EVERYTHING WE CAN TO HELP YOU!!" Oh the look on his face, like he wasn't sure if he should take the time to grab his cane before making a run for the door or pick up the phone and call the cops.

"Well," he started, "I wasn't talking about you." Really, I couldn't get that from the "yous and yours" references. "You" and "your" typically refers to the person standing in front of you. Dad always backtracks when he realizes he's gone too far. And his favorite line is, "I was just joking. Geez, why are you so sensitive? Just like Jean." Really good 'piss a person off' question.

Finally the zen state of mind kicked in and I was able to bring sanity home. Sort of. "So," I took a deep calming breath. "Do you want me to pick up your medications?" In the same tone I'd use to say, 'Would you like some hot cocoa or cookies?' I'm sure the abrupt about face unnerved him even more, because he was speechless, and his eyes were undoubtedly drawn to the neon sign on my forehead blinking, SNAPPED!

In a discussion with Tony later (and Tamara and Jean, and Vickie and probably the mailman and I'd think Doug, his next door neighbor, oh and his brothers Ernie and Charlie), Dad did a recounting of our attempt at communicating (in his own special way, of course) and said, "She yelled at me, for no reason at all. I'll never forgive her for that." I can imagine him pausing for the dramatic effect before saying, "I've never seen that look in her eyes before." Did he ever even meet me? My Dad has no idea who I am. The reason why he's never seen "that look" in my eyes before is because I work really hard to be respectful regardless to the thoughtless and mean comments he makes on occasion. And you wonder why I don't want to give up my personal space, even if it's only for the weekends, my own Shangri-la, and move in with him? Pah-lease.

I lost my temper which puts me in a funk; rule no. 1 in the "Care giving Guidebook": Do not yell at the patient. To be honest, I don't know if that book exist, but if it does, I bet that particular rule has a chapter dedicated to it. And now, I guess you have a better idea of where I came up with my blog title, The World's Worst Caregiver. Aaaarg! I wonder if there are any suggestions in "the book" on how to continue with the caring and the giving when sometimes you feel as if you're in an emotionally abusive relationship. I don't like feeling like that. It's just not good for anybody.

God, please give me an abundance of love and patience. I'm going back tonight.

All The Anger and Frustration and Pain

I'm very glad the universe, for the most part, only dribbles on us from time to time, instead of hitting us with a dirge. Today we had a dribble, a major one. Dad fired Britney. According to Jean, there was a whole lotta yelling going on. The reason? Well, Britney made some "suggestions" about Dad's diet. On occasion she'd leave notes for him. Dad's convinced these "notes" were intended for me too. She suggested nonfat milk instead of whole or 2%, whole wheat bread instead of white, and egg whites instead of with the yoke yada yada. Well, lately Dad's been gleefully spouting, as soon as I walk in the front door, about Britney's "suggestions". "Britney's trying to change every ones diet in the household," he'd say chuckling. I knew this was Dad's very own interpretation of what was said but hey...most of the time we just nod and go on about our business. Anyway, so today Britney brought up the nonfat vs 2% persuasion and Dad responded something like this, "Angie's not going to like what you're saying." I'm not sure why my name was brought into the discussion. "She likes her 2% milk," he told her. "Well," Britney explained, "Mr. Beck, my concern is with you, not Angie." This was the catalyst for the total and complete meltdown, which was apparently a display of temperament very unlike Dad. Mind you I wasn't there but according to Jean his blood pressure soared to 180; he spoke about how everyone is trying to control his life, how tired he is of people getting in his business, how he's going to eat whatever he chooses to eat, how he doesn't want her (Britney) to come back and the fact that Angie (me) arranges people (his children and grandchildren) to "babysit" him on the weekend, and the fact that Angie (me) goes home on the weekend just to watch Tony's big screen television, which doesn't make sense because she (still me) can move in with him and not pay rent, and that if everybody keeps bothering him he'll kick everybody out of his home, including Angie.

I need to clarify the aforementioned "spouting" didn't come out exactly as I've written today, and only some of it represents an accurate accounting, however these are some of Dad's usual complaints that have been heard by all on a daily basis, except the part about me moving in. Dad doesn't talk to me about that anymore because I've made it pretty clear I don't want to do that. At 52 years I like having my things around me, and staying at his home Monday through Friday morning is all I can emotionally handle right now. However, he continues to belabor the issue with anyone who walks through the front door.

Bottom line is Dad's blood pressure hit about 180 and the nurse is very concerned about couple of things; Dad's high a blood pressure and his extreme depression, which he admitted to. She said that if he called her by the end of the day she wouldn't put through the discharge papers. He didn't call her.

I recall as a youngster playing in the snow on a homemade toboggan--a trash can lid or a nice sturdy piece of cardboard; we'd drag it to the top of a big hill and go barrelling down across the packed snow screaming at the top of our lungs. It was exhilarating. I feel like Dad's on the toboggan at the top of Mt. Fujiyama and he's barrelling down the sides of the mountain in the snow completely out of control. And frantic and terrified and scared, we're all running, stumbling, falling down the mountain trying to grab hold in order to slow it down, to catch him before he hits the bottom. To save him.

Everything seems that out of our control, and not being able to "save" him is what keeps me up at night. And we're trying, really hard. I can't even begin to imagine how Dad feels. He is the one, after all, trying to steer something that continues to be unequivocally out of his control, and in God's hands.

Help him, God, please.

I'm Thankful

I'm thankful for all the years I had when all of my family members were present, whole and able to laugh and joke about the silly things; while for a time, being completely and benignly oblivious that it could be anything but. I'm thankful for my amazing children, Tony and Michael; Melissa, my daughter-in-law, and my granddaughter, the Diamond monster. I'm thankful for the presence my mom represented in my life for the years I had her in it; for having a brother like Kenny who showed me by example how to be kind and good, and to chill when life is bustin' butts and taking no prisoners. I miss you! I'm thankful I am able to feel the pieces of my heart every time it breaks from the loss of mom and Kenny, because it reminds me of what I had and how blessed I am to have had them in my life. It also reminds me how important it is to continue to feel; the downside being that I could become so numb from loss that I stop feeling at all. I'm grateful for every day my Dad, a cantankerous and ornery 'ole dude--sometimes, yes he is--is still with us and the strength God gives us daily to do what we need to do to keep him with us. I'm grateful for Debbie because she makes me laugh when I don't always feel like it. And for Mary, my bestest friend in the whole wide world (bfitwww), who is a staple in my life that keeps me grounded, and who quite honestly, would haunt me into the afterlife if I didn't acknowledge her publicly as my bfitwww. I'm grateful to be surrounded by people and friends, who've been in my world for many years, and have kindly (and patiently), listened to my ramblings when I'd take the longest route to get to the point, any point. I'm grateful for my siblings, my nieces and nephews because they are good people, and I am reminded everyday what a blessing it is they are a part of my world. I'm grateful I woke up this morning to enjoy an overabundance of food, drink and family; especially grateful for all the libations, which helped keep me in a zen state--thanks to Lisa's cinnamon whiskey, yum--so I wouldn't forget my gratitude for family, especially when they piss me off, as family sometimes do God bless 'em. I'm blessed for the reminder that one day the faces around the table may not always be present and that I should appreciate the moments with them while I am being honored.

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you God! You are so good to me!!

The Blues

The other day, I sat close by perched on the arm of the sofa listening to Dad rant and rave to Britney, the Gentiva Home Health nurse. He ranted about being on "house arrest" in his own home, and all the people that have been hanging around his house. Said he's sick of them all. "The people" are actually his daughters, who've taken time away from work and their lives to tend to him, his grandchildren who he complained just come over to sleep, and the ridiculous health care people from Gentiva that all do the same thing. Says Dad. "One tells me to wiggle my toes," he went on. "And then another one will show up and ask me to do the same thing. It doesn't make sense!" Again, the lift of the voice to close the sentence and reflect appropriate agitation. Then he went on to fuss about Medicare and how pretty soon "none of the Gentiva people are going to have jobs." He tells Britney this at least once every time she visits.

I could see a smidgen of frustration cross Britney's face as she struggled to maintain her professional facade. It was almost comical. While he fussed, she took his blood pressure and frowned. "Mr. Beck," she says, "something is obviously bothering you. Your blood pressure is very high today."

Dad's face wrinkled up and he crossed his arms over his chest like a petulant child. "I don't want to talk about it," he says. "I'm just tired of everybody coming here."

Britney said. "Mr. Beck, are you saying you'd like us to stop providing the service. We don't have to be here if you don't want us here." I could tell the moment when he realized he'd gone too far.

"Well," he started, "I'm fine with you. But not the others." Britney smiled.

"Well, you don't have to see the Occupational Therapist and the Physical Therapist here if you don't want to. However, it would help you to have at least one continue for a bit longer." Dad's frown deepened.

"And this one." He points in my direction. "She sick you know." Huh? "Did she tell you?" I knew where he was going with that. That morning I'd mentioned I had some numbness in my left arm. As soon as I got to work I made an appointment with the doctor for the next day. It concerned me too. However I didn't appreciate my health issues being discussed with his nurse.

Britney said, "Is that what's bothering you Mr. Beck? That something will happen to your daughter?"

Dad unfolded his arms and sat back. He wasn't one to admit to any type of vulnerability, but his face said it all. He had a fears, and lots of them. It broke my heart. "If anything happens to her..." He left the rest hanging out there, like the hundred million emotions we've experienced on a daily basis, since mom died and Kenny died; fearing what each day is going to bring, or what the future will feel like.

I knew Dad was depressed. Sometimes he just stares blankly at the Television set not seeing anything on the screen. And he's been having dreams lately about mom, which really freak him out. Dreams that seem to always take place in Hawaii. And sometimes he wakes up confused, feeling like all he has to do is call out to mom and she'll answer. It mostly happens, he said, after he's had a really difficult time. That's how close he feels to her sometimes. He said it makes him feel bad though.

It's funny (obviously not ha ha), we can follow instructions from the nurse to keep him as healthy as possible; clean this wound, lotion feet to prevent cracked skin (dangerous for a diabetic), watch for temperature, make sure cathater area is clean, make sure he eats regular, takes meds regularly...etc. etc. But there's not a damn thing we can do about all the bad things Dad's experiencing on the inside.

Anyway, about the numbness in my left arm; my doctor says it's a bad case of carpel tunnel, and not a sign of stroke. Not yet anyway.

Okay, nothing more to say today. Ciao.

Good News and Bad News!

The good news first. Dad made it through the weekend without the catheter and without having to call paramedics to escort him back to the ER. On Monday, the neurologist inserted a scope into Dad's bladder (I think it was the bladder) and it showed no blockage (yea!). He's been home and doing pretty good. He's been walking around the house with his cane the last couple of days, which is a big difference from two weeks ago when he could barely stand on his own. Matter of fact, today he walked up the stairs. Big surprise to me, who was on the phone discussing client issues with my boss with my lap top plugged into the office. "Need to get on my computer now!" says Dad. Plenty loud enough for the boss to hear. Yes he did. Dad must have forgotten I was able to take care of him in the guise of actually working from home and that I was NOT on vacation just chillin'. I had to apologize to my boss, and explain that I was temporarily shutting down my computer (although I know she heard Dad in the background but pretended not to). My computer was plugged into the ethernet that also plugs into Dad's computer. In other words, only one computer can work at a time now that wireless is on the fritz. But you probably already know that. Sorry, I tend to explain anything computer-related as if the rest of the world is as computer illiterate as I am.

Okay, now on the flip side, he's been noticeably, and heartbreakingly, depressed the last few days. Not surprised considering how much he's been hit lately. But not sure what can be done to fix it, or even if there is a fix. And I'm not particularly in the mood to discuss it right now. Today was difficult, for Dad, and pretty much anyone who crossed his path. More later. Ciao.

Emotional Roller Coaster Ride

Watching Dad muttle through each step of his illness is enough to break one down. I don't know how he does it. Yesterday was difficult. He had an appointment with the urologist to determine why his body is not functioning properly without the catheter. Well, the result of the appointment was to send him home without it to see what happens. Again. I'm a layman and that reasoning is pooty even to me. They have him scheduled for some kind of scope on Monday to see if there is a blockage. Okay, today is Thursday and you mean to tell me they couldn't set up an appointment for something this urgent on Friday? We have to get through Thursday night--without calling paramedics--then Friday and the weekend without urine backing up into his kidneys. Couldn't they have taken the catheter out after the test when they have a better idea of what's going on? You see, he had the catheter taken out only a few weeks ago. We were more or less advised to wait until he's at the point of extreme pain, which means a toxic level of urine is backed up in his bladder. Late that night he pushed the button on his first alert necklace to summon the paramedics. He was in excruciating pain. At the same time he was also, if you will recall from earlier post, dealing with hiccups from hell. When in ER, they emptied a toxic amount of urine from his bladder, had him comfy in a bed with an IV that contained medicine that calmed, then rid him of the hiccups he'd had for days, and he was able to find some relief and peace in sleep. But that didn't last long. Around 1:00 a.m. in the morning they woke him up, attached another catheter, and kicked him out. Hiccups returned as soon as they stopped the drip. So you see we've already been there, done that. Damn.

Dad's Eye Appointment

It's raining outside, brown-golden leaves litter the ground and there's a nip in the air that had me thinking earlier about the jacket I'd left at Dad's house. I moved boxes of stuff all day into my new place and my middle aged body is feeling the pain. I love my new place though, a two-bedroom townhouse with a bonus room I can use as an office. It's cosy and in a so-so neighborhood. Not Tacoma's echelon but at least I can come and go without packin'heat. Just kiddin', it's a nice neighborhood. I'm back at Dad's now trying to blog my thoughts.

Dad had an appointment at America's Best for new glasses this morning, and yesterday he agreed, reluctantly, to rent a wheelchair. He's been so stubborn about getting it, which is frustrating because getting him to the car, in the car, and out of the car when we're at the appointed destination has been quite a work out. We're usually okay if the end destination is a hospital because they have wheelchairs for our use. I had no idea why he was being so stubborn until I heard, from the dining room where I was pushing buttons on my computer, a conversation between him and Megan.

Megan: "Dad, the only reason why we want you to have a wheelchair is because we want you to be comfortable. Besides, it also makes it easier on the person taking you."

Dad said, "I don't need a wheelchair." A pause. "And most of the time when we get where we're going they have wheelchairs."

Megan responds softly, patiently. "But Dad, they don't have wheelchairs available at America's Best Eyeglasses. Instead of buying one, maybe you can just rent one for the day. I'll pay for it. Can't be more than $30-$40." Another brief pause. I had to strain my ears to hear him his voice was so soft.

"Well, maybe I could rent one for one day." Longer pause. "I'm afraid if I get one of those things I'll get used to it. Then I won't get better."

Ah...so that's it. God bless Megan. We hear him fussing from time to time, and that's all we hear. But Megan actually spoke to his heart and listened. It's funny, but we've been so focused on trying to treat all the symptoms evident on the outside, we forget everything going on with Dad on the inside. Dad was a Sargent in the U. S. Air force, an extremely independent man used to handling his own affairs without input from anybody. A husband and father to eight children he was responsible for providing a home, feeding, and clothing. And now he is completely dependent on his children and their grown children to nurse him, feed him and bathe him. For such a proud man like Dad, this has to be extremely excruciating. On the inside, he must be terrified, and there's no treatment for that.

So Debbie took Dad to America's Best today and unfortunately he was told that due to his multiple illnesses, they couldn't help him and recommended he see an optician. They also told him he was blind in one eye and so-so in the other. He seemed okay with it when he got back, but I'm not so sure. He's been hit hard the last few weeks, one health issue after another. Of course, we will check with an optician to see what can be done. He really wanted those new glasses though. It's all he's been talking about the last few days.

Debbie said that before he drifted off for a short nap today, he said, "I just need a little bit more time to get better, maybe come spring."

I pray that is so. God, please make it so.

Pops

Britney, the Gentiva Home Health nurse showed up at 7:30 a.m. bright and early this morning. The first words out of Dad's mouth when she walked into the living room where he's stationed, "You hurt me and I'll sue ya!" Britney smiled. According to Dad, when she performed the enema yesterday, which he's supposed to have 4 days in a row starting Monday, she didn't do a good job. "You didn't find the right hole," he complained. "All that pokin' around hurt. Does the hole move around?" he asked. Again, Britney smiled, patience a definite virtue. "Mr. Beck," she began, "there's only one hole and it doesn't move around." If you need an explanation regarding the "hole" in question, I'll give you one. For those of you who'd rather not go there--I don't blame you a bit--so skip down a few sentences. Apparently, and I just learned this tidbit myself, 12:00 of the stoma is a hole and to quote the Highlander, 'There can be only one'. Anyone who has two is probably in the Guinness book of records, as they should be. Well, the tip of the bottle filled with a saline laxative is inserted gently into the hole to...well, you know. I had to watch because should he become backed up again I will be performing this task. I don't mind, except the colostomy nurses said the stoma is very sensitive and I worry about causing irreparable damage. Anyway, he survived the procedure again today and now can't wait for Britney's visit tomorrow so he can tell her she put the wafer to his colostomy bag on wrong. Poor Britney. Not to worry, she can handle Dad. Although she is a young nurse, she's very patient and wise for her age.

In addition to the visit from Britney, the physical Therapist also paid Dad a visit today. His name is Bill. According to Dad, Bill was very pleased with his progress today. Considering last week about the same time he was so weak he couldn't even get out of the recliner chair, and his hiccups were so harsh he couldn't talk without gasping for breath, I'm not surprised Bill was ecstatic. Dad is not aware of this but only last week both the nurse and the physical therapist were so concerned by Dad's weakened state they called Dr. Jin, his primary care doctor to discuss his deteriorating condition. They said the doctor advised he may be ready for hospice. The brutal hiccups concerned Bill and he'd made the decision not to return until the hiccups were gone, as they were causing his heart to work harder. Dad's heart, not Bill's. Considering Dad has congestive heart failure, this is not good. I asked Nurse Britney not to talk to Dad about hospice until after his appointment with Dr. Jin on the 24th. In my opinion, just the mention of hospice may obliterate Dad's will, and we just can't have that. He's not ready for hospice; he's still fighting for life, as well he should. Don't worry Dad, this is one battle we're willing to fight with you. Says I!

Dad's improvement from last week is amazing. But we're not surprised, he's superman!

Thank you God for always listening!

Finally, Good News!

I sent off a prayer and it was answered! Dad's hiccups are gone. And to think the doctor said there was nothing that could be done, Britney, the Gentiva Home Health nurse said all that could be done had been done. Wrong! These people do not know Dad; he's a tough and fiesty old dude! Those hiccups were rocking him to the core, but now they're gone and the healing process can begin. Okay, sometimes short is sweet and nothing else needs to be said. I'm done. Ciao.

P.S. As always, thank you God for answering my prayer! Thank you, thank you!

More Trips to the ER

Friday and Saturday were good days for Dad. Debbie and Vickie came over Friday night and we had a slumber party around the hospital bed we have set up in the living room. Vickie was on the recliner and Debbie on the love seat curled up with countless blankets on top of her like she was in the middle of a winter storm inside the house. Dad requires the heat up several notches and for a gal like me that prefers a room to be properly chilled, I was in a sauna so it wasn't long before I said my good nights and went upstairs. I couldn't help teasing Vickie on my way out that the warmth in the room had her back in the womb and soon she'd be nodding off. Debbie said Dad slept really well that night.

Saturday night was a whole different matter. I was trying to get comfortable on the couch but like I said, the heat kicks my butt and I tossed and turned. Dad woke up countless times during the night asking for the time. The hiccups were bothering him again, interrupting his sleep, and he complained of stomach pains. He hadn't had any output in his coloscopy bag since Thursday and it was causing me some concern. The Gentiva Home Health Nurse told us that if he was still constipated by Sunday call the nurse on call. So bright and early Sunday morning I made the call, and we were advised to go to the ER, which we did. Jean came over and helped me get him to the car. Vickie joined us at around 12:30 and we waited with Dad in the room they tucked us in with him on a hospital bed covered in warm blankets. He talked non stop about his coloscopy bag, medicare, which he says we all need to read up on before our time is upon us, the difference between doctors, LPNs and PAs, the latter of which was the Doogie Houser looking dude that asked Dad medical questions and took his vitals. He was a twelve-year-old with a toy stethoscope. Dad's been plagued with some really brutal hiccups over the last week or so non stop, which the doctors says is attributed to the multiple serious illnesses he has, however for at least two hours at the ER he was hiccup free. And he ran his mouth as if to make up for lost time. Seriously? I kind of missed his chatter after almost two weeks of watching him catch his breath and gasp with spasms brought on by those darn hiccups. With all the other health issues he has to deal with hiccups just seem mean.

They gave Dad an emema and sent him home. With the aid of a walker we helped him back into the house and into a chair which he sat in for a while. I heated up some mash potatoes, meatloaf and peas Debbie made on Saturday and he ate heartily then asked Vickie to fix him another plate. Good to see him eating well. The day had taken its toll though and he seemed exhausted and weak. Again with the walker, I helped him back to his bed, lifted his legs up and helped him get comfortable and within minutes he was out cold. I really hope he sleeps well. I really hope he does.

God please ease up on the hiccups and allow Dad to have a restful sleep tonight. Love, Angie.

Standing In The Shadow of Death With My Father

I know what the shadow of death is now. It's sitting in the doctor's office beside my Dad, staring at the folder lying on the desk that contains his recent test results, and knowing the information within foretells the future, yet not knowing if I'm strong enough to withstand what's coming. It's watching him struggle to make his way back after cancer surgery, almost falter, then walk almost as straight and tall as before, although not quite the same. It's knowing he's making trips to chemo every Tuesday or Wednesday, hoping, praying, that not one teeny tiny cell will slip through, then scared to death with knowing there's a possibility it will. It's trips to the ER after one scare, then numerous more, and wondering how I can continue to keep breathing when my heart is breaking into tiny pieces. It's hearing reasons why lives that are in progress can not be interrupted, compromised or shared with someone at the end of theirs and never understanding the whys. It's family discussions about not understanding, misunderstanding, all the in-between places that lead to the possibility, no eventuality, that the life of someone else we love could be ending and wanting to scream, "How can you not willingly be present at such a time?!" It's listening, sighing, praying, needing, hoping for a miracle that I fear may not be granted. It's holding tight to someone I'm terrified of letting go of and feeling lost. It's reluctantly knowing, and dreading, that time is running out and eventually he will slip away. This is the place that holds captive all my tears, my soul, my heart that aches like nothing else can or will.

This is the place that has become so painfully familiar to me. I hate this place.

Dad update

I stand guilty of the charge of not consistantly blogging, but I'm innocent because Dad's been great the last couple of months so I decided to let the good moments speak for themselves. Uncle Ernie has been here for about 3 weeks now, and I've been staying at my own place and making daughterly visits. It's been nice. But sweet moments are really precious and can change without a--excuse me for the redundancy--moments notice. About a week ago Ernie had to take Dad to emergency after he complained of excruciating pain in his lower back. In addition, his bodily functions had ceased, no urination and no bowel movements. If he'd been a woman they'd have wheeled him directly to the maternity unit. His stomach was that distended. This started on Wednesday, however none of us knew about it until Friday, since Dad asked Ernie not to call us. I guess he figured he'd get sent home and everything would be fine. Not the case. They sent him home with a diagnosis of constipation and pain pills. Back to emergency on Friday--this time me and the rest of the family were informed--and to my absolute amazement, he was scheduled to be released on Saturday with the same diagnosis. We are not medical people but by no means does a diagnosis of constipation make any kind of sense. Symptoms: No peeing or pooping, blood in the urine and extreme lower back pain to the point morphine was necessary. I spoke to Ms. M.D. with the Jamaican accent, when she visited his room and she was very vague. "He's constipated and I'm concerned about his mental state. He's not quite as clear today as he was when I spoke to him on Wednesday. It concerns me." Really? Could it have something to do with the apparatus he had fisted in his right hand with instructions in invisible ink, Push red bottom for a really good feeling. He's on morphine for Pete's sake! I wanted to stick a needle in her butt filled with morphine and insist that she do the limbo. Ok-aay. Nobody can do the limbo on morphine. I explained patiently, "It's obvious his kidneys aren't functioning which means the morphine is probably taking some time to work through his body. I further explained that his decreased mental capacity is similar to what he experienced in December after his cancer surgery." Shouldn't she know this? The light went on. "Oh," she says as if I were brilliant and should perhaps consider going into the medical profession myself. "I will take him off morphine and put him on something else." Ya think?

We were starting to wonder if maybe Dad had told the staff not to discuss his medical situation with us because the feedback we were getting from them just wasn't making any sense at all. I googled kidney failure, and learned Dad was showing all the signs of renal failure. When I visited him in the hospital on Friday night he was a bit cranky. Morphine had him talking out of his left ear, which is how morphine affects Dad. Again, the fact his kidneys were only functioning at half capacity didn't help. He was complaining about being hungry, and that the nurse was mad at him and so was probably going to starve him. I said, "Yeah Dad, that's what they do, get mad for no reason at all, and then starve their patients." I know, I'm a bitch. "That's right!" Dad said. "Besides, you get mad all the time for no good reason." Oh gosh. He was irritable and although I could understand why he would be, I was tired and getting irritable too. Did I tell you? Dad's really good at saying things that ensure his family members will be good and pissed off when he's not on morphine. So, as soon as the nurse brought him his dinner tray I decided to go home. But he seemed to be wheezing heavily and it concerned me so I mentioned it to the nurse's assistant and she said they'd given him something for it earlier and would be administering another dose before bedtime. I asked her to keep an eye on him and she promised she would. I said goodbye to Dad, left and went home.

I couldn't have been home a hour when Vickie called. She was at the hospital and thought Dad was acting strange. He wanted to know when I'd be by for a visit. I told her I'd just left the hospital and explained that he still had morphine in his system which is why he was acting the way he was. Fifteen minutes later she called me again and said, "You gotta get back to the hospital." I think I remember my heart skipping a beat or two. I asked what happened. "Just get here," she repeated sounding very close to tears. When I got to the hospital Dad was in ICU; he'd stopped breathing and they were trying to resuscitate him. He was put on life support after that, and unconscious for almost two days. The doctor in ICU, Dr. Lee, said until he woke up she wouldn't be able to determine whether he would be worse than he was before the incident, better or the same as he was prior to the incident. They did a brain scan to make sure he hadn't had a stroke, then some test to make sure he hadn't suffered a heart attack. Test came back clear on both counts. Dad's stronger than most, and on the third day as I was talking to Debbie while sitting at his bedside, he just opened his eyes. Debbie teased, "Was Angie talking so loud she woke you up Dad?" He nodded. He was awake, and teasing us too. God is good. It felt like we'd been holding a collective breath for two days, and were only then able to exhale. Once they took the tube out of his mouth he started talking and didn't stop for eight hours.

This update was exhausting so I'll stop now.

HELP, The Other 4-Letter Word

Okay listen up all! Please stop dropping the "H" bomb around Dad; the only 4-letter word that literally sends him over the coo-coos nests. Debbie once commented, quite benignly I might add, "Angie stays at your house during the week to help you." Using the word "Help" was like dropping the "F" bomb, wrong word. He was off and running. "I don't need any help. I do everything for myself now." Shuttin' down the motor on his mouth after the "H" word is out is the barn door, horse analogy. Sorry, never lived on a farm, so not quite sure how that goes, but you get it. Right? Yeah. Dad says, "Matter of fact, I don't even know why she stays here and pays rent somewhere else. Doesn't make sense." Dad puts emphasis on a specific word every now and then for no other reason than he likes to raise his voice along with his blood pressure to emphasize a point, or two, or three. "She doesn't do anything. And she gets up really early. What's that all about?" By the tone in his voice it's like he's completely baffled, with no idea at all why I would have a credible reason for, in his thinking, such unusual behavior. Um...I need to be at work at 7:00am Dad. "Then after work she walks in the house and fiddles in the kitchen. I don't know what she's doing." There's no fiddlin' going on. Just washing some dirty dishes, pots and pans. That's all. He's always suspicious of everything and everyone. "And she goes to bed as soon as she gets home. What's that all about?" He says that a lot. Okay, I live in Tacoma, work in Seattle, so getting up when the frickin' rooster crows...Hello!...makes perfect sense, DAD!

So for the record, Dad's record, I don't do quat at Dad's anymore. For the most part, he is taking care of his personal health needs, grocery shopping, driving himself to and from his doctor's appointments and cooking his own meals. I provide a few amenities like having coffee peculating in the morning--and Dad will tell you that sometimes I forget to do even that--I take out the garbage and clean the kitchen. And I have to add that it's not that he can't do these things-he can--I just like to (insert said word discreetly) where I can. Oh yes, I also arrange his medications for the week in a nice little organizer Jean bought him. So see...I'm doing very little these days. And considering how far he's come since the surgery, I'm okay with that. We met our objective to get him on his feet. I still like to stay at Dad's during the week...because...well, I worry, and I don't like him to be alone at night. I will admit though, verbal communication between us is limited. I walk in the door and speak on the run, "Hey dad, how ya doing?" He usually yells something back, "Fine." Very short and clipped. Shoot, I've gotta keep it short 'cause Dad can talk you comatose. Can't handle it after working all day. I hit the stairs real fast and climb into bed for sleezy my neezy. Oh...still hip.

So there you have it. Watch your dirty mouths around Dad; using the "H" bomb gets him all worked up. To Dad, insinuating that he may need a little (you know) is paramount to saying he's completely debilitated and ready to be put away somewhere. His biggest fear. With Dad, his pride gets in the way sometimes and we just gotta find ways to work around it. It's challenging, oh yeah it is. But that's how we do when we care enough, to care enough, about how someone else feels. He's our Dad after all, and we love 'em even when he's a cranky old butt.

Here's my disclaimer: I was not in the room during the aforementioned dialogue and scenerios referenced in my post. However, the information I've gathered was provided to me by reputable sources, the names of which will not be disclosed. Besides, I know Dad's m.o. If my sources say he said it, he did. So there.

Message to Heaven

It seems we were born in sets, Jean, Joan (although they cheated 'cause they're twins); Vicky, Gary; me and you; Jimmy and Lisa--see what I mean? Like it or not, you're my other sibling half. Trying to live without my other half is like learning to walk after a broken leg that doesn't heal quite right. I'm just limping along. I just want it to be over with, need it to be over with. It being the operative word for the heartache, the tears that come on at any given moment, the anger and depression and that emptiness, so unbelievably present all the time. I pretend really well sometimes: hey look at me, I'm laughing, working, doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing--my academy award winning performance of moving on. Other times, depression wraps around me like a cocoon, and I can't shake it. Just not enough energy in me to perform. This feeling I carry with me is a close friend now. Nothing quite fills in that void. I miss talking to you on the phone. I could talk to you about whatever, with no judgment on your part; conversate about mom, how much we missed her, and you'd listen, and listen, and listen. I could get on a plane for a visit if I wanted to antagonize you in person as only a sister can, send an email or text with one word, HEY! And you'd call me back and say, "What up?" Our special formula for bastardizing the English language by cutting half of it out. And yet, the message was always relayed.

I'm trying to take care of Dad like you would if you were here. Although he claims he doesn't need any help. Yep, I know, his pride kickin' into overdrive, which had me thinking about something you said when mom passed. I was still in my apartment in University Place. I worry about Dad being by himself. It must be hard, you know? Never to hear Mom's voice again. I knew what was coming, and really did not want to hear it. You know, you should think about moving in with Dad. He needs you there. I mumbled some kind of halfhearted response like, "Yeah, yeah I'll think about." I was really comfortable in that apartment, and did not want to move in with Dad. I got off the phone and turned into a two-year-old who'd just been told it's nap time and wasn't ready for it. Major temper tantrum dude. I cried so long and so hard I couldn't see straight, nose pouring snot like Niagara Falls. But when it blew over and I felt normal again, I knew what I needed to do.

Dad's surgery was so bad Kenny, and he suffered, God did he suffer. All that medication they polluted his body with didn't even seem to touch on the pain he experienced. But he adjusted, with a few scary moments in between, and things are better now. I just wanted to let you know, we haven't left him alone to deal. I won't leave him alone. And if you were here, even with the cancer, I know you'd be here too. You were always so much more giving, and selfless than me. Me? Huh...I wear selfish like a Girlscout badge of honor. You know that's true. Although, I think we were pretty evenly matched when it came to being stubborn. That's a characteristic we all get honestly from Mom and Dad. Yeah? Yeah.

Hey, on a more cheerier note, you now have four new grandchildren. Maria got married and has Cody and Emily. Kenny's got two kids, Celeste and Adrian. Adrian looks like Kenny's little mini-me. Joan thinks he favors you, and Jimmy too when you were both little. They're beautiful kids, all of your grandchildren are incredible. Ariana gets to reign as the princess over all since she's the oldest. I wish you were here to see them. The kids have their issues to deal with Kenny, but they're doing the best they can to make a life for themselves without you here to share it with them. No easy task. You'd be proud of them though. I'm gonna get mushy now; I love you, and every day I miss you more. Okay, I'll stop talking.


Love,
Big Sis

Toilet Trauma

I think we can all agree that sometimes life just gets shitty. This is one of those times. Jean was visiting with Dad when she called me on Saturday. I was in my favorite position on the couch, watching TV and chillin' from a really long workweek. "Angie, your toilet is plugged up." My toilet? We had a visit from the plumber last weekend due to plumbing issues, so I knew my toilet was not plugged. And the "your" comment had me instantly on edge. For some reason, because I'm stationed at dad's during the week, I've been assigned a room with my name written in invisible ink above the door, and a bathroom with the same invisible name tag above it. I think the kitchen has been assigned to me as well. 'Your room, your bathroom, your kitchen'. And what that means is if something happens to said room, said bathroom, said kitchen, it has somehow become my responsibility to clean and/or unbreak what's broken. Pisses me off. My home is where I pay rent. Dammit!

"And you're calling me because...?" I asked.

"Oh," she says, "Dad told me to call you to ask if you put something down the toilet that doesn't belong there." Really?

How does one actually respond to that without frustration making you chew a hole through your bottom lip. "Tell Dad," I said calmly. "That I put a couple of tampons, an entire box of maxi pads and some beach towels down the toilet." She laughs. Not just a dainty little chuckle. No, my sister's laughter is usually over the top, like I'd just said something gut-busting, knee-slapping ridiculous funny. Hmmm...not so much. This was my weekend to be home, where I sit on my couch, or put things down my toilet if the need arises, and watch one movie after another on the really cool big screen television Tony brought with him when he moved in. The place where I can zone out for two days. And now Jean's on the phone (on Dad's say so), telling me the toilet at Dad's is plugged, and that said Dad asked her to call me to see if I put something down it? What the hell! My unprofessional advice? Put some hot water down the toilet then have a meet-n-greet with the frickin' plunger. Done! I didn't actually say that; after all, you don't shoot the messenger. I called Dad on Sunday to get the update on the toilet, and he said he'd looked, it wasn't working, and couldn't call anyone to fix it until Monday. Again, Dammit!

So Sunday, back at Dad's, and in a really shitty mood. Sorry about the overuse of "the word" (you know what word), but it just seems to fit the situation. Besides, the toilet is the most important seat in the house, and when it's not working life gets crazy. Anyway,"my" assigned toilet was not operating, and because of Dad's lack of housekeeping skills I was not using the bathroom in his bedroom or the bathroom downstairs. Although he reminded me when he heard me mumbling about bathroom ownership, that all of the bathrooms belonged to him as well as all the other rooms in the house. Gotcha Dad.

Royally peeved at having to fix the toilet that Dad reminded me didn't belong to me, I was stomping up and down the stairs with a pot of boiling hot water, when I heard him on the phone with his brother, Walter. He had him on speaker. As an FYI, Dad puts everyone on speaker. They were discussing the dynamics of a broken toilet like women in a sewing club discussing the complexity of a particular cross stitch. "Well, seems the toilet is stopped up." I'm frowning so hard now my brow is permanently creased and my head is starting to ache, as I make my way back up the stairs with scalding water spilling over the sides of mom's large dutch pot. "Is that so?" says my uncle. And Dad says, "Oh yeah. And I don't even use that bathroom." What does the fact that he doesn't use the bathroom have to do with it being plugged up? Geez. The good news is that after flushing a few pots of hot water through the toilet, life started to work itself out, and things began to flow quite nicely. Jean said later she tried really hard to fix the problem by pouring three tea kettles filled with hot water down the toilet. Did she say Tea Kettles?

Okay, so about Dad's progress...he's doing well enough to get on every body's nerves, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Although I'm concerned 'cause the chemo treatments are on-going. The doctor was going to discontinue chemo up until the day they found the spot on the ex-ray, which they'd hoped was only scar tissue from the surgery. When asked, Dad says, "They just decided to go at it a little bit longer until whatever is gone." What is "whatever"? I didn't ask. He's been a bit sensitive about his business since the time I called his doctor to ask if it was safe for him to drive with all the new meds. The 'whatever' bothers me a bit, but Dad seems to be doing much better, and my heart is lighter for that.

Oh by the way, the mystery to the toilet plugging incident was revealed by the lack of toilet paper in the bathroom, and the large roll of heavy duty paper towels sitting on the side of the sink. Uh-huh. Do I need to spell it out, or name names.

Jean, Desiree...you know what you did. I'm just saying.

Ciao.

Shorty Update

Okay so here's the deal, can't write in my blog while I'm at dad's 'cause he took away my privileges when his laptop went on the blink. Of course, after hinting that "someone" had messed with "something" they shouldn't have, he found out after fiddling with the cords connected from his desk top to the jack in the wall, that it was a loose connection. But if you think I've regained access to his office, you'd be wrong. Nope, door's still locked. So now I'm trying to drop a note or two on dad's progress and my progress dealing with dad, at work when I should be reviewing a policy or binding coverage. Whatever. So about dad...he's doing really well, I think. I even caught him walking around the house the other day without using his cane. When I mentioned it, he mumbled, "Well, I'm doing alright, but not one hundred percent, you know." I think he likes us all hanging around but he's just too stubborn to admit it. His cognitive abilities seem to be much improved since they changed his insulin to once a day. Dad says the new one-a-day meds are expensive and they don't the option of using it -- or even tell you there is a better option -- until after you've struggled with the cheaper stuff. Typical, when insurance companies are involved. But he's improving and that's what really counts. The other day I forgot to include one of his medicines in the med container -- I think he checks my work after I go upstairs. I'm usually very careful so it bothered me that I forgot to include a couple of pills, but he caught it and to be honest, I'm glad he's paying attention. Anyway, that's about it. Ciao.

Dad's Dog

I don’t particularly dislike dogs. But when my Dad got the 3-year-old, German Shepard-mixed pup almost twelve years ago, I was determined not to bond with the yippy dog that acted like she’d been intravenously pumped with caffeine. It bothered me that such a rambunctious animal was not placed with a family with kids and a yard where it could romp and play. Although my dad referred to her from time to time over the years, I pretty much intentionally forgot she was even in the back yard. And around the time I divorced my second husband, I found I actually preferred cats. The reference to dogs and my ex is purely coincidental. Sort of.

When Dad had his surgery in December, through the process of elimination, I was nominated to feed and water Dad’s dog until he recovered and could do it himself. Arrrgg, I was not pleased but the dog had to eat. Right? BUT, I was determined not to become her newest play date. Not me, I prefer cats. Dad was in the hospital for 3 weeks, and during that time I’d leave Seattle after work on the bus to the Tacoma Dome Park-n-Ride, hustle over to the house to feed and water his dog, then head over to the hospital to see Dad. December was really chilly and after the first week, and I was a bit concerned with her being out in the elements, not to mention, her water bowl kept freezing over which really worried me. After getting a bit of advice from a co-worker, I tossed a large wool pillow I bought at Pet Smart into her digs to keep her warm. I’d come back the next day and find the pillow behind a tree or in the bushes. She and I had a “chat” and it was agreed that she would stop tossin' the pillow, because if she continued her shenanigans she would freeze to death. I figured a blunt approach worked best. The pillow stayed in the doghouse after that. I considered looking into getting her more comfortable accommodations, like the fancy igloo doghouse my sister found online, however Doug, dad’s neighbor, said it would be a waste of money and assured me that after all of these years, the dog was happy with her current living situation. Never dawned on me to ask Dad's dog how she felt about it.

Dad’s had some ups and downs since December and hasn’t quite gotten to the place yet where he feels comfortable taking those stairs that exit the garage to the back yard, in order to feed his dog. He’s afraid of falling, so the care of the pooch has remained in my hands. Yip.

I don’t recall at what point over the last 6 months Dad’s dog started to tug on my heart strings. It was a gradual thing. Could have been the funny way she’d try to recapture some of that spunk from her youth by doing a rain dance around me whenever I’d visit. To out smart her, I’d toss a beggin’ strip across the yard and when she’d romp to grab it I’d jog down the stairs and jump over some fallen tree branches to get to her water and food bowl before she'd finished her snack, so I could refill them. Fait Accompli without being licked to death. I’m very clever.

Dad called me on my way home from work yesterday and asked, “Are you on the bus?” I said yes. “Well, Pepper died.” Oh. I think I said it out loud. Not sure. I held back until I’d made it to my car. Then I cried all the way home. I wish I'd bought her the igloo dog house.

I walked in the front door and slipped on some rubber gloves. I had to check her for myself. I picked up the bag of beggin’ treats sitting on the dryer. Just in case. I found her lying behind a huge oak, as if she were sleeping. She liked to lay there sometimes because it offered shade on hot days. One touch and I knew, and I cried some more. I tossed the dog treats in the garbage on the way into the kitchen. My 'ole dog was past minding.

Her name was Pepper. One of the sweetest tempered pooches I've ever had the honor of knowing. And I'll miss her.

Our Crabby Old Man

Dad has become a bit of a doolally tap, a term I once heard my English colleague and friend use in reference to her mother-in-law. It means to be mad, or very eccentric. I’m not sure if this was her intent, but I’m using the term with a whole lot of love and affection laced with some serious irritation. When I returned from beloved isolation at my own residence yesterday, he announced quite crankily that someone (meaning me), had messed with his laptop, disconnecting some cords and now it’s not working. “Because of this,” he says, “I don’t want anyone (a.k.a. mainly me), messing with my stuff anymore.” I literally forced something across my lips and hoped it was a smile and not the frown I was feeling on the inside, and said through clinched teeth. “Dad, I did not touch your laptop and I don’t know who did.” Although I suspect that whatever happened to dad’s laptop had a lot to do with the tinkering he was doing on it last Thursday when we thought the Internet connection was lost, but I wasn’t about to voice that thought. I’d noticed he was a tad irritated when I’d called on my way back to the house to tell him I was on my way. He’d called me earlier in the day to see when I was coming back so I could help him change the wafer that the colostomy bag connects to, and I told him I’d be back late evening. He said that’d be fine. So when I came in the door at around 8:45 pm I asked, “Are you going to shower so we can change the wafer?” His reply was a bit on the snippy side. “I didn’t know if you were even going to show up so I just did it myself.” Whoa. I show up every Sunday.

As I was going upstairs he continued on, “I asked Jean if she did it. Of course, she said no.” I can hear the click, click of his cane as he slowly makes it from the living room to the family room. “I asked Tony if he did it, and he said no. Nobody touched my computer and yet it’s not working.” Still about the damn laptop? At around 11:30 p.m. I decided sneak into his office to use his desktop to write in my blog, which I'd been preauthorized to do by the way, but the door to his office was locked. Yeah. Nothing says I love and appreciate you like distrust.

To be fair, Dad’s probably on edge because he has an appointment today for an ex-ray, and he has every right to be. He got the results back last Wednesday from a scan he took a week or so ago and they found a spot. The ex-ray will determine whether it’s more cancer or scar tissue from his surgery. I pray it's the latter.

He’s been through a helluva lot over the past few months so he’s certainly entitled to be a bit irritable from time to time. Although I have to add Dad could fry a last nerve before surgery. Whatever. He’s dad and we love him. But some days…oh Lordy.

Please God, let it be scar tissue.

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? .......What do you see?
What are you thinking..........when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man, .............not very wise,
Uncertain of habit ............with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food..........and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice..."I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice .......the things that you do.
And forever is losing .........A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not..........lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding ......The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?..Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse.....you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am ........As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, ......as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten.......with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters ..........who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen ........with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now. .......a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty ........my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows..........that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now ...........I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide ..........And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty ...............My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other ...........With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons .......have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me.......to see ! I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, ..........Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children .......My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me .........My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ..........I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing ..young of their own.
And I think of the years.......And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man.............and nature is cruel.
'Tis jest to make old age .....look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles..........grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone...........where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass ...A young guy still dwells,
And now and again .......my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys.............. I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living.............life over again.

I think of the years ...all too few......gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact........that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people .........open and see..
Not a crabby old man. Look closer....see........ME!!

I like this poem. It reminds us that sometimes it's crucial that we look past what we see, and allow our hearts to be governed by what we know. Yeah. That's so it.

Letting Go

To "let go" does not mean to stop caring,
it means I can't do it for someone else.

To "let go" is not to cut myself off,
it's the realization I can't control another.

To "let go" is not to enable,
but to allow learning from natural consequences.

To "let go" is to admit powerlessness,
which means the outcome is not in my hands.

To "let go" is not to try to change or blame another,
it's to make the most of myself.

To "let go" is not to care for,
but to care about.

To "let go" is not to fix,
but to be supportive.

To "let go" is not to judge,
but to allow another to be a human being.

To "let go" is not to be in the middle arranging the outcomes,
but to allow others to affect their own destinies.

To "let go" is not to be protective,
it's to permit another to face reality.

To "let go" is not to deny,
but to accept.

To "let go" it not to nag, scold or argue,
but instead to search out my own shortcomings, and correct them.

To "let go" is not to adjust everything to my desires
but to take each day as it comes,
and cherish myself in it.

To "let go" is not to criticize and regulate anybody
but to try to become what I dream I can be.

To "let go" is not to regret the past,
but to grow and live for the future.

To "let go" is to fear less,
and love more.

Sometimes "letting go" is paramount to jumping out of a plane without a parachute. When you really care about somebody, it's just hard to do.

Operation: Helping Dad

Helping Dad these past few months has become a covert operation that calls for concise, strategic military-like planning...and some conniving. His feelings are easily stepped upon so we tip toe around caring, trying not to offend, when our intent is only to help. We've taken to hiding behind doors with mop and broom waiting for him to fall asleep so we can move in like stealth fighters into the kitchen to wash dishes and mop floors before he awakens. As he pulls out of the driveway for a doctor's appointment in a car he really should no longer be driving, we rush from behind the bushes where we've been hiding with our buckets, mops and brooms so we can gain access to the house with keys we're not suppose to have (says Dad), to mop floors, vacuum a rug, to tidy up his bedroom, pick up in the family room, do laundry, arrange his medications in a handy organizer Jean bought for him after he'd told her not to, or to put a low-sodium, diabetic safe casserole in the oven. Operative DBA, drops from the sky in chef hat and apron like a ninja warrior. Her assignment: replace his cookies and Twinkies with fruit and nuts, carrot sticks and raw broccoli, and to grill up a month worth of delicious low-sodium meats and veggies and stock dad's freezer, "Just so you have them handy Pops."

Double Agent JBH will coincidentally show up at an ungodly hour of the morning the same day he has a chemo appointment and say, "Well Dad, since I'm here can I drive you to your appointment?" Operatives Tamara and Desi nonchalantly pay an innocent visit to chat and accidentally stay overnight in an attempt to keep promises to doctors that he will not be left alone. Agent Tony's assignment (a.k.a. grandson), is to "drop by" because he's "in the neighborhood" to tidy up the yard, fix a broken door, feed the dog and get so busy with handyman duties he forgets to leave so will have to stay over -- not to watch over Dad of course, but because the experts say it's too dangerous hitting the road after too much yard work.

We are accused of being busy bodies and budinkys and making him feel like an invalid. But when we listened to him before surgery and gave him his home and his space, he accused us of not caring, never being around and he made us feel as if we'd failed him. We are stealth fighters with a mission to look after Dad, to care for him, to love him without encroaching on his privacy, his space, his world. We are honor bound by love and devotion to fulfill our mission at all cost.

And God help us that we can keep doing what we do, even when he tells us not to, that he doesn't want or need us around. 'Cause when I look in his eyes and see his fears, I know we're doing the right thing. I feel very strongly that we are.

Okay here's my disclaimer: This posting is a slight exaggeration, but sadly, not by much.

My Volunteer Work

As a hospice volunteer we are asked to walk into a stranger's home and allow the caregiver at least 4 hours to do whatever they want or need to do away from the home, while we look after their loved one. 4 hours didn't seem like a whole helluva lot of time to me when I first started my volunteer work. Now that I've spent some time in caring for my dad I have a clearer understanding of how precious those moments must be for a family member who's been caring for their loved one morning, noon and night. The person dealing with the good, bad and ugly moments, and I can guaran-damn-ty-ya there's going to be days where all three of them dudes will be present and accounted for. Imagine not getting any kind of release what-so-ever. I know how blissful my weekends have become after being at dad's all week, and I'm not even there during the day, so it goes without saying I'm not even doing half as much as what a full time caregiver does on a daily basis. And yet...the stress of wondering if I'm doing the right thing, saying the right thing, doubting whether I'll even be able to handle the next emergency--and there always seems to be another emergency--on some days, leaves me completely undone. And the emotionally jarring windfall from all of the bleeding done on the inside watching the life force slipping away from a person I've loved my whole life, or worst, waking up each morning wondering if I will walk into the family room where he sleeps and find him...gone, literally depletes me.

All of this, and more...gives me a deeper understanding of the role of hospice volunteers. They allow the caregiver to take a step back, to inhale a deep cleansing breath of air, and exhale the frustrations, the worry and sadness, so they can get back to the deeply intimate business of caring and giving.

I put a temporary freeze on my volunteering when my dad started to need more care. And actually, over the last couple of months, I'd even wondered if it's something I can go back to. I have doubts as to whether I possess that special something necessary to do what a good volunteer does over and over again. However, with all my insecurities about whether I can be more, when someone needs me to be, and my doubts about...well, everything, I know that volunteering is a call I may need to answer again. After all, now that I know what I know, how can I not?

God, please help me to be more, when it's necessary that I be.

When You Get Little and I Get Big by Sheryl Gaskins

All the times you gave your day to Robbie and me and children's play,
When you had so much else to do, but dropped it all with an "I love you."
You'd let us draw or sing a song; you drew the line of right and wrong.
You told us what we could do then, or how it'd be "one day when..."
We were much too small to understand how life would be as a woman or man.
But you guided us and let us be the children that we were meant to be.
You'd let me dress up in old clothes and stand there in a wig.
I'd say to you with chest puffed out, "When you get little and I get big..."

"When you get little and I get bit, I'll do these things for you.
I'll find your clothes; I'll wipe your nose; I'll make you a nice dress.
I'll keep you warm and away from harm and show you how to rest.
I'll talk with you and let you know whatever's right and wrong,
And if you ever start to cry, I'll cheer you with a song
I know I'm very small right now, but there may come a day
That you'll be little and I'll be big, so I promise to repay
The precious love you give to me as I depend on you"

Now years have passed and I've become what you helped me to be.
A woman who can brave the storms and use her love to see.
A woman who with tons of tears discovered in the middle
that I was big, but God had somehow changed you to be little.
I understand what "big" can mean in this old, changing world.
I remember all those happy years and what you'd say and do.
And I use that memory now to do the exact same thing for you.

A memory you no longer have,
But that's OK, my dear.
For now you're little, but I am big.
And you have nothing to fear.

I found this at TheRibbon.com, a website for caregivers. It reminded me that one day, we'll all be little again.

A Grand Experience

I spent the weekend, both Friday and Saturday at my place. I'm still hung over from the bliss of self-imposed solitary confinement. Pitiful to be so grateful for those moments alone, but I am. You know it's not like I do a whole lot of great things to past the weekends. But the not-so-great things that I do do, are what give me normalcy. I need that right now. For example, I worked until about 5:30 p.m. on Friday, then left the office pitifully giddy to be home alone for the weekend.

I stopped at the store to pick up some weekend-eating-munchies -- the stuff my body demands I stay away from but I never do. Immediately upon walking into the house I lost the shoes and stripped down to my comfy ware, fell in love with my couch all over again and turned on the tube. I love my channel changer. I watched Two and Half Men, Medium and a hospital show that I can't remember the name of right now. I munched on licorice, apple crumb desert with a scoop of ice cream, more licorice...oh yeah then I ate dinner, some chitlins, yeah I did, with some brussel sprouts. I had to toss in some healthy to balance the crap. I paid for it on Saturday, woke up with the mother of headaches, and dragged myself out of bed feeling like 500 pounds of crud. Saturday nite Dinocroc vs Supergator on SciFi. The usual man-eating monster scenes with good graphics showing people getting torn asunder with a bit of humor tossed in for kicks. I love monster violence in movies with good humor on the side. This morning I slept in, then watched Biography which featured Cher. I balled like a baby when they showed Cher giving the eulogy at Sonny's funeral. When the song came on with Cher singing "Sunny, yesterday my life was filled with pain. Sunny, you smiled at me and then it eased my pain..." I lost it. It was hard after that getting myself up for work 'cause I couldn't stop sniffling. Then I turned the channel to Life Time and almost got sucked into watching the next movie where woman meets man, woman falls heavily in love with man, then tries to kill him. Love those man-eater monster movies. But I got myself up and off to Seattle for work.

As the bus is detoured to 3rd Street into downtown, I remembered it was the Gay Pride Parade this weekend. So after getting off the bus I had to muscle my way through a crowd with some very creatively clothed onlookers in varying shades of interesting, dash across the street without getting hit by a float of sorts carrying what looked like eight drag queens doing a Miss America waive and Viola! I make it to my office where I put in about 5 hours of hard labor.

So, I'm back at Dad's and don't hate on me, but looking forward to next weekend. Well, so there you have it. I literally carry on like I'm two if I can't go home for the weekends.

Tamara and Desi entertained dad on Friday and Jean stayed with him Saturday. He's doing just fine.

I don't do a whole lot when I'm at dad's during the week. I focus on keeping the kitchen clean. Just the kitchen though, 'cause he's made the living room, family room and dining room his very own disaster area. I feed the dog, and Sunday night, I get Dad's medications in order for the week. I'm on guard at night in case he has an incident...but other than that, not much. It's the multitude of emotions experienced praying that nothing terrible happens that really whips me up emotionally. So getting time away is important. Rule No. 1 to care giving is probably to remember to take time for numero uno.

Ciao.

Jean In Wonderland

Okay, if this doesn't say I love you, I don't know what does. This is a tale of woe about the love a girl has for her father, a sometimes very cantankerous old dude. It goes like this.

I'm at work when my phone rings. It's him, "Do you know where my keys are?" He starts in as if instead of sitting at a desk, in an office, pretending to work, I'm on the beach reclining in a lawn chair with a fruity drink in my hand and absolutely nothing on my mind. "Dad," -- I say, taking deep breaths -- "I have no idea where your keys are." Although I did see some keys in his office upstairs, but I hesitate to say anything because then I'd have to say how I'd seen his keys in the drawer when the drawer was supposed to be closed. Against my better judgement, "I did see some keys in the desk drawer in your office." I rushed to add, "I was using your computer and looking for a pen." Not trying to steal your property. The key incident should have forewarned me that he was getting ready to leave the house. However, I forgot to mention it to Jean, who was on her way over for a friendly visit. I got distracted by something on my desk and was oblivious to anything else.

So apparently Jean shows up at the house. After knocking a few times with no response from inside, she calls him on her cell. And still no answer. Alarms go off in her head. What if he's fallen and can't get up? His blood sugar could have dropped and maybe he's laying in a diabetic coma. She becomes frantic and decides that perhaps she should look for a way into the house. This causes her to do the unthinkable. The brush around the sides of dad's house has literally turned into the Amazon jungle. Because of untold dangers, i.e. slugs, dog poop, raccoon poop, rat and mouse poop...poop from animals I can't even begin to name or imagine...no one creeps around to the back by any means other than going through the house and out the sliding glass door to the deck. But Jean, seeing no other way if she is to save her father from whatever peril has befallen him, decides to creep through the forest that leads into the grave yard where Christmas trees have been discarded into the past, the tensil still hanging from their dead limbs like rain drops, all the way to the back of the house to find a ladder or something that will help her perhaps crawl into an open window. Well, she makes it through to the back, and onto the deck, and notices the bathroom window is slightly ajar, however becomes overwhelmed by the challenge of squeezing her butt through the tiny opening and gives up. Just as she steps out of the bush into the clearing, dad is pulling up in his dodge.

Not immediately recognizing the apparition that steps from around the side of his house, and of course jumping to the immediate conclusion it's someone trying to rob him, he yells, "Who's there?"

"It's me dad," she says, wiping something very similar to bird poop from her face, and hair that's also matted with thistle from low hanging branches. She must of looked like Alice after falling through the rabbit hole. Was her name Alice? Anyway, Dad's looking at her like she's a brutha from the hood and he's about two seconds from pushing 911 on his touch dial. "What are you doing?"

She blabbed about being scared silly 'cause she thought he couldn't answer the door or phone because something had happened to him. I think she mentioned something about the fact he shouldn't be driving, which set him off. He blabbed about how some people should mind their own business and how ridiculous it is that he can't even go to the store if he wants to. By the time I called and Jean picked up, I can hear dad in the background grinding her feelings into the floor with his words. Been there, done that. I gave her one word of advice, leave.

This incident happened only a few hours before my verbal exchange with dad. And here's my disclaimer, I was not at the residence at the time of the incident in question. This is purely a fictional account of a real life event.

Oh..and by the way, I know I said I wasn't coming back ever but I did. Care giving gets difficult sometimes. It is not for sissies.

The end.

Proverbial Shit and The Fan

I called dad's doctor today to discuss whether he should be driving, and any possible effect all of the medication he's taking could have on his ability to react in an emergency situation. The person that answered the phone asked me what my call was pertaining to and I told her. I also asked that she not tell dad I called. I explained that he would not be happy if he knew I was talking to his doctor. "We understand," she lied effortlessly. She explained the doctor didn't like to have these types of discussions over the phone, but took my number just in case he wanted to call back.

I was leaving the office after a really pissy day when my cell rang. As soon as I saw dad's name my stomach dropped, and I had a powerful urge to toss the phone into the garbage I passed on my way out the door. But I didn't. "Did you call my doctor?" Dad asked. I gulped and tried to use my "I'm grown up now and you don't scare me" voice. It would have worked too if I'd been able to get the words out of my mouth. Whatever sound came out he took as an affirmative. Dad said, "He asked me to come in tomorrow to discuss my driving." If his voice had been a knife, I would have been bleeding all over the sidewalk.

"I called to discuss the safety of your driving dad. That's all." Silence. "I'm worried about you." Last part was in my "love you dadi" voice. Didn't work. "If they tell me I can't drive, I will not go to one more doctor's appointment." I felt cold inside. "Do you hear me?" I tried to swallow. "Yeah dad. I hear you." Now it was my voice that chilled. Out of pure unadulterated stubbornness you'd cause harm to yourself or worst, and leave me to live with that guilt? I didn't ask it, but I felt it.

When I opened the front door and walked into the house he was on the phone talking to Debbie. I'd called my Uncle Ernie on the way home to warn him of current events and he advised I should not be confrontational with dad, go about business as usual, so I did. No yelling. I went into the kitchen to start cleaning. Dad talks loud and he didn't bother to lower his voice for my benefit. "You can't trust family," he was saying. "But I'll get a lawyer. If my doctor tells me I can't drive I'll leave here. That's what I'll do." The voice on the phone uh huh'ed him. I filled the sink with water and pulled a plate out of the suds. "People always saying they're trying to help you. Meanwhile you can't trust 'em. It's sad really." By this time I'd washed most of the dishes and irritation had settled on my face in the form of a frown. A deep frown, that really hurt my face. But my heart hurt worst. And he went on. "Charlie says, it's family you gotta watch out for the most." Dad's always saying 'somebody says' as a reliable resource. "Charlie says..." Nobody ever really knows if my uncle Charlie really said this or that. "The guy at the grocery store said..." Uh huh. "Little Boe Peep said..." Yeah right. Anyway, I wiped the counters, then emptied the garbage bags and took them outside. When I got back he was off the phone. I asked him if he wanted me to bring his pills to him. He said no. "Do you need anything before I go upstairs?" Again, he said no. I started up the stairs, then stopped and turned around.

"Dad," I said. "You don't need to hire any attorneys, you don't need to move out of your house. And tomorrow when you see your doctor just tell him you've got a nosy daughter who doesn't know how to mind her own business. "I'll certainly tell him that," he snapped. I was tired, but I continued. "I called your doctor because I was concerned. But you don't have to worry about me getting in your business anymore. I'm done." Very calm, didn't yell.

And I am done. I'm going home tomorrow. I don't think I'm coming back. At least not in my current frame of mind.

So that's how my day went.

Aaaaarrg!

Dad's being very, very difficult. They just released him from the hospital today. I'm pissed! The discharge date was supposed to be Sunday and I was hoping for one more day in my own place to get a good night sleep. I know, I'm frickin' selfish. So what! At least, at the hospital he's being well cared for by people who know what the hell they're doing. AND we needed the time to figure out how we're going to get him, to allow us, to bring a medical professional into his castle to be with him during the day while I'm at work. I don't believe they'd have checked him out so early if they'd understood he doesn't have 'round the clock home care. On several occasions (when he was asked) if he had somone living with him, I'd cut in and tell them he was alone during the day. But whenever I wasn't around and dad was asked if he had someone with him at all times he'd reply, "My daughter stays with me." Um...dad. I'm there Sunday through Friday morning and then I go to my home for the weekend. The nurse tells him, "You need someone with you 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. We can call Gentiva Home Health Services to check up on you. Will that work?" "No," he says, "I have daughters and granddaughters that take care of me. I don't want anyone in my home." This went down yesterday afternoon just after I'd left. My sister called me to vent about her frustration after listening to the entire verbal exchange.

My dad's biggest fear is dying alone, and with everything in our power we have spent the last 6 months since his surgery in December helping him recover, helping him live, and making sure someone is with him as much as possible to assuage those fears of his. But dad is not making this easy on us. He has Tri-Care for Life and Medicare which may cover someone staying with him during the day until I get there. Hell, his insurance may cover someone staying in the house all night, if he'd let them. Another thing, he won't stop driving, and those damn doctors won't advise him not to. They seem to be leaving it up to his good judgement, which he's in short supply of these days. I'm terrified that one day I'll come home from work and find him unconscious on the living room floor, or worst. Or, while driving to a chemo appointment his blood sugar will drop and he'll end up harming himself and someone who has nothing to do with any of this. Fuck!

Tamara agreed to stay with him last night. He told her that he hadn't realized how mean some people were (some people = me). He told her that I was mad because he wouldn't allow strangers into his home (stranger = Gentiva Health Care = psycotic murderer), and that I was being really mean and talking crazy. Let's see, yes, I was pissed, but I was never disrespectful or irrational. I asked him if he wanted me to go to the store. He said no, but would I pick up his prescriptions. I said of course. Then I asked him if he wanted any dinner. He said he'd eaten at the hospital. Oh...the crazy part. I handed him one of his new prescriptions that is used when he's having difficulty breathing, so he could get the phone number off of the label for the Spanaway pharmacy. He thought I was handing it to him to take, which he did, and I said, "Dad, I didn't mean for you to take it. It's for emergencies only." Which I'd written on the top of the box in CAPS. That must have been when he thought I'd lost my mind and was talking all crazy. And sometimes my eyes do get a little cockeyed when I'm trying NOT TO TEAR SOMEONE'S HEAD OFF.

Dad is pushing me over the doggone edge! HELP!!

God, now you know this is one of those times when I've got to step out so you can step in. I'm putting my beloved dad in your hands. Be gentle with him, 'cause he's a good man going through really hard times. Love, Angie.

Emergency

Dad called me at about 11:00 pm last night on my cell. He couldn't breathe and suggested, between gasps, that maybe he should go to emergency. Dad, asking to be taken to emergency is huge. I got dressed and skipped two-three stairs at a time in my rush to get to the bottom. He was in the family room where he sleeps in his recliner trying to get his pants over his severely swollen legs. After assuring me he could make it out to the car, I grabbed keys, ostomy supplies and dad and headed for the emergency room at St. Claire's Hospital.

After telling the guy at the desk Dad was 78 years old, a diebetic, and had just been diagnosed a couple of weeks prior with congestive heart failure and pneumonia, he was pretty much rushed through the process, however he laid on a bed for about 3 hours before finally being admitted.

As they were rolling dad to his room, I noticed a round object wrapped in foil laying beside him. While I was grabbing essentials before running out the door dad saw fit to grab a ding dong. Dad really? A ding dong?

They had him hooked up to oxygen which was helping quite a bit to level his breathing. I wouldn't be surprised if when he comes home he has a new apparatus attached to his side. I'd stepped out of the room for a minute to get Dad's belongings which had been left on the bed they'd rolled him in from emergency in a large plastic bag, and heard the nurse say with a Spanish accent, "Ding, dong? What's his ding dong". The male nurse assisting her looked puzzled. "Why's he looking for his ding dong?" I thought I'd better explain before things went over the edge. "A chocolate round piece of cake with cream in the middle?" Come on guys, this is learned in Overeaters 101. They both looked back at me like I just said something rediculous. "I stuffed it in his bag." Enlightment. "Ooooh". Both at the same time. Unbelieveable.

Well, no use getting any sleep, I'm off to work to try to make some sense out of the mess on my desk in the event I have to take Friday off.

Somethin' on My Mind

Care giving isn't about helping someone die with dignity. It's about helping them live with dignity. I woke up this morning with this on my mind, feeling like I'd just found the last piece to life's most complicated puzzle. Geez.

I want dad to enjoy another sunny day 1000 times over, to experience the omnipotence of the ocean, again and again, as if it were the first time, hold his grandchild or great grandchild in his arms once more times a million, to laugh about nothing at all, or just to sit in his living room watching the History Channel, or another episode of Two And A Half Men. I want him to get his strength back so he can take the Amtrak to St. Louis, like he keeps talking about. I want to hear the echo of Andre Rieu throughout the house 'cause dad has the television turned up so loud the windows shake, or listen on the sidelines while he teases Jean about being 60, just to watch her face turn beat red when he goes on and on about how she'll never get a another job 'cause she's old. Gotta love 'em. Besides, it's funnier when he's not talking about me.

It's all about helping him stay with us just one more day, then another, and another. And when you think about it like that, isn't it worth just about every single moment we've gone through together, just to have him still with us? That's an unequivocal yes for me. Because gone is forever, and I detest forever in those terms. It's a long time for a heart to be broken.

Mom and Kenny taught us that.

Yeah...I'm Back Dammit!

I won't delve into why I wasn't able to have a slumber party of one in my own home last night 'cause it might get real ugly up in here. So I'll just skip it.

On my way back to dad's I was thinkin' about the picnics we used to have at Pt. Defiance Park with the Davis family. Those were some really fun times. Mom and her best friend, Ms. Davis, used to spend half the night cooking the day before the picnic, and all morning the day of. Three layered coconut cake, yum, fried chicken made the old fashioned way without thought given to low-fat, low-cholesterol, or low sodium, shrimp salad, potato salad with and without onions. As kids, we were convinced that onions just ruined good food. Our spread also included fruit salad, beans with molasses and brown sugar, barbecued ribs, and a bunch of other good eats washed down with some red cool aid or pop.

It wasn't until we were much older that mom told us how exhausting preparing for those picnics was. But she did it anyway, just for us to have the experience of spending long Sunday afternoons with family and friends. I don't think she had many days like that when she was growing up. She made all of the holidays special like that too. Ah man, like the smell of mom's fruit cakes soaked in all that booze; hated eating them but loved the way they scented the air. Yes, and if I close my eyes tight and focus really hard I can still smell her applesauce cakes baking in the oven, see home made Christmas cookies of all kinds, taste plum pudding with icecream melted over the top. She usually made some kind of rum sauce topping, but I liked to add a glob of ice cream.

And now it seems like every time one of those memories hit me, they all come hither, and I'm left saying goodbye all over again. Goodbye to those good times that can never be repeated in just that special way, and goodbye to our beloved family members, gone forever. I miss mom and Kenny. I miss all those times we shared together. Okay, I'm going down that sad road again so let's change the subject.

Well, I just tested dad's alert necklace that (thank God!), he's taken to wearing around his neck at night, and everything checked out just fine. Now I'm off to bed so I can get my behind up early and put in some quality time at work tomrorow. Or maybe I'll just skip work and go visit Jimmy in the hospital. I'll provide the specifics on why my little brother's in the hospital in another post.

Dear God, thank you for this day, and all our days past, present and future. I recognize blessings when I receive them and we've had more than our share. Thank you! Oh and uh...please excuse my language. I'm not typically a cusser (in public that is), but self-expression in its most purest form is just necessary sometimes. I know you know. Amen.

Ho Hum

It's Saturday morning and I'm packing up and heading for home. Sleep was rough last night 'cause I kept waking up from one weird dream after another. I won't bore you with the details. Well, maybe later. Friday's are usually when I head back, but no one volunteered to stay over, and I swore all hell would break loose before I asked anyone again, so here I am. Okay, maybe I'm leaning a bit closer to martyrdom, but dammit some time's I'm frickin' entitled. Yeah, I said it.

Anyway...dad seems to be doing okay this morning. He was up before Pepper crowed (I've mentioned Pepper before right? Dad's dog?), and making coffee. He said he had his usual start 'n stop restless night of sleep, but he was doing just fine. When I came into the house last night he commented casually using his ('I could care less if you came back here tone'), "Oh, I thought you'd go straight to that place today. It's Friday isn't it?" Uh-huh. It's gonna be like that. Patience and understanding. "That place" is where I live and pay rent, but dad likes to pretend like it's my summer home, and his house (and he has always felt it necessary to remind us, that it is his house and we were just visitors) is actually where I should call home now. No.

"Well, I knew none of your peeps were spending the night tonight so thought I'd stick around." He huffs and puffs...kinda indignant..."I can take care of myself". So I respond. "I know you can dad. I just feel more comfortable if some one's here at night." I'm on my way to the kitchen when I think I hear a mumbled, "whatever".

O-kaay. So like I said, I'm heading home. Jean supposed to be visiting with dad tonight. Hope she shows up. Her fibromyalgia could start acting up again, or a migraine, the flu, unknown symtoms from a past life...one never knows. I'll be back tomorrow night.

God, just please keep an eye out. My stubborness about going home on the weekend is just that...but you know I have to do it. Amen.

Back At Dad's

Okay so I'm back at Dad's after spending Friday and Saturday night at my house on S. 54th. I really wanted to stay there tonight too watching Scifi and stuffing my gut with bon bons until my eyes drop. Hmmm...good times. But, I know he doesn't feel comfortable staying by himself at night. Seems like under the guise of darkness is historically when the bad stuff happens. Dad didn't actually say that, but in the past, that's when his blood sugar falls below the danger line leaving him far too close to a diabetic coma. Last week I came downstairs at around 1:00 a.m. and he was on the floor behind the kitchen table confused and unable to get up. Blood sugar had dropped. Night falls, and we're on watch duty.

I think he had a good weekend. Tamara and Desiree spent Friday night with him. They ate pizza, and had a mini birthday party with cake to celebrate Desi's upcoming birthday. Jean spent the night on Saturday and organized all of his meds into a nice handy dandy little container, and today Debbie made him some barbecue and black eyed peas, which he admitted to tasting really good. Which, I have to add, suspiciously sounded like a compliment. Big surprise. You don't understand, dad is the King of negativity and finds something wrong with all of our efforts to cook. Debbie cooks food that is way too healthy, he complains. And with him having heart disease, diabetes, issues with his kidneys, and only God knows what else, how dare she? My cooking consist of tossing something in the microwave, pushing some buttons, and arranging everything nicely on a plate. But I think he thinks I'm trying to kill him with sodium. He makes himself bacon for breakfast and eats Twinkies or cupcakes for lunch when I'm at work during the day, and complains I'm giving him foods high in sodium. O-kaay. But today, all seems to have gotten a seal of approval. Bravo Debbie! "The black eyed peas and barbecue were pretty good," he said as I was fussing around in the kitchen. I almost dropped the glass I was drinking from. Shock, I think, so again, it looks like he had an enjoyable time with his family. After having far too many bad days, good days are always a blessing.

A few minutes ago he was trying to get me to join him in watching the History channel and going on about the prostitutes on Pearl Harbor prior to the bombing I think, and how some military top dog initiated some rules the hookers were supposed to follow, and if he couldn't have everything his way, dad rambled on, he (he being the top dog) didn't want it any way at all. Hmmm...I came in at the end of the show, and so as usual was having problems following dad's recap.

As I'm typing away, Dad slowly makes his way to the family room to settle down for the night. He sleeps in his recliner. Since he got out of the hospital he seems to be having some difficulty making it up the stairs to his room. A minor setback. He'll get stronger.

Well, I think I'll go up to my usual room at the top of the stairs. He'll call me on my cell if he needs anything. Ciao.