Instructions

I think the instructions the doctor gave us for taking care of dad are in Japanese 'cause I have know idea how to do this thing we're suppose to be doing. Like how much to do or not do for my dad on his way to recovery. Our goal was to assist him in the recovery process so he could heal in his own home and eventually return to his "normal" routine, and the word normal is tentatively used as we still have to determine whether his normal routine will be conducive to his overall recovery and state of mind. His pre surgery norm involved waking up, (after waking I'm not sure the order of his day but something like this): dressing, feeding the dog, taking insulin shot at some point, eating and sitting in his chair until 8:00 pm listening to classical artist, Andre Rieu, or watching History Channel. He goes to bed at 8:00 -- no calls from us he says after 8:00 pm.

The first day he was released from the hospital seems to have been his best day ever. He asked that we stop at the Safeway store down the street from his house. Debbie, my niece, who was following behind us in her car, helped me get him out of my SUV, big step to the street. I felt like I was going to puke, I was so nervous. What if he fell? But as I watched him strut down the isles tossing ding dongs, chocolate milk and everything else not on the list of foods to eat for a diabetic (my dad hasn't strutted in years), I started to feel hopeful. I'll get back to a discussion on his eating habits in another post.

The first day home, my dad was soon to become familiar with those nasty emotions associated with vulnerability and helplessness, not pleasant for anyone, I think even more difficult for a strong, prideful man like my dad. After Debbie and I had turned in for the night we were awaken by a thump and rushed downstairs. Dad was down on his knees on the floor struggling to get to his feet. He'd tripped over an extension cord laying across the carpet. He agreed to use the walker after that so the next time (please no next time), he could pull himself up with the aid of the walker. Debbie showed him how it was done. So he started using the walker, and now at times he seems to hang onto it like he never intends to let it go. He doesn't strut anymore. Debbie and I stayed at his house weeks after the surgery (just me now - she had to go home to prepare for a trip to Asia in February - Yea!). At night, in the upstairs bedroom, I can hear the clunk, clunk of the legs of the walker striking the floor as he slowly navigates from the living room where he's stationed (rented hospital bed set up in there), to the bathroom. Then he returns to his bed, and sits there helpless until someone can lift his legs onto the bed, and there he lays, all night, all day. When he needs something, he just yells and we get it. I don't want to enable him, but I think that may be happening. How do you say no to someone you love in such a vulnerable position? His body is healing up just fine, but after such a traumatic surgery...I don't know...somethings off.

Now his routine is just laying in bed and he doesn't get up except to use the bathroom. No longer feeds the dog (although he's physically able-that's become my job), doesn't even listen to Andre Reiu --which he never went a day without pre surgery, takes his insulin and eats, sometimes, if he can manage to get up after taking the pain pills all day. He seems to be leaning on the medication more and more even though his pain level has decreased significantly. The weird thing is he didn't even want to use the pain pills when he first got home, and that was when the pain was at its worst. Now it's like he can't do without them. Like he's suffering from a form of post traumatic stress syndrome. Worries me but home health nurse and doctor, who just refilled his prescription for 3 refills, doesn't appear to be the least bit worried, even when I complained the pills were making him lethargic, and less willing to be an active participant to a new day. But then, they don't know him like his family does. These days the only time he's out of his robe is when he has a doctor's appointment. Every once in a while he'll ask someone to drive him to the store which gives me great joy because at least he's getting out of the house.

Inside my chest I feel like there's a volcano just on the verge of erupting. There must be a book or article or something that can offer some direction on what to do with all the emotions you gotta carry around during this process. I'm overwhelmed, terrified, because this is a familiar road--first the diagnosis, then the treatment, and then...I don't even want to go there right now. I don't think I'm supposed to...not before it's time anyway. But I can no longer hide behind the guise of innocence like I did with my mom and Kenny. Cancer is ugly, and mean, cruel beyond measure. My dad is at stage 3 - I've googled and now I know more. The cancer has spread to his lymph nodes --I didn't ask the doctor how many nodes are affected. I need to do that. Chemo treatments start next Wednesday, and every Wednesday for the next 7 or 8 weeks. And after treatment...what then? I want to be positive, I need to be positive. But my dad is 78 years old, and in addition to cancer, he has diabetes, and kidney disease, and heart disease. I can't breathe.