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.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Dad
He thinks I can have a fall back career as a professional caregiver. I guess I should take that as a compliment, but I know what I'm capable of and care giving isn't it. Doctors, nurses, teachers...people who dedicate their lives to serving other people are special. I'm not like that. I can't stand the sight of blood and I fall apart bearing witness to someone else's pain. What keeps me going when taking care of dad is well, the obvious fact that he's my dad, and that I love him. And my determination to keep him from feeling really bad. I wanted to be his cushion against all of the bad stuff happening to him; keep him in his own home, shield him against loneliness and grief, the discomfort caused by multiple illnesses, and the embarrassment and shame caused by his aging body's betrayal. I just wanted to help is all, but it's really hard to stay on track sometimes. 'Cause some days dad can be really difficult, and that's an understatement.
But I'm crumbling emotionally like an old brick building. I'm too overwhelmed by fear, that my lack of nursing skills and ignorance will cause him more harm than good; I'm angry, because what's happening to him is so grossly unfair; I'm exhausted from waking up at all hours of the night wondering if this is going to be the night when he stops breathing; I'm bitter and resentful for so many things not even worthy of mentioning.
Dad needs someone to hold him up, even when he's too ornery and cranky to tolerate, someone who will not focus on his imperfections, but remember that he was a hardworking man. A man who at 17 years dropped out of the military to take care of his mother who was dying of breast cancer, who married a woman with 4 kids before the age of 30; kids who grew up calling him dad for the last umpteen years. A man who housed, fed and clothed his family when they needed all that. He needs someone who patiently listens when he gives his opinion for the 100Th time behind the breakup between Jennifer and Brad, or the mistakes Americans made leading to the bombing of Pearl Harbor, or why insurance companies are crooks or the fact that you can still eat fried food, hostess cupcakes, cookies and cakes even if you have diabetes. This is the same man who held his family up when we couldn't do it on our own. Now, he needs his family to do the same thing for him.
I can't do it by myself, so I've been reaching out. But I'm done with that, tired of asking, and frustrated that I even have to. I hope dad will be blessed with many, many more years, but when he's gone I think that everything that was once familiar will go with him. And trying to take all of that in, leaves me feeling a bit empty inside.
But I'm crumbling emotionally like an old brick building. I'm too overwhelmed by fear, that my lack of nursing skills and ignorance will cause him more harm than good; I'm angry, because what's happening to him is so grossly unfair; I'm exhausted from waking up at all hours of the night wondering if this is going to be the night when he stops breathing; I'm bitter and resentful for so many things not even worthy of mentioning.
Dad needs someone to hold him up, even when he's too ornery and cranky to tolerate, someone who will not focus on his imperfections, but remember that he was a hardworking man. A man who at 17 years dropped out of the military to take care of his mother who was dying of breast cancer, who married a woman with 4 kids before the age of 30; kids who grew up calling him dad for the last umpteen years. A man who housed, fed and clothed his family when they needed all that. He needs someone who patiently listens when he gives his opinion for the 100Th time behind the breakup between Jennifer and Brad, or the mistakes Americans made leading to the bombing of Pearl Harbor, or why insurance companies are crooks or the fact that you can still eat fried food, hostess cupcakes, cookies and cakes even if you have diabetes. This is the same man who held his family up when we couldn't do it on our own. Now, he needs his family to do the same thing for him.
I can't do it by myself, so I've been reaching out. But I'm done with that, tired of asking, and frustrated that I even have to. I hope dad will be blessed with many, many more years, but when he's gone I think that everything that was once familiar will go with him. And trying to take all of that in, leaves me feeling a bit empty inside.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Update
I've been seriously remiss for not writing in my blog. The good news is that for a moment there Dad was doing really well. The bad news is that as of today, not so much. But as I've said before, I'm notorious for only writing down my thoughts when things are rough.
The good news first...dad has been doing really well up until a couple of weeks ago. He was surviving chemo and moving closer to the end of his treatments, he was feeling stronger and doing more things on his own, like shopping for groceries and using the motor lawnmower to cut the grass. After suggesting/insisting that he make (and keep) an appointment with the Ostomy nurses at St. Joseph he learned how to manage his coloscopy bag himself and was feeling very confident and I think more in control of his life. Which is important. I went from staying at dad's all week to only being there a couple of times during the week.
Now the bad news. One night I get a call from dad at around 11:00 pm complaining of difficulty breathing. I was in my night clothes and ready to jump in the sack after swallowing a Tylenol pm. I got dressed, jumped in my car (quick prayer that the Tylenol didn't kick in and I run into a pole), and headed to dad's. The situation was dire when I got there and I suggested we call 911.When dad readily agreed, I knew we were in trouble because in the past he'd tell me not to call "those people". Dad ended up being admitted to St. Claires Hospital in Lakewood and staying as their guest for a good week, after being diagnosed with pneumonia and congestive heart failure. He was released from the hospital with a few more bottles of meds to add to the stuff he already has plenty of, and a whole lot of instructions. The episode has forced him to take several steps backwards both physically and emotionally. We're back to keeping company with fear. Ah man.
The good news first...dad has been doing really well up until a couple of weeks ago. He was surviving chemo and moving closer to the end of his treatments, he was feeling stronger and doing more things on his own, like shopping for groceries and using the motor lawnmower to cut the grass. After suggesting/insisting that he make (and keep) an appointment with the Ostomy nurses at St. Joseph he learned how to manage his coloscopy bag himself and was feeling very confident and I think more in control of his life. Which is important. I went from staying at dad's all week to only being there a couple of times during the week.
Now the bad news. One night I get a call from dad at around 11:00 pm complaining of difficulty breathing. I was in my night clothes and ready to jump in the sack after swallowing a Tylenol pm. I got dressed, jumped in my car (quick prayer that the Tylenol didn't kick in and I run into a pole), and headed to dad's. The situation was dire when I got there and I suggested we call 911.When dad readily agreed, I knew we were in trouble because in the past he'd tell me not to call "those people". Dad ended up being admitted to St. Claires Hospital in Lakewood and staying as their guest for a good week, after being diagnosed with pneumonia and congestive heart failure. He was released from the hospital with a few more bottles of meds to add to the stuff he already has plenty of, and a whole lot of instructions. The episode has forced him to take several steps backwards both physically and emotionally. We're back to keeping company with fear. Ah man.
Just Thinking
I was driving down 512 the other day feeling so-so and got hit with a psychotic tsunami. I can't think of a better way to describe the dirge of emotions that swept over me mingled with an edge of insanity. Prior to the wave, I thought I was feeling pretty good, well, fair to middlin' as dad used to say. Then a complete emotional meltdown with all the toppings; harsh weeping with hiccups in-between, the ugly hard stuff. Thinking about Kenny, mom, the last few months with dad, all the unknown crap waiting in the future...I was pummelled, literally and figuratively tossed about for a moment that felt like forever. The experts would probably call what I had an anxiety attack. Perhaps, if we have to put a name to it. I still prefer psychotic tsunami. I almost pulled over to let it pass, but I didn't. I kept driving, wiping back tears with a sniffle-hiccup combo, taking it for granted God would take the wheel and get me where I needed to be. He always does.
I wonder when this will all pass. This thing we go through, this place we're in. I hate being at the in-between spot. Kind of like a bomb went off, scattering pieces of life every which way, and we're left, pathetic in our feeble attempts to put everything back together again; just stumbling along. Some people seem to do it so much better than others. I wonder why that is? Are they just better at pretending? I wish I knew. Jimmy and I are a lot alike in many ways; he doesn't know how to pretend anymore, any better than I do. So he stays away, hidden behind the painkillers, while I take refuge at night behind the mist of sleep.
Whatever.
I wonder when this will all pass. This thing we go through, this place we're in. I hate being at the in-between spot. Kind of like a bomb went off, scattering pieces of life every which way, and we're left, pathetic in our feeble attempts to put everything back together again; just stumbling along. Some people seem to do it so much better than others. I wonder why that is? Are they just better at pretending? I wish I knew. Jimmy and I are a lot alike in many ways; he doesn't know how to pretend anymore, any better than I do. So he stays away, hidden behind the painkillers, while I take refuge at night behind the mist of sleep.
Whatever.
A Better Tuesday
It's funny, but I only seem to write when I'm feeling like crap. Like when I was a teen and used to write poetry so dark and depressing it would've made a true blue optimist like Mother Theresa weep in despair. That said, I'm writing at this very moment and happy to report that I'm actually feeling kinda sorta good, with exception of a gnawing ache in my back. I was at my house today trying to prepare for a house guest. So, in between actually trying to get some work done, while listening to the manly grunts and groans of 3 burly men tearing up the carpeting in my bedroom--because of the fly problem--and replacing it with one not contaminated with deceased fly bodies, and trying to tidy up a home that looked like the aftermath of a cyclone disaster, I'm kind of pooped. But I just wanted to drop a note or two about Dad. He seems to be getting along quite well. He's back to eating so his weight has stabilized, he seems to be enduring the Tuesday chemo treatments-- body scan showed chemo is doing its job, and he's back to getting on everybody's nerves. My heart is much lighter than it was.
My focus is on today, not worrying about what tomorrow might bring. I'm reminding myself daily to be more positive and to thank God for this moment where everything appears to be on the mend. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
My focus is on today, not worrying about what tomorrow might bring. I'm reminding myself daily to be more positive and to thank God for this moment where everything appears to be on the mend. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
Rantings & Ravings of An Emotionally Shipwrecked Woman
I just re-read a couple of my earlier posts, and I sound like a raving bitch. I'm ashamed of myself and at the same time painfully aware. Life is breaking my heart, and what I've written is actually the ravings of a really scared little girl who's afraid of losing her dad. The chemo is kicking his butt and he's shrinking, going from about 220 b4 surgery to 186 as of Wednesday. Although he makes a valid attempt at eating -- he stuffs the fridge with all of the non diabetic foods he's historically enjoyed -- he's just not consuming the calories. Last night I tried to tempt him with some pork chops dipped in egg, dropped in flour and instead of baked, fried in oil and then smothered in gravy with some candied sweet potatoes on the side. Yeah, I know, not very heart healthy but at this point we just want him to eat something. He told me to put everything in the fridge and he'd eat it tomorrow. I already know the gestation period in the fridge will be approximately one week before I toss it in the garbage. Been there, done that.
Ernie left on Wednesday and I wonder if that has anything to do with him being so down. His little bro's visit was really good for him, and yes, I have to admit Ernie made a liar out of me by staying for the duration. He cooked for him, did some house cleaning, fed the dog, did dad's laundry, drove him to his chemo appointments on Tuesday, and on Valentine's Day, made us all the best damn pot roast I'd ever tasted. He was awesome. The pot roast was followed by a chocolate cake dad ordered from Safeway, as a thank you to his girls for taking care of him. It was a really sweet thing to do.
Ernie and I talked alot on the drive to the airport and he gave me a lot of insight into dad as a person. I talked to him about our fears and frustrations. Crazy frustration when Dad continued to lay around after his surgery when we thought he should be making more effort to keep moving, and we thought he should have made more effort to cleaning up after himself, and we thought he should have been more involved with his ostomy care and eating healthier. Bottom line, we were completely out of our depth, in an emotional upheaval trying to adjust in uncharted territory. And Dad?...well, Dad's body has been in active combat, in a war zone on the front lines, sustaining numerous casualties. All he's been trying to do the past couple of months is survive, which has literally taken everything he's got. Life after surgery has been a royal bitch, and his primary focus has been, and continues to be the extreme effort that is necessary to keep moving one foot in front of the other. Literally and figuratively.
Uncle Ernie's advice? Help him continue to live in his own home with dignity. Hold him up when the burden of his illness becomes too heavy for him to bare alone, pick up after him if he leaves something behind, listen to him when he needs to spout off. Because tomorrow...well, it's a gray area.
And so we'll take Uncle Ernie's good advice, and just be there for Dad no matter what. And pray, lots of prayers.
Dear God, I am really weak, please don't let me crumble under pressure. Help us all to be what dad needs us to be to help him get through this.
Ernie left on Wednesday and I wonder if that has anything to do with him being so down. His little bro's visit was really good for him, and yes, I have to admit Ernie made a liar out of me by staying for the duration. He cooked for him, did some house cleaning, fed the dog, did dad's laundry, drove him to his chemo appointments on Tuesday, and on Valentine's Day, made us all the best damn pot roast I'd ever tasted. He was awesome. The pot roast was followed by a chocolate cake dad ordered from Safeway, as a thank you to his girls for taking care of him. It was a really sweet thing to do.
Ernie and I talked alot on the drive to the airport and he gave me a lot of insight into dad as a person. I talked to him about our fears and frustrations. Crazy frustration when Dad continued to lay around after his surgery when we thought he should be making more effort to keep moving, and we thought he should have made more effort to cleaning up after himself, and we thought he should have been more involved with his ostomy care and eating healthier. Bottom line, we were completely out of our depth, in an emotional upheaval trying to adjust in uncharted territory. And Dad?...well, Dad's body has been in active combat, in a war zone on the front lines, sustaining numerous casualties. All he's been trying to do the past couple of months is survive, which has literally taken everything he's got. Life after surgery has been a royal bitch, and his primary focus has been, and continues to be the extreme effort that is necessary to keep moving one foot in front of the other. Literally and figuratively.
Uncle Ernie's advice? Help him continue to live in his own home with dignity. Hold him up when the burden of his illness becomes too heavy for him to bare alone, pick up after him if he leaves something behind, listen to him when he needs to spout off. Because tomorrow...well, it's a gray area.
And so we'll take Uncle Ernie's good advice, and just be there for Dad no matter what. And pray, lots of prayers.
Dear God, I am really weak, please don't let me crumble under pressure. Help us all to be what dad needs us to be to help him get through this.
Love U Forever - Part II
We live in a society where people who are on the fast track are applauded and praised for keeping up and surpassing everybody else; people who are independent and progressive thinkers, active contributors to society. This is a good thing. The bad thing about it is there no longer appears to be a place in society for those who can no longer keep pace, like the elderly or the sick. Their past contributions are tossed aside like something used up and no longer of value.
Over the past few years and more recently in the last couple of months since Dad's surgery, I've heard the word "burden" tossed around more times than I cared to hear. Of course, nobody specifically connects the use of the word in relation to mom, Kenny and now dad, but it's there unspoken. It's usually stated as a side bar, with an explanation on how they've managed their own lives so as not to be a burden on their family. And again, this is not a bad thing. Matter of fact, it's a very responsible way to go about taking care of those loose ends. However, everybody is not as well equipped to handle the reality that bad things happen to good people. So, what do we do when they do happen-- the bad stuff I mean? When debilitating illness strikes, like cancer, stroke or heart attack--and we're not as prepared as we'd intended to be. I've seen the answer to my question in the nursing homes where I volunteer for hospice. Somewhere along the road, placing your loved ones away in a home to be cared for by strangers has become the norm, the acceptable, the punishment for no longer being able to keep pace. When did this become okay?
When Kenny was sick, Joan was there every step of the way, making those trips between California to Arizona and back again. It must have been exhausting, but I don't remember hearing her use the word "burden" to describe the situation or the disruption to her life. I saw the tears in her eyes for the impending goodbye she'd have to make, but I never saw resentment. I saw the determination in her will to make sure our brother died with dignity, and in peace and knowing, that not only was she there for him in his time of need, but that she would continue to be there for his children in the years to come. And she's done all of that and more. It was during this terrible time of loss, that I learned truly for the first time, the depth of my big sister's character, her level of compassion, her devotion to her younger sibling, and capacity to love, unconditionally. I think we are closer now than ever before. Kenny never doubted Joan's love and loyalty, and knew she'd be there for him, no matter what. I know because he'd commented on it, on more than one occasion.
There are so many different ways of making people feel like shit without saying a single word. Like going through the motions of helping, of listening, of being there all the while carrying inside a lot of resentment and anger that this person's moment is keeping you from something you need or want to be doing. Honestly, I'd rather be put in a state-run facility than look into the eyes of a family member and see myself as their burden, instead of the love that I'd hoped would be there at such a time.
"I'll Love You Forever, I'll Love You For Always". Unconditionally, no matter what. I'll be there for you. The sincerity of a promise that encompasses every single moment, good and bad without censure. How many of us can love like that?
Over the past few years and more recently in the last couple of months since Dad's surgery, I've heard the word "burden" tossed around more times than I cared to hear. Of course, nobody specifically connects the use of the word in relation to mom, Kenny and now dad, but it's there unspoken. It's usually stated as a side bar, with an explanation on how they've managed their own lives so as not to be a burden on their family. And again, this is not a bad thing. Matter of fact, it's a very responsible way to go about taking care of those loose ends. However, everybody is not as well equipped to handle the reality that bad things happen to good people. So, what do we do when they do happen-- the bad stuff I mean? When debilitating illness strikes, like cancer, stroke or heart attack--and we're not as prepared as we'd intended to be. I've seen the answer to my question in the nursing homes where I volunteer for hospice. Somewhere along the road, placing your loved ones away in a home to be cared for by strangers has become the norm, the acceptable, the punishment for no longer being able to keep pace. When did this become okay?
When Kenny was sick, Joan was there every step of the way, making those trips between California to Arizona and back again. It must have been exhausting, but I don't remember hearing her use the word "burden" to describe the situation or the disruption to her life. I saw the tears in her eyes for the impending goodbye she'd have to make, but I never saw resentment. I saw the determination in her will to make sure our brother died with dignity, and in peace and knowing, that not only was she there for him in his time of need, but that she would continue to be there for his children in the years to come. And she's done all of that and more. It was during this terrible time of loss, that I learned truly for the first time, the depth of my big sister's character, her level of compassion, her devotion to her younger sibling, and capacity to love, unconditionally. I think we are closer now than ever before. Kenny never doubted Joan's love and loyalty, and knew she'd be there for him, no matter what. I know because he'd commented on it, on more than one occasion.
There are so many different ways of making people feel like shit without saying a single word. Like going through the motions of helping, of listening, of being there all the while carrying inside a lot of resentment and anger that this person's moment is keeping you from something you need or want to be doing. Honestly, I'd rather be put in a state-run facility than look into the eyes of a family member and see myself as their burden, instead of the love that I'd hoped would be there at such a time.
"I'll Love You Forever, I'll Love You For Always". Unconditionally, no matter what. I'll be there for you. The sincerity of a promise that encompasses every single moment, good and bad without censure. How many of us can love like that?
Love U Forever
When Michael was nine I bought him a book called, "Love You Forever" by Robert Munsch. The reason why the book comes to mind of late is because a co-worker mentioned it. We were talking about kid's story books and how really violent and/or deranged some classic children stories and lullabys were, for instance Rock A By Baby. Poor little baby sits in a tree top, in a cradle and falls. May be an example of either teen parenting where they're too stupid to know any better, or child abuse straight up. We actually sang this lullaby to our children to put them to sleep at night. Like watching Nightmare On Elmstreet I-IV and then expecting to get a good nights sleep. My co-worker then asked me if I'd ever read the book called, "Love You forever". So I told her, "Yes of course. I bought it for my son when he was nine. I loved that story. It's about unconditional love." She looked back at me like she had a secret or something. "Um," she says. "Didn't you find it to be just a little bit creepy the way the mom keeps stocking her son?" Huh.
Here's an excerpt of the back cover, "A young woman holds her newborn son and looks at him lovingly. Softly she sings to him:
I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
As long as I'm living
my baby you'll be.
She does this throughout his terrible twos when at times you're more inclined to drop the kid off in the dark of night on the steps of an orphanage then lull him to sleep with a lullaby, through the teen years when typical focus must be given to not slapping him or her silly, and adulthood when sanity starts to level out to the point a parent can actually communicate with their adult child. Through the good, the bad and the ugly moms sings the same lullaby.
Okay perhaps the uncomfortable moment comes in when the kid is grown and living on his own and mom is sitting outside her grown son's house like a cat burglar. She patiently waits for the lights to go out, then sneaks into his bedroom window, crawls across the floor, peaks over the side of the bed (a tad creepy!) and,
"If that great big man was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth." Dang. Again, with the lullaby.
But seriously, when I first read this book I cried. The author's intent was pure, not sadistic or perverted, and I got that right off and wanted to share it with my child, which is my point for bringing this up in the first place. Love is unconditional, it just is. In my opinion, if we can't bring it like that, we're better off not loving at all. Well, I've gotta go. I want to get over to dad's house and clean up his bedroom while he's having his chemo today. I had another point to make, but can't quite recall what it was so I'll get back to it later.
Here's an excerpt of the back cover, "A young woman holds her newborn son and looks at him lovingly. Softly she sings to him:
I'll love you forever,
I'll like you for always,
As long as I'm living
my baby you'll be.
She does this throughout his terrible twos when at times you're more inclined to drop the kid off in the dark of night on the steps of an orphanage then lull him to sleep with a lullaby, through the teen years when typical focus must be given to not slapping him or her silly, and adulthood when sanity starts to level out to the point a parent can actually communicate with their adult child. Through the good, the bad and the ugly moms sings the same lullaby.
Okay perhaps the uncomfortable moment comes in when the kid is grown and living on his own and mom is sitting outside her grown son's house like a cat burglar. She patiently waits for the lights to go out, then sneaks into his bedroom window, crawls across the floor, peaks over the side of the bed (a tad creepy!) and,
"If that great big man was really asleep she picked him up and rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth." Dang. Again, with the lullaby.
But seriously, when I first read this book I cried. The author's intent was pure, not sadistic or perverted, and I got that right off and wanted to share it with my child, which is my point for bringing this up in the first place. Love is unconditional, it just is. In my opinion, if we can't bring it like that, we're better off not loving at all. Well, I've gotta go. I want to get over to dad's house and clean up his bedroom while he's having his chemo today. I had another point to make, but can't quite recall what it was so I'll get back to it later.
Great Grand Dad
Michael, Tamara, Verdell and Megan call him Daddy, Debbie and Tony call him Pops; he's great granddad to Desiree, although she used to call him Daddy until her father got bent and asked her not to. He was Ken to mom and sometimes other names I'm sure when he made her mad, asshole comes to mind mumbled under her breath on occasion. He's many things to many people. Jean, Joan, Vickie, Gary, Me, Kenny, Jimmy and Lisa called him Dadi when we were kids - draw out the "a" real country-like and make it lo00ng. Or maybe it was just the 4 youngest and Vickie that called him that. I think we got it from watching Shirley Temple on Sundays. I'm not sure. Now, I just call him Dad. He was practically super man when I was in high school. Could leap tall buildings and all that. Knew everything about anything, one of the smartest people I knew. I'd tell everybody at school all proud, "My dad works at Fred Meyer, manager of home improvement department. If you need anything at all go to him. He's the only one there who really understands customer service." I think I heard dad say that a time or two. And off they'd go, then report back to me to say I was right. Duh. My dad, they'd say, was a resource of valuable information about anything related to building stuff. Kind of funny when you think about it because although dad could direct a hapless customer down a certain isle for a certain something for a building project, or give you advice on a specific product the store carried, he wasn't much for putting stuff together himself, well...not without a project disability of some sort anyway. I remember certain aspects of the house I grew up in on 51st Avenue East. Let's see, if you turned on the heater in the bathroom it would turn on the heat in my room. The hot water turned on the cold and cold...well hot of course. The house had some serious electrical disorders. It later, many years later, burned to the ground. I seem to recall a rumor about an electrical fire that started in the walls. Not a big surprise. Dad, mom and Allstate had the house rebuilt. Although mom tried really hard to keep him from fixing anything that involved electrical wires and tools, some things were just meant to be. In the newer home, if you talk too loud you can set the door bell off. And we're all rather loud so...well, you know.
My dad epitomizes the skill and art of customer service because he's a people person. This is why he was such a good manager. His world is everything it needs to be when he's socializing with people. You know? Now that mom's gone he spends way too much time by himself and the natural urge to socialize gets all jammed up inside. Not good for a social butterfly. So when he gets a call or his children stop by, this really genuine talker dad of mine just talks...talks about the war, or the old days, or Jennifer Anniston and his opinion on why Brad left her for Angelina Joli, or free range chicken...just mentioning free range will start him down the road to the conversation he had with Jean and how she thinks the chicken at Safeway is free range which is ridiculous, and how when he was a kid that's all they had and how really good it was. Yep, Dad's a talker, as am I and the rest of the family, except Lisa that is. She's a quiet one, the only quiet one in the family.
I tried to come up with the one word, a nice one, to describe my dad and it made me think of a conversation I had one day with my granddaughter. I was sharing custody of her for a weekend with the other grandparents and was driving her back across town after a short visit with dad. She was sitting in the back in her car seat just chatting away about him. She was referring to him as him. Him said this and him said that. Our conversation went something like this, "Diamond, honey, you can call him great granddad." With a puzzled look, she looked back at me with all her cuteness, "Why?" she asked. "Well," I tried to explain patiently being the good Noni that I am, "because he's your dad's granddad, and your great granddad." Again the furrowing of her baby brows. "Why?" she asked. After going around and around and trying to explain the hierarchy of first being a dad, a granddad and then becoming a great granddad, there was silence in the back seat of the car as her little mind struggled to process the information, then she said, "I mean why's he great?" Why's he great? Oh. She was only three at the time. My Diamond is the smartest granddaughter ever. I tell her that all the time. I had to chuckle. Why's he great? "Well, because he's my dad," I told her laughing.
And over the past few weeks, with the frustrations and the moments of feeling completely undone by sadness and a fear that sometimes crushes my heart inside my chest, I think about all that. He's the only Dad I have. And that's mighty great.
Yesterday was a really bad day for my proud and really stubborn father. Today was good I think. No mishaps with the colostomy bag. My uncle made him a really good dinner. He ate it. That's good.
And you know what? He's still superman to me.
God, please just help him get better. I don't want him to suffer, and I don't want him to ever stop talking. Amen.
My dad epitomizes the skill and art of customer service because he's a people person. This is why he was such a good manager. His world is everything it needs to be when he's socializing with people. You know? Now that mom's gone he spends way too much time by himself and the natural urge to socialize gets all jammed up inside. Not good for a social butterfly. So when he gets a call or his children stop by, this really genuine talker dad of mine just talks...talks about the war, or the old days, or Jennifer Anniston and his opinion on why Brad left her for Angelina Joli, or free range chicken...just mentioning free range will start him down the road to the conversation he had with Jean and how she thinks the chicken at Safeway is free range which is ridiculous, and how when he was a kid that's all they had and how really good it was. Yep, Dad's a talker, as am I and the rest of the family, except Lisa that is. She's a quiet one, the only quiet one in the family.
I tried to come up with the one word, a nice one, to describe my dad and it made me think of a conversation I had one day with my granddaughter. I was sharing custody of her for a weekend with the other grandparents and was driving her back across town after a short visit with dad. She was sitting in the back in her car seat just chatting away about him. She was referring to him as him. Him said this and him said that. Our conversation went something like this, "Diamond, honey, you can call him great granddad." With a puzzled look, she looked back at me with all her cuteness, "Why?" she asked. "Well," I tried to explain patiently being the good Noni that I am, "because he's your dad's granddad, and your great granddad." Again the furrowing of her baby brows. "Why?" she asked. After going around and around and trying to explain the hierarchy of first being a dad, a granddad and then becoming a great granddad, there was silence in the back seat of the car as her little mind struggled to process the information, then she said, "I mean why's he great?" Why's he great? Oh. She was only three at the time. My Diamond is the smartest granddaughter ever. I tell her that all the time. I had to chuckle. Why's he great? "Well, because he's my dad," I told her laughing.
And over the past few weeks, with the frustrations and the moments of feeling completely undone by sadness and a fear that sometimes crushes my heart inside my chest, I think about all that. He's the only Dad I have. And that's mighty great.
Yesterday was a really bad day for my proud and really stubborn father. Today was good I think. No mishaps with the colostomy bag. My uncle made him a really good dinner. He ate it. That's good.
And you know what? He's still superman to me.
God, please just help him get better. I don't want him to suffer, and I don't want him to ever stop talking. Amen.
Longest Nite
I must be the worst caregiver there is. It sucks for Dad that I'm what he gets as a primary caregiver. I don't know what I'm doing, I'm angry most of the time, impatient, frustrated, irritable and so unbelievably frustrated. Last night never ended. It started the minute I walked in the door after work. Dad greets me in his undergarment, holding his hand against his stoma. I hate it when he walks around like that. The wafer and bag had just fallen off (AGAIN!). Debbie replaced it just Sunday. The air was scented with feces, and my somewhat pleasant mood tanked. It seemed to my weary eyes that everything he touched had feces smeared on it, the back door, the washing machine, bathroom sink, waste basket filled with soiled paper towels...it was horrible. I tried to hide my feelings but I'm not good at that. My face screwed up like an old prune as I walked into the living room for recon duty. I cut the appropriate sized hole in the middle of the wafer, glued it to his stomach, and attached a new bag. Having to replace the wafer was not what had me undone...but seeing my dad in his depends, not to mention, all the hot spots around the house where he marked his territory, completely messes with my head. I guess he figures anyone who has emptied his bag and checked stitches in places where the sun don't shine...well, what else is there to be shy about? He also answers the door in his under garment for the nurse when she visits once a week. Delightful. Simple fact is, he's my dad and now that he's up and about is it too much to ask that he clean up behind himself when he exits the bathroom, and for Pete's sake conceal all those unmentionables behind the robe! That's what the belt is for. Is it too much to ask? After I cleaned him up and the environment around him I went upstairs. Sleep didn't come easy...I couldn't stop thinking about everything, my Dad, my job, my dad, losing my job, the lousy job I was doing helping my dad...with all that on my mind I must have dosed. What woke me up at around midnight was my dad bellowing. The wafer and bag had fallen off again. SHIT! Again, I cleaned him up, and everything else (don't ask!), went to the store to buy some stool softener and cookies, yeah, he asked for the marshmellow ones coated in chocolate, then tried to go back to sleep. I woke up at 6:00 a.m. So much for getting to work at 6:00 a.m. The bellowing again. I go into the living room and he's sitting in his underwear holding his hand against his stomach. Guess what happened? Yep, the whole thing fell off while he slept. The entire house smells like stool. Even after cleaning it up I can still smell it in my nose hairs.
Funny, Debbie and I were so proud of our efforts to get him back on his feet the weeks following his surgery. We diligently followed the instructions from the nurses, emptied the colostopy bags, kept the incision clean, helped him get around the house when he could barely walk...and seeing him improve lifted our spirits. We'd been able to keep him in his home like he wanted. Very naive.
I must sound like a really uncaring and unsympathetic daughter. I'm not, really I'm not...which is the point. I love my Dad. His problem with cleanliness existed before the surgery. Adding the issues with the colostopy bag just took it up a step.
Dad was going to cancel his chemo today, however after talking to his nurse, Brenda, she explained what was going on. Something about his stoma being inverted, which is why it keeps backing up, why it's not working properly, and why it's now bleeding. But the good part is they know how to fix it. She suggested that he keep his chemo appointment, then tonight at 5:30 p.m. he has another appointment to keep with Dr. Klatt, the guy who stole his rectum in the first place and replaced it with that damn stoma. The way I see it, Klatt owes dad big time. The thing ain't working, it's broke and needs to be fixed free of charge.
I'm sick to death of playing amateur nurse because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. This is the beginning of a scary story about cancer and diabetes and heart disease that will end badly. I know that. And I'm just scared.
Funny, Debbie and I were so proud of our efforts to get him back on his feet the weeks following his surgery. We diligently followed the instructions from the nurses, emptied the colostopy bags, kept the incision clean, helped him get around the house when he could barely walk...and seeing him improve lifted our spirits. We'd been able to keep him in his home like he wanted. Very naive.
I must sound like a really uncaring and unsympathetic daughter. I'm not, really I'm not...which is the point. I love my Dad. His problem with cleanliness existed before the surgery. Adding the issues with the colostopy bag just took it up a step.
Dad was going to cancel his chemo today, however after talking to his nurse, Brenda, she explained what was going on. Something about his stoma being inverted, which is why it keeps backing up, why it's not working properly, and why it's now bleeding. But the good part is they know how to fix it. She suggested that he keep his chemo appointment, then tonight at 5:30 p.m. he has another appointment to keep with Dr. Klatt, the guy who stole his rectum in the first place and replaced it with that damn stoma. The way I see it, Klatt owes dad big time. The thing ain't working, it's broke and needs to be fixed free of charge.
I'm sick to death of playing amateur nurse because I don't know what the hell I'm doing. This is the beginning of a scary story about cancer and diabetes and heart disease that will end badly. I know that. And I'm just scared.
Flies
Well, I'm at the end of my weekend and back at Dad's. Oh so sweet a minute of time it was in my own dwelling, flies and all. About the flies...I spent all last night killing these big fat flies, flies so fat and so slow all I had to do was snap a towel and they dropped. But as soon as I got one, another showed up to take it's place. We did that dance until around 11:00 pm. I would swat, kill and toss in the toilet, then return to the kitchen where they seem to congregate and again, swat, kill and toss, swat, kill and toss. I couldn't figure out for the life of me where they were coming from. My sister, aka landlord asked her ex husband whom she divorced a couple of months ago, and she said that he said the flies had been hibernating in my house as babies and were just now coming of age. How the heck does he know that's how they got into the house? I don't leave my windows or doors open and it's hard for me to fathom over 20 flies and counting flew into the house to lodge somewhere until reaching adulthood. He suggested that I get one of those foggers to set off. Did that before I left today. Okay, he tells my sister to remind me to turn the heat off because some lady in the east coast left the heat on, the house blew up and they charged her with arson. Okay...turning the heat off I did not do. Great, the house is going to blow up, I'll lose all my sentimental valuables and either end up in jail or back at dad's house. After what sounded like the beginning of whimpering on my end, my sister/landlord agreed to check on the house to make sure it didn't blow up. Damn flies.
The Chair
My dad had chemo today. Lasted about 4 1/2 hours or so. He had to sit in "the chair" while they administered the treatment by I.V. "The chair" is a recliner my dad has talked about for years after one of his visits to the oncologist for his prostate. "Some people sit in that chair all day," he'd say. Now it's his turn. Apparently this particular "chair" is one of the most comfortable recliners in the world. Although tonight when I asked him if the chair was as comfortable as he'd been told it was by other patients, he said, "Nope, mine wasn't comfortable. Made my back hurt." I could have gone upstairs and lost myself inside the pages of the really good vampire huntress novel I was reading, last one in the series, but instead I asked the question. "Why wasn't it comfortable Dad?" He paused in that dramatic way he does right before taking the really long way to tell what should have been a very short story. "All the good chairs were taken." My mind slipped back to the book waiting for me upstairs. Tempting. "So Dad, of all of the really comfortable chairs for chemo patients they had in the place there's only one left, you get it and it's a bad one?" He squirmed, trying to find comfort in his own recliner, purchased right before the surgery. He still had trouble sitting without a bit of discomfort 'caused by his incision. "That's right...but you know that's the thing about Doctor Jen's patients..." And so it goes. The point is, he got through his first chemo session and was still in a fairly good mood to talk about it. On a scale of 1-10, a 5 works. Yes, we'll take it.
Monday, Monday
Dad's in the living room talking to the therapist (and talking and talking). I'm in the dining room trying to lose myself on this website. She's trying to convince him to wear his ADT alert necklace around his neck, and he's trying to convince her it's just fine hanging on a picture above his bed. "I can't handle wearing something around my neck, " says my stubborn Dad. "So," she says sounding befuddled. My dad's really good at befuddling people. "You'd rather risk your life than have the alert necklace around your neck, within reach? Hmmm." Good luck trying to understand his thinking lady, I've been trying to figure him out for the last 51 years. Now she's having him take a short walk from the living room, through the kitchen, down the entryway and back to the living room, and he's talking non stop all the way. She tells him she'd like him to walk for about 4 minutes. They're on the third go round when he asks, "What if I fall?" He explains that he already had his exercise for the day 'cause he went up and down the stairs when he showered that morning, and was a bit tired from the excursion. She tells him if he falls she's going to leave him on the floor to see how long it takes him to get to the life alert necklace hanging on the picture frame over his bed. Funny. I like her.
Did I mention he was listening to Andre Reiu last night? One more step toward getting back to his norm. Okay now he's going on about the difference in the food served at St. Joseph Hospital and Madigan General Hospital, how hospitals try to cut cost, sad shape of the country in general and how you used to be able to trust people. "Uh huh," she says, now taking his blood pressure. He's talking about my mom's old walker and how he tried to give it back to the hospital later and they wouldn't take it. Another "Uh huh." Um...the one-sided conversation has just taken a sharp left toward China...and birth control. Doesn't surprise me but I think the therapist is a bit rattled. So now there's a bit of shuffling around as she wraps up the visit, front door opens and a mumbled goodbye as she makes a bee-line to her car sitting in the driveway. As I'm typing these words onto the page I hear the squeal of tires on gravel. Bye-bye.
Did I mention he was listening to Andre Reiu last night? One more step toward getting back to his norm. Okay now he's going on about the difference in the food served at St. Joseph Hospital and Madigan General Hospital, how hospitals try to cut cost, sad shape of the country in general and how you used to be able to trust people. "Uh huh," she says, now taking his blood pressure. He's talking about my mom's old walker and how he tried to give it back to the hospital later and they wouldn't take it. Another "Uh huh." Um...the one-sided conversation has just taken a sharp left toward China...and birth control. Doesn't surprise me but I think the therapist is a bit rattled. So now there's a bit of shuffling around as she wraps up the visit, front door opens and a mumbled goodbye as she makes a bee-line to her car sitting in the driveway. As I'm typing these words onto the page I hear the squeal of tires on gravel. Bye-bye.
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