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.