And So It Goes

I was on my way out of the door after a long day at work and I ran into a colleague heading for the exit same as me. I smiled, said hey, she did the same since we were going in the same direction she walked out the door with me. I could tell she was in a hurry, we probably had the same 'can't wait to leave this place behind' on our faces. I was hoping she didn't ask about dad because we'd talked about my role as caregiver before, and how he was doing, how I was doing, all that stuff, but she did ask. It was too bad she asked because she seemed in too much of a hurry to ask such a big question. Or maybe it was the response I had to give her that was too big, because how was she to know that this time I wouldn't be able to give her a simple 'he's okay' response. Words stuck in my throat as we kept up the pace toward the stop light, which turned green right away, and then we crossed the street and kept our quick step toward respective destinations. I thought about just saying 'he's alright' to move past the awkward moment so we could get to the idle chit chat that fits better when on fast forward but told her instead that he'd passed in August, and I think she said 'oh gosh' and kept that steady pace and I figured she was going toward the parking garage which she was, and we'd part ways soon enough. I knew she understood what I was going through because she indicated her mom had passed a few short years ago right before an important insured's renewal and we talked about how wonderful the people in her department were during such a difficult time and I said pretty much the same about my department. Then she said, "But it's kind of a relief right?" I wanted to reply to be polite, but couldn't. Again, I'm sure my silence made her feel uncomfortable, because I was uncomfortable, and this woman has an extremely kind nature, and I knew she didn't mean it in a bad way. She rushed to say as we reached the garage, "Oh it's hard to know what to say." Her voice seemed to carry a bit of an apology for some thing and I think it may have been because she was obviously in a rush and didn't have time to give it or me her full attention, and then she explained she was at her turn off and had to go. I wished her a good evening in a voice that was cheerier than I felt, hoping to relay that all was good, and that was that. I turned to cross the street and she turned to step in the elevator and I couldn't stop my lips from trembling and my face started to crumble. I wanted to cry again, as always these days, but didn't have time to do it in such a public place. Everything triggers the need.

I don't understand the reference about being relieved. I've had a couple of people make similar comments. I know they probably meant relieved that he was no longer in pain but it seems wrong somehow. I don't feel relief. When dad stopped breathing, I remember feeling sorrow, and so very tired and bleak, but I don't recall feeling relief. I still don't feel that way.

I can't help it but it seems like we're all in such a hurry to move on with some thing that we don't take that minute or two to respect the proces of dying or the finality of it all. We're too good at pretending to be really good at dealing and putting it behind us. Without even knowing we're doing it, we've incorporated the process of impending and final death into a teeny tiny box to be stored way back in that dusty attic that is our mind filled with all the other really bad and emotional stuff we don't want to visit anymore. Why are we in such a hurry? Are we moving forward with life? Or are we running away from the inevitable? The mind numbing fear that one day it'll be our turn.

To be sick. To die.

I don't know. I guess this is just the inane ramblings and color of what mourning looks and sounds like to me.

Sometimes there just aren't any answers. Just a lot of questions.

My Heart Speaks To Me

Death leaves a heartache no one can
heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
~From a headstone in Ireland


I saw this on a website. Literally, my heart speaking out loud.

Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away to the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
That, we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without effect.
Without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolute unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you.
For an interval.
Somewhere. Very near.
Just around the corner.

All is well.

Henry Scott Holland ~ 1847-1918
Canon of St. Paul's Cathedral ~ London. UK

Holding On

I've always wanted to be remembered by my children as someone who was strong, classy; someone who endured her troubles with grace. But I don't think that will be the case. I'm not strong, and grace and class would not be adjectives used to describe how I've dealt with loss. I'm drowning in misery, and don't even have the strength to pretend otherwise. And that's a darn shame.

I know I have to crawl out from under this. I know I do. Today I met Lisa for lunch in Seattle, and it took every ounce of energy I had to leave the comfort of my place and walk out the door. These days, I fight the urge every day to not just keep my head in the sand. To just sit on the couch and watch the Hallmark channel, one Christmas movie after the other. Not a bad way to spend a Saturday I have to add, and I should know, I've spent a lot of Saturdays on my couch barely moving except to eat, pee, and eat some more. But honestly, if I didn't have to go to work, or communicate with family, and friends, I think I'd spend the rest of my life with my butt attached to the couch, until all of my tears dried up, if ever. But today was nice. We went to KP Kuka Pradel after lunch, my favorite silver jewelry store, owned by a young woman and her drop dead gorgeous husband from Bulgaria. Really nice people, with really unique and beautifully customized jewelry. I saw a ring I really, really like but can't afford. It's a pretty bauble that'll distract me for a moment, and I think I need it, which means I'll probably buy it, and then spend the next couple of paydays starving because of it. Oh well, been there, done that, and didn't even have anything worthwhile to show for it.

In January, I'm planning a trip to Hawaii to spend time with Michael, Melissa and my beautiful Diamond. Sometimes when you know you're drowning, you've got to reach out and find something or someone to hold on to -- not literally of course, unless it's a nice piece of jewelry you're tight fisting for dear life. As a rule, people tend not to like things hanging on them, especially a piece of emotional and grieving bit of baggage like myself.

Oh my God though…sometimes my chest gets so tight and I feel overwhelmed and sad and...like, I'm stuck in infinity and even if it’s only a day, it’s too long living in a space that was previously filled with the life of someone I've loved all my life. It's frickin' hard.

But, I'll keep my mind and thoughts busy with nonsense when I can, like winning the lotto, buying pretty stuff I can't afford, and planning trips to see my kids and their kids, oh and I've got Vegas to look forward to in May with Mary, my best friend in the whole wide world, and her siblings. I’ve got all of that to look forward to.

So, I need to call the travel agent on Tuesday to get my trip booked and juggle my bills so I can buy myself something pretty. Okay, it'll be alright.

One More Day

I can't seem to go back and read the old posts. I've tried, but don't make it very far. So painful. I feel like I'm trapped in limbo, can't move forward, can't go back. I want to see Dad sitting in his chair, in his blue checkered robe, eating something he enjoys alot, but probably shouldn't be eating. I want to walk through the door at the house and hear him call out from the living room, "Angie is that you?" And I'll respond. "No Dad, it's not me." I can hear him in my head. "Okay 'not you', what're we having for dinner tonight?"

I complained about not always being able to go home on weekends, and Dad's constant chatter about stuff...and going on and on about somebody or something. And now I can't stand the silence.

I miss the sound of your voice. I miss you, Dad, and I'm so sorry for my complaining. I'd give back all of this time on my hands and all of the empty weekends since you passed to be taking care of you again, to have you back in life. I'd give anything for just one more day.

For the rest of my life there won't be one day I don't think of you. I know this is true because there hasn't been one day since you've passed where you haven't been on my mind. Same with mom and Kenny. I don't know what to do with this contant feeling of sadness...this feeling of being so lost in a place where you aren't here anymore.

I love you!

Headcheese

I was shopping at the Marketplace at the Lakewood Mall the other day and came across some headcheese. I found myself reaching for my cell phone to call Dad. Only a heartbeat, then I remembered...oh...right. I started to put it in my cart, then held it in my hand for a second...sighed, and laid it back down. Dad loved headcheese, the cheese that isn't. It's actually a meat jelly made with the flesh from the head of a calf or pig and set in aspic. It's a European cold cut. One of those acquired taste kind of things, like chitterlings (a.k.a. chitlins') and pickled pigsfeet. Dad talked about it so much that one day I was reaching in the fridge for something, and grabbed a slice, just because. After that I found myself picking it up at the Safeway, until they stopped selling it, and bringing it home for Dad. It's funny the things, or people, or moments that cause an ache. I'm hoping the day will come when the ache will be less, and replaced by a warm smile instead.

But not today; today my heart hurts.

I miss you Dad. :)

Reflecting

I was going over and over in my mind last night a consultation I had with the psyche nurse that contracted with the facility where Dad was staying -- my heart aches revisiting this stuff -- but she was trying to convince me that upping Dad's antipsychotic meds was in his best interest. Bullshit! In my discussions with the facility's doctor we had agreed his meds would be reduced so that he could be weaned off of them all together. "I think those meds are toxic to his system," I told her. "I'm not comfortable with the drugs and I'm afraid they may not interact well with the other 20-30 other medications he's on." She looked at me with the kind of sympathy dripping from her eyes that she probably reserved for family caregivers who think they know more than medical professionals when, her attitude suggested, they do not.

"Look she said," lowering her voice the way you would with an excitable child. "Your Dad was taking his shirt off in front of the other residents the other day. That's no way for anyone to live." I think I recall her patting my hand. "If you care about your Dad you'll consider this so that he can have quality to his life. I had to do the same thing with my own grandfather.“ I remember thinking she must not have liked her grandfather much. “And I've looked into his other medications and these drugs will not interact negatively." A balled face lie.

I told her I needed to think about it and possibly do a bit of research on the drugs in question. She was quick to add that the information found on the net may be daunting but that I needed to look more at the benefits this could make in Dad's day to day life.

The information I found on such drugs indicated increased risk of death and that the incident of death was typically caused by infection and heart problems in elderly patients. I remember feeling so torn. There was no one willing to stay home with Dad during the day anymore, especially now that his health had further declined. He was no longer mobile and moving him around would probably take at least two people. I didn't want to keep Dad on the stuff, but the next day he tried to get up from his bed and fell. When the nurse from the facility called me she said that I needed to reconsider putting him on the recommended dosage as (strong insinuation) they would not be able to keep him safe at the facility because he would continue to try and get up when unsupervised, and hurt himself again. Hating myself, I authorized the use of the medications as suggested by the psyche nurse however made it clear I would be making every effort to bring him home and at that time would withdraw him from all antipsychotic medications.

By the time Dad came home it was too late. He was coming home to die.

I hate -- really detest -- that elderly people are being over medicated, regardless to the danger to them, so that they can be better "managed" while in rehab or hospital environments. Dad was to the point where he was zombie like and I will never forget my conversation with the doctor about reducing the medication, "But he's doing so much better now. He doesn't try and get out of bed." No, he didn't try to do anything, except lay there, his eyes bleak and so sad. To my absolute breaking heart, I truly understand and believe with every ounce of my soul it was not the best thing for him. I wish I'd trusted my instincts, taken him off the medications they'd prescribed, and brought him home sooner. The replay of past events leading to Dad's passing -- rewinds over and over again in my mind -- torments me.

I have developed what I now understand to be a very deep distrust of the medical community. Simply put, they lie. With respect to elderly people, there is not enough respect for the adults that they were and are, for the contributions they've made over the years to the communities in which they've lived, or effort given to preserve the dignity they own and rightly deserve.

Dad's worst fears became his reality the last few months of his life, being bed or wheelchair bound, sitting in wet undergarments until an attendant could assist him, wheeled into a room and left to sit aimlessly in front of a television set until being wheeled back to his room. And as his family, we should have worked harder, together, to bring him home sooner, so that the time he had left could be spent where he was the most comfortable; in dignity and love.

And whether we realize it or not, Dad's last days were also our worst nightmares come true; a vivid and detailed look into our own futures.

Making a Shift

I have a lot of anger to muck through. I know that. A lot of guilt over decisions I made pertaining to dad's treatment -- I was all over the place in my ignorance, not knowing or understanding some of the things being done to him by doctors, feeling deep down the medications they were giving him were toxic to his body but not having enough confidence to go up against the medical professionals -- who were telling me it was the best thing for him -- to put a stop to it. Angry at myself for being so stupid and ignorant when Dad trusted me to make decisions concerning his life. I've got to find a way through this or it's going to eat me up.

This morning I was listening to Tyler Perry talking about his new show airing this Sunday called, Visionaries, a show about his life. Something he said really resonated with me. He said that after losing his mom he threw himself into his work which helped him through the grieving process, helped him to shift from the sadness and get back to who he was or rather a new version of who he was. He further stated that once you enter into something tragic you're never the same again. So true.

The shifting is excruciating for some I think. And sometimes, just when you're starting to make the transition to a point of shifting, you're hit again. I think that's where I'm at right now. I’ve been trying since mom and Kenny passed to get back to the person I was before, which just isn’t possible. Nothing can be like it was. I guess I'll just keep trying to find a way around it all though. Make some kind of transition to normalcy.

My own way.

I think

I think life is fragile, incredibly beautiful, complex and heartbreaking. I think loss is a fact of life that comes on its own terms, which sucks. I think moving forward after loss as fast as we can is a fallacy that we buy into, because we have no choice in the matter...or at least we've come to believe we don't. Just the word 'move' insinuates that it's a smooth process, when it's anything but. And that sucks.

Finding a good balance during difficult times is tricky, like climbing a mountain without the proper equipment. Loss is that one slip that leaves you completely undone, and tumbling into an abyss. 'Abyss', the only word I could think of that totally encompasses such a dark place as this place I find myself in. Again. I'm learning and relearning, to live life after death, and still I haven't quite caught on to the 'how' of it. Damn, I mean, I was still trying to find a good grip after mom and then Kenny, and now here I am again, walking around in a funk, trying to function like someone who's moved on, because it's the thing I'm told I should be doing, and I'm doing very badly at it. It's like a game, and I'm playing without really understanding the rules, and society always has rules. We tend to do what's expected don't we? On the outside anyway, where no one can see in. And the stuff that goes on inside, is a completely different animal all together. Isn't it? I don't know if anyone reading this can relate with what I'm saying, sometimes I don't even understand it enough to pull it out of my heart where it can make some kind of sense, and yet, here I am. Time does what it does, but for me, it never does it quite right. I'm left practically vibrating with anger, longing for yesterday, aching for tomorrow; for hope and healing...frustrated beyond belief for something. I no longer even know what.

I went to the cemetery a couple of weekends ago, and I took two bouquets of flowers, one complete with autumn colors for Dad, and a bouquet of roses for mom. I couldn't believe I was staring at Dad's tombstone, and that he was not home, in his beloved recliner watching Two and a Half Men. I literally fell to my knees and allowed a wretchedness to take hold of me. When someone we love dies it should hurt dammit! A soul deep, drop-down-to-your-knees, can't-quite-catch-your-breath, can't-focus-can't eat...can't-stop-emotionally-bleeding, kind of hurt that should take a lifetime to fully heal. Does that make sense? You know it's not even two full months since Dad's passing and I actually had someone come up to me and say, "All better now?" What does that even mean? Should I be all better now? With our advancements in technology, we are pushed to keep up and to move forward with the rest of the sheep, in every aspect of our lives. Heaven forbid that we should slow down for those no longer able to keep up -- hell no! We've got appointments to keep, work that needs to be done, good friends to visit...life is calling. In today's world, sickness and death is treated like an inconvenience, and grief a damn nuisance, as it keeps people from doing what everyone else thinks they should be doing instead. Grieving takes time, and word on the street is, no body has time to hang in there during the process of it. Speed grieving is the latest phenomena. And this kind of world makes me sick.

I believe dad is in a better place, but knowing that does not soothe me. He's not here talking about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie or healthcare...so dammit this shit hurts and we are supposed to feel it and not override our feelings with the ridiculousness of speed grieving, which everyone seems to be into these days. And for those of us who can't keep up...well, we just emotionally fold into ourselves. Kind of like being packed away in a box and forgotten about...or tossed in a mental institution somewhere. Sometimes I see people on the streets of Seattle...not necessarily homeless, but definitely lost. Sorrow is etched in the lines on their faces. Are they the ones left behind to deal? Was life too much for them? Will I become them?

The house wasn't paid for and we had to let it go. That hurts. We kept some of Dad and mom's things of sentimental value, and with a lot of difficulty sold items via Craig's list. That hurts. We packed some stuff away in little boxes and some family members nearly tripped over them in their hurry to get back to their own lives and their own way; to start this insane process of moving on. I'm not saying it's either wrong or right. I'm just left thinking...how sad.

I can't stand this because for me, helping Dad became a part of my life. So now what?

Bye Dadi - I love you always!

Dadi - I love you and will miss you forever.

Love,
your daughter,
Angeline Dadelion

My Dadi

Dad is back from the hospital. He was chauffered by an ambulance and wheeled to his bed on a gourney. He's not struggling to get out of the bed, he's not fussing about the healthcare system or talking about the mistakes Americans made that led to World War II. He's just lying there on his hospital bed, silent, very sick, very distant.

I'm without words.

Dear God

Dad comes home from the hospital tomorrow. On hospice.

My Broken Heart

They put the dialysis port back in yesterday and dad had dialysis. He was so quiet during the entire four hours which is unusual for him. Usually, we're trying to keep him from pulling at the tubes or from trying to get up and "go home". But this time he was very still. Lisa had a friend bring her by the hospital, which was nice. I learned Jean dropped by a little after I left. I was at home when Vickie texted me to say his temperature had creeped back up and his oxygen was a tad low so they gave him some tylanol and put a oxygen mask on him.

I decided to go back to the hospital and camp out by dad's bed. He'd dose off, then moan and groan and look at me with such intensity and sadness in his eyes. He looked to be in such a state of misery. I asked the nurse to give him something for pain and she did. Then they adjusted him in the bed to make him more comfortable. He seemed more settled after that, and fell asleep almost immediately.

Tommorow I'm meeting with the Paliative Care doctor to discuss some things I'd rather never in my life have to discuss. Dad's going home for sure, it's just a matter of sending him home with hospice or paliative care. Dad's suffering. And I'm heartsick.

Dad Update

Last night dad had some problems. Dialysis didn't go well, his heart rate spiked again. Also, after the dialysis was completed and dad was left alone, the nurse found him choking on his own vomit, his fever was up again and his heart rate. When I walked in at round 9:30pm they'd gotten him cleaned up and he was laying in bed moaning in pain. His arm, that supposedly was not infected, says Colonel Sanders and the infectious disease doc, looked painful and swollen. He was able to relax a bit after the nurse gave him some paid meds. I put on some of his classical Andre Reiu dvds and left once he'd fallen asleep and after planting a kiss on his forehead.

Today dad was very sullen. When he spoke you really couldn't understand what he was saying, except when I asked him if he was ready to go home he said under his breath and without hesitation, "uh huh". He looked so sad though. "Okay" I said. "Then it looks like you're going home." I would not send him back to that facility. That...I'm sure of. But my heart hurt so bad.

Dialysis was cancelled today due to dad's fever and heart issues and they're taking the temporary dialysis port out for 48 hours to see if it is the cause of the fever, then once it's put back in they hope to resume dialysis on Tuesday.

After leaving the hospital Debbie I went to dad's house to meet up with the rug cleaner. Our 1st step to getting the house cleaned up and ready for dad's return after being away for over a month.

Our neighbor Doug, got his weed wacker out and cleaned up the shrubs in front of the front door and the lawn was already looking nice thanks to our lawncare service.

Just need to keep on keepin' on. God help us do what we need to do. Amen.

This is Hell!

Dad's back in the hospital. His toe was getting worst; he had a fever of 103, and infections throughout his body. On Monday, I was on the phone, while I at work, most of the morning with the facility trying to get them to get a doctor in to look at his toe. After several hours of talking about it, I got frustrated and said, "Have the doctor call me to assure me I'm worrying about nothing and dad's infected, black toe, and the fact he has a fever, isn't a big deal and I'll stop pushing (I wouldn't have stopped)." She said she would. Next thing I knew she was calling me back to say the doctor had looked at Dad's foot, saw that it was swollen and decided he needed to go back to the hosital. Really. Yesterday, we learned the cause of dad's infections was not the toe, but the fistula in his arm. His right arm is twice the size it should be, red and hot to touch. One of the doctors attending him sat us all down and explained that dad's situation was pretty dire and soon family would have to make a decision on whether to continue aggressive treatment. She also said that if they have to reopen the site of the fistula dad may not survive the procedure in his current state. She further added that the surgeon may not want to do the surgery due to the risk to dad. So we needed to wait for the vascular surgeon to examine dad.

So Debbie and I are sitting in dad's room when this guy that looks like Colonel Sanders walks in. He introduces himself, bends over and checks out dad's arm, then says, "So who did the surgery?" Huh?

I said, "You did. Last Thursday."

While we're still trying to figure out if he's joking or not he says, "So he's pretty sick huh?"

"Um, yeah" I say, "Because he has an infection going through his body caused by the fistula site." He continued to astound us.

"Yeah," he says. "Well, everything's okay. It's not infected." And then colonel Sanders started to walk out of the room.

Debbie stood and caught him before he made it to the door. "Why did the infectious disease doctor tell us the infection started with the fistula?"

Sanders says, "Because it's swollen and he's wrong. It's not infected."

Debbie and I say, "But the other doctor said it was."

Sanders said with a bit of impatience, "Well, I say it's not."

Today, the infectious disease doctor stopped by, checked dad's arm and recanted yesterday's diagnosis and said with purpose that he was in agreement with Colonel Sanders. The area of the fistula is not infected, he explaned, and the swelling is typical with a fistula procedure. O-kay.

And this is what we've been dealing with. One professional says this, the other says something completely different and they're all looking at us like we're purposely trying to be difficult. For what it's worth, we put in a complaint with regard to Colonel Sander's weird bedside manner. And again, for whatever it's worth, which is probably a whole lot of nothing, four different people have tried to convince us that Colonel Sander's is a brilliant surgeon but just has a bad bedside manner. For us, their assurance isn't worth a damn thing at this point.

And dad's toe is getting really ugly, and the infectious disease doctor said the tip of the toe will definitely need to be surgically removed, however they need to wait for the gangrene to stop spreading otherwise they will need to keep taking off pieces. Ah hell!

So Here We Are

So after 3 cancellations (one by the fam because of dad's weakened state, two by the doctor because of poor scheduling) we are at the hospital with dad who is being delivered into the operating room as we speak to have the fishula put in. On a subconcious level, I think I'm scared to death. Any procedure for dad is scary these days. Our family was divided as to whether the thing should be put in at all however dad's kidney doctor and the vascular surgeon told us that if he's going to be continuing dialysis -- which is a must to preserve his life -- then he needs to have the fishula put in. During the prep the nurse noticed the TB shot dad had on Monday showed positive, which caused some concern and so they had to do a chest ex-ray. Then they had a lot of trouble finding a vein in dad's left arm that was working -- he's been so poked and prodded over the last few months that the nurse explained she could insert the needle but then would hit scar tissue. Finally, after a bit of moaning and groaning from the nurse, and dad, she got the needle in. Now let's just pray really heard everything's goes well. Before they rolled dad away he said he wanted to put in an order for a T-Bone steak. His thinking this morning was fairly clear, matter of fact, by the time I got to the hospital this morning -- a bit late after getting stopped by our friendly neighborhood law enforcement for speeding -- he'd signed all the paperwork.

Okay let us pray: Dear Lord - We love dad, and he's been through so much lately, please carry him safely through this procedure and in the weeks and months to come. We pray that the fishula placement is successful and opens up properly so that it can be used within the two to four month window (hopefully two months). Help us get him back to him own home and in the care of his loving family where he can begin to heal. Amen.

Update

I truly do not know where to begin. So much has happened over the past few weeks. Okay first, in my last post in June I mentioned dad was in the hospital after a stroke and seizure, afterwhich he was discharged back to the rehab facility. More recently, on Saturday he was at Davita getting hooked up for dialysis. The nurse thought it best to call 911 because Dad's heart was beating too fast and blood pressure too low -- nose was bleeding still after he'd had a fall at the facility that Friday, early A.M. Apparently, the heart beat/blood pressure issues were signs of infection. And guess what? Dad has urinary tract infection, which in elderly people causes more confusion, on top of what he'd already been experiencing. Combine that with the antipsychotics the doctors are insisting he take to "manage his behavior" we have big problems. On top of that he has a necrotic right toe - same toe he had an ingrown toenail removed from almost two months ago which had been healing just fine. It took the doctors until today to finally call in a podiatrist, after 3-4 days of my commenting/insisting/yelling that it was getting worse day by day with the blackened dead skin spreading across his big toe. They kept assuring me that the area had been cleaned by the care nurse, and when asked if that would prevent the spread of dead skin -- hesitantly, with a whole lot of insincerity, the nurse assured me that it would. I didn't believe it. I'd done a little research and consulted with a friend/colleague of mine who is a former nurse and found that necrotic skin can not be repaired. And we all now know, with the exception of some of the medical professionals at Good Sam obviously as it took them 4-days and a lot of irritation on our part to get them to take the situation seriously, necrotic skin spreads rapidly if not treated by cutting away the dead skin to get to the healthier skin, and he would eventually lose his toe, foot. Hell no! And especially not due to their inability to act quickly. I yelled out my frustration today with Peggy, dad's assigned nurse, telling her I'd call back in a hour to see if they'd been able to get the hospital's podiatrist to examine dad's foot and threatened to follow up the call with a visit if nothing had been done, and what do you know...the podiatrist found time to visit and treat dad's foot properly. Why the delay in getting this done and why did it take my getting bitchy to accomplish it? Don't they care?!

We’ve also been informed by the facility where my dad had been staying that they would agree to take him back after his hospital stay, however if he continued to decline mentally they would have to report to Medicare that they could no longer help him and medical coverage would be declined by Medicare. We would then be on private care, and we just can’t afford that. He has a urinary tract infection, which they have to know causes confusion in elderly people, however they are trying really hard to ignore this fact as well as the fact that he’s on antipsychotics, Seroquel and Risperdal, which studies have shown not only cause agitation in elderly people but also have severe side effects which can cause death due to heart problems and infection. I’ve pulled information off the internet on studies being done in Europe on this very topic (BBC News). Guess what? Dad has heart problems and infection. Although this medication may work for a very few, it is not working for dad. I’m thinking it’s time to bring him home.

Dad, aka Father, Pops, G-Pops, Granddaddy

Two Saturday's ago Dad had a stroke, which also caused a seizure. We were on the way back to the house after dialysis. I was driving. I thought I was prepared for all emergencies and have in the past handled them with a modicum of calm. Not so on Saturday. I thought I was only a block from the fire station and drove like a fiend trying to get to it. Dad was flopped over to my side, unconscious after what felt like an endless minute of convulsing. I thought he'd had a stroke and I only had precious seconds to get help that could save his life. The station was further down than I thought so I made a U-Turn and headed back down Canyon road toward 112th, intending on driving all the way to Good Sam's emergency room -- however God must of tapped me on the shoulder to remind me to tap into the common sense I was born with. I pulled over to the side of the road and dialed 911 -- which isn't as easy as you'd think with a touchtone phone - fingers don't always touch on the right numbers especially when you're crying like a new born baby because of fear dad's lying dead next to me. When I got someone on the line I screamed the events of the last few minutes. The voice on the phone was calm, I was not -- until she demanded I get myself together and check to see if Dad was breathing. "If he's not breathing, she explained, "I need to tell you what to do next." That sunk in. If I didn't get it together, I couldn't save Dad. He was breathing. Thank God. The ambulance came within 2-3 long minutes. He was taken to Good Sam and held in critical care until two days ago, and then he was moved to the patient care unit. I guess they wanted to make sure he was seizure free. He's had an MRI without contrast and CT Scans with and without contrast and they can now confirm a stroke and the seizure that resulted from said stroke.

Dad's mental capacity has diminished even more so, and at first they said it could be toxicity from meds or outside source or it could be mental deterioration from whatever. To my layman mind, all that meant was they didn't know or care enough about what's going on with our 79-year-old Dad with multiple serious illnesses. But the tests now reveal that he has intracranial carotid artery disease, which means the carotid artaries are blocked and narrowed -- inpeding blood flow to the brain. Oh and last Friday we found out -- after questioning a nurse on why they're attire changed to full gear covering them from head to toe when entering Dad's room -- that Dad has the MRSA bacteria in his nose, which he probably got from being on the critical unit. Did I mention we just found out June 3rd, but they received the results back on May 31st? Really? Kind of stuff we'd like to know about.

We've had a helluva time getting any kind of useful information from the medical professionals around us. Is this typical? Why is it they don’t give the same level of care to a 79-year-old man as they would to someone younger and perhaps…curable? Do doctors wear belts under those white lab coats with carved notches that represent their successes? Seems so.

I'm tired, I'm scared, I weepy and sick to my stomach every day. I want to run away and at the same time crawl in bed and pull the overs over my head and stay like that for...like...infinity. I don't want him to be in agony, and I don't want him to leave us. Dear God I don't even know what to pray for anymore.

Help me. Help Dad. Help all of us. Amen.

Those Three Words

When asked, "How do you do it?" A caregiver replied, "Love gives me no choice." When I read this on Community Knowitalz.com blog, it was a real moment for me. I said yes! That's my heart responding to that question.

A comment from an unknown person doing the same thing we're trying to do for Dad found the words as if pulled from my own heart. I really needed to read that today.

You see taking care of Dad is not a burden to me. Work is a burden, not having the benefit of a savings that would allow me to take a leave of absence and still be able to pay my bills is a burden (I could shoot myself for my lack of financial planning).

Taking care of Dad is an honor. Being present at such a crucial time in Dad's life, anyone's life, is a blessing for real. It comes included with all the I love yous and the I care about yous.

It just is.

'Til Sun Up

Dad had one other incident with his bag busting in the early morning hour. His call from the bathroom down the hall woke me up the second time. "I fell Angie. Need your help." When I stepped into the bathroom he was laying on his back amongst a pile of soiled paper towels he'd used to clean himself. Apparently the $75.00 shower chair, that he sits in to catch his breath after stepping from the shower, had collapsed on him. Surprisingly, lifting him from the back with my arms under his pits wasn't difficult at all. He'd lost so much weight over the past couple of months. Didn't appear to be any injuries. Once he was solid on his feet, I helped him finish cleaning up, and attached another colostomy bag. This time he was so exhausted he decided to lie back on his own bed instead of trying to make it back downstairs to the hospital bed. I had to wake him up an hour later to give him his epegen, and insulin shot. He didn't even bother to open his eyes. He was exhausted. When Jean arrived I dragged myself into the shower and just stood there with the water pummeling me, then began the process of mentally preparing myself for my other job. Long fucking night.

Here We Are Again

It's frinckin' early o'clock in the morning, Dad's bag busted. He called me in for recon duty before things got too bad. He got showered and remembered to close the shower door this time so no swimming in the pool of water on the bathroom floor, and the only thing needing my help was in gathering up the soiled clothes off the floor, spot clean the rug and help place the new sticky round thing on his stomach with the stoma inbetween -- centering that thing is the tricky part for him, then attach the new wafer, and colostomy bag is attached to the wafer, and we're good to go. I can go back to bed now. Oh but before I do I asked Dad if it was okay if we checked his glucose again, since it was ouch! 419 before he went to bed, which we think -- "we" are the nurses -- it's because he won't allow anyone to check his sugar mid day so he doesn't take any insilin. So now it's gone down to 118 -- Bravo! Much safer zone. He's back in bed downstairs and I'm getting ready to get back to mine and snuggle up to my dreams. I hope he's able to get right to sleep without too many thoughts rattling around in his head. Damn Boogeyman is always lurking in the dark!

Ciao.

At Night With The Boogey Man

I swear nights are the worst. It seems to be when all the bad stuff happens. The night before last, a yell from Dad standing in my doorway startled me out of a deep sleep and I almost shot up toward the ceiling. In my sleep world all was peaceful and divine and then Sgt. Dad, imitating a drill sergeant, bellowed at the top of his lungs, "Is it time for me to go to my pre-op appointment!" At 3:00 a.m. in the morning I can't even remember my name let alone comprehend an entire phrase with a question mark at the end of it. "Dad," I said, "What...whatdya mean? A pre-op appointment?" He looks back at me as if I'm completely lacking. It probably didn't help my hair had rearranged itself all over my head like something out of a Bela Lugosi classic. He scared the crap out of me though. Somewhat disoriented, I catapult (yes, I did), out of bed and run downstairs to look at the calendar on the fridge, which has all of his appointments penciled in. I'm always afraid I'll mess up on his scheduling. Wait...he has a preop appointment in June to have the fistula put into his arm for dialysis. Okay, I got it. But we're still in May. OK. "Dad, your appointment is in June. You've got plenty of time." He turns and heads back down the stairs, then looks back. "Are you sure?" He worries about missing appointments or not being on time. "I'm sure." I follow behind him all the way to his hospital bed and he sits down slowly, and rests his head in his hands. "I don't know why I keep getting time messed up." To myself, I say, I don't understand what's happening either Dad. And my heart breaks all over again, but I'm getting used to the feeling of it. He lies down and I lift his feet onto the bed and pull the blanket over him. "Get some sleep Dad." He released one really long sigh, and closed his eyes. I knew it would be awhile before he fell asleep though. He had a lot on his mind to work out.

A couple of nights before that he had a complete blow out of his colostomy bag and by the fall out I was able to trace his actions to the bathroom in his bedroom, and it was a mess, soiled bath cloths on the floor, along with soiled paper towels and about an inch of water on the floor. He'd taken a shower with the glass door open. After cleaning up the floor in the bathroom and picking up soiled garments in the downstairs bathroom where he'd headed when first realizing he had a problem, I changed the sheets on his bed, and helped him settle in. It was about 4:00 a.m. by the time I crawled back into bed, and two hours past the time my alarm went off at 5:30a.m. before I could drag my body from beneath the covers in order to get ready for work.

Nights are the worst because that's when fear is the most tangible. I think about all the decisions made, and wonder if they were the right ones. I think about all the decisions that are waiting to be made, and wonder if I will be able to live with them, and I think about mom and Kenny, and wonder how we've been able to continue without them. Everything is so broken.

I can only imagine how that awful, deafening silence is for Dad at night. There's so much happening to him and around him, things that used to be familiar and now practically takes everything he's got to work it all out in his mind these days. The boogey man is taking everything from him in bits and pieces. He's a spiteful bitch!

Dad

I took Dad to the Safeway last week after Dialysis to pick up a few things. I should have known better than to do this after dialysis when the process of having ones blood in the wash cycle, interchanging bad for good, usually wipes him out, but he wanted to stop so I did. Of course, without the benefit of a whole lot of energy, he stayed in the car. I hurried through the isles picking up some of this and a little bit of that until I'd gotten everything on my mental list. I'd just reached the car when the passenger side of the door opened up and Dad leaned out. "Angie?" he bellows. "Right here Dad," I responded as I opened the car on the driver side. "I want to go home," he says. Then he looks at me obviously peeved and says, "I was calling you, didn't you hear me?" I'm completely baffled and very disturbed. "Dad, I was in the Safeway store, how could I hear you?" He said, "Because I called you." He was looking back at me as if that made all the sense in the world.

Two months ago Dad was handling his own business, paying his bills, driving himself to doctor's appointments, giving himself insulin shots; now he can barely see or understand enough to fill the needle; can no longer drive at all; and so confused day and night merges into one really long morning, which means he's drinking coffee all day when before it used to be, perhaps, two cups in the morning, which is contributing to an increased heart rate. Sometimes he looks at me, and I can see his confusion and the moment when he's trying to identify who I am, in a mind that is betraying him.

When Dad was physically and mentally in a much better state, he told us he never wanted to be put in a facility; that he wanted to stay in his home. I’m trying with my entire being to honor that, to honor him. But it’s difficult, because a part of me wants to do what I feel is in his best interest, and then there’s the part of me that is driven to give him what he’s made clear to all that he desires most at the end of his life. To live and die in his own home, surrounded by his things, i.e. the flashback on the walls of family moments, his precious coffee pot -- "best smell in the morning is coffee brewing," he commented once while in the nursing facility -- his recliner positioned in front of the television so he can watch hours of the History channel, Andre Rieu, episodes of Friends, and a couple of Lifetime chick flicks on DVD. These things bring him comfort.

I'm terrified that fate is my enemy and something will happen to limit my choices to keep him where he's most comfortable. But I have to tell you, I'm a stubborn lady, and with all that is inside my heart, I will do everything in my power to keep him where he is.

At 79 years of age, Dad deserves respectfully, to live and die as he chooses. We all do.

God help me, to continue to help Dad and to honor his wishes.

Update

Sometimes writing in this blog after experiencing the actual events takes more energy than I have, but here's a try. I can't remember if I mentioned it in the prior post, but after being admitted back into Good Sam's after the stroke Dad went back to the nursing/rehab facility or "jail" as he now likes to refer to it. While there we experienced moments where one day he'd be so-so as far as his mood, to days (four to be exact) where he refused to even change his clothes or his adult undergarment. Taking him to and from Affordable Dentures for a fitting that day was awful, because he smelled strongly of urine and...Oh my gosh. I did everything I could before and after returning to the facility to get dad to change into fresh clean clothes but he was as obstinate about not changing as a child would be about taking a nap. When I mentioned it to the nurse, she said she had noticed an odor earlier and had discussed with him why a change of clothing was in order and he'd refused to change. She explained that they do not like to force the situation as their residents already feel as if so much has been taken out of their control. Although I understood what she was saying, Tuesday was dialysis day and I couldn't have Dad sitting in that recliner during treatment for three and a half hours smelling like he did. She promised the attendant would get him to take a shower. She kept her promise however the next day Dad insisted on putting on the same dirty, foul smelling clothes.

Dad's mood declined even worst over his stay in the rehab facility. I walked into his room one day and he was talking to his brother Charlie telling him that Debbie and I had changed his beneficiaries. He told Charlie, "I just can't see how they could do such a thing. But I guess they did it so that Angie could benefit." He'd also been telling everybody that we'd tricked him into going into the facility. To be honest the doctor suggested it to him and I was actually very surprised he agreed. Even though I know Dad's suffered a decline in his mental capacity with the stroke, it hurt like a mofo hearing him talk about us that way.

Now an update...Dad's back home and we hope, pray, beg for him to improve both mentally and physically. Physically, he's doing great--walking up and down the stairs already. Mentally, not so good. Sometimes he refuses to eat anything because he feels like what's the use. "I can't have hostess cupcakes," he said tonight. "So what's the use?" Or he goes on and on that hopefully the next stroke will be the one to take him out. Tonight his sugar was low--78, which concerns me but he said, “Well hopefully it’ll get lower during the night and…whatever.” I hate it when he says things like that. It makes me angry and sad...mostly angry. Okay, enough for now.

Past Month or So

The last few weeks have been ugly for Dad and all of us. He went into a skilled nursing facility for rehab on Thursday, March 18th and early the following Tuesday morning I get a call from Rainier Vista, the nursing facility, telling me that he'd fallen off his bed the night before. The nurse on the phone assured me he was alright and that they lowered his bed to prevent possible injury in the future, and had him sitting in a chair and would check in on him every 15 minutes. Apparently in these facilities they can't put rails on the bed because of WA state law. It was explained to me that nursing facilities are homes to some people and it isn't right to restrain people in their own homes, even if the illness is serious and the chance of falling is inevitable. So he fell, and when I got there they had him sitting in a chair. He complained of lower back pain and wanted to lay down but the assistant on duty said the shuttle would arrive shortly to take him to dialysis, which was a surprise to me because when he was admitted we were told they didn't have shuttles for the timeframe that he was scheduled 3:45 pm). So since the shuttle wasn't due to arrive for another two hours I told the guy I wanted Dad to lay in bed until the last possible minute to ease the pain in his lower back (probably the kidneys), to make him comfortable before he had to be carted off to Davita Dialysis center.

I hated seeing Dad wheeled onto that shuttle. His head was hanging over his chest and he just didn't look right. And he looked so forlorn. I followed the shuttle over to the dialysis center. I got there first, because the shuttle had to make stops to pick up other riders. About 15 minutes after I got there, it arrived, and Dad dropped off. I wheeled him into the facility and we were asked to wait in the lobby because it was still 45 minutes before he started dialysis. I didn't like the way he looked, something was off. His head was still hanging forward and he was not very responsive. I asked, "Dad, what's wrong?" And he'd mumble, "Oh my goodness, oh my goodness." I asked him if he needed a Tylenol and he said yes but when I tried to give two, the first went down with water and the second just sat his tongue. I said, "Dad, something's wrong and you're scaring me." He mumbled. "I don't want to scare you." I went through the wide door leading to the room where several people reclined in chairs plugged into the dialysis machine, grabbed a nurse and explained Dad's condition. I told her he wasn't acting right, something was wrong. The nurse came out and took his vitals, checked his sugar and said he seemed okay. She went back into the other room. Right after that Dad started moaning and shaking with drool coming from his mouth. I yelled for someone to help him. A couple people came running and agreed to call an ambulance after questioning me as to whether this was normal behavior for him. Hmmm...drooling from the mouth and shaking violently...really? When the ambulance arrived, the paramedics did there thing and one of the guys asked Dad to smile. Dad's face didn't change one bit. "Dad, he asked you to smile." Dad mumbled, "I am." But he wasn't. I-was-terrified. Vickie walked in the door at the same moment I felt my composure crumble. I was on the verge of reverting into a two year old and balling my eyes out.

The ambulance took him back to Good Sam where he was admitted for almost two weeks. He'd had a stroke. In addition, he was put on some new medication to treat an increased heart rate and low blood pressure.

And there you have it. But I'm not done because there's so much more to this update.

L.O.V.E. Living One Vibrational Energy

I've always hated hearing the word "love" tossed around, as casually as hello and goodbye. You could say it's because I'm cold and unfeeling, but you'd be wrong. Like most people, I have a way about me, and that's one of them. LOVE is such a powerful expression of affection for another person, because it completely embraces into the emotional fold so unconditionally every single aspect of things that happen to us in life...beginning, end and in-between. It's not a still photo shot of just the picture perfect memories at Christmases, Church on Sundays, if you're so inclined, Easter dinners with Mom and Dad and the FAM, tiny little precious additions, graduations, marriages. It's carrying someone, a cherished someone, someone you once said "I love you" to, like, a million times, when they can no longer stand on their own.

It's sitting at Dad's bedside when his teeth aren't in because bone deterioration is so bad dentures no longer fit like they’re supposed to. It's holding his hand when he's scared, and the only way you can tell, really, with such a proud man like Dad, is when you feel his hand clasped in yours tighten, as if just the thought of letting go is the equivalent of letting go of everything dear. It's listening to him talk about moments that are past as if they just happened, and then glimpse for a moment the confusion when he realizes things are not coming out right. It's watching him hold on so desperately to a familiar life that's fast slipping away and making sure to look directly into his eyes when you say, 'I WILL NOT LEAVE YOU HERE', so he will believe it and keep fighting.

Love will walk into the dark with you; you feel it all around you protecting you, holding you up when your legs are too weak. Love is everything and in every moment. L.O.V. E. Living One Vibrational Energy, that's it. Accepting anything less, is just wrong. So, yeah, sue me, for not wanting to hear the word from a single mouth unless it's raw and true like it's meant to be.

We put Dad in a nursing facility this past week. It's supposed to be only for a week or two. With dialysis added to the mix, he's got a lot on him right now. And he's got a full catheter, possibility of having to use a cath a day. A week, two at the max. Until he's stronger, then home and home health care. That's what the doctor said. Dad's always seemed bigger than life to me, yeah Superman. But, on my way out of the room, I looked back, and for a moment, it looked like the bed could swallow him whole. The last few weeks in the hospital have taken a toll. He's still Superman. To me. I love you Dad.

The rain literally pummeled my car on the way home after getting Dad settled in, but I hardly noticed, because my eyes were so blurred from my own inner storm. God took the wheel that day, 'cause I could barely see or focus on the expanse of road in front of me, and yet, I made it home safely.

God this hurts.

Planning For Home Care

Last few days have been rough for Dad, and for all of his fam watching him go through it. He's still in the hospital being treated for Phneumonia and a collapsed lung. They stopped his dialysis for now, as his breathing seems to be doing okay. And another good thing is he no longer needs the BIPAP during the day as his oxygen levels are fairly good and now he only requires the two plugs in the nose delivering normal doses of oxygen. He's kept on the BIPAP at night in an effort to get rid of a build up of mucus, which caused one of his lungs to collapse, with treatments of meds that are administered through the breathing aparatus. I know all of this sounds grim, and it is, but he is doing better. Yesterday he was able to walk down the hall with his cane, with Tamara on one side of him and the nurse on the other...just in case. I couldn't help notice how rediculously small his ankles were. They were normally three times the size they should be. This was apparently the work of dialysis with the removal of excess fluids from his body. He's doing pretty good putting down the grub too, which is a definite improvement from when he was admitted to the hospital. The social worker paid a visit to talk about the usual things, who's taking care of him when he gets out, services available to assist him and family and the fact they think he should go to a facility...the usual stuff. Dad assured them his family could take care of him and reittered the fact that he was not going into a facility.

Is it normal for me to be so anxious? I worry about how we're going to make things work so Dad gets the at-home care he needs. Each time Dad has one of these episodes he returns home with at least one or two more issues. For example, one, two or three additional medications, at least one more ailment...this time, oxygen deficientcy, which means he has to have a machine in the house, which he will probably need for the rest of his life and dialysis treatment which he will have to have at least three times a week at a facility -- again, for the rest of his life. Oh, and I think I mentioned in one of my posts that he swore he would never have the homehealth people in his home again. Yeah, well, unfortunately since Dad plans on rehabilitating at home, Home Health Care is a must.

Dont' take this wrong, but I feel so much more comfortable and at ease with Dad in the hospital. We know he's being taken care of while he's there by professionals who actually know what they're doing. Anyway, we're still standing. Ciao.

Back To The ER

Wednesday started off similar to Monday with an early morning call from Dad. Except this time en route to his house I called 911, and Vickie to meet me, once again, at Dad's. When Dad called I could immediately tell he was in trouble. He was having a great deal of difficulty getting his words out and said he was coughing up blood. My stomach dipped, and I got queasy, and I swear my heart was beating so fast I felt my chest would explode. When I got to the house the paramedics were standing on the door step. I used my key in the lock and prayed it opened and wasn't blocked by the stick. Right before I opened the door, the paramedic cautioned me to be careful as Dad could have collapsed right on the other side of the door. He hadn't. Dad was sitting on the steps gasping for air. While a couple of paramedics took care of Dad, another one asked me the usual questions: his age, brief medical history, copy of list of meds. Surprisingly, as I was gulping down my fear, I was able to answer: age 79, Rectal cancer, past heart attack, kidney disease, COPD, past stroke, diabetes, congestive heart failure. My poor dear Dad.

Vickie and I, in our own cars, followed the ambulance to Good Samaritan Hospital in Puyallup and after doing a stint in Emergency where they ran a ton of tests, he was admitted to the hospital, where they are still running test. He's on oxygen and anytime they try to reduce the amount his levels drop drastically. He coded twice where they had some trouble reviving him. Both times it was because he'd pulled the oxygen mask away from his face--or a BIPAP, the 21st century version of iron lung. It's heavy, uncomfortable and Dad can't stand it. But his kidneys aren't functioning properly--on a good day they work about 30%--and tonight they gave him lasix, which is supposed to reduce the excess fluids around the heart and other major organs--the major cause of his breathing difficulties. If that doesn't work they will put him on dialysis. Permanently.

Oh God, my heart is breaking.

Another Monday

Yesterday started with a phone call from Dad at around 4:30 a.m. Tony was scheduled for back surgery around 9:30 Monday morning so I was staying at my place to help him out his first week. I prayed Dad was okay during his week alone so I could do just that. However...

Dad was having difficulty breathing but didn't want to make a decision on calling an ambulance until I got there. Yikes! My internal screech! Uh...Dad, I'm on the other side of town! He said he was okay if he sat very still so he wanted to wait until I got there. Once I got on the freeway, I called Vickie to meet me over there, and since she was closer figured she'd get there before me. My thoughts were racing as I sped down the freeway (yes, I sped or speeded) doing about 70-80 mph. What if Dad doesn't have enough strength to take the stick out of the front door? Against our better judgement, he lodges a stick against the door that's held tight with the wall for leverage; guaranteed to keep out all undesireables, including those folks that expediently respond to 911 distress calls. The paramedics would either have to break down the front door or break a window and climb through...both of which would take precious extra minutes that could be the difference between life or death. And I know he said not to, but should I call an ambulance? Aarrrrgh! After a short conference with the man upstairs, I decided not to call 911. This time.

I beat Vickie to the house. In my haste to get through the front door, I almost slipped on that damn stick which was lying in the middle of the floor; Dad was sitting in the living room and seemed alright. He'd obviously managed to pull the stick away from the door and make it back to the couch. After taking a couple of puffs from his meds (can't recall the name of that thing right now), he was feeling much better. He has one for everyday and one for emergencies. This classified as an emergency obviously. Vickie pulled into the driveway only a few minutes after me. With Vickie sitting on one side of him, and me on the other he chatted about current events in between puffs; Jean's results on finding a job, the economy -- his favorite topic, Jimmy's progress in the hospital etc. etc. And we let out a sigh of relief. Anytime Dad's mouth is moving and he's fussing about one of us kids, he's good to go.

I stopped by again later that night to clean the kitchen, put away some groceries still sitting in bags on the counter -- which means he was able to drive to the store on his own (which he shouldn't be doing), and another sigh of relief that he was able to get out and about. The whole time I was there Dad was fiddling with his computer talking about how "people" need to stay away from his computer because "they" are always messing it up. Oh and that he needed to put a lock on his refrigerator. Uh-huh. Those people he likes to reference are actually his grown children and he's convinced we're out to take over his life and upset his calm existence.

Anyway, before I left I organized his meds for the week, called Walgreens to get a refill on those he was low on, and left for home with my usual silent prayer, God please watch over my Dad. Amen.

As I was heading out the door, Dad yelled! "Hey, aren't you gonna make me some dinner?"

Nope. He had leftovers, which he hated. He'll be just fine.

And I'm a bad caregiver.

Sunny Days

Dad is doing great! Since he started taking the anti-depressants--which he swore he wouldn't take if prescribed by the doctor because he didn't like the way they made him feel--his mood has changed considerably. And so far (knock on wood) no episodes, no seriously dipping sugar levels and no really serious problems with the colostomy and no troubled breathing. Very grateful. I've changed my schedule a bit by going back to Dad's on Monday after work instead of Sunday night. I did a drive-by yesterday to see if he needed anything, which of course he did, and after picking up his medicine at Walgreens, and stopping by Safeway for a few items, Debbie and I stopped by the hospital to see Jimmy, then I went home and chilled Angie-style. Saturday was a really nice day!

Today will be breezy. After getting friendly with the elliptical stationed in my livingroom -- some sweet talk before beginning the work out to ensure it doesn't kill me -- then I plan on working hard at doing nothing. At some point today, I need to get up from the couch to make a ton of chocolate chip cookies for the Valentine Day bake sale at work tomorrow. Love my Sundays!

This week Dad doesn't have chemo because someone in the doctor's office is going on vacation. Kind of weird something as serious as chemo would be temporarily put on hold for a vacation day, but that's what Dad said they told him. Oh well. Just trying to keep you in the know. Ciao.

God, as always, I thank you for every single day!

Caregiver Blues

Sometimes I think I'm overly civilized, too emotionally in control...or too controlled. I still don't know which. I think if at any time in my life someone had tried to explain the endless and emotionally fucked up trip that is the grieving process I wouldn't have believed it. This thing, called grief, is a blistering, festering wound that just won't heal. If only I could've just fallen all over myself at the time of loss--given it that RESPECT and be done with it. Would it have been easier to move on then? I live with a perpetual scream stuck in my throat, like a piece of meat--on the cusp of being released, but not. Caused by the unintentional delay, freeze, or suspension of the grieving process by not doing it at the time of need. Because it's not cool to weep and wail in public, even when the heart is being ravaged and beat up by that invisible mofo; or suffocated by fear of the inevitable, and longing for that one more moment, just one more day, to hear your voice, to see your face, that smile. Society says everybody goes through it in their own way and time. Then society says but don't do it too long, it's not healthy. So we do it on the QT, while we sit at our desks imitating life, while focusing on that stuff in the files, or with eyes glued to a computer screen that seems to contain all kinds of "important stuff"; while slapping on a smile and maintaining a life-is-good expression so everybody'll see a good sport. When inside it's all about What-the-Fuck! Life is a doting BFF and death is a fricking foe. I think. One takes you in from the cold, and the other spits you out just as you're beginning to feel all warm and cozy. This is what grief feels like to me. All of the above.

This is my melodramatic intro to relaying the 411 on Dad; he still doing well I'm happy to say, and I am just doing. Is it normal to wonder about the days when he won't be doing well? I do that. Yes I do. It's like I'm constantly peeking around a corner to see what's coming next.

I long too hard for yesterday; one more day with mom and one more moment with Kenny. Literally, I dwell on it until it weighs on me. But then I remember that I still have one more, one more, with Dad, and I shut up. Cause I don't want to miss a single moment.

Oh...and Jimmy's in the hospital. I'm worried about him too. He's very sick. Okay.
I'll cut the crap. I'm obviously tired and may just delete this tomorrow morning when I'm sane.

Uh Boy

Okay - I got nothing. That's a mighty good thing. Dad's been doing really, really well. Matter of fact, I'm trying to get up the nerve to tell him I'll probably cut my sleep overs to just Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday instead of Sun-Friday morning. That way I can still be his back up for light house cleaning and keep one eye on him in case things go South. Heck, I miss my townhouse. Seriously, he's doing very well at this point in time. And that's a blessing. Truly a blessing. He has an appointment this Wednesday for chemo and I'm taking him, then cumadin appointment on Thursday--not sure who's taking him to that one. BUT everything is everything so catch ya later! Ciao.