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.