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.
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