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!
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