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?