Dad's Eye Appointment

It's raining outside, brown-golden leaves litter the ground and there's a nip in the air that had me thinking earlier about the jacket I'd left at Dad's house. I moved boxes of stuff all day into my new place and my middle aged body is feeling the pain. I love my new place though, a two-bedroom townhouse with a bonus room I can use as an office. It's cosy and in a so-so neighborhood. Not Tacoma's echelon but at least I can come and go without packin'heat. Just kiddin', it's a nice neighborhood. I'm back at Dad's now trying to blog my thoughts.

Dad had an appointment at America's Best for new glasses this morning, and yesterday he agreed, reluctantly, to rent a wheelchair. He's been so stubborn about getting it, which is frustrating because getting him to the car, in the car, and out of the car when we're at the appointed destination has been quite a work out. We're usually okay if the end destination is a hospital because they have wheelchairs for our use. I had no idea why he was being so stubborn until I heard, from the dining room where I was pushing buttons on my computer, a conversation between him and Megan.

Megan: "Dad, the only reason why we want you to have a wheelchair is because we want you to be comfortable. Besides, it also makes it easier on the person taking you."

Dad said, "I don't need a wheelchair." A pause. "And most of the time when we get where we're going they have wheelchairs."

Megan responds softly, patiently. "But Dad, they don't have wheelchairs available at America's Best Eyeglasses. Instead of buying one, maybe you can just rent one for the day. I'll pay for it. Can't be more than $30-$40." Another brief pause. I had to strain my ears to hear him his voice was so soft.

"Well, maybe I could rent one for one day." Longer pause. "I'm afraid if I get one of those things I'll get used to it. Then I won't get better."

Ah...so that's it. God bless Megan. We hear him fussing from time to time, and that's all we hear. But Megan actually spoke to his heart and listened. It's funny, but we've been so focused on trying to treat all the symptoms evident on the outside, we forget everything going on with Dad on the inside. Dad was a Sargent in the U. S. Air force, an extremely independent man used to handling his own affairs without input from anybody. A husband and father to eight children he was responsible for providing a home, feeding, and clothing. And now he is completely dependent on his children and their grown children to nurse him, feed him and bathe him. For such a proud man like Dad, this has to be extremely excruciating. On the inside, he must be terrified, and there's no treatment for that.

So Debbie took Dad to America's Best today and unfortunately he was told that due to his multiple illnesses, they couldn't help him and recommended he see an optician. They also told him he was blind in one eye and so-so in the other. He seemed okay with it when he got back, but I'm not so sure. He's been hit hard the last few weeks, one health issue after another. Of course, we will check with an optician to see what can be done. He really wanted those new glasses though. It's all he's been talking about the last few days.

Debbie said that before he drifted off for a short nap today, he said, "I just need a little bit more time to get better, maybe come spring."

I pray that is so. God, please make it so.

Pops

Britney, the Gentiva Home Health nurse showed up at 7:30 a.m. bright and early this morning. The first words out of Dad's mouth when she walked into the living room where he's stationed, "You hurt me and I'll sue ya!" Britney smiled. According to Dad, when she performed the enema yesterday, which he's supposed to have 4 days in a row starting Monday, she didn't do a good job. "You didn't find the right hole," he complained. "All that pokin' around hurt. Does the hole move around?" he asked. Again, Britney smiled, patience a definite virtue. "Mr. Beck," she began, "there's only one hole and it doesn't move around." If you need an explanation regarding the "hole" in question, I'll give you one. For those of you who'd rather not go there--I don't blame you a bit--so skip down a few sentences. Apparently, and I just learned this tidbit myself, 12:00 of the stoma is a hole and to quote the Highlander, 'There can be only one'. Anyone who has two is probably in the Guinness book of records, as they should be. Well, the tip of the bottle filled with a saline laxative is inserted gently into the hole to...well, you know. I had to watch because should he become backed up again I will be performing this task. I don't mind, except the colostomy nurses said the stoma is very sensitive and I worry about causing irreparable damage. Anyway, he survived the procedure again today and now can't wait for Britney's visit tomorrow so he can tell her she put the wafer to his colostomy bag on wrong. Poor Britney. Not to worry, she can handle Dad. Although she is a young nurse, she's very patient and wise for her age.

In addition to the visit from Britney, the physical Therapist also paid Dad a visit today. His name is Bill. According to Dad, Bill was very pleased with his progress today. Considering last week about the same time he was so weak he couldn't even get out of the recliner chair, and his hiccups were so harsh he couldn't talk without gasping for breath, I'm not surprised Bill was ecstatic. Dad is not aware of this but only last week both the nurse and the physical therapist were so concerned by Dad's weakened state they called Dr. Jin, his primary care doctor to discuss his deteriorating condition. They said the doctor advised he may be ready for hospice. The brutal hiccups concerned Bill and he'd made the decision not to return until the hiccups were gone, as they were causing his heart to work harder. Dad's heart, not Bill's. Considering Dad has congestive heart failure, this is not good. I asked Nurse Britney not to talk to Dad about hospice until after his appointment with Dr. Jin on the 24th. In my opinion, just the mention of hospice may obliterate Dad's will, and we just can't have that. He's not ready for hospice; he's still fighting for life, as well he should. Don't worry Dad, this is one battle we're willing to fight with you. Says I!

Dad's improvement from last week is amazing. But we're not surprised, he's superman!

Thank you God for always listening!

Finally, Good News!

I sent off a prayer and it was answered! Dad's hiccups are gone. And to think the doctor said there was nothing that could be done, Britney, the Gentiva Home Health nurse said all that could be done had been done. Wrong! These people do not know Dad; he's a tough and fiesty old dude! Those hiccups were rocking him to the core, but now they're gone and the healing process can begin. Okay, sometimes short is sweet and nothing else needs to be said. I'm done. Ciao.

P.S. As always, thank you God for answering my prayer! Thank you, thank you!

More Trips to the ER

Friday and Saturday were good days for Dad. Debbie and Vickie came over Friday night and we had a slumber party around the hospital bed we have set up in the living room. Vickie was on the recliner and Debbie on the love seat curled up with countless blankets on top of her like she was in the middle of a winter storm inside the house. Dad requires the heat up several notches and for a gal like me that prefers a room to be properly chilled, I was in a sauna so it wasn't long before I said my good nights and went upstairs. I couldn't help teasing Vickie on my way out that the warmth in the room had her back in the womb and soon she'd be nodding off. Debbie said Dad slept really well that night.

Saturday night was a whole different matter. I was trying to get comfortable on the couch but like I said, the heat kicks my butt and I tossed and turned. Dad woke up countless times during the night asking for the time. The hiccups were bothering him again, interrupting his sleep, and he complained of stomach pains. He hadn't had any output in his coloscopy bag since Thursday and it was causing me some concern. The Gentiva Home Health Nurse told us that if he was still constipated by Sunday call the nurse on call. So bright and early Sunday morning I made the call, and we were advised to go to the ER, which we did. Jean came over and helped me get him to the car. Vickie joined us at around 12:30 and we waited with Dad in the room they tucked us in with him on a hospital bed covered in warm blankets. He talked non stop about his coloscopy bag, medicare, which he says we all need to read up on before our time is upon us, the difference between doctors, LPNs and PAs, the latter of which was the Doogie Houser looking dude that asked Dad medical questions and took his vitals. He was a twelve-year-old with a toy stethoscope. Dad's been plagued with some really brutal hiccups over the last week or so non stop, which the doctors says is attributed to the multiple serious illnesses he has, however for at least two hours at the ER he was hiccup free. And he ran his mouth as if to make up for lost time. Seriously? I kind of missed his chatter after almost two weeks of watching him catch his breath and gasp with spasms brought on by those darn hiccups. With all the other health issues he has to deal with hiccups just seem mean.

They gave Dad an emema and sent him home. With the aid of a walker we helped him back into the house and into a chair which he sat in for a while. I heated up some mash potatoes, meatloaf and peas Debbie made on Saturday and he ate heartily then asked Vickie to fix him another plate. Good to see him eating well. The day had taken its toll though and he seemed exhausted and weak. Again with the walker, I helped him back to his bed, lifted his legs up and helped him get comfortable and within minutes he was out cold. I really hope he sleeps well. I really hope he does.

God please ease up on the hiccups and allow Dad to have a restful sleep tonight. Love, Angie.

Standing In The Shadow of Death With My Father

I know what the shadow of death is now. It's sitting in the doctor's office beside my Dad, staring at the folder lying on the desk that contains his recent test results, and knowing the information within foretells the future, yet not knowing if I'm strong enough to withstand what's coming. It's watching him struggle to make his way back after cancer surgery, almost falter, then walk almost as straight and tall as before, although not quite the same. It's knowing he's making trips to chemo every Tuesday or Wednesday, hoping, praying, that not one teeny tiny cell will slip through, then scared to death with knowing there's a possibility it will. It's trips to the ER after one scare, then numerous more, and wondering how I can continue to keep breathing when my heart is breaking into tiny pieces. It's hearing reasons why lives that are in progress can not be interrupted, compromised or shared with someone at the end of theirs and never understanding the whys. It's family discussions about not understanding, misunderstanding, all the in-between places that lead to the possibility, no eventuality, that the life of someone else we love could be ending and wanting to scream, "How can you not willingly be present at such a time?!" It's listening, sighing, praying, needing, hoping for a miracle that I fear may not be granted. It's holding tight to someone I'm terrified of letting go of and feeling lost. It's reluctantly knowing, and dreading, that time is running out and eventually he will slip away. This is the place that holds captive all my tears, my soul, my heart that aches like nothing else can or will.

This is the place that has become so painfully familiar to me. I hate this place.

Dad update

I stand guilty of the charge of not consistantly blogging, but I'm innocent because Dad's been great the last couple of months so I decided to let the good moments speak for themselves. Uncle Ernie has been here for about 3 weeks now, and I've been staying at my own place and making daughterly visits. It's been nice. But sweet moments are really precious and can change without a--excuse me for the redundancy--moments notice. About a week ago Ernie had to take Dad to emergency after he complained of excruciating pain in his lower back. In addition, his bodily functions had ceased, no urination and no bowel movements. If he'd been a woman they'd have wheeled him directly to the maternity unit. His stomach was that distended. This started on Wednesday, however none of us knew about it until Friday, since Dad asked Ernie not to call us. I guess he figured he'd get sent home and everything would be fine. Not the case. They sent him home with a diagnosis of constipation and pain pills. Back to emergency on Friday--this time me and the rest of the family were informed--and to my absolute amazement, he was scheduled to be released on Saturday with the same diagnosis. We are not medical people but by no means does a diagnosis of constipation make any kind of sense. Symptoms: No peeing or pooping, blood in the urine and extreme lower back pain to the point morphine was necessary. I spoke to Ms. M.D. with the Jamaican accent, when she visited his room and she was very vague. "He's constipated and I'm concerned about his mental state. He's not quite as clear today as he was when I spoke to him on Wednesday. It concerns me." Really? Could it have something to do with the apparatus he had fisted in his right hand with instructions in invisible ink, Push red bottom for a really good feeling. He's on morphine for Pete's sake! I wanted to stick a needle in her butt filled with morphine and insist that she do the limbo. Ok-aay. Nobody can do the limbo on morphine. I explained patiently, "It's obvious his kidneys aren't functioning which means the morphine is probably taking some time to work through his body. I further explained that his decreased mental capacity is similar to what he experienced in December after his cancer surgery." Shouldn't she know this? The light went on. "Oh," she says as if I were brilliant and should perhaps consider going into the medical profession myself. "I will take him off morphine and put him on something else." Ya think?

We were starting to wonder if maybe Dad had told the staff not to discuss his medical situation with us because the feedback we were getting from them just wasn't making any sense at all. I googled kidney failure, and learned Dad was showing all the signs of renal failure. When I visited him in the hospital on Friday night he was a bit cranky. Morphine had him talking out of his left ear, which is how morphine affects Dad. Again, the fact his kidneys were only functioning at half capacity didn't help. He was complaining about being hungry, and that the nurse was mad at him and so was probably going to starve him. I said, "Yeah Dad, that's what they do, get mad for no reason at all, and then starve their patients." I know, I'm a bitch. "That's right!" Dad said. "Besides, you get mad all the time for no good reason." Oh gosh. He was irritable and although I could understand why he would be, I was tired and getting irritable too. Did I tell you? Dad's really good at saying things that ensure his family members will be good and pissed off when he's not on morphine. So, as soon as the nurse brought him his dinner tray I decided to go home. But he seemed to be wheezing heavily and it concerned me so I mentioned it to the nurse's assistant and she said they'd given him something for it earlier and would be administering another dose before bedtime. I asked her to keep an eye on him and she promised she would. I said goodbye to Dad, left and went home.

I couldn't have been home a hour when Vickie called. She was at the hospital and thought Dad was acting strange. He wanted to know when I'd be by for a visit. I told her I'd just left the hospital and explained that he still had morphine in his system which is why he was acting the way he was. Fifteen minutes later she called me again and said, "You gotta get back to the hospital." I think I remember my heart skipping a beat or two. I asked what happened. "Just get here," she repeated sounding very close to tears. When I got to the hospital Dad was in ICU; he'd stopped breathing and they were trying to resuscitate him. He was put on life support after that, and unconscious for almost two days. The doctor in ICU, Dr. Lee, said until he woke up she wouldn't be able to determine whether he would be worse than he was before the incident, better or the same as he was prior to the incident. They did a brain scan to make sure he hadn't had a stroke, then some test to make sure he hadn't suffered a heart attack. Test came back clear on both counts. Dad's stronger than most, and on the third day as I was talking to Debbie while sitting at his bedside, he just opened his eyes. Debbie teased, "Was Angie talking so loud she woke you up Dad?" He nodded. He was awake, and teasing us too. God is good. It felt like we'd been holding a collective breath for two days, and were only then able to exhale. Once they took the tube out of his mouth he started talking and didn't stop for eight hours.

This update was exhausting so I'll stop now.

HELP, The Other 4-Letter Word

Okay listen up all! Please stop dropping the "H" bomb around Dad; the only 4-letter word that literally sends him over the coo-coos nests. Debbie once commented, quite benignly I might add, "Angie stays at your house during the week to help you." Using the word "Help" was like dropping the "F" bomb, wrong word. He was off and running. "I don't need any help. I do everything for myself now." Shuttin' down the motor on his mouth after the "H" word is out is the barn door, horse analogy. Sorry, never lived on a farm, so not quite sure how that goes, but you get it. Right? Yeah. Dad says, "Matter of fact, I don't even know why she stays here and pays rent somewhere else. Doesn't make sense." Dad puts emphasis on a specific word every now and then for no other reason than he likes to raise his voice along with his blood pressure to emphasize a point, or two, or three. "She doesn't do anything. And she gets up really early. What's that all about?" By the tone in his voice it's like he's completely baffled, with no idea at all why I would have a credible reason for, in his thinking, such unusual behavior. Um...I need to be at work at 7:00am Dad. "Then after work she walks in the house and fiddles in the kitchen. I don't know what she's doing." There's no fiddlin' going on. Just washing some dirty dishes, pots and pans. That's all. He's always suspicious of everything and everyone. "And she goes to bed as soon as she gets home. What's that all about?" He says that a lot. Okay, I live in Tacoma, work in Seattle, so getting up when the frickin' rooster crows...Hello!...makes perfect sense, DAD!

So for the record, Dad's record, I don't do quat at Dad's anymore. For the most part, he is taking care of his personal health needs, grocery shopping, driving himself to and from his doctor's appointments and cooking his own meals. I provide a few amenities like having coffee peculating in the morning--and Dad will tell you that sometimes I forget to do even that--I take out the garbage and clean the kitchen. And I have to add that it's not that he can't do these things-he can--I just like to (insert said word discreetly) where I can. Oh yes, I also arrange his medications for the week in a nice little organizer Jean bought him. So see...I'm doing very little these days. And considering how far he's come since the surgery, I'm okay with that. We met our objective to get him on his feet. I still like to stay at Dad's during the week...because...well, I worry, and I don't like him to be alone at night. I will admit though, verbal communication between us is limited. I walk in the door and speak on the run, "Hey dad, how ya doing?" He usually yells something back, "Fine." Very short and clipped. Shoot, I've gotta keep it short 'cause Dad can talk you comatose. Can't handle it after working all day. I hit the stairs real fast and climb into bed for sleezy my neezy. Oh...still hip.

So there you have it. Watch your dirty mouths around Dad; using the "H" bomb gets him all worked up. To Dad, insinuating that he may need a little (you know) is paramount to saying he's completely debilitated and ready to be put away somewhere. His biggest fear. With Dad, his pride gets in the way sometimes and we just gotta find ways to work around it. It's challenging, oh yeah it is. But that's how we do when we care enough, to care enough, about how someone else feels. He's our Dad after all, and we love 'em even when he's a cranky old butt.

Here's my disclaimer: I was not in the room during the aforementioned dialogue and scenerios referenced in my post. However, the information I've gathered was provided to me by reputable sources, the names of which will not be disclosed. Besides, I know Dad's m.o. If my sources say he said it, he did. So there.