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.

Message to Heaven

It seems we were born in sets, Jean, Joan (although they cheated 'cause they're twins); Vicky, Gary; me and you; Jimmy and Lisa--see what I mean? Like it or not, you're my other sibling half. Trying to live without my other half is like learning to walk after a broken leg that doesn't heal quite right. I'm just limping along. I just want it to be over with, need it to be over with. It being the operative word for the heartache, the tears that come on at any given moment, the anger and depression and that emptiness, so unbelievably present all the time. I pretend really well sometimes: hey look at me, I'm laughing, working, doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing--my academy award winning performance of moving on. Other times, depression wraps around me like a cocoon, and I can't shake it. Just not enough energy in me to perform. This feeling I carry with me is a close friend now. Nothing quite fills in that void. I miss talking to you on the phone. I could talk to you about whatever, with no judgment on your part; conversate about mom, how much we missed her, and you'd listen, and listen, and listen. I could get on a plane for a visit if I wanted to antagonize you in person as only a sister can, send an email or text with one word, HEY! And you'd call me back and say, "What up?" Our special formula for bastardizing the English language by cutting half of it out. And yet, the message was always relayed.

I'm trying to take care of Dad like you would if you were here. Although he claims he doesn't need any help. Yep, I know, his pride kickin' into overdrive, which had me thinking about something you said when mom passed. I was still in my apartment in University Place. I worry about Dad being by himself. It must be hard, you know? Never to hear Mom's voice again. I knew what was coming, and really did not want to hear it. You know, you should think about moving in with Dad. He needs you there. I mumbled some kind of halfhearted response like, "Yeah, yeah I'll think about." I was really comfortable in that apartment, and did not want to move in with Dad. I got off the phone and turned into a two-year-old who'd just been told it's nap time and wasn't ready for it. Major temper tantrum dude. I cried so long and so hard I couldn't see straight, nose pouring snot like Niagara Falls. But when it blew over and I felt normal again, I knew what I needed to do.

Dad's surgery was so bad Kenny, and he suffered, God did he suffer. All that medication they polluted his body with didn't even seem to touch on the pain he experienced. But he adjusted, with a few scary moments in between, and things are better now. I just wanted to let you know, we haven't left him alone to deal. I won't leave him alone. And if you were here, even with the cancer, I know you'd be here too. You were always so much more giving, and selfless than me. Me? Huh...I wear selfish like a Girlscout badge of honor. You know that's true. Although, I think we were pretty evenly matched when it came to being stubborn. That's a characteristic we all get honestly from Mom and Dad. Yeah? Yeah.

Hey, on a more cheerier note, you now have four new grandchildren. Maria got married and has Cody and Emily. Kenny's got two kids, Celeste and Adrian. Adrian looks like Kenny's little mini-me. Joan thinks he favors you, and Jimmy too when you were both little. They're beautiful kids, all of your grandchildren are incredible. Ariana gets to reign as the princess over all since she's the oldest. I wish you were here to see them. The kids have their issues to deal with Kenny, but they're doing the best they can to make a life for themselves without you here to share it with them. No easy task. You'd be proud of them though. I'm gonna get mushy now; I love you, and every day I miss you more. Okay, I'll stop talking.


Love,
Big Sis

Toilet Trauma

I think we can all agree that sometimes life just gets shitty. This is one of those times. Jean was visiting with Dad when she called me on Saturday. I was in my favorite position on the couch, watching TV and chillin' from a really long workweek. "Angie, your toilet is plugged up." My toilet? We had a visit from the plumber last weekend due to plumbing issues, so I knew my toilet was not plugged. And the "your" comment had me instantly on edge. For some reason, because I'm stationed at dad's during the week, I've been assigned a room with my name written in invisible ink above the door, and a bathroom with the same invisible name tag above it. I think the kitchen has been assigned to me as well. 'Your room, your bathroom, your kitchen'. And what that means is if something happens to said room, said bathroom, said kitchen, it has somehow become my responsibility to clean and/or unbreak what's broken. Pisses me off. My home is where I pay rent. Dammit!

"And you're calling me because...?" I asked.

"Oh," she says, "Dad told me to call you to ask if you put something down the toilet that doesn't belong there." Really?

How does one actually respond to that without frustration making you chew a hole through your bottom lip. "Tell Dad," I said calmly. "That I put a couple of tampons, an entire box of maxi pads and some beach towels down the toilet." She laughs. Not just a dainty little chuckle. No, my sister's laughter is usually over the top, like I'd just said something gut-busting, knee-slapping ridiculous funny. Hmmm...not so much. This was my weekend to be home, where I sit on my couch, or put things down my toilet if the need arises, and watch one movie after another on the really cool big screen television Tony brought with him when he moved in. The place where I can zone out for two days. And now Jean's on the phone (on Dad's say so), telling me the toilet at Dad's is plugged, and that said Dad asked her to call me to see if I put something down it? What the hell! My unprofessional advice? Put some hot water down the toilet then have a meet-n-greet with the frickin' plunger. Done! I didn't actually say that; after all, you don't shoot the messenger. I called Dad on Sunday to get the update on the toilet, and he said he'd looked, it wasn't working, and couldn't call anyone to fix it until Monday. Again, Dammit!

So Sunday, back at Dad's, and in a really shitty mood. Sorry about the overuse of "the word" (you know what word), but it just seems to fit the situation. Besides, the toilet is the most important seat in the house, and when it's not working life gets crazy. Anyway,"my" assigned toilet was not operating, and because of Dad's lack of housekeeping skills I was not using the bathroom in his bedroom or the bathroom downstairs. Although he reminded me when he heard me mumbling about bathroom ownership, that all of the bathrooms belonged to him as well as all the other rooms in the house. Gotcha Dad.

Royally peeved at having to fix the toilet that Dad reminded me didn't belong to me, I was stomping up and down the stairs with a pot of boiling hot water, when I heard him on the phone with his brother, Walter. He had him on speaker. As an FYI, Dad puts everyone on speaker. They were discussing the dynamics of a broken toilet like women in a sewing club discussing the complexity of a particular cross stitch. "Well, seems the toilet is stopped up." I'm frowning so hard now my brow is permanently creased and my head is starting to ache, as I make my way back up the stairs with scalding water spilling over the sides of mom's large dutch pot. "Is that so?" says my uncle. And Dad says, "Oh yeah. And I don't even use that bathroom." What does the fact that he doesn't use the bathroom have to do with it being plugged up? Geez. The good news is that after flushing a few pots of hot water through the toilet, life started to work itself out, and things began to flow quite nicely. Jean said later she tried really hard to fix the problem by pouring three tea kettles filled with hot water down the toilet. Did she say Tea Kettles?

Okay, so about Dad's progress...he's doing well enough to get on every body's nerves, and that's all I'm going to say about that. Although I'm concerned 'cause the chemo treatments are on-going. The doctor was going to discontinue chemo up until the day they found the spot on the ex-ray, which they'd hoped was only scar tissue from the surgery. When asked, Dad says, "They just decided to go at it a little bit longer until whatever is gone." What is "whatever"? I didn't ask. He's been a bit sensitive about his business since the time I called his doctor to ask if it was safe for him to drive with all the new meds. The 'whatever' bothers me a bit, but Dad seems to be doing much better, and my heart is lighter for that.

Oh by the way, the mystery to the toilet plugging incident was revealed by the lack of toilet paper in the bathroom, and the large roll of heavy duty paper towels sitting on the side of the sink. Uh-huh. Do I need to spell it out, or name names.

Jean, Desiree...you know what you did. I'm just saying.

Ciao.

Shorty Update

Okay so here's the deal, can't write in my blog while I'm at dad's 'cause he took away my privileges when his laptop went on the blink. Of course, after hinting that "someone" had messed with "something" they shouldn't have, he found out after fiddling with the cords connected from his desk top to the jack in the wall, that it was a loose connection. But if you think I've regained access to his office, you'd be wrong. Nope, door's still locked. So now I'm trying to drop a note or two on dad's progress and my progress dealing with dad, at work when I should be reviewing a policy or binding coverage. Whatever. So about dad...he's doing really well, I think. I even caught him walking around the house the other day without using his cane. When I mentioned it, he mumbled, "Well, I'm doing alright, but not one hundred percent, you know." I think he likes us all hanging around but he's just too stubborn to admit it. His cognitive abilities seem to be much improved since they changed his insulin to once a day. Dad says the new one-a-day meds are expensive and they don't the option of using it -- or even tell you there is a better option -- until after you've struggled with the cheaper stuff. Typical, when insurance companies are involved. But he's improving and that's what really counts. The other day I forgot to include one of his medicines in the med container -- I think he checks my work after I go upstairs. I'm usually very careful so it bothered me that I forgot to include a couple of pills, but he caught it and to be honest, I'm glad he's paying attention. Anyway, that's about it. Ciao.