Monday, October 26, 2009
By the time I was getting ready to go home Sunday morning I wondered out loud to mom, "Have we screwed up in reverse?" At the outset of my dad's decline into hospice care I asked for prayers even though I wasn't sure what prayers to ask for. That time was as confusing as it was emotionally trying. Once we were in place with hospice the confusion was over. We had a focus - my dad's comfort - and emotionally we could start to deal with the reality of his passing rather than the tension of "is this one 'the one.'"
There have been ups and downs since then. What I never expected was that it would be the ups that would be so remarkable. We aren't treating him anymore. No more diuretics and aggressive meds. I gave him his pills Friday night. I put them in his mouth but he refused the water. Did he want juice? No. There was some momentary confusion about what he wanted before it became clear he wanted the rest of the pills. He's always been one to just put the whole handful in his mouth at once and wash 'em down. There are only 3 small ones now we explained. Down they went. Maybe we were giving the drugs too much credit. Maybe we weren't giving his body enough. Either way, it's hard - for me at least - to know what to feel when he improves so much.
My niece, Arrow, his oldest granddaughter, arrived from Ottawa Thursday morning. It is a trip that was planned since the summer but a week before her arrival it seemed a stretch to think he would make it to see her and meet her 18-month-old daughter, Kyla, for the first time. By Saturday morning, however, I was suggesting we ask him if he would like us to get him out of bed and into his comfy chair where he could visit with the family a little more. He said "no" initially. Later when he realized how many of us were there - 3 children, 5 grandchildren, 3 spouses and a (very active) great-grandchild - he warmed to the idea. It was a bit of a project but my sister, Sharon, is a nurse and has spent the better part of her adult life working in elder care facilities of one kind or another. She ran the show and before long he was in his familiar post, his recliner in what he once dubbed "the useless room."
We all gathered around for a pre-dinner visit and I poured him a beer. His first in nearly a month. It was only then that I realized how long it had been since I had seen him smile. Really smile. Not the smirk when he delivers a "Roy-ism" or a grin he manages for company coming to pay their respects. He later admitted it really hadn't tasted quite right but there was no denying the pleasure of that brief moment when he could enjoy playing patriarchal host to his family. It wasn't long before the din of multiple conversations and small children playing, mixed with the partially-finished beer, took its toll. By the time my mom gave him an envelope from his congressman - kind of like a birthday present - he barely could keep his eyes open to read the letter accompanying his Good Conduct Medal. That medal was missing from his uniform array and it was important to him to replace it so he could be buried with it. He slept soundly as we ate dinner.
By the time we moved him back into the hospital bed that has been home for almost three weeks I thought perhaps we had worn him out. Maybe even pushed him over the edge. If so I was OK with that. It had been worthwhile. Arrow came in later to say "goodbye." They were going to be driving through the night to let Kyla sleep on the nine hour trip home. It wasn't easy to pry away. "This will be the last time you'll see me, you know" he said to her in that tone of his that carries authority even as he speaks gently. This has been especially hard for her. Her whole life she hasn't been able to be around as much as the rest of us. This visit was important to both of them and they had both overcome several obstacles to make it. In more ways than one it was a long goodbye.
But now it was the next morning and he wasn't closer to dying it seemed but closer to being well. If I were visiting him in the hospital and they were saying he was coming home today it wouldn't have seemed like a stretch. His color was good and even the skin around his face seemed to be more taught. Had we caused this by getting him out of bed? And should we be happy for him or not? While we were moving him around he asked several times "how did I get like this?" Each time it seemed to be more of a surprise than before that he could not assist even a little as we picked him up and transferred him. My mom and sister tried to explain to him how and why it was he was so weak - the events and the physical deterioration. But I think it may have been a rhetorical question. He never intended for his end to be like this and once when we were moving him he said, "I dislike this intensely." It was a rare moment of bitterness. Now that he is noticeably improved it is hard to be happy thinking this state of affairs could be prolonged. It is hard to be sad for my own selfish reasons. I hated to leave when he was like this but we had an important congregational meeting to get to back home.
Early on I said we weren't going to start reprogramming every detail of our life for "what if's." We would go on as close to normal as possible and plan the way we would otherwise. When circumstances dictate that we alter our plans we will. But I hated to leave when he was like this - so "normal." "You can come visit me at Fort Custer," he said. "Absolutely," I replied without hesitation. The absurdity broke the tension.
So people ask me how he's doing and I tell them "pretty good." "Oh, that's good," they say reflexively. Good for who? I'm confused again. But the selfish me agrees and I can't find it in me to hope for anything less.
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