Upcoming Funeral

I did tell Dad he was dying within a matter of days, and he smiled. So, it was a welcome confirmation.

He did die--with difficulty, which surprised me, considering he's spent the last 5 or 6 years really hating his life and his inability to "do" things because of COPD--on August 22. The difficulty came, because his caregiver from Caring Companions, Debra, and my brother, Mark, and I weren't giving him enough drugs to let him sleep through the end trauma that a body experiences. In dad's case, he was vomiting (small amounts, since he hadn't eaten anything), and he couldn't sit up to expel it, so I kept wiping it out of his mouth with Kleenexes. He couldn't really do anything at all about either vomiting or spitting it out, because he couldn't really move at all.

He'd tried to die twice on Thursday, but he revived himself both times. Mark said, "Stubborn German!"

My dad wasn't a religious man, so a friend who's a priest and who's not invested in a "perfect" service, other than that it serves its intended purpose for the living of saying "good-bye," is officiating at his funeral. And we're--Marste, Rev. Janet, and I--are writing it. We three, plus Jenna, Chelsea, and Steve (my husband), wrote my mom's service, and I got comments that people had actually enjoyed it. We all told stories, describing our relationships with Mom, and they varied depending on who was doing the telling. Plus, my mom was what I would term a "character," so that helped, too. The service was too long, because we didn't limit the time one could speak, so the stories were long, and the audience laughed. Cool!

Now, I'm supposed to eulogize my dad. Let's just say that we didn't have an amicable relationship. He beat me "for my own good" but really to relieve his stress level. He burned me, once in front of 3 other men, because he'd told them he could control my every move. And he French kissed me, so he could "critique" me and tell me how horrible I was at even this private thing. I was told not to cry like a baby or a girl--it depended on how I was expressing pain at the time, and I learned that to not obey him made whatever was going on much, much worse. My earliest memories of him are an awareness that his drinking cycle was 4 days, and the first day was a massive hangover, which made him brittle, but if I stayed out of his way, he didn't seek me out, because he felt bad physically. The second day, he'd recovered, but his stress level was lower than two days before. If it wasn't, this also wasn't a "safe" day; day two was always a 50-50 shot either way. The 3rd and 4th days were really the worst days for him, and by extension, for me. And the 4th night, he'd get super drunk, and the cycle would start again.

My mother and brother weren't aware of this, or at least, they didn't let themselves be. My brother feels that he had a "Leave It To Beaver" childhood, so more power to him. (My dad carried a Bully archetype. My mom didn't let him hit her. Period. And my brother was "off limits" because he was a boy child, and because he had diabetes at age 3. My parents felt so guilty about it, that they let him do pretty much as he wanted. He had to adhere to some rules, so he wasn't obnoxious! I was a great target: I was a girl child, and I had no "importance" in my dad's world, so I was the perfect target!)

It's now mid-January, 2010. I forgot that I'd written this, and I forget what I was going to add to it before I sent it! Sorry!

I didn't end up speaking at Dad's funeral. My brother did, and Marste did. A very dear friend said that if I didn't speak, people would decide for themselves why. Given the fact that no one knew how we really lived, they'd probably decide I was grieving. That made me madder than ever!! Ha!

I figured I'd choke on words that one usually hears at funerals. Dad was a "hail fellow well met" type of guy, and I don't know anyone who didn't like him on sight. It has always amazed me to watch people and see what they're hiding behind their facades! Ha! Marste and Jenna are even better at this than I am! Chelsea probably is, too, but she ordinarily doesn't share her thoughts! Ha!

On Death and Dying, to borrow a title!

This isn't really on death and dying, per se. It's more about Dad's dying.

Up until yesterday, I assumed Dad knew he was dying. He's been giving me a list of who gets what, in his opinion. So, I figured he knew!

Yesterday, at one point, he said, with some frustration, "Somebody ought to tell a guy if he's dying." The hospice nurse and caregiver were there. Both looked at me. Both held their breath. And, interestingly, both breathed a sigh of relief when I didn't tell him that second.

I keep getting told to let the hospice personnel tell Dad of various decisions that might not set well with him. They said it lessens family tension in a time of crisis. That makes sense, to a point.

I told my brother yesterday that I was going to tell Dad he's dying. So, I'm going over there this morning, before hospice or visitors start descending on Dad, to tell him he's dying, and the only sadness going on is for ourselves, not for him. He's looking forward to going, and I'm going to tell him is a matter of a few days. I'm thinking he'll feel more peaceful and certainly happier! Something to look forward to! Woohoo!

I just have to do it matter-of-factly, without tears. I'm not sure I can, so I hope he understands--in fact, I think I'll tell him this--that I'm sorry for me and not for him.

Family Ties

Two days ago, 2 hospice nurses said separately that each thought Dad would die in a week, two at the outside.

For the last 2 days, I've been running and gunning, notifying family and friends of Dad's impending death. His sister, Darleen, in South Dakota, and his sister, Mona, in Missouri, called him this morning. He smiled through the monologues--and you're right, "monologue" means he didn't contribute! But he was pleased they called.

His former neighbor and good friend from his last house is coming to see him tomorrow, as well as his sister who lives a couple of hours away. These three sisters and Dad are the end of a 10-children family.

Watching Dad through this ordeal has been hard. My mom died of Alzheimer's under hospice care, and I knew I couldn't do anything for her, other than to see that she was pain-free, which I accomplished by asking that she be put in a drugged coma. (The nurse was funny. She said to me, "You won't have contact with her. Are you sure about this?" I almost laughed; she had Alzheimer's, which meant we ALREADY didn't have contact with her! And she couldn't tell us if she was hurting, and the disease that took her out, gangrene--long story on its own--is one of the most painful. If all I could do for her was to let her sleep for the last days of her life, so be it!)

Dad, on the other hand, is conscious and coherent. He can tell us if he's in pain. So, there's nothing I can do for him, other than to watch and wait. I'm doing this with my brother, who lives in GA, and my 3 daughters, who took time off work to be here. As we sit, of course we exchange stories about our lives. We're also reminiscing, entertaining the woman I hired to stay for 7/24 until Dad dies. We're highly successful in this endeavor, by the way!

Even Dad is aware of this and makes occasional comments, or smiles. His comments are always on the topic and usually contribute to the fun in the moment. Then, he'll drift off.

He's on morphine now, because he's in constant pain. I guess dying is painful. His body is losing fluid through not only the usual routes, but also through the pores on his arms and legs. And today, the hospice nurse came and changed his clothes, an ordeal for him, which was compounded by his long-time caregiver, who wanted to bathe him with soap and water and rinse with clear water. I know it was a loving gesture on her part, but I forbade it, because his skin hurts when you touch it. I said use baby wipes--my brother said to heat them in the microwave--and checked with the hospice nurse that that was okay. How dirty can the guy be? He's lying there, in the direct air flow of a fan, sleeping most of the time! So, get the wetness off his arms--it'll be replaced shortly, anyway--and cover him up! And NO, you can't shave him when he's telling you to STOP!!!

I'm a little frustrated over this! There's so little I can do for him that I find I'm determined to keep others from bugging him! Since I'm perceived in these situations as the human version of the Great Wall of China--immutable--I get my way. This has served me well in all situations involving someone who has general knowledge of the subject at hand but little or no knowledge of the person involved--in my case, parents and kids vs. the medical establishment, usually. The person gets great care but not excessive care--unnecessary testing, e.g.

So, I'm grieving. It's funny that I was frustrated at my dad just last week! He was already in the dying process, but I didn't know it. And this happened between hospice visits on Monday and Friday! Quick! Now, I'm watching him die, knowing we'll not argue again.

I've been looking around his house at all the paperwork that's waiting for me. Not just bills to pay and companies to notify of his death--like the one paying his retirement! Ha! But there are insurance companies, banks, credit unions, credit card companies, etc. I keeping thinking maybe I can just throw everything in a cardboard box and hide them somewhere! I know, I know: fantasy isn't a good thing in this case! Ha!

I'm going to go back to his house now. Thank you all for replying to these meandering thoughts! I really appreciate it, even if you don't think you can help! You all do!

Locked in a Closet

It's my dad that I'm referring to in the title.

Yesterday, I thought I'd just work and let him call me if he needed anything. Usually, I just show up, and he immediately starts ordering me around.

It's always stuff that he needs physical help with--like in an assisted living place! And that's when I end up over there for hours on end. So, I stayed home.

I did a lot of "2-minute" jobs--in case he called, I didn't want to be in the middle of a long job, like cleaning out the pantry, which is breeding moths at the moment!--along with a lot of studying, and I made it until 8:30 p.m., when he called me for the first time.

I went over there, and he'd not gotten out of his chair all day. He'd had nothing to eat, although he said he had; he'd confused it with the day before, when I'd made him a sandwich he was guaranteed to eat: Farmer John sausage links, bread, and mayonnaise. What's not to like? Salt and grease--MMMMMM! Ha! (In my profile, it says I'm a vegetarian, which is accurate. But I haven't ALWAYS been! Ha! My daughter wrote my profile, by the way, for a different blog! Ha!)

He has a pressure sore--or "bed sore"--that's gotten worse over the last 2 days, because he's pretty much lived in that chair. He felt horrible--no food certainly does that to me!--and his back hurt. He said he wished he were a dog, and I could just "put him down." I fixed him a tv dinner, which he didn't like. Then, I fixed him a fruit salad, which he said smelled good.

And then he said he had to go to the bathroom. But he sat there, and sat there, and sat there. Finally, I pointed out that it was 9:30, and the last time he'd called me over for help off the toilet, I ended up home at 12:30. I said I couldn't do that again, so if he wanted to go, he needed to do it. I'd help him to the bathroom, but he had to go now. He looked at me and said, "It really hurts (the pressure sore) to sit on that toilet seat."

Talk about a rock and a hard place! I felt sorry for him, but there was nothing I could do. A sky-hook would have been a good thing, right about then!

Today, I intend to go over around 9 or 9:30 and do for him what an assisted living place would do. They might not bring him breakfast in bed, but all the ones I've seen would either take him, via wheelchair, to a dining room, or they'd bring breakfast to his room/apt. Regardless of which method they'd use, he'd get something to eat. They'd also get him out of bed, which he has trouble doing for himself, too. Etcetera!!!!!!

Anyway, he'd get a lot more care than I can provide, seeing as how I'm not a 24-hour, awake-care unit ALL BY MYSELF!!!

Also, hospice is coming over today, and they might take one look at him and say, "By the powers vested in me (us), I command you to go POST HASTE to an assisted living facility that your daughter has already previewed and has decided is good for you! Yes, you have to trust her, since you cannot do it yourself!!!"

I can dream.

In the meantime, I can take my computer and do homework. I can also, I realized this morning, take the window screens, and the paraphernalia to rescreen them, over to his house and do it a little at a time, which would go a long way towards resolving my angst over not getting anything done! That is, of course, provided Dad will hang out periodically, so I can actually get them done! Ha!

Poor Dad!

I have to quit hitting "return," so the title doesn't appear on the blog BEFORE the text does! Ha!

So, my dad called--again--demanding paper towels RIGHT NOW. I figured Ana (his housekeeper/shower-giver) could use rags, for crying out loud! Thirty minutes later, I took 3 of my own Costco rolls of paper towels over--he said he hates the large size, because Ana uses just as many as the regular size (what does he do? Count them?!!!), and he demanded to know when I was going to take him to the chiropractor to learn how to use his T.E.N.S. unit. I said I was going alone, explaining that I had limited time this afternoon. And the conversation deteriorated from there.

I went back over later, after another phone demand, and Ana met me at the door with the whispered words, "Your dad thinks you're tired of him. He says he can hear it in your voice." I looked at her and said, "He's right."

That's not really true. I'm tired of the situation. If I could separate the two, I might--or might not--also be tired of Dad! I feel drained after I'm there, and it's getting worse as he gets sicker. He has COPD (advanced) and heart failure (end stage). He's irascible and getting more so.

Marste suggested I give him written instructions in sheet protectors with an attached dry erase marker, so he could jot down grocery items he needs, questions he wants to ask, etc.

LATER:

I got an "emergency" call just as I typed that last period. It wasn't really an emergency. I find this extremely irritating!

I spent time over there. I came home and started to work here. I got another call for help and went over there again. And this has been my life for the last 2 years. Mom died, and Dad was lonely. His COPD worsened dramatically, and he started his own downhill slide.

I still don't have a refrigerator that works, because I've been at Dad's, and trying to find a fridge between Dad calls is unbelievable difficult. I still don't have my brand-new baseboards spackled or painted, because it's unbelievably difficult to do this between Dad calls. Getting a paint brush wet and doing a stroke or two, then freezing it for the next day's 2 strokes seems like it's doable, but it isn't. It's never the next day, you see; it's 2 weeks later, and the paint is crusted on.

But to finish today: I went to the chiropractor to learn how to use Dad's new T. E. N. S. unit. Dr. Gogatz very kindly showed me how to use it, complete with a demo on my arm, so I'd know which setting to change if Dad complained. I decided right then and there to let DAD change things, so he couldn't blame me! I would kibbitz.

I went to Dad's to show him how to use the pocket-sized machine. I attached the pads to his back, and he played with the buttons. After an hour, he commented that Dr. Gogatz's machine was stronger, and he thought he should go back to the chiropractor's office for treatment. This sounds okay, but Dad's on Vicoden, with morphine "boosts" when he has "break-through pain"--a hospice term. In other words, Dad has no business driving. AND he can't call any of the senior driving services, because none of them will take his scooter apart, travel with it, and assemble it at his destination. And then repeat the activity for the drive home. Also, he can't get up the steps by himself--one porch step and one into the house--and the drivers can't help him. So, I don't WANT him to go back to the office visits! I have to drive. It wouldn't be so bad, except it takes Dad so long to get anywhere.

Occasionally, I take Dad somewhere with me that he might enjoy: Costco, WalMart, a small market a distance from us that has oddball stuff, a local restaurant, etc. I invite him more often than I take him. He doesn't always feel great, so he doesn't always go. I can go a lot faster without him than with him, so that's the good part. The irritating part is that I need to change my schedule around to accommodate him, and he always wants to reschedule. So, I don't want him to start scheduling and canceling appointments again!

Back to today: Dad played with the dials after I showed him (again) how to work things. He got the result he wanted, so I thought I could go home and work. He looked at me and asked me to stay a while, because his heart was beating hard.

In hospice, you have to call hospice and NOT 911. You've signed a form stating that you want no drastic measures to save your life, that you're ready to die, and you want to be comfortable. Dad definitely wants that.

So, he was scared, perhaps, and I went home for my computer, thinking I could work there for a bit. I did get some stuff done for about 10 minutes. And then, he started talking. Memories, comments on my clothing, comments on my dog, comments on his yard and the job his gardener was doing, and my favorite: comments on his bodily functions. I was there for 3 hours, before I had to leave to feed the dogs. He was disappointed. As I gathered up stuff, I realized he hadn't paid his bills. I started going through them and asked him if he intended to do them soon. He said he just didn't care about them. I said he might care if they turned off the electricity, phone, water, etc. Watching tv, for instance, would be difficult, at best!!

I gathered up the bills, my computer, my cell phone, his house key and started out again. He asked, "Can I call you at 9 if I can't get off the toilet tonight?" I replied, "Only if you get on the toilet at 8. The last time you asked me that, I got home at 12:30 a.m., and I can't afford no sleep tonight, too." "I don't remember that," he stated, looking straight at me. I didn't care, but I reminded him of the circumstances and our conversations that night. "Oh, yeah," he said. He thought about this and asked how late he could call. "8:30," I replied. We'll see.

I'm home right now. I fed the dogs and ate some dinner. I also started paying Dad's bills. And then I decided I'd log how I spent my day. Maybe that way, if I see that I'm spending all my time dealing with Dad-stuff, I can better withstand my self-hatred over a cluttered and dirty home, shedding (i.e. not brushed) dogs, dog fur everywhere, spiders and webs in corners, dirty couch covers, crunchy floors, etc. Also, I can, perhaps, forgive myself for not doing the school work for the classes I've enrolled in. If I don't find the time to do the work, I guess I'll drop and try again next semester.

Boo hoo! Poor ME! Ha!

I just started to edit this and thought, "To hell with it!" So, I'll apologize in advance for the disjointed subject changes! I'm going to finish Dad's bills before 8:30! Woohoo!

Starting In The Middle!

I'll just say at the start that I'm hoping for comments, so I don't have to keep reinventing the "wheel!"

I set this up a couple of days ago, but I didn't know where to begin. I have the Storyteller archetype, and it likes a beginning, middle, and end. I'm starting in the middle, and my brain went TILT in the form of, "...uh, uh, uh, ...." Ha!

So, the middle!

"Sandwich" implies three layers. Let me just say here that I suck as the filling! Tears make it soggy, like egg salad with too much mayonnaise; angry or resigned perseverance makes it stringy, like bad pastrami. The bread, my kids on one side and my parents on the other, is its own story! My kids, three daughters, are all grown and (mostly) gone. My parents moved from San Diego, an hour from us, to two houses away from us in our cul de sac in January, 2003.

The reason for their move from their home of 43 years was that my mom had Alzheimer's, and my dad felt like he needed help. They moved, in spite of my protestations that they had their doctors, dentists, friends, and neighbors--43 years of living and collecting people and situations that made their lives full--and we could just supplement those already-in-place people with an in-home helper a few hours daily. My dad stated flat out that this wasn't going to happen; he didn't want someone else in the house.

My dad hates for anyone to touch anything in his space. He hates for anything to be put away or thrown away; he's very much interested in his convenience, and if Mom liked neatness and he liked convenience, with everything spread over tables, countertops, bookcases--in other words, in plain sight and within easy reach--then, he got his way, and Mom endured. Mom just got tired of silent battles, and she retreated first into her bedroom, where she sat all day every day, where Dad brought her glasses of iced tea, ostensibly to "help" her but really to keep her out of "his" space, and she retreated finally and irrevocably into Alzheimer's.

Mom died two years ago in an Alzheimer's care unit that I signed her into a year after they moved to our cul de sac, a year of watching Dad yell at her for everything and anything he could think of, a year of watching her cry constantly. She was happy in her new home, smiling and laughing, even at the end. She left me with Dad. I told her years ago that she'd better not do that, and she laughed and said she wouldn't dare! She lied to me!

My dad and I have had "issues," ever since I was a little girl. My first memory is of him yelling at me, and that pretty much says it all! In fact my first several memories are of him yelling at me for various things. And that never changed. So, I arrived at 20 years old with PTSD. I'd like to think I've resolved a lot of that stuff, but I'd be lying to myself. And now, I'm stuck with a sick and dying old man--really a COG: Crotchety Old Guy! Ha!

I started this blog out of desperation. Last Wednesday, Dad called me at 9:30 p.m. and said, "I haven't eaten dinner, and I'm too weak to fix some. I should have called at 8:30, but I thought I'd get some strength back." I, of course, said I'd be right over.

I fixed some eggs, toast, and chopped an apple. As he was eating, he said he needed to go to the bathroom--an hour-long process--and could I wait to see if he needed help to get up off the toilet. (He has a raised toilet seat, grab bars, and a walker for help.) I acquiesced, because I've seen him not be able to get up. I waited, and waited, and waited...you get the drift. I'll cut the rest of this "story" short and say that I got home at 12:30 a.m. Then I got up at 5 a.m. Thursday.

Thursday, Dad had a first appointment with a doctor, and I got there at 9:10 a.m. When I walked in, he was sitting in his easy chair. He had done nothing to get ready to leave at 9:30! I was furious. He looked at me and said, "Have you ever been to a doctor's office and not waited?" I walked over and turned off the tv. Then, I grabbed his paraphernalia out of the bathroom, brought it to the living room, dressed him, and hustled him out the door with him complaining the entire time. I didn't care! We made the appointment, by the way!

And Friday, I woke with the thought that hospice nurses were coming for Dad's appointment today, and I had to be there. With that, I burst into tears! I was stunned! Who knew?! I did make the hospice appointment, but then I left for Marste's house in L.A. (Marste is one of the daughters!) I hid there until last night, when I arrived back here to listen to my dad bitch about no food in the house (there are other people he can call for this stuff) and glasses not fitting properly and all the rest of the junk.

In L.A., I'd had time to think about things. And one of the things I'd decided was to stop being at Dad's "beck and call." So, in anticipation of just exactly the no-food complaint, I'd stopped at a supermarket before I'd gone to his house, so I already had fruit, napkins, and tv dinners.

The other thing I did was set up this blog. Marste suggested the title and subtitle. They fit!

He just now called me to tell me again about his glasses. I called the lady who gives him showers, Ana, and she said if he'd take a shower immediately, she'd take him to the optometrist's office herself. COOL. So, I called Dad and said he had to be ready in 15 minutes for his shower upon her arrival, and she'd take him to get his glasses fitted. Again. (He won't wear the strap around the back of his head to keep them on. He just complains bitterly as they stretch out time and again. He bends them and makes them worse, too.)

So, I escaped for a few days from this hell that's become my life. My brother lives 3,000 miles from here--smart of him to move 20 years ago! If I'd have realized that this was coming, I'd have moved, too!! Ha!