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!