Current Flu

Well, having told the story of the other 2 bouts with flu, here's the last "installment."

Marste arranged for us to go to Disney World the first week of January, 2010. She had this fantasy of having one last family vacation before one of her sisters "did something stupid, like get married" was her way of putting it. The one serious boyfriend DID NOT get invited! Ha!

Steve and I didn't know WHAT she was thinking. We had a much clearer view of the dynamics in family vacations, having been adults when we took our children to visit their far-flung relatives! Ha!

Marste, being a serious "Disneyphile," wanted to go to Disney World, which she'd been to, but none of the rest of us had ever seen. I laughed out loud. Steve teaches English at a community college, and he writes textbooks. He did this so I could homeschool our children, and we wouldn't go broke trying to live in So. California! It worked; he earned his income and my income, as well, and we're still here! I can't say we're "none the worse for wear," but we're here! Our bank account, however, doesn't give us carte blanche for five round-trip plane tickets, a week of hotel rooms, and a week of feeding us all--including the sweets that Steve and a couple of the kids seem to think goes with any "family outing"! So, Marste took charge of the arranging of things.

Marste had figured out that a "villa" with 2 bedrooms was cheaper than two hotel rooms, AND it had a furnished kitchen, with cupboards and everything! She figured we could eat at least some of our meals in the villa, thereby saving a LOT of money on food. I figured that having a kitchen meant that we'd have better food than inexpensive restaurant food, and getting through this week without completely messing up our systems was of interest to me! Ha! (We ended up eating breakfasts and most dinners there, and it worked great!)

So, we flew out there on a red-eye that got in Sunday morning, we rented a car, and we went to the hotel on the off-chance that we could at least leave our bags there and go to WalMart for groceries. Checking in, shopping, and filling the cupboards filled up the rest of the 40, or so, hours we'd all been awake by Sunday night, and we went to bed with visions of Sleeping Beauty's castle filling our heads. I guess.

Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday, we went to Disney World. We saw the "lands," we went on roller coasters--the only rides any of us were interested in!--and we ate very expensive lunches! By Wednesday, though--note the omission in my list of days! Ha!--we'd had it. We were all tired because of sleep deprivation and because of being on top of each other in this villa. We all needed a break from each other, and Wednesday was it.

Marste's rosy vision had paled in comparison with reality. I actually felt sorry for her! Ha!

Saturday, we all staggered home, slept some, and we got up Sunday to deal with kids needing to get to their own homes, Steve needing to prepare for work the following day, and my needing to get a handle on laundry and groceries, not to mention figuring out a schedule that included petting the dogs--I'd hired a live-in pet sitter, who was fabulous!!--and getting back to doing the homework for classes I'd been taking. Sunday night, all was back to "normal," more or less. My throat was scratchy and I was coughing occasionally, but my throat gets scratchy when I'm tired--and boy, was I tired--and I cough occasionally...oh, yeah, NEVER. Still, I chalked it up to being tired. Period.

And Monday, I woke with a horrible headache, congestion that wiped out seeing (I could see shadow and light), hearing, speaking, tasting, and smelling. I could do nothing but lie there. I didn't want to do anything but lie there!! I blew my nose and coughed. I had a fever--this was hindsight information--so I wasn't thinking at all. I didn't take any herbs or aspirin until Wednesday, when Marste, who'd called me to make sure I wasn't dead, said, "Well, you ARE taking silver, aren't you??!!" It hadn't occurred to me! Ha!

To put this into perspective, I'll just say that I would throw illness-appropriate herbs at my children when they were sick. I'd restrict them to a couch, a bathroom, and put the tv remote into a plastic bag. There was NO WAY I wanted to deal with three sick kids! It worked, by the way. BUT I now have the reputation of being the weird lady on the hill (a small hill, but hey!) the neighbors go to with health issues when they, or their kids, get sick. Marste gleefully pointed this out recently! And I know this stuff because of multiple drug allergies in my mom, myself, and Jenna, to list us in order of generation. It's handy information, let me tell you!

Anyway, I staggered downstairs to find silver and found myrrh gum capsules, instead. Good enough. And at that point, I at least stopped getting worse. I stayed the same for two weeks, recuperated enough the third week to watch all the do-it-yourself networks on very loud volume, and by the fourth week, I could go downstairs and sit on the couch and watch stuff, as opposed to stay upstairs and sit on the bed and watch stuff! Little distinction, but enough to matter to me!

This last week was the fifth week, and I've been trying to play catch-up. The problem is that I'm still not well! AND I have no stamina. I went to Costco yesterday, and I had to sit down on the edge of a refrigerator case. An employee actually asked me if I needed a wheel chair! Ha! I didn't, but I sat there for several minutes, letting my heart figure out that I really hadn't just run five miles, so it could stop pounding. Brother!!!

At each flu point in my life, the reason for getting it has been the same: too much mental and physical activity, too much stress, and not enough sleep. The lesson: QUIT IT!, to put it succinctly. At 16, I didn't want to quit it. At 36, it was a good theory, but I had a 3-year-old, an 8-year-old, and a 12-year old, and I was homeschooling. (It's a good thing they weren't in school; I couldn't have driven them to and from!) I didn't see how I could change anything.

At 56, the situation is different. I run and gun for different reasons, but the stress level is the same. This bout with flu has been interesting; it's lasted so long, that I am no longer plugged in to people or situations that I thought needed my attention five weeks ago. So, I can now choose what I want in my life. BUT I've spent 56 years "running and gunning," and not doing so makes me feel lazy--even though I'm now following guidance (FINALLY), and learning to meditate and reading about healers and healing. Since I still have no stamina, I can't run and gun, but breaking lifelong patterns is challenging, at best! This week, I planned one thing every day (like, return a package of batteries to a local store, and other things equally unimportant), but it's Thursday, and I've already overdone things! Amazing!

I'm intending to learn this lesson, though. Otherwise, since each flu bout gets longer and much worse, I figure that by 76, I'll become an "elderly statistic!" Ha!

20-year cycle!

This isn't really "pressed between two generations."

My dad died August 22, 2009, we buried him on Aug. 31, we started going through his "packrat-style" decorated house, Steve's mom started having more trouble, she died October 22, and we buried her on Oct. 31. And then came legal stuff, then Christmas, and then Disney World in Florida for 6 days. The Sunday we were home, I had a scratchy throat, but I was tired, and since this is often the cause of scratchy throats for me, I ignored it and started picking up where I'd left off before we left.

I didn't realize it at the time, but I had the flu. I'm not writing this to feel sorry for myself, because although I feel horrible, I'm kind of amused. And I'm right on schedule: I get a seriously nasty flu every 20 years.

When I was 16, I got the "Asian" flu, which involved a lot of muscle cramping. Unfortunately for me, no one recognized it in the first few patients--which DID include me! At one point, the guy I was dating at the time came over to visit me, and my mother let him in!!!!!!! I felt like hell, let him know it, and said he should leave. I was irascible! The poor kid had ridden his 10-speed bike 8 miles from his house to see me! What a welcome! Ha!

My parents and brother got it the next week, by which time someone had decided to try muscle relaxants. Low and behold, they worked. I hated my family so much that week! Ha!

When I was 36, I got another flu. I don't remember the name, but I do remember living in a new house among still-packed boxes--we'd been there for 10 days--and I woke on Christmas morning with the flu. Now, none of us, most especially the three daughters, wanted to be in this brand-new house with sheets on the windows on Christmas Day--although I felt so horrible that I considered asking them to go without me. The plan was for us to pack all the presents into the van and hightail it down to my parents' house, where we would mess up THEIR living room, THEIR kitchen, and THEIR dining room, and we didn't have to constantly watch the kids, because there were 2 more pairs of eyes helping! I decided I wouldn't say anything.

My mom, understanding a kid's impatience on Christmas Day, insisted we get there at 6:00 a.m. (An hour's drive, plus packing beforehand had me up at 3 a.m.--not conducive to healing! Ha!) So, we did. I decided I would go, sit across the room from the tree and mountain of gifts, and not breathe on anyone. I'd survived long days without sleep the night before, and if I could hold it together on other times, I could hold it together for 3/4 of a day! What was I, a wimp??

So, I listened to shouts of laughter that made my headache worse, the noisy toys--thanks, Mom!--and I was helping to pick up shredded wrapping paper before it hit me that I absolutely couldn't go through with this. I was in complete misery.

I threw away the stuff in my hands, found my purse, and told Steve I'd had it. He was less than thrilled, because my mother always fried bacon and eggs for him on Christmas Day, and this is one of his favorite meals. He even asked me if I could wait that long! Ha! It's even funnier that I considered it seriously, because I knew, in my heart of hearts, that I was very, very ill and needed to lie down!

As everybody gathered up Barbie bits, My Little Pony bits, and a few generic things for 3-year-old Chelsea (who had no opinion as to which "collection" she thought was wonderful), my dad came up to me and said, "I'm going to miss our traditional glass of wine together on Christmas Day." I hadn't realized this had become a "tradition" in his mind; I was going to tell him that I didn't want to do it anymore, because I was tired for the rest of the afternoon! Ha! I didn't roll my physical eyes--it would have hurt too much!--and, at 8:00 a.m., I mustered up a more-or-less smile, and said, "Okay, Dad. You pour it, and I'll drink it." He did, we toasted, and I did--straight down. I figured if I passed out in the car, it wouldn't matter. Steve was driving, and I'd get an hour of sleep! Ha! AND there was the "pain killer" aspect that had me drinking wine at 8 a.m.!!!

We got home at 9:00 a.m. I found some aspirin, a blanket, and I commandeered the couch and the remote, in that order. The others wandered around, feeling lost. Neither Mom nor Grandma was around to orchestrate anything. Yours truly had found "Mr. Roberts," followed by "Ensign Pulver," on tv, and since seeing me lie down at anytime was an anomaly, the girls were too scared to talk to me. Good.

Steve had no such compunctions. I finally suggested he call my mom, because it hurt me to talk, and I was having trouble stringing sentences together in a coherent fashion, anyway. He didn't call. Instead, he sat down with a pencil and paper and made a list: canned ham, 1 can yams with syrup, 1 bag marshmallows, and 1 can refrigerated biscuits. He went to the local store, returned with his treasures, to the dubious stares of 2 of his daughters and to the vocal consternation of the 12-year-old Marste. "I can do this!" he said in a ringing voice--kind of like a politician you wonder about. Marste wasn't convinced.

He did make dinner. He opened his canned ham and put it on a baking dish. He put it in the oven, according to the can's directions. He opened his yams and poured yams and syrup into another baking dish. He topped this with most of the bag of marshmallows and put it in the oven with the ham. (Jenna suggested they toast the rest on forks over the gas stove's flames, which Steve thought was a great idea! Snacks!) And he put the biscuits, edges touching (!) in a round cake pan and sat them next to the stove, awaiting their turn for the oven.

Steve was very proud of himself, but the girls weren't thrilled with dinner. The ham tasted like canned ham, which he thought was okay but the girls thought tasted like "can." I thought the funniest part was the yams. I could hear the girls exclaim that this wasn't "right" and Steve protesting that he thought the yams would melt. If I could have laughed, I would have. Marste kept telling him, "I told you so!" which went over in a big way. The biscuits were perfect--Steve had cooked these before--and they disappeared post haste.

Steve nibbled on the rest for the next few days. His ungrateful daughters stuck to fruit, whatever bags of celery and carrot sticks I'd chopped a couple of days before I got sick, peanut butter sandwiches, and hot dogs.

The current flu deserves its own post. Ha!

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!