"Killing" Time
Yes, my sense of humor is sick.
Dad has surprised me with his tenacity. I saw him Friday and wasn't sure he'd be around to celebrate my birthday on Saturday. Then he had a really great weekend. I think Dad and I finished our emotional work over the weekend. Mike and Jen did the same. The only one lagging behind is Mom. I am doing what I can to facilitate her process but it's groaningly slow.
We had a home health aide for the whole day today. I, personally, didn't like it. It's like someone is eavesdropping on our grief. Since Mom has now said she has no intention of returning to work until after Dad's death, the necessity of a home health aide is really rather questionable. The aide was a lovely woman named Marie, originally from Liberia, but I found her terribly chatty. Maybe she's having a good day today and feels like talking but my dad is dying. Sorry, if I'm not quite at my conversational best. I sought haven outdoors.
This is the family homestead and bears all the marks of life over the last 30-plus years. My parents were not wealthy when we were growing up. Between having grown up during the Depression and being of meager origins and a mostly lower-middle class background, my folks have a really hard time throwing anything away. Dad, of course, always had 7 or 8 projects running at any given time and the evidence of these projects is at every turn in the back yard. Recently, I had gathered up sundry tools (hoes, shovels, rakes, adzes, etc.) and leaned them against the shed. Today, I thought it would be a good idea to put them into the shed.
Take an obsessive-compulsive mother and a son who didn't fall far from the tree. Mix in an over-talkative home health aide (my mother can safely ignore ANYONE! Don't ask me how she does it!) and you have all the ingredients for an Extreme Makeover! Soon, placing the tools in the shed turned into filling the bird feeders which sprouted cleaning up the bird seed the mice had left behind. Of course, being down on that floor led to picking up all the loose nuts, bolts, pencils, receptacle boxes...you name it, it was probably on the floor of my Dad's shed!
Next thing you know, I'm organizing the flotsam and jetsam of the shed floor into boxes and crates. Tools in this crate. Boxes of nails in that box. Rags over here...gee, they really need to be washed. Then Michael entered the act. Plywood and lumber were soon moving from the shed to the "barn." Long-handled tools were leaned against one wall. That's when it hit. Mike got the urge to build.
You can no more keep a man with the urge to build from building something than you can keep a woman from shopping if she really wants to. C'mon, admit it. It doesn't necessarily mean clothes or shoes shopping. Home Depot counts as well! You know you love shopping for something!
Next thing you know, Mike is cutting two-by-fours and I'm clearing everything away from the west wall of the shed. We put it together as a team, though Michael felt inclined to show his patience with me. I think it's so cute when he tries to teach me things! I just the little darling go...then do things the way I damn well want them. It's so darned adorable!
Long story short, we now have a lovely 4-shelf unit, about 6 feet tall, on the left wall of the shed. Tomorrow, we get to go organize everything. That should be the really fun part. I can find enjoyment in Mike's trying to teach me something I already know. I find it extremely annoying, though, when he thinks he knows everything, and that's what's going to happen tomorrow! You know that key I bought for myself that reads, "I'm not bossy. I just have better ideas?" I should buy one for my son! My payback, hmmm?
It was very therapeutic to do these things today. Mike and I were able to have some fun and enjoy each other's company. Mom was able to ignore the home health aide. All around, a good day. It is good to feel physically exhausted. It numbs the acuteness of the emotional drain. Dad continues to surprise me with his tenacity. I wake up every morning pleasantly surprised to have one more day with him. I will be so sorry when they're all used up. Every day, I can see a little more of his reserve slip away. This is the hardest thing I've ever done. This makes raising my son seem a cake walk.
I've had a song on my mind all day...Cheryl Wheeler's Seventy-Five Septembers. I love that song. I used to think of my grandfather when I heard it. He was born in 1909 or 1908, depending on your source. Wilson was nearly the president. In recent years, I've begun to see my Dad move into that role, though the time frame isn't the same. I looked forward to seeing him in his 75th year. Not going to happen now.
Another song came into my head this evening...Sarah McLachlan's Hold On. God, does this song feel like what it's like for me to lose my Dad. I think, beside my son, he's the only man I ever, truly loved. Feels like getting you heart ripped out.
-----
I just went downstairs to check on Mom and Dad. Dad has changed. His color is more sallow, his cheeks more sunken. His mouth hangs lax. His breathing is different, not shallow...if anything it's deeper. His respirations are not labored, just very deep and very slow. I did not count them. He has been asleep for most of the day, has only taken a few sips of water and sucked on some mouth swabs. He's only made a few ounces of urine all day.
Why does this seem like such a surprise? I am a nurse. It's been a long time since I worked with oncology patients, but I should recognize the signs. Instead, I become overly alarmed every night then seek the shelter of the chemicals and the internet and, finally, sleep. And yet, when I came down the stairs, his face looked suddenly stark, as if this had all happened today.
He had somehow managed to shift his position again. He's become a regular Houdini in recent days but I hadn't seen him move much this afternoon and marvelled at this. I told him a couple of days ago I was alarmed to see my father leaning so far to the right! He looked dreadfully uncomfortable. He didn't protest much when I started to reposition him. The wince told me it was time for more Morphine, not only for the pain but for any air hunger the changing respiratory pattern could bring. It is good to die in the family of a healthcare professional.
He woke up. I told him it was okay. I told him God still loved him and Jesus looked forward to meeting him personally. I told him he will always be my number one man. I gave him his Morphine.
I told my mother, before I medicated Dad, that he seemed to be failing. I wasn't sure he would survive the night. Then I admitted to Dad that I'd been talking about him like he wasn't there. I asked for a kiss and he pulled his chin up a centimeter or two in his effort. I was satisfied. I told Mom he was giving kisses and encouraged her to get hers while they were hot. She didn't realize his little chin quiver is all the pucker he can muster. She doesn't recognize the kisses. She didn't cry.
I've come back upstairs to give her a few minutes alone with him, if she chooses to use them, before I go wake my son to ask if he wants to say good-bye before Pop goes to sleep. I'm afraid he may not be waking up again.
Dad has surprised me with his tenacity. I saw him Friday and wasn't sure he'd be around to celebrate my birthday on Saturday. Then he had a really great weekend. I think Dad and I finished our emotional work over the weekend. Mike and Jen did the same. The only one lagging behind is Mom. I am doing what I can to facilitate her process but it's groaningly slow.
We had a home health aide for the whole day today. I, personally, didn't like it. It's like someone is eavesdropping on our grief. Since Mom has now said she has no intention of returning to work until after Dad's death, the necessity of a home health aide is really rather questionable. The aide was a lovely woman named Marie, originally from Liberia, but I found her terribly chatty. Maybe she's having a good day today and feels like talking but my dad is dying. Sorry, if I'm not quite at my conversational best. I sought haven outdoors.
This is the family homestead and bears all the marks of life over the last 30-plus years. My parents were not wealthy when we were growing up. Between having grown up during the Depression and being of meager origins and a mostly lower-middle class background, my folks have a really hard time throwing anything away. Dad, of course, always had 7 or 8 projects running at any given time and the evidence of these projects is at every turn in the back yard. Recently, I had gathered up sundry tools (hoes, shovels, rakes, adzes, etc.) and leaned them against the shed. Today, I thought it would be a good idea to put them into the shed.
Take an obsessive-compulsive mother and a son who didn't fall far from the tree. Mix in an over-talkative home health aide (my mother can safely ignore ANYONE! Don't ask me how she does it!) and you have all the ingredients for an Extreme Makeover! Soon, placing the tools in the shed turned into filling the bird feeders which sprouted cleaning up the bird seed the mice had left behind. Of course, being down on that floor led to picking up all the loose nuts, bolts, pencils, receptacle boxes...you name it, it was probably on the floor of my Dad's shed!
Next thing you know, I'm organizing the flotsam and jetsam of the shed floor into boxes and crates. Tools in this crate. Boxes of nails in that box. Rags over here...gee, they really need to be washed. Then Michael entered the act. Plywood and lumber were soon moving from the shed to the "barn." Long-handled tools were leaned against one wall. That's when it hit. Mike got the urge to build.
You can no more keep a man with the urge to build from building something than you can keep a woman from shopping if she really wants to. C'mon, admit it. It doesn't necessarily mean clothes or shoes shopping. Home Depot counts as well! You know you love shopping for something!
Next thing you know, Mike is cutting two-by-fours and I'm clearing everything away from the west wall of the shed. We put it together as a team, though Michael felt inclined to show his patience with me. I think it's so cute when he tries to teach me things! I just the little darling go...then do things the way I damn well want them. It's so darned adorable!
Long story short, we now have a lovely 4-shelf unit, about 6 feet tall, on the left wall of the shed. Tomorrow, we get to go organize everything. That should be the really fun part. I can find enjoyment in Mike's trying to teach me something I already know. I find it extremely annoying, though, when he thinks he knows everything, and that's what's going to happen tomorrow! You know that key I bought for myself that reads, "I'm not bossy. I just have better ideas?" I should buy one for my son! My payback, hmmm?
It was very therapeutic to do these things today. Mike and I were able to have some fun and enjoy each other's company. Mom was able to ignore the home health aide. All around, a good day. It is good to feel physically exhausted. It numbs the acuteness of the emotional drain. Dad continues to surprise me with his tenacity. I wake up every morning pleasantly surprised to have one more day with him. I will be so sorry when they're all used up. Every day, I can see a little more of his reserve slip away. This is the hardest thing I've ever done. This makes raising my son seem a cake walk.
I've had a song on my mind all day...Cheryl Wheeler's Seventy-Five Septembers. I love that song. I used to think of my grandfather when I heard it. He was born in 1909 or 1908, depending on your source. Wilson was nearly the president. In recent years, I've begun to see my Dad move into that role, though the time frame isn't the same. I looked forward to seeing him in his 75th year. Not going to happen now.
Another song came into my head this evening...Sarah McLachlan's Hold On. God, does this song feel like what it's like for me to lose my Dad. I think, beside my son, he's the only man I ever, truly loved. Feels like getting you heart ripped out.
-----
I just went downstairs to check on Mom and Dad. Dad has changed. His color is more sallow, his cheeks more sunken. His mouth hangs lax. His breathing is different, not shallow...if anything it's deeper. His respirations are not labored, just very deep and very slow. I did not count them. He has been asleep for most of the day, has only taken a few sips of water and sucked on some mouth swabs. He's only made a few ounces of urine all day.
Why does this seem like such a surprise? I am a nurse. It's been a long time since I worked with oncology patients, but I should recognize the signs. Instead, I become overly alarmed every night then seek the shelter of the chemicals and the internet and, finally, sleep. And yet, when I came down the stairs, his face looked suddenly stark, as if this had all happened today.
He had somehow managed to shift his position again. He's become a regular Houdini in recent days but I hadn't seen him move much this afternoon and marvelled at this. I told him a couple of days ago I was alarmed to see my father leaning so far to the right! He looked dreadfully uncomfortable. He didn't protest much when I started to reposition him. The wince told me it was time for more Morphine, not only for the pain but for any air hunger the changing respiratory pattern could bring. It is good to die in the family of a healthcare professional.
He woke up. I told him it was okay. I told him God still loved him and Jesus looked forward to meeting him personally. I told him he will always be my number one man. I gave him his Morphine.
I told my mother, before I medicated Dad, that he seemed to be failing. I wasn't sure he would survive the night. Then I admitted to Dad that I'd been talking about him like he wasn't there. I asked for a kiss and he pulled his chin up a centimeter or two in his effort. I was satisfied. I told Mom he was giving kisses and encouraged her to get hers while they were hot. She didn't realize his little chin quiver is all the pucker he can muster. She doesn't recognize the kisses. She didn't cry.
I've come back upstairs to give her a few minutes alone with him, if she chooses to use them, before I go wake my son to ask if he wants to say good-bye before Pop goes to sleep. I'm afraid he may not be waking up again.
posted by Cheryl at
3/08/2006 09:04:00 PM
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