That Ingenious Hero

I left the worship service and walked into the bright Sunday morning air of northern Arizona, not too far South of the Grand Canyon.  As I walked out the front door of the building, I looked across a vista that seemed to go on without end.  I don't know how far it actually was because my East Coast eyes are just not accustomed to seeing that far.  At the far end of what seemed like miles, stood a magnificent, majestic mountain, rising straight into a cloudless desert sky.  I think in Arizona they call these 'ridges,' but to me it was a mountain.  The sun cast light and shadow in such a picturesque fashion, it literally took my breath away.  I had to stop and compose myself.

I grabbed a drink from the cooler in the bed of my pickup and walked to the tailgate where I leaned and stared across the vista to the horizon.  It was just so big and stunningly beautiful.  I praised God and thought, "This is the perfect way to end a morning of worship."

I turned back toward the building to see how many other worshippers would join me.  I suddenly realized I was alone.  How long how I stood there?  I couldn't begin to imagine but everyone else, all the locals, had gone on their way, leaving me alone in the parking lot.

Strange.  Didn't they see what I saw?  Didn't it arrest their attention and drive them to their tailgates to worship?  Apparently not.  They had come out into the bright sun, chatted for a bit and, perhaps without a second glance or moment's reflection on the Creator, climbed in their vehicles, kicked on the A.C. and hit the dusty trail.

All of this shocking beauty had left them unmoved.  It was just more of the same for them.  Another day in Paradise.  

As with so many aspects of life, sooner or later we grow accustomed to life as we know it.  We are so easily bored.  What once brought pure joy, now brings a ho-hum.  What once filled us with fear brings cold resolution.

So life has become with Dad.  More of the same.  It's not that serving dad's daily needs has ever been anything like a worship experience.  Quite the opposite, really.  But in the beginning, when everything was new, it definitely felt like an adventure.  A Journey in the Dark.

There was fear and apprehension and a lot of moments of, "Yeah...well...ya know what...no...I don't think I can do that!"  And eventually, off ya go and you do what seemed impossible and you survive.  Sort of like repelling off a one hundred foot high cliff or paddling down a dangerous rapid.  Fear followed by the joy of overcoming.

It's been a while since I posted here at Last Days.  Frankly, I just haven't found anything compelling to write about.  Maybe it is that I've grown accustomed to the daily nature of Dad's care or maybe its just that life with Dad has just gotten too routine for me.

Maybe the problem is I no longer feel like Ulysses.

In The Odyssey, Homer writes Ulysses was "that ingenious hero who traveled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy."  

That's who I was at the beginning of the journey.  "That ingenious hero."

But not now.  Now, I feel much more like...like Larry Daley.  He's the Ben Stiller character from the movie Night at the Museum.   Larry is a would-be inventor whose ideas never quite catch on.  As the story begins, he's once again out of work and forced to take a job as a night watchman or risk losing his visitation rights with his young son, Nick.  Having come face to face with his dad's failure once again, the young boy confronts his father this way:  "Maybe you're not special, Dad.  Maybe you're just an ordinary guy who should get a job like everybody else."

The concept of being an ordinary guy hasn't been real easy for me to grasp either.  And I suppose even hero work can get routine.

So here I am, average Joe, the ordinary guy, growing a bit restless with my heroic duties!

Everywhere I go, all sorts of people ask me the same question.  A clerk at the grocery store, a waitress at the local pizza shop, the ice cream guy, a friend at church, the mailman, the neighbor.  It doesn't matter.  It's always the same seemingly simple question.


"So.... How's Dad?"

I always pause when people ask me, "How is Dad?" as if an extraordinarily long ponder will add a certain profundity to my ill prepared answer.

Dad has Parkinson's disease among many other problems.  In his waking moments he is often in the throws of what nurses refer to as "the mask."  He stares blankly and doesn't seem to hear or comprehend who you are or anything you say.  He lacks ability to lucidly and quickly communicate in a one-on-one conversation.  If you were to talk to him while he's in "the mask" state, you would feel he is simply not there, not listening or unable to comprehend.  You would assume trying to communicate is a waste of time so you'd stop trying.   

Truthfully, I don't often know for sure how Dad is.   He rarely tries to speak to me anymore and when he does it is rare that his thoughts are coherent enough to be understood and when his thoughts are coherent enough to be understood I can rarely comprehend them over the TV noise and the bubbling, snapping, crackling sounds that come from lungs and throat that seem relentlessly filled with saliva and mucous and on those times when I turn down the TV and put my ear next to his mouth and I ask him to repeat, he rarely can remember what he was going to say but, instead, stares at me for a few moments and then looks past me to the TV and motions, with some annoyance, that I should turn up the volume.

If that sounds exasperating, you're starting to get the picture.

But that is not the entire picture.  Like so much of communication, understanding and knowing my father-in-law is all about taking time to ask and taking time to listen.  Maybe the question I need to ask myself is whether I still care enough to ask and wait for an answer, an answer that will come in his time and in his way.

He is like so many people we pass by day after day.  They live, they breathe, they walk past us at the mall, they sit in the next cubicle at work, in the next row at church.  They live out their days a few hundred feet away in the next house but we don't really know how they are doing.  We don't know who they are.  We don't know what they need or how they suffer.

Maybe like me, you aren't anyone special.  Maybe you are just an ordinary person.  But maybe today, maybe to this or that lost soul, you'll be Ulysses, that ingenious hero they happen to need today.

You could find out in a moment ... if you ask.

That Is Enough

The decision had been made but none of us were happy.  It was a lose-lose scenario.  There had been times when these decisions would come easily.  But in this case, doubt lingered on for weeks as decision makers on all sides weighed the options.  In the end, the person with the greatest potential to be happy with the decision would never know a decision had been made and the rest of us, those who knew about it, would have little about which to be happy.  And yet, we were.

Audrey and I used to have one of those iconic, on-going marital disagreements.  This was the one about how I always left stuff lay around for her to pick up.  I can picture how she'll smile when she reads this.  She wasn't smiling then.

There were two parts to my side of the argument.  First, I would argue that if I did indeed leave stuff lay around for any reason, she could be assured it was not with the intent or expectation that she should pick it up.  My argument would have been that I wasn't thinking about her at all.  (Note to husbands: If you are reading this and wondering about using this as an argument, I would highly discourage it.)

However, whether or not I was thinking about her was a mute point because my salient argument - clearly I needed a better one considering the lameness of my first - would have been that I always picked up after myself.  (Pause for the sound of crickets.) That was it!  Strong argument, right guys?

Audrey thought not.  As a matter of fact, the only thing she would agree to was that I was completely out of my mind.

As it turned out, we were both right.  Whenever she found something I left behind, she picked it up.  Whenever I realized I had left something behind, I picked it up.  We both always picked up what we saw and we both never realized the other was doing part of the clean-up.

Later, when I finally got smart enough to realize it actually pleased her to know I was trying to ease her burden by putting stuff away, I would get frustrated.  If I did put stuff away or clean-up after myself, she wouldn't know about it.  I'd get no pat on the back or 'at-a-boy' for that work.  If I left the stuff out, well, clearly no praise for that.  As long as I was looking for a reward from her for 'helping' straighten up, I would be dissatisfied.  I could easily displease her by neglecting to do right.  But she would never know when I did do right.

Pathetic.  I know.

Our situation with Dad this week had a similar feel to it.  We were slated to go away for the week, another family tradition, taking part in the Youth Camp 2011, a four day extravaganza that is the highlight of our teen-aged daughter's Summer each year.  A large contingent of parents go along to serve the kids, enjoy the festivities, and hang out while the kids partake in grueling and exhausting physical competitions, relationship building, and plenty of spiritual challenge.  We couldn't afford the expense of twenty-four hour in-home care for Dad, so our plan was to use our final respite care option, placing him in a local nursing home for five days, a cost covered by hospice twice a year.    

We used our first respite option back in May when we took our camping trip.  It was three weeks after we returned home before Dad began to recover from the trauma.  We don't think there is reason to believe the facility Dad visited was in anyway neglectful or abusive but Dad's response to the experience was dramatic.  When we brought him home, he showed all the signs of a person deeply traumatized.  He had turned in on himself, took no interest in food or conversation.  He recognized no one and treated even his most loyal and trusted aides as if they were sadistic guards in the Gulag.  Thankfully, after a few weeks he snapped out of it.  Though he had grown weaker in physical and cognitive ability, he eventually recovered his trusting and gentle spirit, for which he is known and loved.

We can never be sure how many more hours, days, or months Dad will be with us - he now holds the record with his particular hospice organization as the patient longest in continuous care.   I suppose we can't be blamed for thinking back in the Spring that he may not linger into August.  But here was August and here was Dad and a decision needed to be made.  Option 1, put him in respite care again where he's very likely to experience the same trauma.  Option 2, pay dearly for someone to do private care in the home while we're gone.  Option 3, sacrifice another family tradition to have one of us stay home with him.  None of these options sat well with us so we prayed.  Less than forty-eight hours before departure time, we pulled the plug on respite.  Dad needed to stay home.

Whether Audrey would say one of us got the better end of the deal - spending the week with Dad or spending the week alone serving at Youth Camp - I can't say for sure.  I would guess at this stage in our marriage and relationship, we both would prefer to be together no matter the location or activity.  The decision came down to gender.  Mom would go with daughter.  Son-in-law would stay with father-in-law. Audrey reluctantly agreed to go on without me.

Meanwhile, for Dad's part, he stayed home, in his chair, watching the Western Channel, content and relatively happy.  He is the person with the greatest potential to be thrilled by our decision but he'll never know that joy.  He will never have to think about the disquiet and unease that settled over us as we contemplated enjoying time away at his emotional and perhaps physical expense.  He will never know about the prayer and planning that went in to keeping his routine in tact.  He will never realize how much we looked forward to spending those four days together and how hard it was to give it up for his sake.  He will never know about the sacrifice that kept him from returning to captivity in the place he refers to as 'the prison.'

As I think about Dad in his earlier days, his days as a young father, I would bet there were days when he rolled the same thoughts around in his head about Audrey and her brother.  "They will never know what it cost me.  They will never know what I gave up. They will never be thankful for what I did to prevent their suffering." Children just have no idea what responsibility and sacrifice comes alongside adult privilege. 

I guess we can be the same way toward the Lord and all of his provisions.  I wonder at the burdens, sacrifices, and sufferings Jesus saw ahead, weights he would carry, that he would eventually be called to bear, as he agonized before his Father in the garden that night.  Perhaps he had similar thoughts about what I would never know.  Perhaps he thought about me and my weakness, my inability to bear up under that load.  "No," he said, "I'll carry it for him."  And he walked directly into sacrifice, suffering and pain, full well knowing the losses he would experience.  He did it because he wanted to keep me ignorant of those awful weights, to keep them from becoming a reality for me.  Because of him, I will never know the odious reality of what awaited me.  That is astounding love!

If we choose to live our lives caring for needy human beings, there will certainly be many days that end with no tangible reward, especially when caring for someone as spent as Dad.  Sometimes everything we do is overlooked, regarded as just part of care, so easily taken for granted.  Sometimes all we have at the end of the day is the broad smile of God looking on saying,  "Nice work, son.  What you did today reminds me so much of my son, Jesus.  He was like you, you know.  He sacrificed, and gave himself away, and he went unnoticed most of the time.  I was so pleased with everything he did.  You need to know how very pleased I am with everything you did today.  Well done!  Well done!"  


You know what?  That is enough!


.

Not the Way It's Supposed to Be

It was one of those rare mornings when I walked in to check on Dad and found Audrey was already there, doing what needed doing.  It usually doesn't happen that way because of our division of labor but it has now and then lately.  She's been working nights at her full-time job at the engineering firm so she gets in to serve and visit with Dad more often during the day than normal.

I had gone off to an early doctor's appointment and came back to find her there doing what should have fallen to me; clean-up on aisle nine.  I can't describe what I was witnessing, nor would you want me to, but let's just say, Dad is incontinent in every way it is possible to be incontinent.  Enough said!

As I walked in the door, my twenty-month-old granddaughter met me at the threshold, playing contentedly among a field of toys, unraveled toilet paper, children's books, and various kitchen utensils.  As is usually the case with toddlers in the  'take and put' stage, Brooke is a one baby disassembly crew.  Her sweet smile and gentle spirit belie her destructive power.  She does real well with the take part, but the put for her can be a bit of a challenge.  Even so, when she looked up at me and smiled, I couldn't help but smile back and say, "Hey, baby, how's the Cookie!"

I raised my eyes and followed the trail of abandoned make-shift toys to Gram, a.k.a., my wife, who stood in the next room.  At the same moment my eyes met hers, the telltale odor of trouble rolled over me like a sandstorm engulfing an Arabian village.  There was no mistaking this bouquet for anything pleasant.  I grabbed a quick lung full of air and held my breath.

There she stood, my cherished bride, alone in aisle nine, deeply engrossed in the process.  I said, "Oh... I'm sorry!"  This was not an 'I'm sorry I walked in on you' or 'I'm sorry for disturbing your work.'  This was a sincere and heartfelt, 'I'm sorry you got stuck in aisle nine.'  (I really meant it.)  She shot me a sardonic smile, the kind you might give to your spouse just before you reach into the toilet to extricate the three-year-old's latest flushing experiment.

Sensing a need to be helpful, I did what any good husband would do at such a moment.  Without hesitation I said, "Do you want me to make you an egg?"  She breathed out and half-breathless said, "Sure.  I had a half a p.b. & j. for breakfast and I could use a little protein."

This was one of those sandwich-generation moments, when helpless babies and helpless adults combine to form the perfect storm.  At our house, we call it Friday!

I hit the button for the ejector seat as Audrey shot me one last sardonic smile before turning back down aisle nine.   I fled to the safety of our kitchen to whip up the perfect scrabbled egg for my bride.

Before you come to my front yard to burn me in effigy, you should know that we both have our days in aisle nine!  Aisle nine is never a place we want to be!  Aisle nine is a place we try to avoid at all costs.   Aisle nine is where everything in us screams, 'this is not the way it's supposed to be.'  But sometimes love takes us there.  Love is like that from time to time.

--

On a different day altogether, I walked in to find Audrey serving dad in a much more palatable way, bringing order to some shelves and drawers.  Dad sat contentedly, sipping on his lemon-aide.  Finding all things copacetic, I turned to walk out, but Dad held up his hand to stop me and shouted, "I thought you were dead!"

Ok!  Not the greeting I expected, but not really a big surprise.  I glanced at Audrey to get a clue.  She shrugged and returned to her task at hand.  I looked Dad in the eye and quipped, "Nope!  Not dead yet, but thanks for asking, Pop."  He was not amused and looked at me half crossly and half with a bit of concern.  It was the look he musters whenever he realizes that he is more confused than he thought.

Later that day, Dad began to call me Paul and it struck me why he thought I should be dead.  Paul was Dad's brother-in-law, his wife's older brother who had passed away many years ago.  Paul was taller than Dad and more slender, perhaps built more like me.  It made some sense.

As Audrey chatted with Dad, she realized this would be a re-discovery day for him.  The confusion about Paul's death led him to realize time had moved on and forgotten to take him along.  One by one he inquired about loved ones, slowly realizing, as if for the first time, that he was nearly alone, that most of his generation of loved-ones had already passed on.  Paul had died.  He had gotten that right.  But what about Audrey, his wife, and Frieda, his mother?  Had they died too?  He didn't know.  He couldn't remember?  He thought they were coming back for him.  Why had no one bothered to tell him?  Why was he left to find these painful things out on his own?

This was a sad day.

These were painful yet precious moments with Dad.  Painful for obvious reasons; the loss, the sense of loneliness, the feelings of abandonment.  And yet with all that there was joy.  There was joy in knowing that we were here to walk him through these dark rediscoveries.  There was joy in seeing the depth of love that remained in his heart for those he once loved, that his heart was not given over to bitter selfishness like so many lonely aging adults.  There was joy in knowing that soon Dad and Mom and Frieda would be together again, never to be parted.

There is joy because death is not the way it's supposed to be.

Dog Days, Roller Coasters & Balloons

The house was filled with loud teenagers and balloons.  The occasion was a sweet-sixteen party -  birthday not basketball - to honor my daughter.  One of the games the teens dreamed up, Balloon Burst, involved hugging a fully inflated balloon to your chest until it exploded, all the while doing your best to maintain your composure.  The best part, they say, is watching everyone else try to keep a straight face knowing what was coming.  Some fun! 


Present at the party were about a dozen of my daughter's closest friends and a rat-cha (rat terrier/chihuahua mix), named Abigail.  Abby, a.k.a., Little Dog, is about nine pounds of pure energy, the most athletic dog in history.  I once decided to count how many times she would fetch a ball without stopping.  I gave up counting after 130 tosses and a 15 day stint on the DL for an impinged elbow issue.


Bred to hunt rats and other rodents, the rat terrier is a fearless breed.  Even though Abby has the size and some of the look of a chihuahua, her muscular build and personality show all the signs of being dominated by the aggressiveness of the terrier.  She was a fearless little dog, unlike her predecessor, Sundance, a.k.a., The Weasel, so named because her best skill was looking guilty.  Even when she had done nothing wrong, a simple, 'What did you do?' would send Sundance cowering away like a repentant sloth.  


Sundance was our yellow lab, the Everett family mascot.  She predated Abby by about eleven years and outweighed her by about sixty pounds.  She was always a compliant, meek dog, but she became verifiably disturbed after living through a large scale house remodel.  After that trauma, she was afraid of everything.  Abby was an adjustment for Sundance too.  We had to train the little dog to be submissive to the big dog.  We did that out of respect for Sundance, of course, but I suspect, somewhere in the back of our minds was the thought that, should Abby show a little too much disrespect, it could prove fatal.


I said Abby was a fearless little dog.  However, before Sundance passed away, she managed to train Abby to be afraid of just about everything.  Be afraid of the sirens and thunder.  Be afraid of the animals eating at the trash cans.  Be afraid of the dogs walking past the house.  Be afraid of cat birds.  Be afraid of the tv if its too loud.  Be afraid of trash bags if they are too quiet.  Be afraid of trash bags if they move.  Be afraid of the hose.  Be afraid of wood chairs.  Be afraid of all machines especially nail guns.  Be afraid of trash blowing through the air.  Be afraid of fans.  And my favorite, be afraid of the child safety gate.  In the end, Abby proved to be more chihuahua than we imagined.  She is now almost as neurotic as Sundance and has more than earned her thunder storm title, Shiver Shake.


Imagine the heart palpitations of the little dog during the game of Balloon Burst.  She learned fear of balloons at the sweet-sixteen party, even without help from the older and more emotionally troubled Sundance.  Her eyes were bugging out, well, even more than usual as she backed out the door saying, 'Adios, muchachos y muchachas! I'm headed back to my gig at the Taco Bell."


Before you wonder if you clicked into the wrong blog site, let me make the connection for you.  The bug-eyed look on that little dog's face during Balloon Burst that day was pretty similar to the look on Dad's face the day he came home after a week of being 'held captive' in the nursing facility.  He looked frail and tired.  He didn't want to eat or drink.  He was disinterested in everything and everyone.  And yes, he looked afraid.  It was as if he was a small orphaned child, frightened and alone, uncertain where to turn for help.


As the week rolled on, Dad did not improve.  He was totally turned in on himself.  The nurses began talking as if the end was near.  The trauma, they speculated, must have been too much, the transition had taken a huge toll.  We wandered if our trip was worth it.  Some thought out loud that he may have had a stroke.  We watched and we waited.  Like with the balloon game, as time passed, tension increased. 


Just when we were seriously debating whether to call in distant family members for last goodbyes, he just woke up.  Everything was suddenly normal again.  He ate a bowl of cereal on his own.  He drank a diet coke.  He started giving orders and talking about the kids who mugged him on the elevated platform last week.  (No, that didn't actual happen but that's normal talk for Dad!)


I called Audrey and told her the news.  She gave me an unexpected reply.


"Roller coaster!" 


I asked her to repeat herself.  "A roller coaster," she said with understated emotion.  I was a little confused and could only reply with, "Huh?"  She said, "You know, I think we need a roller coaster in the living room.  What do ya say?  We can charge admission, invite the neighbors, it could be fun!"  


It was her postcards from the edge way of saying life with Dad is a crazy unpredictable ride.  It's the sometimes upside down, sideways, seasick world of caring for a dying loved one.   It does get confusing.


Which way is up? Which way is down?  Is it time to celebrate when the balloon bursts or is it time to celebrate when the balloon doesn't burst?  Life seems so elastic sometimes.  It's squeezed right up to its very limit and then suddenly, without warning, it squirts safely away and drifts quietly back to the carpet.   


As we settle back into routine with Dad, he eats and drinks and sleeps as he always has.  To be honest, we are so very tempted to feel a bit skittish.  Like that little dog, we really dislike the presence of life's roller coasters and balloons.  But then we read Psalm 31.   In the midst of life and death turmoil, David pens these words, "my times are in your hands...be strong, and let your heart take courage, all you who wait for the Lord!"


And so we wait!    

Our Great Respite

There's this crazy moment in one of the Chronicles of Narnia films.  Two kings meet on the battlefield and decide to forego an all-out war with much blood shed, choosing rather to fight man-to-man combat, each man representing his people.  The winner takes all.

A fierce hand-to-hand battle ensues as respective armies look on.  Though Good King Peter is but a lad and less experienced in battle, he begins to prevail over the wicked king.  Here's the crazy moment; out of breath, beaten up and bruised, the evil lord raises his hand to Peter and cries out, "Respite!"

As I sat and watched this unfold, I couldn't help but laugh.  Are you serious?  I think if I were King Peter, I'd be asking a few questions like, aren't you the guy who wants to kill me?  Would you give me mercy if I were tiring?  Are you really asking me to let you catch your breath, to give you a few moments to recoup your energy, maybe check your emails, grab a dark roast with extra sugar to help you refocus on the task of killing me and stealing my kingdom?

Uhm...No!  Sorry Evil Lord! You are going down.

I guess Peter was pretty spent himself and a man of mercy, so he relents.  If you know the story, you know the wicked lord doesn't fair so well in the end anyway, as his own men conspire to kill him before battle's end.

Respite is a funny word.  The only other time I've heard the term respite is in the world of hospice care.   Like in the Narnian story, respite is a term used for the relief period granted to a battle weary soul in need of a rest, to gain some refreshment from and perspective on a relentless task.  In the hospice version, its a battle for life and love, the relentless battle to maintain the comfort and dignity of a loved one in his or her last days.

Peter, in the story, embodies the idea.  A weak, inexperienced man, yet stout and resolute, willing to stake his life to stand in the gap for those who need his protection because love has made a claim on his life and heart.

Life's evil counterpart death, like Peter's opponent, is not so willing to give respite.  Audrey watched today as her father was taken away via a hospital gurney to respite care; his five day stay in a local full-care facility.  "This is the man," she recalled, "who worked with his hands his entire life, working two or three physical jobs at once, working on his cars, building an addition on our home and now..."  

Tears came quickly as she flashed through fifty years of childhood, teen, and adult memories, remembrances of a brave and strong man, busy with toil, flush with vigor.  She told me about how she watched today as the two young EMT's worked with Dad.  They lowered him on the gurney using the ceiling lift.  They adjusted his body until he was safe and comfortable.  They lifted his arms that had fallen limp beside him and folded them gently across his chest.  They covered him with a blanket and they transported him down the ramp to the waiting ambulance.  A man who was always on the move reduced to absolute zero mobility.  Death has wrapped its tentacles around this once strong man and is pulling him ever closer.

But as Baptist evangelist Tony Campolo used to preach, "It's Friday, but Sunday's coming!"

Peter did not stand alone that day in battle.  Though he was weak and weary, Aslan was on the move and the might and strength that brought that lion king back from the grasp of death, overcame evil and the breath of Winter was forever stilled.    

Our lives are no storybook, nonetheless we stand in similar strength.  We have a good Lord who has overcome a dark Friday and now stands victorious over death, daily overcoming our weaknesses and weariness.  He is, himself, our greatest respite.  He battles against the death of our own spirits that would cause us to give way to selfish concerns.  He extends his gracious hand to us through numerous aids and volunteers who give us hours of merciful respite each day and throughout each week.

So now we get a longer respite; five days away with, well, fewer cares.

As we go we can't help but be thankful to God for his grace, first, for pouring it directly into our lives as a daily respite, because we would simply dissolve into puddles without him.  But secondly, we are thankful for the grace he sends through so many ministers of his mercy.  To the many good and kind servants at Heartland Hospice, thanks to you all.  To the friends and helpers at Friends & Helpers, thank you. To Donna for her relentless love of Dad and Audrey and to her many volunteers who give us regular Sunday respite...thank you!

It is all so very good!
  

A Down Hill Ride

If there is anything that can be considered normal with Dad's care, it's that from day to day, his care is unpredictable. Like with Forrest Gump's infamous box of chocolates, 'you never know what you're gonna get.'

I guess the most consistent aspect of life with Dad has been that it is mostly a down hill ride. When he first came to us, he walked with a cane and drove a Lincoln.  As a long-time driver for SEPTA, our local public transit authority, he loved to drive and continued to do so long after doing so was sensible. 

One day I was doing chores around the house and just happened to notice him backing the Lincoln down the drive.  Problem was, my truck was parked just 20 feet behind him.  I rushed down the drive waving my arms, somehow managing to stop him just before he played bumper cars with my grill.  I moved the truck on to the street and returned to my tasks in the house.  Some time later, I looked out and there was the Lincoln, still parked on the drive.  I went to see if he was okay.  He said, "Oh, yeah, I just didn't realize you had moved the truck already." 

Eventually, for his own safety and the good of the driving public, we convinced his doctor to keep him off the streets.  The cane morphed into a walker.  After some time we began to notice, Dad was pushing the walker forward but forgetting to move his feet along at the same pace. If you know anything about gravity, you realize this is not a good scenario, so the walker became walker-with-assistance.  Long walks got too difficult with the walker, so his favorite trips to church and Booth's Corner, a local farmers' market, became trips in a wheel chair, but he continued his walks through the house to lessen his anxiety or stretch his legs, what we affectionately termed his 'caged lion act.'  

Two years ago this month, Dad attempted to walk alone to the bathroom.  He lost his balance, fell over backward, smacking his head hard on the edge of a glass table. He spent several months in a nursing facility.  Mobility has been a major issue for him ever since. 

Today, with the help of his remote controlled electric lift chair, Dad can some times push himself up to a standing position, but just as he was forced to give up driving the Lincoln, walking has become a memory, an activity of the past.  And so the down hill ride continues.

Recently, even Dad's sitting has become less active, spending many hours each day sleeping. No requests. No conversation. No sharing of memories of days gone by.  Just the long periods of sleep, staring at the TV or into the empty space between his chair and the walls before him. 

Funny. I remember days as a young son-in-law when I thought I couldn't bare to hear another word from him.  It seemed like so much endless jabbering, bottomless pits of information about the past, his beloved hobbies, his friends, the things he'd seen and done, all words wasted on a young man too self-focused and self-centered to place on them any value or significance. 

Now his voice is mostly silent, his nervous energy gone.  Each time he speaks a half sentence or a stammering phrase, I want to reach into his heart and, by pure force of my will, pull out a memory, something to remind us both of who he is, what he's done, what role he played in the life of my wife and family.  Sometimes I succeed, in part.   But most of the stories are incomplete, incoherent, or a confused mixture of vague reality and TV land fiction.  

Like Dad, perhaps I just have to recognize that some opportunities have passed me by and are forever relegated to my past.   As it always does, time will tell.  

Voice in the Night

Somewhere in my deep subconscious mind, I heard something; a deep occasional hum or a muffled bark.  Was it the neighbors' dog at my 'garden level' window or was it the wind howling past our deck.  It was singing a haunting tune, the old Jimi Hendrix lyric, 'the wind........cries.........Mary.'   

I woke to full consciousness and lay there silently on my back for a few moments orienting myself.  "Was I dreaming," I wondered as I reached out with my right hand to see if my wife was still asleep beside me.  I touched her side and she sighed gently and rolled to her right.  I spoke aloud in the darkness, "What time is it?"   


She didn't answer.  I reached for my alarm and pushed the snooze button.  The numbers flashed to life and filled the room like neon-green lightning, burning my sleep-filled eyes.   

4:18.   

Even without my glasses I could clearly see the numbers I had feared.  I released the button and the room fell dark and silent.  I listened and I hoped.  I hoped I wouldn't hear again what I knew I had already heard.  

Then it came again, out of the blue, like the sudden glaring light from the alarm clock number, but this time I heard it clearly.  The voice moaned, "Albert!"  It wasn't the wind or a dog, my wife snoring or Jimi Hendrix.  It was a muffled voice calling my name.  "Albert," it pleaded, then fell silent.  Then just as I began to wonder if it was for real...there it was again, "Albert."  Then again, at 15 second intervals.... "Albert!" Pause....... "Albert!" Pause...... "Albert!" Pause......

I got to my feet and felt around for my emergency t-shirt and sweat pants, the ones I like to leave on the floor beside the bed, just in case.  I pulled them on as the mournful cry continued.  From the bed I left behind I  heard Audrey's voice call after me.  "Dad?" she queried.  "Yup!" I dully replied.  She rolled over to my side of the bed as if to embrace the sleep I had left behind and said with a contented smile I could feel through the dark, "Thank you."   I offered the obligatory middle of the night, "Uh huh," and made my way through the darkness to Dad's apartment a floor above. 

Dad's TV flickered silently, not unlike a fireplace, as good old Leonard Slye, a.k.a, Roy Rogers, sung a Western favorite to Trigger and the gang. 


"Good morning," Dad bellowed gleefully, happy that someone had heard his calls.  With all the mercy of a Army drill sergeant, he begin to issue my marching orders for the day.  My neck stiffened and with all the charm of  of a teenager listening to their ipod through ear buds, I ignored the orders and surveyed the situation.   


Dad sat waiting for help on the edge of his bed.  He had removed his Depends, soaked from the activity of the night, leaving them deposited on the floor at his feet.  He had pulled his TV table to his bedside.  On the table was his sports bottle - he can't really drink without a straw - the lid of which he had removed in the night.  Half of the bottle's contents were spilled on the table.  As Dad continued to issue imperatives, I instinctively reached for the bottle and began to replace the lid.  


Suddenly Dad interrupted himself and shouted, "NO!" and lunged for the bottle.  It was 4:30 in the morning and I was pretty tired but I was still able to out maneuver him.  "Why?  What's wrong with it?" I retorted, still carrying a teenager sized chip on my shoulder.  "It's poison!" came his reply.  "Poison?" I retorted incredulously.  I thought of all the stories Dad tells of being kidnapped and held hostage and left to die alone and I immediately dismissed the poisoned sports bottle as yet another improbable story.  "How did it get poisoned?," I said, now getting dangerously close to taunting him.  I was too respectful to say it, but in my heart of hearts I wanted to say, "Did Big Foot do it?"  


Welcome to my world, the world of Humility 101.  It's moments like these that reveal the true nature of my heart.  I feel sorry for myself.  I want to go back to my sleeping wife and say, "You deal with him, I've had enough!"   


Frankly, this has been a tough week for me, probably the hardest since shifting the load of  my Father-in-law's care off the shoulders of my beleaguered wife and onto my own.  This was the second night in a row Dad had awakened early in the morning, eager to get the day started, unaware of the toll he was taking on the comforts of the rest of the household.  Our afternoon volunteer was sick, leaving me alone for the day to care for most of Dad's needs and desires.  Though Dad sleeps many hours during the day, the 7 am to 8 pm shift gets relentless and sanity seems to slip away with the hours of the day as Dad continues to need help with yet another thing.  Starting the day at 4 am was just a little beyond the pale.


In spite of all that emotion, I withheld my desire to mock and asked Dad again how the sport's bottle had been poisoned.   He looked me in the eye and said, "I couldn't wait and I couldn't walk there, so I pissed in the bottle.  It's poisoned."


I looked at the bottle in my hands.  Again I thought through all the delusions.  I looked back at Dad and said, "NO YOU DIT-ENT!"   


He smiled and asked for cereal and a banana.  


As I trudged to the toilet to dispose of the mystery drink, I pondered what else the day might bring.  Perhaps this day would be best taken with a large dose of prayer.    


    

Held Hostage

It must have been Lock Up the Good Guys Day on the Westerns Channel. 


Each time I looked in on Dad, another of our heroes was being held against his will.  On Have Gun Will Travel, the protagonist was being held behind bars, falsely accused of murder.  On Law Man, the marshal and his deputy happened upon a hostage situation and became hostages themselves.  On Wagon Train, the wagon master was among a group of men on the train who, one by one, disappeared into the snowy forest, victims of a scheme to sell human beings as slaves to a hostile Indian tribe.


Not a good day for the men in white.


Call it what you will.  Coincidence.  Self-fulfilling prophecy.  Poetic justice.  Maybe it's like the scary movie thing with little kids.  Ya know, the monster's under the bed thing, only it's the 84 year old man that won't go to bed.  If they can be held against their will on TV, it could happen to me too.  Whatever the reason, the hostage scenario carried over into our real life that day, at least the real life drama that goes on in my father-in-law's mind.


By the time Dad had finished his dinner he was convinced he was being held in this place against his will.  Not unheard of, but this was an unusually difficult case.


I wish it were possible to convince Dad once and for all that this is his home.  After all, his apartment was designed and built just for his needs.  But most days, we settle for convincing him that it's simply not time to go home.  He usually responds with patience.  He is, by nature, a very gracious man.  That helps.  It also helps that he has a very short attention span.  Something he considers a major crisis now isn't even on the radar screen in five minutes.  Often a simple, 'Let's wait and see!' is the best approach.


Donna, a neighbor and friend who visits Pop regularly, had tried a more honest approach earlier on Lock Up the Good Guys Day.  Dad had been relentlessly trying to stand.


Donna exhorted him, "Stay put, Pop. Where are you going?"


"I've got to get ready to go," he replied.  They'll be here for me any minute."


She gently assured him that he was safe at home.


"See the clock and the TV Patrick got?  And look there is your Jesus picture," she encouraged. "These are all your things, in your home.  You are already home, Pop!"


He settled in his recliner, scanned her face and then each of the objects she had named.  He sighed as if suddenly realizing he was indeed the one who was confused.


"Yes, I know," he stammered.  He thought for a moment but then, clamoring back to his feet, he blurted, "But I can't walk over there so I'll have to be ready when they come for me."


It was that kind of day and the beat went on through dinner into early evening.  My goal was to get Pop into bed and then settle down myself for some time with my wife and daughter.  Yet, there was Dad, relentlessly insisting on being permitted to go home.  I used all the tricks I knew.


I was beginning to feel like I was the hostage.  I finally resorted to the strong arm tactics.  I finished my final argument on a stern note.


"This is your home!  We are going to get you ready for bed!  Okay?"


He looked squarely in my eyes, testing my resolve.  He knew I was in earnest.  His spirit broke, his aged eyes flooded with tears.  He said, "Okay."


"You know Dad," I said, "It's not that late. Do you want to go to my place and see what's going on there?"


His face brightened.  He recovered his manly resolve and he replied, "Do they have cake?"


I loaded Dad in the wheel chair instead of the bed and headed for 'my place' on the other side of the wall that separates his bedroom from our living room.  Everyone was happy he had come.  He watched.  He talked.  He laughed.  He ate cake.


After about an hour, he was partied out.  We went back to his room and got him ready for bed.  He went to sleep a free man, happy to be home again with the family he loved.


Funny! That's exactly how it ended on TV.   
     

A Winning Moment

I gave Dad his breakfast and went to another area of the house to make some important business calls.  When I returned, Dad was fast asleep, slumped over to the right in his chair, his spoon still held firmly in his fingers.  The Cheerios scattered on the dark green carpet were only outnumbered by the Cheerios resting on his chest and lap.  They were concentrated primarily just below his chin.

“Guess I should have stayed to feed you today,” I said, mostly to myself.  

I grabbed a napkin to wipe his chin and began to clean up the cereal.  Swollen to twice their original size, the little circles of whole grain oats disintegrated in my fingertips as I tried to pick them from his neck and sleeveless T.  They were still drenched in milk and had begun to dissolve into a mystical union with the fibers of Dad’s shirt. 

Feeding himself isn’t always this big of a problem.  But, as the week had worn on, he had become less attentive and conversational, more turned inside to focus on his own inaccessible world. The inability to feed himself is par for the course. 

The signs of his inward trek were typical.  Earlier in the week he had become convinced he was being held against his will.  He woke a day or two later at 5am and began calling out for help.  Before I had a chance to turn on the light or ask him what was so alarming, he began ordering the immediate removal of everything in the apartment, from the television, to the grandmother clock, to the coffee maker, to the sheets and pillowcases.

“They took everything else while you were gone,” he insisted.  “We need to get the rest out before they come back.  I can’t believe they can get away with this.”

This seems to be a cycle Dad goes through regularly.  Today he had progressed to the part of the cycle where he stops talking and struggles with small motor coordination, part of his mild Parkinson’s disease we’re told.  A slight change in his physical condition, a head cold, or trouble with his bowels for example, will set the cycle in motion.  So far, as bad as he gets during these cycles, he has always pulled back from decline and returned to his normal self.  

But even in the midst of these cycles, he has his charming moments of clarity and wit.  Last week I found the man lying on his side on the floor beside his bed.  He had tried to stand on his own and ended up on the ground. 

I knew he had fallen but in order to downplay his fears, as I rushed over to his aid I said, “Dad.  What on earth are you doing on the floor?” 

He craned his head around and with a gentle smile he simply replied, “I’m resting!”

So there I was, wrestling him into an upright position after cleaning him up from his encounter with a stubborn bowl of Cheerios.  My face is inches from his when he suddenly bursts awake.  His eyes go wide open and he says without hesitation, “We won!”

  

A little startled and having no clear idea what he could mean, I played along.  “Really? I asked.  “What did we win?”

I walked to the sink to rinse my dishcloth and returned to wipe his tv table.  His eyes fixed on me expectantly. 

I repeated my question. “What did we win, Pop?” 

Just that fast he had lost his ability to find the right words to share.  He struggled to complete a meaningful phrase and finally fell silent again and stared away into space. 

I turned to see what he was focused on.  It was the TV.  My eyes locked on the screen and I remembered I had flipped from the Westerns Channel to Comcast Sports Net while I prepared his breakfast.  I guess I had forgotten to switch it back before I left the room to make my business calls.  

We watched together as the final seconds of Comcast Sports Rise ticked away.  Was he trying to tell me about a sporting event?  As I changed the channel back to his preferred station, he mustered his strength and mental focus once again.  He looked me in the eye and proudly stated, “Baseball!”

Dad didn’t know I had watched the Phillies win 10-7 over the hated Mets the night before.  Nor did he realize that Sports Rise runs repeatedly for several hours every morning and that I had seen the same replays twice already that morning.  

What Dad did remember, some how, was that I live and breathe baseball and specifically, the Phillies.  He had gathered all his strength and mental resolve just to let me know that my team had won a game.  

Silly as it may seem, this was a real moment of care and affection from Dad, a moment that demonstrated his selfless desire to see me blessed.  As such, it is a moment I will not soon forget.  

Way to go Dad and let's go Phillies! 

I Gotta See a Man About A Horse

"Bill," Dad requested. "Can you go to the back and bring me the horse?"

"Which horse would that be?" I asked.

"Just one of the saddle horses will be fine.  I need to get across there to borrow Steve's truck."  He pointed through the window and across the street. 

For some of you rancher types, that may not sound strange. But its been some time since Dad, or anyone living in our neck of woods - Eastern Delaware County, Pennsylvania, part of the Philadelphia metropolitan sprawl - saw a good saddle horse in the flesh, let alone rode such a beast to visit the neighbor. 

Reality gets hard to grasp sometimes for Dad, actually for all of us who share Dad's world. 

Words and ideas are often interchanged in Dad's mind and then rearranged day by day.  Take 'Daddy Max,' for instance, from my last post?  Oh, he was a real man for sure, but Max was no barber.  Dad insisted, "Max cut hair,"  but family members tell me Max actually owned a butcher shop. 

That doesn't mean Dad actually believes Max was a barber.  I've begun to see that, with Dad, the confusion is really just a matter of nomenclature.  Last week, a purveyor of fine meat products was a 'barber.'  Lacking the means to access the word, barber, Dad choose in the moment to call Max 'the guy who cut hair.'  This week, Max the meat man is properly reclassified as a butcher. 

A common strain in all of Dad's conversation is the idea of leaving, going home, or moving. His first greeting for me most days is, "I'm ready to go when you are!"  or "Where are you parked?"  Our friends in the world of hospice tell us this is common for elderly folks who, somewhere in their subconscious, realize they will be passing on soon.    

Dad got particularly animated yesterday about his pending 'move.' He had been watching our neighbor, not actually named Steve, but we can call him that.  'Steve' had been coming and going all afternoon in his Dodge Ram pickup.  It had suddenly occurred to Dad that 'Steve' and his pickup were a means of escape, his way to get out of Dodge - that is, his way to get back home and get all his things moved at the same time. 

A great plan but at some point Dad had accurately recognized that, though he could see 'Steve' from the comfort of his recliner, he was too weak to walk over to his place to ask for his help.  The horse was the best way to get from here to there and he would need my help to mount up.   

Those who know Dad, even a little, know that he spends many hours, day and night, watching western television shows and movies.  Right now he's watching the Gun Smoke movie, starring the elderly James Arness reprising his famous role of Matt Dylan, the marshal of Dodge City, Kansas.  Cowboys and Indians, mean and low-down varmints, bank robbers and gun slingers, tavern dancers and poker players; they are all a part of Dad's daily 'reality.'  Oh, did I mention horses.  Lots of horses. Always horses. 

Maybe Dad really thinks we have horses in the barn. Maybe he thinks we actually have a barn or a large ranch.  I'm not sure, though I'd bet the farm he probably knows we live on a postage stamp in the suburbs.  


So what's with all the talk about horses?  I'm thinking he was hoping I'd get his wheelchair out from the back closet - that old saddle horse - and push him to see 'Steve' so we could talk to him about borrowing his truck for the big move. 

So no, I'm afraid we have no horses, my neighbor is not named Steve, and Dad isn't moving anytime soon.  But like I said, in these parts, reality can be a hard thing to grasp.