Back in December, I found Dad on the floor. He was curled up in a fetal position, his right arm under his body, his head resting on the carpet, shoulder twisted under his neck. He had apparently gotten out of bed on his own and gravity took over from there.
Getting Dad off the floor after he's been down for a while is no easy task. Though his room is equipped with a ceiling lift, he needs to be wrapped in a canvas sling before he can be lifted. This is not a problem when he is sitting upright in a chair or bed but can be an enormous issue when he's sprawled on the floor. If you consider the idea of trying to roll an frightened 84 year old across the floor, you'll be able to imagine the potential road blocks. Fortunately for both of us, Dad hadn't wandered too far from his bed this time but getting him in the sling was still a big challenge.
As you might imagine, when I walk in Dad's room and find him on the floor, my immediate reaction is to fly into manic activity. I've learned to remind myself that the difference between a good leader and a below average manager is a little thing called planning, otherwise known as knowing where you're headed before you try to go there.
In this case, when I found Dad, I paused to do a quick analysis of the circumstances. I examined the way he was lying. I looked to see if there was any toppled or broken furniture. I looked for blood. I tried to retrace the incident asking the question, "How did he end up on the floor?" After evaluating the evidence I concluded he was probably not hurt. I knelt down on the floor in front of him, bent at the waste, laying my head down on the floor in front of his. With our faces inches apart I locked my eyes on his and smiled. He smiled back. I knew he was okay. Then I said, "So, Pop, whatcha doing down here?"
He smiled and with characteristic patience and wit he said, "Resting!" I knew then and there, despite the fall, that would be a good day.
Today was a different kind of day. It was one of those cool, rainy days in late February, the 29th actually, the joyous quadrennia; LEAP DAY! I spent the morning of this odd ball day with Dad.
Despite the noteworthiness of the day, there was no leaping or joking around, no reason to celebrate. Dad had a mild fever. It's nothing to be alarmed over, but enough to take him from being 85% immobile to 99% immobile, with the 1% only due to the effects of gravity. It's another respiratory infection the nurses say, the third or fourth for Dad this Winter. These infections are hardly ravaging but they take their toll on the man, taking away his appetite, his cheery disposition, and his ability to sit upright.
Yeah, for whatever reason, an infection always causes Dad to lean sharply to the right. They say it is common with Parkinson's. Dad lacks capability in many areas but we count sitting upright as one of his fortes - that and eating sweets. Oh, and breathing too. He usually breathes quite freely. (I guess when a loved one is living on hospice as long as Dad has, your start to take joy in the little things.)
Despite the noteworthiness of the day, there was no leaping or joking around, no reason to celebrate. Dad had a mild fever. It's nothing to be alarmed over, but enough to take him from being 85% immobile to 99% immobile, with the 1% only due to the effects of gravity. It's another respiratory infection the nurses say, the third or fourth for Dad this Winter. These infections are hardly ravaging but they take their toll on the man, taking away his appetite, his cheery disposition, and his ability to sit upright.
Yeah, for whatever reason, an infection always causes Dad to lean sharply to the right. They say it is common with Parkinson's. Dad lacks capability in many areas but we count sitting upright as one of his fortes - that and eating sweets. Oh, and breathing too. He usually breathes quite freely. (I guess when a loved one is living on hospice as long as Dad has, your start to take joy in the little things.)
Today he was not eating or sitting up straight and he was demonstrating a real reluctance to breathe regularly. He was restless and somewhat incoherent. Most days, when I come in the apartment to extract him from bed he is patiently waiting. Regardless of how out of sorts I am, he is genuinely pleasant and greets me happily. Today I found him trying to claw his way out of his bed like a trapped bear. He is particularly lacking in fondness for being "left alone in the cage," the phrase he uses when we raise his safety rail at night. After two falls like the one in December, we decided it would be best to go against his wishes to "leave the cage open." Today he was beside himself with frustration at being locked in bed.
Most days he is able to chew his morning pills but we'd been warned by the nurses to crush his pills as long as he was out of sorts. He's been aspirating them when he tries to swallow. This is not good! So, after I put him in his chair, I went about crushing his regular pills, along with his newly prescribed antibiotics. I mixed them thoroughly with a small piece of soft banana so he could swallow them easily.
When I returned to feed him the slurry, he was draped unceremoniously over the right arm of the Lazy Boy, the typical lean to the right. As gently as possible, I forced his slumbering body back to an upright position and lodged a pillow between the chair and his ribcage to hold him upright. Over the next hour I painstakingly spooned the purée of pills and crushed fruit into his reluctant mouth as his head slowly drifted closer and closer to his lap. Gravity again!
As I did this, we watched Moneyball together. I liked the movie. If you haven't seen Moneyball, it's an Oscar nominated baseball movie released in 2011. Watching anything related to baseball on a rainy day in February is a pick-me-up for me but this was actually a great movie.
There's one particular scene in which an overweight player hits a fly ball to the outfield. For the first time in his life, the chubby guy believes he's hit it well enough that he can move his rotundity all the way to second base in time to get a double. With that goal in mind, he barrels toward the bag at first. He lowers his head to gain more focus, to dig deep for more energy and glides into his turn at first base. He blows past the bag, clearly running all out to make it safely to second. Unfortunately, just as I did when I was an overweight second baseman, his chest somehow outruns his feet and he stumbles forward and loses control. He ends up doing a face plant five feet past first base.
Embarrassed and panic stricken, he clammers to his feet, turns and throws his substantial frame toward the first base bag, sliding in untouched. He thinks he's safe but the ump hasn't said anything. He lies there in a cloud of dust looking from side to side. Am I safe? Am I out? He doesn't know.
There's one particular scene in which an overweight player hits a fly ball to the outfield. For the first time in his life, the chubby guy believes he's hit it well enough that he can move his rotundity all the way to second base in time to get a double. With that goal in mind, he barrels toward the bag at first. He lowers his head to gain more focus, to dig deep for more energy and glides into his turn at first base. He blows past the bag, clearly running all out to make it safely to second. Unfortunately, just as I did when I was an overweight second baseman, his chest somehow outruns his feet and he stumbles forward and loses control. He ends up doing a face plant five feet past first base.
Embarrassed and panic stricken, he clammers to his feet, turns and throws his substantial frame toward the first base bag, sliding in untouched. He thinks he's safe but the ump hasn't said anything. He lies there in a cloud of dust looking from side to side. Am I safe? Am I out? He doesn't know.
The reason the ump hasn't said anything is known to everyone but the player. What he doesn't realize is that his self doubt has blinded him to what he has just accomplished. His 'double' actually sailed 60 feet over the outfield wall into the stands. He's hit a HOMERUN! Laughing players from both teams pull him off the ground and encourage him to get to his feet and finish his trot around the infield. Brad Pitt's character muses about this being one of those romantic moments that happen in the crazy game of baseball.
I've come to realize that romantic moments don't happen very often in elder care. Later on LEAP DAY, Dad got feeling better and started to forget he was sick and helpless. I walked in to check on him and he was awake and looking quite annoyed. He threw his arms in the air and growled, "What's going on here? Did you forget about me?" For the first time in three days he was hungry.
Some days it can be easy to feel like everything I do for Dad is forgotten and I suppose, in large part, it is, at least by him. Everyday is filled with miscues and stumbles, and some days, complete collapses. After a bad day with dad I feel like that overweight guy lying in the dust. Perhaps I'm safe at first, but no celebrity will be coming my way. I'll get no pats on the back, no 'at-a-boys! I may even be the recipient of unkind chuckles or accusations by the very one I'm trying to help.
But is that the way God sees my day? I don't think he does. I picture him bending down, whispering encouragement in my ear, telling me, "Son, in my economy you just hit a homerun! I am so proud of your work. Now get up you big lug. The ball has already gone out of the park. Keep running and I'll see you at home."
But is that the way God sees my day? I don't think he does. I picture him bending down, whispering encouragement in my ear, telling me, "Son, in my economy you just hit a homerun! I am so proud of your work. Now get up you big lug. The ball has already gone out of the park. Keep running and I'll see you at home."
