The End. And the Beginning....

It was bound to happen, and it did. My father, Gene, died this April at the age of 90. It was, as death goes, not as bad as it could have been, and it happened at the right time: in his own home, with family at his side and aware of the love surrounding him. I had returned from an overseas trip, knowing before I left that he was in decline and would certainly be referred to hospice by the time I returned...

My one hope--not quite a gamble--was that he would manage to hold on while I was away; he did, and for the last 3 weeks of his life I was able to be there, helping to ease his transition. Spending nights and a number of days at the house was rewarding, challenging--life-changing. He knew what was happening, even without a clear diagnosis, despite his moments of confusion--and he was ready. When I told him that the doctor was running out of options to help, he looked at me directly and said, "I want no options."

Essentially, he stopped eating, as swallowing had become increasingly difficult. He requested, for the final weeks, sips of cranberry juice, until even that become too much. As he diminished physically and spent most days sleeping, or at least appearing to sleep, he was nonetheless present--smiled when he opened his eyes and saw me there, said "I love you" frequently, and allowed himself to be cared for, despite the loss of dignity he must have felt. We tried to make sure he was comfortable, and from all appearances, we succeeded.

I visited twice on the day before he passed, knowing that time was running out. The first time, he seemed to have more energy--smiling and answering basic questions. I knew about this "burst of energy" people frequently exhibit before the end, and sure enough when I visited again that night, he was no longer responsive, although he knew I was there...I placed my hand on his and he moved his other hand on top of mine. When I left, I knew that we would not see each other again. Instead of "good night," or "I'll see you tomorrow" I said, "Now I have to say goodbye. I love you." I wiped a tear from his cheek, kissed him on the forehead and left.

Next morning, he was gone--quietly, peacefully, without any sign of struggle or discomfort. It was, as I said, not as bad as it could have been, though it has been hard for me--the sense of finality and irreparable loss--the departure of the last person on this planet who loved me unconditionally, who knew the story of my life from its very beginning.

So who am I now? Not a caregiver, no longer angry...trying to gather the memories and incorporate them into my life as I go on without him, keeping him alive in me. It is both an ending and a beginning.

One day after my father died, I found something I'd been searching for repeatedly over the decades--a box of letters he'd written to his parents while he was in Europe during World War II.  I'd assumed they had been thrown out in one of their moves, but by pure chance, I located them in a box labeled "scripts." Some 200 letters, most from overseas and some from his student years at Berkeley, along with his English 1-A essays. A glimpse not only of history, with detailed accounts of the people and places he encountered during those momentous, formative years. More than stories of the past, but a view of who he was, and how he was shaped by events and who he would eventually become. Stories, reflections, hopes, plans: my father before fatherhood, the student yet to become a professor.

My next project awaits....a new blog written largely by my father, based on his letters. Thank you for sharing this part of my journey, and stay tuned.

After a long hiatus...more of the same

If the last year and a half had been worth writing about...

and parts of it may have been, but I simply didn't bother. There were a few noteworthy events, in any case. To wit:

• My father turned 90 last June, and gave a short speech of thanks for all the gifts and attention 
• A caregiver continues to help twice per week, and I'm visiting almost every Sunday 
• Stepmother muddles on, a bit more confused and every bit as self-absorbed

Of course, behind the headlines there are a number of stories, but my focus for now is on what I've been doing to give my dad as much pleasure and meaning in his final years as I can. I could always do more, and may yet do so, but my various exploits included a visit to the cemetery where his mother lies, and which nobody in the family had visited in at least 60 years. 

My grandmother, sadly, died young, years before I was born. Yet to this day, family members who knew her speak of her gentle, loving presence. Some even cry, remembering her difficult years of illness, mourning her early death. After a short while of online searching, I found out which cemetery she was in. As my spouse and I (oh, yes--forgot to mention we got married in 2013) were planning a trip to New York, I asked my dad if he would like me to visit and place some flowers on the grave. Somewhat to my surprise, he said, "Yes, I would appreciate that." So we went. Placed flowers. Took pictures--which my father studied intently when I returned, though showing no emotion at the time.

But he has mentioned my visit to his mother's grave, several times, in fact, at one point telling me that it "was very feeling." The ability to find the exact words he wants sometimes eludes him, but there's no question as to what he meant.

I've made the simple act of bringing him something to eat is less a chore and more an exercise in imagination. He's spoken often of his grandmother's stuffed cabbage, which he enjoyed so much as a child--and certainly hadn't tasted for decades. Jeannie wouldn't dream of making such a complicated dish, and even finding it in the frozen food section proved impossible. So I found a recipe, and made it. He pronounced it "a perfect meal" and "great," words which made the small thing I did seem much bigger. 

As we all reach that stage, it truly is the "small things" that matter most. I'm happy, so filled with joy that I've been able to do those things for my father--and hope to do a few more.

Kate Smith Dances- just for fun

Kate Smith--remembered for her forthright singing style--was also quite the dancer, as seen here. Notwithstanding her girth, she exudes pure joy in movement; it's hard not to be uplifted by this lovely moment in time.

On Strike!

Finally, hope and change are coming to our area: the near-disaster of last week's trip to the grocery store left me no other choice but to announce my retirement as volunteer shopper/errand-runner/problem fixer. The actual announcement took the form of an email I sent to my stepbrother, enumerating the reasons that the current arrangement is unsustainable for all concerned. Somewhat to my surprise, he agreed without hesitation and took appropriate action.

A certain amount of guilt may be inevitable. Perhaps a more devoted son would have continued to do everything in his power to support his doddering parents, maybe even enjoying the self-imposed martyrdom, but I am not that son. Indeed, I couched my decision in terms of their safety, their happiness and well-being, and pointed out that by hiring professionals to take care of life's mundane details, we would now be free to help them enjoy life more by taking them out to lunch or a movie, or just visiting to chat and play a game. I believe those benefits will be, at least for the short term, real.

The agreement has been signed; a professional care agency will be sending someone out twice a week to take care of basic household chores, including cooking some meals, running errands and shopping. The total cost may run $200 per week, which, while more than they would like to spend, is completely affordable, and far less than the $600 per week a live-in caregiver would cost (also affordable, in my opinion, and a bargain at that.) But this is a good beginning, and after three years of my ongoing commitment, a welcome relief.

At the same time, what will my new role be? No longer a caregiver in any real sense, and no reason to be angry. My updated status begs the question as to whether this blog is even necessary. I might still have the occasional opportunity to take my dad to the barber, or pick something up from the store; indeed, packing the parents into a car and driving them to lunch may, in time, feel onerous. But the strict definition of caregiver will no longer apply.

It remains to be seen how much more I will want to write about the inevitable decline and fall of my aging parents, myself and indeed, of all people. It is a fact of life that hardly bears reflection. Yet there may be glimmers of insight, or humorous observations that I feel might be worth reporting. As I said, it all remains to be seen. Until then, enjoy your summer, as I intend to enjoy mine.

Same Old Same Old

A longer than usual delay between updates--but more than enough going on in the debility and decline department. The menu includes at least one fall, ongoing doctors visits to deal with a non-healing wound, a hospital stay, drugs and more drugs.

 Jeannie's week-long hospitalization, with its incumbent separation between her and my dad was stressful enough; he actually missed her while she was gone (I did my best to prop him up: took him over to visit, then out to dinner once; another time I prepared dinner for him.)

On his own, my father managed fairly well. One time when I called he informed me that he'd been cleaning up the house and doing laundry. When visiting, I noted that the house was indeed fairly clean and the trash had been taken out. There was enough food in the fridge, even if my dad wasn't eating much.

Now that Jeannie is back home, still dealing with the same issues, routine annoyances have once again taken hold. If my father missed her before, I doubt he'd say that now. For one thing, he's been hit with a flareup of his chronic digestive problems: pain, nausea, lack of appetite. On Father's day, I called and he sounded vaguely reticent and weak, but wouldn't tell me what the problem was. No problem--Jeannie took the phone and proceeded to fill me in with the details.

"He won't level with you. I was telling him to be honest. The fact is he's been sick and says he doesn't feel like eating, so he didn't have dinner last night and I had to eat alone. And this morning, he still didn't feel well, so I had to eat by myself again! It's just rotten timing, being Father's day and all. I don't want to have to eat alone again."

I try to digest this, but can only focus on the utter selfishness, the complete lack of regard for anyone else's problems other than her own. His illness and pain, the fact that he felt too sick to eat, was not the concern: it was that she was put out and had to eat by herself for one day. In fairness, she did acknowledge that her own ongoing troubles may have been making her more upset about the situation.

Still, I held my tongue. Anything I could have said then (other than my usual palliative phrases) would cause further trouble. I'm trying to be politic and supportive, but my patience is running thin...it would be pure joy to just come out and tell her what a selfish, pathetic bitch she is. I wonder what would happen....

Book of Job

Much as I try to convince people otherwise, I’m not the uncaring creep I aspire to be; human suffering gets to me when I’m face to face with it—though in the abstract I still claim to be the ultimate social Darwinist, casually explaining why large numbers of innocent children should not be saved from disease or starvation. 

Jeannie has been suffering for a while now. A non-healing leg ulcer has been festering, refusing to budge against the slew of antibiotics being hurled at it. Visiting nurses have been coming over regularly, and even the doctor has made a couple of house calls to treat the wound, so things are without question serious.  On top of the pain she’s dealing with from her original problem, she has fallen several times, in one case injuring herself pretty badly and worsening her already tenuous balance. The only option not yet considered is hospitalization with IV antibiotics, followed by rehab in a nursing home. That, in fact, may still happen, at which point the question will become what to do about my dad.

I brought that question up to him yesterday while we were out taking care of errands. “Well, I guess we’d have to get someone to come in and help,” he said. I agreed, and said maybe we should start looking at that option anyway, since Jeannie’s ability to manage even basic domestic tasks is now severely limited.

Always at a snail’s pace, we’re moving in that direction. I spoke with my step-brother, who agreed the time is right, and he’s been talking to some of his connections. I’ve suggested an agency, which though more expensive than a casual helper, is at least licensed and bonded.  I’m betting that they’ll go for the cheaper option, and even so, put that off for as long as possible.

While visiting yesterday, I tried to maximize my usefulness; I did the shopping, mailed letters, filled prescriptions, and bought a new and improved cane—I even prevailed on Jeannie to let me pick up ingredients for that night’s dinner and get it going in their crock pot. She agreed to that, a clear indication of how disabled she is. Out of deference (or revenge) I prepared a modified version of one of her old favorites—Sherry Beef augmented with cream of mushroom soup, canned mushrooms and dry onion soup mix.  She used to serve it to company, and it actually wasn’t bad as long as you didn’t know the ingredients.

I did mess up on one thing: though mint-flavored milk of magnesia was on the shopping list, I neglected to grab some. Jeannie was distressed, as her painkillers are making laxatives more necessary than usual—but under questioning, she admitted she still had a bottle of the regular (non-mint) flavor…and I found a full bottle of another brand of laxative which would have exactly the same result, even if it didn’t taste like mint. So on that score, I put my foot down, saying I really couldn’t go back to the store, despite Jeannie’s obvious dismay. But I guess my compassion has its limits, even when someone is suffering.

One More

One more day, one more grocery run, one more haircut, and one more quiet lunch with my dad. It’s not my usual practice to write about something before it happens, but I’m willing to bet that the scheduled events for today will unfold as predictably as the sun’s rising and setting. The details might differ slightly, but not enough to change the overarching sameness of the experience.

With old people, new experiences—changes of most types—aren’t usually welcomed. Routine becomes the comforting friend, the “if it’s Tuesday it must be Belgium” feeling.  Rigidity sets in, and the slightest snag is cause either for alarm or dismay. Even a happy change can be upsetting.

Last week, Jeannie’s ATM card wasn’t accepted at the supermarket. She was first frustrated, then panic stricken, as one attempt after another was denied. If I hadn’t been there to walk her through the best alternative, the manager may have had to call 9-1-1.

We got through it. I pointed out that she could use her credit card (“But I never use my credit card to buy groceries here!”)  and helped her understand that we could drive 1 block to the bank where she could sort things out as well as getting cash there. Finally, the dust settled. By the time we reached the car, Jeannie realized the problem: she had an expired ATM card that she kept in her wallet along with the new one and had just used the wrong card.

Mystery solved, I showed her how to use the ATM at her own bank, something she’d never done before—and while apprehensive, she was pleased to see all that money coming out of the machine, along with her balance statement (totaling almost $30,000.) “Well, I learned something today. That’s my attitude; always keep learning as long as you’re alive…” And on, and on.

Having dealt with the first crisis, I now wonder about the next one (which could be related to keeping such a large balance in her checking account.) Will she listen to reason if we explain how easy it would be for someone to clean out her account by just stealing one check? Or would it be better to wait and let that happen? After all, I wouldn’t want to deprive my stepmother of a learning experience.

Now looking back, we made it through yesterday staying mostly on script. At lunch, I asked Gene if he ever wanted to visit San Francisco, or perhaps take the ferry across the bay. “No,” he said. “I’m pretty much homebound now.”  When I suggested a quick drive to see our new (world-class) concert hall, he declined, and then said, “I guess you can see that my interests are slipping away.” I nodded. “Does that concern you?” I asked. After a pause: “A little…but not really.”

Losing interest in the fact of losing one’s interests…that must be the ultimate. In the end, I persuaded him to let me take the short detour, and he seemed to appreciate the view.