Lalalala...
That's my attempt at nonchalance. How'd I do?
Long afternoon at the hospital today. I didn't go yesterday. I was getting ready this morning, and my mother called. Jade answered, told me that Nan started to cry, and she couldn't really understand what she was saying. I called back.
"They said they're going to send your dad home tomorrow. I just don't know what I'm going to do. I just don't know."
I told her, very directly, that if she didn't want my father coming home, she had to speak up, and not just to me. I suggested she call the home care coordinator. Yes, she had Beth's business card. She would call and talk to her.
My stomach did flip-flops. It wasn't because things weren't going as I expected them, or as I wanted them. There hasn't been enough time to develop expectations. And even with elderly parents, even with signs that things weren't going so well, I still didn't expect this. How do I want them to go? Peacefully. That's all. Funny, I just told someone the other day, "Things like this (her situation) are rarely ever easy, but most people you know who've gone through them have survived, have been okay once they made it to the other side."
One foot in front of the other. I was talking to my friend about a divorce. Now, I'm applying it to a parent's fast-approaching death -- and the possibility that my mother wants a symbolic divorce.
Not enough details, I know. She's afraid of his colostomy. She's afraid of him yelling at her. She's afraid she can't cope. None of us are coping well, but we're coping. Do I feel sorry for her? Well, she's eighty. She's the older one. Maybe she thinks she should have gone first. I've heard her talk about the possibility of him going first -- he has never taken care of himself -- so that she could enjoy her last few years in peace. She's said that. I just get the feeling she wants it now, possibly because she's said as much.
My husband is seventeen years older than I am. It's highly possible that I might be in my mother's position some day. My husband doesn't take very good care of himself, physically. He doesn't see any need for doctors or routine health screenings. I've thought about this, and as much as I want to think there would never be anything between us that would make me want to leave him, I sure as hell hope I wouldn't wait until his life was winding down in order to do it.
I told her, "I don't want to influence you in any way, but since you asked what I thought, here's the way I see it. Yes, Dad can be grumpy. You've lived with it all your married life. You've had plenty of opportunities to tell him things need to change or do something else with your life. You do what you can live with, because if you think back and feel you left him when he most needed you, you may not be able to get over that."
She faced the colostomy bag. She didn't change it, just practiced with the clip. She was clumsy, but she did it. She didn't get sick or pass out. The nurse felt she'd do fine. The doctor required, before he would sign the release, that my mother try. The nurse reported to him that she had, and that she'd be okay.
The doctor came and went. Signed the papers, talked cross country running with my son for ten or fifteen minutes (actually, longer than he spent with my father), then left to call the hospice nurse. She was wonderful. Janey. What a beautiful name. Great smile, loved my father's sense of humor, said the other nurses would love a pistol like him. Told my mother they would take care of everything. All Ma had to do was be there for Dad. I asked Ma, "Do you feel any better now?" I could see that she'd relaxed.
She's still nervous, but she's going to be okay.
The other surprise of the afternoon was my son's reaction. He, too, was present for the colostomy lesson. He wanted to be because he wants to go and stay with my parents. I told him I would not forbid it, but I did want him to think about it before he spoke up. I also told him I would not let him move in, but I would let him stay a couple of days at a time, if that's what he wanted. He's sixteen, and he's always been Pappy's buddy. Sage. Dad finally calls him by his first name, but he slips a lot, calls him Bubby.
Bubby is going to sleep on Pap and Nan's sofa, keep them company. I can't protect him from death, seeing death. I just pray...I remember, but I was six. I was six when my Nanny died. I was there for all of it. I don't want him to be there for all of it. I want him to be a kid. At sixteen, there's not much time left for him to do that.
Oh, what a long day. There's no art in the telling, no grace in the words. Death is death, not artful or graceful, but today, death hasn't appeared. You can smell him, you can see his shadow, but he has not stepped through the door.
Not yet.
Till later...
That's my attempt at nonchalance. How'd I do?
Long afternoon at the hospital today. I didn't go yesterday. I was getting ready this morning, and my mother called. Jade answered, told me that Nan started to cry, and she couldn't really understand what she was saying. I called back.
"They said they're going to send your dad home tomorrow. I just don't know what I'm going to do. I just don't know."
I told her, very directly, that if she didn't want my father coming home, she had to speak up, and not just to me. I suggested she call the home care coordinator. Yes, she had Beth's business card. She would call and talk to her.
My stomach did flip-flops. It wasn't because things weren't going as I expected them, or as I wanted them. There hasn't been enough time to develop expectations. And even with elderly parents, even with signs that things weren't going so well, I still didn't expect this. How do I want them to go? Peacefully. That's all. Funny, I just told someone the other day, "Things like this (her situation) are rarely ever easy, but most people you know who've gone through them have survived, have been okay once they made it to the other side."
One foot in front of the other. I was talking to my friend about a divorce. Now, I'm applying it to a parent's fast-approaching death -- and the possibility that my mother wants a symbolic divorce.
Not enough details, I know. She's afraid of his colostomy. She's afraid of him yelling at her. She's afraid she can't cope. None of us are coping well, but we're coping. Do I feel sorry for her? Well, she's eighty. She's the older one. Maybe she thinks she should have gone first. I've heard her talk about the possibility of him going first -- he has never taken care of himself -- so that she could enjoy her last few years in peace. She's said that. I just get the feeling she wants it now, possibly because she's said as much.
My husband is seventeen years older than I am. It's highly possible that I might be in my mother's position some day. My husband doesn't take very good care of himself, physically. He doesn't see any need for doctors or routine health screenings. I've thought about this, and as much as I want to think there would never be anything between us that would make me want to leave him, I sure as hell hope I wouldn't wait until his life was winding down in order to do it.
I told her, "I don't want to influence you in any way, but since you asked what I thought, here's the way I see it. Yes, Dad can be grumpy. You've lived with it all your married life. You've had plenty of opportunities to tell him things need to change or do something else with your life. You do what you can live with, because if you think back and feel you left him when he most needed you, you may not be able to get over that."
She faced the colostomy bag. She didn't change it, just practiced with the clip. She was clumsy, but she did it. She didn't get sick or pass out. The nurse felt she'd do fine. The doctor required, before he would sign the release, that my mother try. The nurse reported to him that she had, and that she'd be okay.
The doctor came and went. Signed the papers, talked cross country running with my son for ten or fifteen minutes (actually, longer than he spent with my father), then left to call the hospice nurse. She was wonderful. Janey. What a beautiful name. Great smile, loved my father's sense of humor, said the other nurses would love a pistol like him. Told my mother they would take care of everything. All Ma had to do was be there for Dad. I asked Ma, "Do you feel any better now?" I could see that she'd relaxed.
She's still nervous, but she's going to be okay.
The other surprise of the afternoon was my son's reaction. He, too, was present for the colostomy lesson. He wanted to be because he wants to go and stay with my parents. I told him I would not forbid it, but I did want him to think about it before he spoke up. I also told him I would not let him move in, but I would let him stay a couple of days at a time, if that's what he wanted. He's sixteen, and he's always been Pappy's buddy. Sage. Dad finally calls him by his first name, but he slips a lot, calls him Bubby.
Bubby is going to sleep on Pap and Nan's sofa, keep them company. I can't protect him from death, seeing death. I just pray...I remember, but I was six. I was six when my Nanny died. I was there for all of it. I don't want him to be there for all of it. I want him to be a kid. At sixteen, there's not much time left for him to do that.
Oh, what a long day. There's no art in the telling, no grace in the words. Death is death, not artful or graceful, but today, death hasn't appeared. You can smell him, you can see his shadow, but he has not stepped through the door.
Not yet.
Till later...
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