Sunday, December 28, 2008

Alabaster Skin

My father is 91 years young. He has one passable eye—his left. Nothing in his right. He has partial-hearing in his right ear. Nothing in his left. Both his knees have prosthetics, as do both his hips. Last year he fell and fractured his right femur, way down close to his right prosthesis. So close that the doctors were unable to surgically repair the broken bone--the injury had to heal on its own, which it did. But because healing at ninety-one is a flawed process, Dad now walks with a walker. In spite of his physical limitations however, my father continues to seek out, with great zest and zeal, any and every life moment available to him—moments that enable him to contribute, learn, absorb, marvel, expand, explore. Survive with dignity. That’s it—he continues to survive with dignity. He is an observer of many things. His wit is as sharp as a barber’s blade and the sparkle in his visually-challenged eyes is as bright as a newborn baby’s.

There. So now you have a picture of my dad.

You also need to know that, although my father claims to be anti-social, he actually really loves people. He just would rather watch them than talk to them.

I live with my mother and father, act as chauffeur for the multitude of doctor’s appointments, errands, runs to the store for bananas and Mocha Mix. I get the day started for them while they sleep through most of the morning. Start the coffee, pour the juice, empty the dishwasher, bring in the paper, set out the bowls for cereal, check the calendar for that day’s appointments, etc.

And so it was on a typical Wednesday afternoon that I drove Dad to his monthly dermatologist appointment—skin check for any insidious melanomas.

I parked. We got out—Dad using his cane. We entered the office. I noticed a few new products in the big display case. A batch of Thermage brochures centered on the magazine table. The waiting room was empty except for a perfectly placed alabaster mannequin dressed stylishly in contemporary clothes, posed naturally in one of the chairs. Cute, I thought to myself. Dr. Thompson has such a wicked sense of humor…

After successfully checking Dad in, I bade him goodbye and left to run a bank errand. When I returned, Dad toddled out of the doctor’s office and down the ramp to the Handicap Accessible parking space where I was parked. As he climbed into the car, I noticed a little half-grin which was my clue that he was about to tell me a story…..about something. Dad tells great stories……about anything.

And so he began. “Well…….I was sitting in the waiting room waiting for the nurse to call me. I noticed this lovely woman sitting across from me, but she didn’t seem to want to acknowledge me. So, I picked up a National Geographic and pretended to read while periodically glancing over at her to see what I could see. She had the most beautiful alabaster skin!

“I kept peeking out over my National Geographic to see if her expression or hands ever changed. But they never did. Did you notice her? Did you see her skin? It was such a beautiful alabaster! And you know… I just couldn’t help but think that she was probably having some very serious skin cancer problems, what with that beautiful skin and all you know. Anyway………the nurse finally called me in so, I put my magazine down and offered the Alabaster Lady my biggest, brightest smile. But… she still didn’t smile back. No response at all. I think she must have been very sad.”

Of course I sat and just listened to all of Dad’s story. It killed me not to explain to Dad about the mannequin, but instead I sat patiently and listened. I mean, my goodness, my father had created an entire existence around this stoic woman! Who was I to burst his bubble? Did it matter that the lady with the alabaster skin was made of plastic? On the other hand, I tried to reason with myself,…….what if the next time he goes to see Dr. Thompson, Dad actually goes up to the Alabaster Lady and speaks to her, takes her hand even, only to discover the truth! He’d undoubtedly read me the riot act for not telling him.

All of these thoughts swimming through my head, I smiled patiently as Dad kept on about the lovely Alabaster Lady. I had a bit of an internal struggle over what to do. I listened. I debated. I listened some more. I watched the twinkle in Dad’s eyes dance from thought to thought.

Then……I couldn’t stand it any longer. I placed my right hand gently on his left leg to interject, “Dad……..?”

He stopped talking and answered oh so innocently, “What?”

I hesitated, took a breath, then spoke, “Dad…….it’s a mannequin.”

“It’s a MAN!?”

“No Dad, it’s a maaaa-ne-qqqqquin.”

His expression went from confusion to amusement to delight, then, half-chuckling, “So it wasn’t me?!” Then he laughed, out loud, at everything—his attempt to flirt with a shopstore dummy, Dr. Thompson’s twisted sense of humor, the pure entertainment factor of the entire incident. We kept chuckling the whole way home.

Saturday, December 27, 2008

Contemplating Why I'm Here

I drive to Port Townsend a lot. It's about a forty minute drive between Sequim and Port Townsend. A beautiful winding road the skirts two bays then meanders through evergreens and rolling hills. I do some of my best thinking on those drives. I have a house and wonderul friends in Port Townsend and I find the drive and the visits help me keep my perspective.

I went there tonight, to visit with one of my dearest and most precious friends. And on the way home, I was thinking about my decision, five years ago, to move up to Sequim, into my parents home, with my, then, fourteen year old daughter. I recall quite vividy the primary basis for the decision--I wanted my parents to be able to die in their own home. The secodary reason was that I wanted to have the opportunity to be part of my parents' golden years. I figured I knew them during their prime years, and I knew them during their retirement years. But I really had no idea what they were like, or how they had changed in their golden years.

Now, five years later, I reflect frequentlly on that initial decision. I don't regret it at all, but I have discovered that it is infinitely more difficult and challenging to live with your aging parents than I had originally thought. Actually, I never thought it would be difficult or challenging, really. I remember I had several friends who pulled me aside shortly after I moved up here to give me advice. They had experienced living with or caring for one or both eldely parents and were quick to let me know what I needed to know to survive. What they said, unanimously was this, "Take care of yourself. Live your life. Get out. Make sure you get out and do things that are important to you."

And so, this is why I make a point of driving to Port Townsend. I do it frequently, usually three or four times a week. Some days, it is what keeps me sane. Some days, it is the only time when I can cry out loud. Some days, it is the only time when I can be alone with my thoughts. Some days, it is the only time when I can simply look across the evergreen-lined bay and marvel at the extraordinary beauty that surrounds me all the time, but which I so often ignore or forget.

I don't why I thought about this just now, but I'll close with it. The other day, my father proudly announced to me that he'd decided he's going to stick around until 2013. You should understand, my father operates under the premise that he has completely control over the time and, apparently, the year when he'll die. He has made these announcements to me before, all with different years, or circumstances--"I'll stick around until Bush gets voted out of office" or "I'll stick around until the Iraq war is over" or, my personal favorite, "I'll stick around until the polar icecaps melt." So, the other day the magic year became 2013. Of course, I asked him why, and he quickly answered, "Because that's when the sea level is supposed to rise by one inch and I want to see what happens." And, of course, I had to ask why that was so important to him, and, again, he quickly responded with, "Because I want to see all hell break loose when the skeptics finally see that global warming is really happening. " We didn't speak after that. I spent the next several mnutes wondering what I might want to "stick around for" when I'm 92 years old. What would you want to stick around for?

Friday, December 26, 2008

Eartha Kitt

What is it about old peoples' memories? They can't remember what you told 'em two minutes ago, but they can recall, in frighten detail, memories from decades, MANY decades ago! Take my father. So he's sitting in his big leather chair reading the morning paper. It's the morning after Christmas. It's his first crack at the news and the story that caught his attention immediately was the one about the passing of Eartha Kitt. So, as I'm walking past him, through the living room, toward my bedroom, he stops me in his oh-so subtle way, "HEY!!!" grabbing me by the arm (It's his way of being comical. He actually thinks this is funny--scaring the crap out of me as I walk by him, thinking he doesn't notice me.)
"What?!" I shreik back at him, defensively, slightly annoyed.
"Did you hear about Eartha Kitt?"
"Yeah, she died, I saw. That's a real loss." I never know what to say when people die. Someone should publish a little pamphlet of appropriate phrases to say when somebody has died.
"Well..........you know, she was a great entertainer. Very sensuous singer."
I wasn't at all sure how to respond to that, but in the midst of my search for the perfect words, my father suddenly broke into song,
"Hey mister,...." something about a car, something about, I don't even remember now, but Dad was singing what was apparently a very well known Eartha Kitt song, word for word. It was hilarious, and charming, and touching and............the perfect commemoration.
He finished the song. Smiled from ear to ear. Shook his head, "Eartha Kitt.....very sensuous singer."
"That was really nice Dad. Really. Nice."

Thursday, December 25, 2008

the "urinal" log

Dad, who has only one "good " ear hobbled into the kitchen this morning, amid my Christmas cooking, preparing, whipping, baking, etc. I was in the middle of making my flourless yule log. My father LOVES food, of any color, shape, or smell. So, consequently, whenever I cook, he's the first in the kitchen, sniffing around, wanting to know everything about everything I'm preparing. Hence the following conversation:
Dad: What're ya makin'?
Me: It's for dessert, Dad.
Dad: Well.........(my father begins most of his sentences with "Well", followed by a long pause) what is it? It looks very complicated. (Anything involving more than warming up in the microwave is complicated for my dad.)
Me: It's a yule log.
Dad: A what?
Me: A YULE LOG.
Dad: A urinal?
And for the next few seconds I'm LOL-ing, Mom too.
Then I repeat slowler this time:
Me: No. A Yuuuule LLLLLog.
Dad: That's what I said, Urinal.
More laughing.
Me: No. YYYYYYYule. LLLLLLLog. (And I distinctly pronounce this into his good ear, the right one.)
Dad: (Then the realization...) OHHHHH! A Yule Log!
Me: Yesssss!
Dad: It looks complicated.
Then he toddles out, tells me I should hang a sign on the kitchen that says, "Keep Out, Danger Zone." But before he clears the kitchen doorway, he turns and shouts back, "Make sure you put plenty of frosting on the Urinal.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Reality Check

The reality of this situation is this: somedays are awful. Some days, I feel like I'm as old as my parents. Some days, it feels like everything about me is old, and dying. Some days, I beat my head against the wall because I'm not as patient, or as understanding, or as tolerant of my parents as I think I should be, or maybe as somebody else would be. Some days, I have to turn up my television because I can't stand hearing the mouth-breathing sounds that my mother makes. Some days, I feel like if I have to smell the smell of used Depends one more time, I'll throw up. Some days, I want to just walk out the door, get in my car and start driving....somewhere. Some days, I feel like I've put my life on hold, and not knowing how long that "hold" will last is killing me.

But then, some days, my dad greets me in the morning with his version of "The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow", or his little 92 year old's two-step and my eyes well up because he reminds me how important the little things are. Some days, I look around and thank my lucky stars that I have a roof over my head, warm clothes on my back, food to eat, three incredible kids, two amazing brothers, and a father who worked successfully as an airline pilot for thirty years in order to provide for his family.

The Caregiver Can't Get Sick!

I woke this morning with a wretched sore throat, aching body, and pounding headache. Thanks to my son and daughter for sharing their rhinovirus with me. I don't succumb to bugs frequently, but when I do, I'm reminded of how critical it is that any person who is the sole caregiver for their elderly parents MUST stay healthy! It's a signiicant amount of pressure--knowing that I HAVE to stay psychologically and physically healthy. Basically, I can't get depressed, or decide to spend half a day in bed, or sponaneously decide to go for a day-long drive, or get the flu, or break an arm, or get the flu, or....well, you get the picture.

About a month ago (after living here five years) I suddenly realized that I can never have the house to myself. I used to savor those times when my kids were out of the house, meeting friends, shopping at the mall, seeing a movie, and I had the entire house to myself for a few hours. It was glorious. The silence; the solitude; the peace; the quiet. And so it came as a somewhat disconcerting realization that I observed that, since my parents no longer drive (and refuse to use public transportation), that the opportunity for me to have the house to myself for a few wonderful hours simply......will.....not....ever.....happen. Weird realization.

The exception to this is, thankfully, when one of my brothers comes to visit. Bless them for all eternity, I don't know what I'd do without my brothers. When they visit (a couple times per year), there does arise the opportunity to be alone in the house. Sibling support is critical to this living-with-elderly-parents scenario.

So, back to the Christmas approacheth thing...

Yeah, so anyway, Christmas is the day after tomorrow. I'm cooking. I always cook. I love to cook. It's very therapeutic. It occupies me, gives me something to do. And there's something especially rewarding about cooking for my father. My father is 92 years old. He has this unsatiable thirst for life. He reads the newspaper every day, without fail. He also reads every single page of his Time magazine. Keep in mind, my father only has one good eye. But he is better informed about international and national events than the average Joe or Josephine. And as much as he loves reading and keeping abreast of the news, he absolutely adores food. I've never seen or known anybody who relishes (so to speak) food like my father. With my father, I can experiment with new recipes and food combinations without fear. A particular food dish would have to be pretty bad for my dad NOT to like it. So I'm cooking for Christmas, and I'm looking forward to it.

Christmas Approacheth

23 December 2008, Tuesday

Took Mom to her third optometrist's appointment today to have her right eye checked. It seems she has shingles of the cornea (corneal shingles?) and it's apparently getting worse. Last week she was one schedule of one drop in the right eye every 3-4 hours and ointment in said eye every night. But....alas, the situation has worsened. The cornea is worse and infected, so now she needs one drop in the eye every two hours (that's right, every two hours), an anti-viral tablet three times a day, a drop of dilator morning and night, and ointment before bed.

The hurdle with this blog, for me, is going to be figuring out how to be completely honest. On some level, I know this is probably a decent coping mechanism for somebody like me--living with my elderly parents, helping to care for them, manage their financial matters, running the house, driving them to whereever they need to go (translatiion: doctors' appointments), keeping them stocked with their favorite foods, doing the laundry, protecting them from stressors... If you haven't figured it out yet, it's a lot like having small children. Except.........they're your parents!

Anyway, back to my mom. So my standard coping mechanism here is making sure I get out of the house for several hours at least every other day. But....having to adhere to this one drop every two hours schedule pretty much puts a kabosh on that plan. Hence my concern...