God's Waiting Room

Recently, I returned home from an overnight trip out of town to find my father lying on his bedroom floor, covered in blood and his own feces. In hindsight, I should have recognized the clues ...his shoes were haphazardly abandoned in the garage, the kitchen trash can was overturned, dark smears in a path on the carpet and an offending smell that threatened to peel the paint from the walls. Upon discovering him, I gave a quick once-over to determine the origin of the blood and found a nasty scrape on his head. He eventually admitted that he ventured outside into his shed and upon returning to the house, he tripped and fell, hitting his head on the brick exterior of the house. He spent nearly 18 hours crawling into the house. He was a mess! Rather than attempt to handle this situation on my own, I called an ambulance. A lovely bonus to the whole scene was a half dozen firefighters/paramedics parading into my house to soothe me and help my dad. A trip to the emergency room and a laundry list of tests later, Dad was released without even being cleaned up or having his head wound bandaged. I brought him home, gave him a shower, covered his boo boo with Neosporin and fed him. 

Crisis handled.  So, now what?

I've threatened to put him into a nursing home if he places himself in a dangerous situation again. I have support from members of my family to begin the process of relocating him. But the truth is, I don't think I can do it. I watched both of my parents make the heart wrenching decision to place their mothers into full-time nursing facilities; I then watched my grandmothers decline quickly and simply exist until they left this Earth. For years, I've referred to nursing homes as "God's Waiting Room" because that's the impression I get when I walk into one. First, there's the smell. That dominant bouquet of urine and Lysol, with the underlying aroma of Band-Aids, latex gloves, sweat and something very similar to tapioca, smells like someone just washed a dog that's been dead for a couple of months. Secondly, I can't stand the idea of imprisoning my father in a place that treats him merely as a means to making money. Nursing homes strip residents of their personality, their essence, their lives. And ALL their money! It's all disguised behind planned crafts or bingo games, but no one on staff looks at the patients as human beings. And that hurts my heart. I discussed the situation with a physician friend of mine, who begged me not to consider placing him in a home. She likened it to taking a dog to the pound. 

I want my father to live the rest of his time here with as much dignity as possible. That is why I moved in - to give him the best care available. Admittedly, I feel a sense of obligation. I'm not his biological child. He and my mother adopted me as an infant. They cared for someone else's child as their own. He took care of me, so now it's my turn to take care of him. Simple as that. It would feel like giving up on him...and I just can't do that. He never gave up on me, when there were plenty of times that he could have. 

In the recent past, he and I have had our disagreements and issues. He swung his cane at me in his frustration and anger. I allowed him to go without meals and meds following his inappropriate groping of me. I tolerate the way he speaks to me because I feel I owe him something...I just don't know what. I know my father to be coarse, quick tempered and physically aggressive. But I'd like to know the man he used to be - the man my mother fell in love with, the man who sang and read to me as a child - I know he's in there...somewhere. 

I may never know that man. Twenty-one years ago, the day my mother died, I realized that I didn't really know my father. I've spent all this time trying to know him as an adult, but I don't think he ever prepared himself to see me as an adult. He especially didn't plan on seeing me as a mother! His vision of me is clouded, lost in his mind amid all his memories. It's not his fault, so I can't very well blame him for his inability to connect. 

I'll continue to care for him to the absolute best of my physical and emotional ability. So, when God wants him, He will have to look a little bit farther than His waiting room.