Pedicures, Pleasure and Pain

I have this friend. I will call her Doc. She is spectacularly generous and knew I desperately needed a day of pampering and fun, so on the day before I left to retrieve The Pie from her summer visit to Kansas, we planned such a day. I initially had some misgivings about taking a day to myself, but I received encouragement from my friends and I knew that Dad was well taken care of at the hospital. When you are constantly in "caregiver" mode, it's a monumental challenge to break from the norm and do something for yourself. But Doc is pretty damn good at her job and she prescribed a fabulous Girls' Day. 

After breakfast, which included a raspberry jelly-filled doughnut that was filled specifically for me, Doc and I headed out for mani/pedis.
 As nice Asian ladies soaked and scrubbed our feet, we drank wine and chatted. We had lunch at a flatbread restaurant, which was delightful. A stop at the mall had us getting our eyebrows threaded (I highly recommend it) and Doc shopped for a dress for our evening plans (Michael Buble' concert, thank you very much). Next on the agenda was a Chinese massage. 

I don't care for being touched by strangers, but conversely, I love a massage. The whole point of the exercise is to relax, so if I must endure foreign fingers on my skin, then I will definitely suck it up! We arrived at our appointed time to a quiet storefront in a strip mall, but what awaited me behind that non-descript door was an experience I had only read about in magazines of questionable taste or seen in bad Jackie Chan movies (is that statement redundant?). A little old Asian lady greeted us, took payment and called to the massage "technicians." As a couple of nice little Chinese girls led us into a darkened room and wordlessly bade us to lie supine on Naugahyde cot tables, indeterminate Asian music tinkled over the speakers and I began to think that "happy endings" may not be on the menu, but were available for an additional charge.   

Doc showed no hesitation, so I followed suit. Remaining fully clothed, I placed my feet in a bushel basket lined with a plastic trash bag, filled with warm - no, scalding - water and made the Herculean effort not to pee my pants. While my feet steeped, my girl massaged my head, face, neck and ...ear lobes? New to me, but surprisingly pleasant. The massage continued in a fairly normal fashion, deep tissue stimulation to get all those nasty toxins out, joint movement and your basic generally enjoyable rubbing. Upon completion of rubbing the tops of my toes (at which point I discovered a new erogenous zone), I was asked to flip over onto my stomach. Have you ever tried to lift warm Jell-o with a fork? Trust me, it's no easy feat. 

I sat up and looked immediately for Doc. She was sitting up with her hair sticking straight out behind her head and I erupted in a fit of giggles. Then I looked in a mirror and nearly collapsed into laughter. My hair was eerily reminiscent of The Bride of Frankenstein, but my face had a healthy glow, so I guess that's a plus. Anyway, I turned over, put my face in the specially designed Asian massage table face hole and got comfortable. My "technician" began raising my shirt in the back and then POP, in a flashback to a particularly skillful young man I dated in college, my bra unsnapped! I became instantly less comfortable...there were other people in the room! The Chinese massage ministrations continued, making me no longer care about other people, and I felt a sweet, nearly euphoric sense of relaxation. Suddenly, I experienced a considerable weight atop of me and through a series of mental flashes and complex mathematical equations, I realized that the small Chinese girl was CRAWLING on my back! 

Not a photo of the actual experience. 

My eyes widened and I stared at the gaudy carpet beneath my face, contemplating putting a stop to the assault of my wee tormentor. Just as I started to lift my head, she placed her tiny hands on my shoulders and her, no doubt steel capped, knees at the tops of my thighs. A sound similar to a ferret strangling on curling ribbon escaped my lips, a few tears dropped onto that colorful carpet, and I struggled to maintain consciousness. It was a spectacular sensation of pleasure and pain that I have only read about in magazines of questionable taste or seen in bad Demi Moore movies (there I go being redundant again! It appears I may need to find more intellectual entertainment options...). Waves of shooting stars caromed through my nerve endings and my muscles contracted in response to their incredible journey. How they expect a person to walk out there instead of wobble out is beyond me. I felt as though I were a prehistoric slimy creature dragging myself across the asphalt to Doc's vehicle in an effort to evolve to a higher life form. I remember declaring, "I may never need to have sex again!" 

It was a feeling I had never enjoyed in my life; and I fear I never will feel it again. Unless I pay a Chinese girl $30 to molest me. 

Why I Broke My Promise to My Dad

Years ago, shortly after my mom died, I made a promise to my dad that I would never put him in a nursing home. He said he would rather take a bullet in the head than live in one of "those places" with the stench of urine and Lysol permeating everything. Four years ago, in an effort to keep my promise, I moved back into the house in which I grew up to care for him as his health declined. And a few days ago, I broke that promise. I placed him in a nursing home for a short-term stay.  He will be there for 14-21 days to work on physical therapy, increasing strength, stamina and balance. 

But here's WHY I broke that promise: I am not a doctor, nor do I have training as a nurse, physical therapist or dietitian. I am not qualified to provide the level of care he currently needs. I pride myself on the job I performed as his caregiver, but I realized that I may have been doing him more harm than good. I did everything for him. I prepared his meals, dressed him, bathed him, helped him with toileting, dressed his wounds...you name it. As his needs increased, I faced more and more decisions regarding his care. Back when he was healthy and fiercely independent, I felt confident in making that promise. "Sure," I thought. "I can take care of him just fine." But I can't. 

Dad regularly takes 19 medications. He's had both knees replaced. He suffers from worsening congestive heart failure, COPD, atrial fibrillation, diabetes, neuropathy in his hands and feet and, of course, depression. He is incontinent and cannot move himself at all. He requires two people to move him. His last visit to the ER revealed pneumonia, a urinary tract infection and a fractured clavicle. And suddenly, he became unable to swallow. He ate nothing; drank nothing for three days as the staff attempted to determine the cause of that little surprise. 

I learned many things from my mother, but one of the most important was to recognize when I reach my limit. I once believed I was capable of caring for my father at home until his final breath. I never dared considering turning his care over to strangers and abandoning him in a strange place. However, that's exactly what I did. And while I did break the promise - the one I should have never made -  I feel like I can honor the spirit of it. 

I am still his primary caregiver. I can take care of making his room seem a bit more homey; I clearly labeled all of his belongings; I communicated with the facility very specific needs like his bedtime, his wake up time, laundry, bath schedule, etc. I am a visible and vocal advocate for him with the nurses, technicians and administrators of the center. I am committed to ensuring that the care he receives at The Highlands is equivalent to that I would provide at home if I were properly equipped to do so. 

Yes, I admit there is some guilt about taking him there (I'll deal with that in another post), but there is also something pretty cool about it. I feel like I can enjoy his company again, rather than fuss over whether his feet are elevated, or if he needs to change pants, or if he took his meds properly, or if I need to rub some ointment, cream or potion on him. I'm not exhausted from doing everything for him, not frustrated because he peed his pants again, not pissed off about being tied to him. When The Pie and I visit, he is pleasant and when I choose to do things for him, like cutting his fingernails, it comes from a true place of love in my heart and not from a sense of obligation.  It's the only time I can really hold hands with my daddy. 

I'm human. I can't do it all. But I can manage the care that others provide him. I can be present and aware of the progress he makes and dedicate myself to being his daughter again.