Last week, I spent the majority of one day on the phone with three different representatives of a hospice organization. The nurse, the social worker and the chaplain all had a litany of questions for me regarding my father.
Calling in hospice was another gut wrenching decision for me. It seemed to me like I was giving up, seeing Dad's situation has hopeless. But after all those conversations took place, each one more difficult than the previous one, I realized that it is the logical progression towards the end of life.
Dad began refusing to go to the dining room for his meals, then refused to eat at all. His weight loss is now at 49 pounds and his skin hangs limply from his bones. He has developed pressure sores on his bottom and must be regularly turned in bed in order to avoid worsening, or causing more of them. His eyes, which used to spark with life, are now dull and drawn into his head.
The nurse, LaToya, explained to me that his appearance is natural at this stage of life. She gave me very specific reasons why those things were happening, and it helped me understand a little better what was going on. Melvin, the social worker, was a delightful conversationalist and had me disclosing very personal information before I even realized I was saying it. He is quite skilled in his job, and I see why he does it. He made me feel important, helped me truly understand that my decisions, while difficult at best, were the right ones for Dad and me. He guided me through the entire process, helping me clarify when it all began and why. The chaplain, Terry, was soft spoken and kind. We discussed my father's faith and his church experiences; we talked about his childhood, his marriage to my mother, her passing and his subsequent brief marriage to the Hell Beast. We discussed the possibility of Dad having some unresolved issues.
My dad worked most of his adult life for the Santa Fe Railroad. Over 40 years ago, he was on duty during a tragic event. A car, filled with a family, tried to beat the train and crossed the tracks before the train could even begin to stop. The car was demolished and each occupant was instantly killed. He still carries guilt regarding that event, even though he knows he was not personally at fault. It was a traumatic event for him, one that he has never forgotten. He has spoken about in the past with me, with one of his nurses, with a church friend. In talking with Terry, I encouraged him to try to get Dad to talk about it, and hopefully the chaplain can help him to find some peace.
Going over those conversations in my head, it occurred to me that those people are not just helping my father through his transition; they are also helping me. The nurse keeps me updated on Dad's physical well being, so that I have complete understanding. The social worker provides insight for me as to how to properly honor my father and respect his final battle. The chaplain guides me through issues of faith, assuring me that Dad will rejoice when his time on earth is done. In the short time hospice has been in place, I've come to a point where I accept that I will lose the physical being of my father, but I am comforted that he will always be with me in my heart.
No, not the kind that springs immediately to mind. Not the one with the catchy tunes and the adorable, huge-eyed princesses. The one I'm talking about is the paralytic, immovable force field that the bank has placed on my dad's accounts. The kind that leaves me with no access to money and resulted in payments I made being returned. Embarrassing, unyielding...frozen.
It all started when Dad was first admitted into the nursing home. We applied for MedicAid assistance to pay for his care after Medicare ran out. It's been a frustrating experience, to say the least, but I felt the hoop-jumping and red tape calisthenics would be worth it in the end. Every week, DHS wanted something else from me: copies of his birth certificate, his social security card, his driver's license,the deed to the house, his retirement annuity award, his car title, even his deed to his burial plot he purchased in 1993. Finally, they needed copies of the past 12 months of his bank statements.
I searched all the files and could only find a few of them (Dad is a known paper hoarder and piler), so off to the bank I went with Power of Attorney in hand to request copies directly from the bank. I presented the written request from DHS, my identification and my Power of Attorney document to the teller, who then referred me to the bank manager. The manager, who I will call Wendy...because that's her name...explained to me that since I was not actually listed on the account, the corporate legal department would have to review the request and examine the POA document before any information could be released to me. I even showed them the paper that Dad signed giving me permission to access his accounts. Still no luck. Had to go through legal review.
So, four days later, Wendy calls me and says that the legal eagle at the corporate office needs to know the date that Dad became incapacitated and unable to handle his financial affairs. Something to do with the wording in the Power of Attorney. I couldn't simply give them a date, NO, I had to have a signed statement from a physician noting the date of his admission into the nursing home. Fortunately, I have made friends with Sasha at the Castle (which is what we call the nursing home), so I explained to her what the delay was and she jumped right on it. What she learned threw me for quite a loop and left me in a VERY awkward position.
Upon the satisfaction of the request for physician's statement, the bank intends to transfer the account to me directly, rather than have me take care of things in his stead. Until such time as the transfer occurs, however, the account is frozen. Like I've done for a while, I paid all the utilities online at the first of the month, so I make sure all the necessities are covered. Since I was unaware of the bank status, all those payments are being returned, incurring extra fees that I can hardly afford. Now, I am forced to throw myself on the mercy of the companies and tell my story a few dozen more times, in hopes of making some kind of arrangement until all this is resolved. And who knows when THAT will be?
In the meantime, I am stuck with no access to funds. My cell phone company has no patience with returned payments, so they immediately suspended the service. Fortunately, the electric, water and gas payments aren't actually due until later in the month. I'm crossing my fingers that I can talk them into waiving the return fees.
It's not enough that my father lies in a nursing home, so sick that he sometimes doesn't recognize me; I have to deal with this too? I'm scared to even think about what else could happen, because the moment I begin to think things can't get any worse, they do. I discovered another plumbing leak inside a closet; there are other repairs that need to be made to the house, but I can't attend to them.
This situation makes me feel like such a second class citizen. The limited income we have lived on for years was a struggle in itself, but now with no access to anything, I just feel defeated. This feeling of hopelessness is somewhat new to me. I usually can find the fortitude to stay cautiously optimistic in the face of a challenge, forging ahead to fix whatever needs fixing. Or, as in the past, I just ignore it and hope it goes away! But that won't work in this instance.
I feel frozen in panic. Paralyzed by fear. Bound by frustration. I wish I could...let it go.
