Hospice-tality

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. 

Frozen

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.

Making a Plan

I am a planner. It's what I do. I begin planning events well ahead of time to make sure that all the details are in place and whatever the event, it will be perfect. I started planning Thanksgiving dinner this morning and realized that no matter what I plan, it will not be perfect. My dad won't be at his place at the table. He'll be in a nursing home, most likely choking down pureed turkey and dressing. It's doesn't exactly elicit a Norman Rockwell type of image. 

No matter how moist the turkey is, how sweet the yams are or creamy the pumpkin pie is, my family won't be together to share it. It's very sad to me to think about the upcoming holidays without him here at home to celebrate with me and The Pie. I've gotten so used to planning the meal and festivities around the two of them that I'm at a bit of a loss as to what to do. How can I plan something that really isn't going to happen? 

I know that the spirit of Thanksgiving is more than just one day a year, more than a four day weekend, more than a parade, more than football games and great sales on electronics. It's a spirit of gratitude for everything and everyone we have in our lives. We should celebrate it every day. And I try to. Some days are easier than others. 

Since Dad went into the nursing home, I've become withdrawn, less motivated and quite depressed. I haven't cooked much, either. Most of our meals have been fast food or eating out.  The majority of my time used to be spent taking care of Dad in one way or another - managing my time between him, The Pie and The Cuteness, my babysitting charge. Now I realize that I have much more time available to work on projects - cleaning, organizing, redecorating - but I lack the energy to begin, much less complete, them. 

Holidays are what you make of them and all about traditions, so I guess this year we will start a new tradition. I could prepare a smaller scale dinner for The Pie and myself, then take a plate to the nursing home for dad, making sure to take only things he can easily swallow. Or I could dress us up and visit him for the nursing home meal, giving thanks that we can still sit at a table together. Watching the parade was always a favorite, so we could bring him breakfast and watch the parade with him. Or we could take snacks to share and watch the football game. I have many options, but I need to determine the best course of action. 

Oh, hey! I guess that means I get to plan after all!

Scarred for Life

I read a parenting article today that outlined how we, as parents, scar our children for life by making our own bad life decisions. I experienced conflicting emotions about that statement, because while I have made some questionable moves in my life, I don't see how the Pie can be scarred by them. 

This article talked about mistakes that parents make to impart internal scars on our kids. One was not having a father present in the child's life. That one caught my eye. The Pie's biological father has NEVER been a presence. He has never seen her or helped support her in any way. The article made think...isn't no presence better than a negative presence? The man was an alcoholic, was violent, couldn't hold gainful employment and cursed like it was his job. He had three other children with another woman, and I cringed when I heard him talk to them on the phone. When I got pregnant, I knew that I wouldn't want that influence in my life or my child's, so I was somewhat relieved when he took off. 

If I had encouraged him to be involved in the Pie's life, she would be a totally different child. She would live in fear of his outbursts and probably suffer ill consequences from his harsh and critical ways. In that way, I can see how she might be scarred, but having no father presence in her life is something she is pretty cool with. I can't feel guilty about him not wanting to be in her life, that's his loss, but I can continue to provide a loving environment for her.

What I don't want to do is be a helicopter parent that hovers over her all the time, making sure nothing happens to her. There's a scene in Finding Nemo that Dorie asks Marlin, "if nothing happens to him, how will anything ever happen to him?" BEST. PARENTING. ADVICE. EVER. The Pie needs to make mistakes, learn hard lessons and become the woman she is destined to be. If I protect her from the world, she will never be a part of it in any significant way. Who am I to deny the planet her effervescent little self? What a disservice that would be! 

As it is, she asks my permission to do just about anything. Unevenly cut Barbie hair? Sharpie marker on the wall? Complete destruction of my make up? Nope... not gonna happen because she always asks me first. Believe me,  I know there will come a time when she won't ask before doing something I won't permit, but I'm okay with that. Just like her recent cheating incident, she cannot learn from mistakes if she doesn't have a chance to make them. To me, sheltering her from making those mistakes would cause even bigger scars. 

And what's so bad about scars anyway?

I am fascinated by scars. There is usually an interesting story that goes along with a bodily scar and if I can't determine the real story, I often entertain myself by making one up. Lots of move stars and celebrities have interesting scars...Harrison Ford, Bruce Willis, Catherine Zeta-Jones. I think they add character. To me, scars are a permanent mark from something making an impact. From an artistic perspective, sculptures are the perfect example of scars being beautiful. The artist starts with a block of marble and slowly, painstakingly chips away at it, leaving scars, until the art emerges...striking, powerful and resonant. 

 There is something beautiful about scars, regardless of how they are obtained. It shows that at one time we were injured, but the wound has healed and the hurt is gone and we have moved on with our lives. 

A Cheatable Moment

I know of NO parent that enjoys punishing their child. So to say that I hate doing it, I think, is valid. Tonight, I had to make a tough decision about punishing the Pie, and I hope I didn't overreact. 

After a nice evening of sharing dinner and watching TV, I mentioned to the Pie that I needed to go through her school binder. She casually stated that she had a paper I needed to sign. That's nothing new. But when I looked at the paper, my heart dropped as my eyes slowly read the words
ACADEMIC DISHONESTY. 

I was speechless. I stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the paper, while the Pie sat across from me, sobbing in earnest. I reacted with a shocked gasp, then began asking questions. What were you thinking? Why did you cheat? Where did you get this idea? Every question I posed was met with "I don't know" as a response, which simply made me angrier every time I heard it. The Pie knows that I do not accept "I don't know" as an answer for anything other than "Do you know..." inquiries.  When I reminded her of that rule, she responded with more sobbing. 

I took a moment to breathe and get my bearings and decided to attempt a different approach. 

"Please tell me how this happened," I said calmly. She stumbled over how to begin the story (as I sometimes do myself) but eventually explained that during the spelling test, she wasn't sure how to spell the word, so she sly slipped her study sheet out of her binder and copied the word.  Her desk neighbor saw the infraction and quickly told the teacher about it. The Pie was allowed to finish the test, but her paper was confiscated and remains ungraded. 

I know all the educators and child development experts would consider this a teachable moment, but I was too heartbroken to teach her anything but how upset I was. She knows that it's wrong to cheat, so I asked about her motivation. "Where did this idea come from?"

"Junie B. Jones," she said. "I'm reading the Cheater Pants book and Junie B. Jones cheated on a test in school because she didn't study." Some role model SHE is! When I asked her what happened to Junie in the book, she admitted she hadn't gotten that far yet. I decided that what would happen to the Pie would be vastly different that what happened to the little Jones brat. 

Earlier in the evening, I agreed to enroll her in gymnastics this month since she has been begging me for weeks. I was about to do the online registration when all this came to light, so THAT little project was immediately nixed. She is grounded from playing with friends for the rest of the week and each night she has to write sentences. One hundred times, I will not cheat in school. Finally, and probably the worst for her, she must apologize to her teacher for her actions.  

I know in my heart that the Pie is a good kid. I wonder if she just was unable at the time to discern that her action was wrong. She gave me no indication that she had gotten in trouble at school until I saw the paper. Was I not paying enough attention? Did I miss something? I still want to know WHY she felt compelled to cheat?

Am I putting too much pressure on her to get good grades? Am I pushing her too much? Maybe I think that school for her should be just as easy as it was for me. During our conversation, I stressed that it was much more important to me that she do HER best, not THE best. I would rather she make a lesser grade on her own than make a perfect grade by cheating. 

Perhaps this situation was a teachable moment, after all. I'm fairly certain that when faced with a similar choice in the future, I hope she looks back on this time and remembers how she felt, how I felt and what she lost as a result:  a tiny little bit of my trust. 

Daddy's Hands

Country music artist Holly Dunn released a song in 1986 titled Daddy's Hands. The lyrics tell a story of a girl who reminisces about how her father worked with his hands to provide for his family, used those hands to comfort her following a bad dream and occasionally used them to discipline when necessary. Our hands tell the story of the kind of life we lived. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the hands are the front door!

How people take care of their hands - whether they adorn them with jewelry, get regular manicures, bite their nails - says a great deal about the character of the person. Rough and calloused hands reveal a life of manual labor, while smooth and soft hands identify the owner as a person of higher class. Many people (myself included) use their hands to communicate. I doubt I'd be able to speak a word if my hands were tied behind my back! I tend to gesticulate wildly, especially when I am excited or very angry.

Women will always inspect a man's hands, and not because of the urban myth about size! It's because hands are so symbolic to us. Will they protect us from danger? Softly caress us? Express deep emotion to us? Provide for us? These are things that we question and only the hands hold those answers. I love looking at peoples' hands...especially those of men from an older generation.

These are my daddy's hands.

They are big. They are covered with age spots. The tip of one was nearly completely lopped off decades ago when Dad worked for the Santa Fe Railroad and ran to jump on a car. The door unexpectedly rolled back and caught the tip of his finger. I always rub the scar when I trim his fingernails. His hands have gotten softer over the years, since he hasn't been able to work in the garden or complete woodworking projects. I am jealous of his ability to grow such perfectly elongated and square nails. My grandmother, his mother, also had beautiful nails.

He once wore a plain silver band on his left ring finger. In the railroad industry, jewelry is considered a hazard, so it wasn't until he retired - when he had been married to my mom for 40 years - that he began to regularly wear the symbol of matrimony. His fingers are slightly webbed, a fact that convinced me when I was a kid that he was from outer space. I've always had this wild imagination, folks!

Lately, his hands are very cold. Dad suffers from diabetic neuropathy, which leaves his fingers numb and cold to the touch. He has even been known to wear gloves while sleeping to keep his hands warm and avoid the pain. I often warm his hands between my own and the last time I did, I was struck by the irony that just the same as he held my hands to help me learn to walk, I hold tightly to his hands to assist him as he walks.

When I was an infant, his big powerful hands enveloped me, making me feel safe. As a toddler and preschooler, his big hands scooped me up when I fell down, and they dried my tears. Adolescent years were tough, so he often smacked my bottom to keep me in line. During my teen years, those hands applauded all the efforts I put in to band, choir, dance, and writing. Now as an adult, when I look at every line, crease, vein and spot, I can vividly see his life played out for me like a movie on a screen. Growing up in the Depression era, his time in the armed service, his life of hard work, and so much else is reflected there.

When I sit next to his hospital bed, again I hold his hand ... and I'm not exactly certain who is comforting whom.

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.