Day 10 - January 29
Today I waken to observe father completely dressed, with his bed made, sitting on the edge of the king size platform. He notices I'm
stirring.
“I'm waiting for you, what do we have on the schedule today?”
I sit next to him, ready to explain about two doctor’s appointments when he points down to the carpet between us, “Cher, I see men in blue uniforms, working. Do you see them? Look, they’re right there.”
As usual, he had not slept. His routine encompassed a seemingly infinite number of trips to the bathroom, many of them followed by a walk to the kitchen. For years now he has been eating in the night, all night long. He makes roast beef sandwiches or re-heats leftovers from dinner. He finishes off pies, cakes or cookies, dill pickles, canned fruit, or hard-boiled eggs. He relishes long drinks of apricot juice or ginger ale. Ice cream disappears quickly. When questioned about his nightly eating habits, father confesses only to having little bits, or tiny bites, “…a little something to help me go back to sleep.”
This Tuesday morning I know it was not the nocturnal feasting that kept him awake. I heard his cough return in the night. It is not related to any kind of cold or infection. What does one do when everything has been tried? Sitting, standing, pacing, drinking, cough drops, cough syrup, inhalers—nothing quells the incessant, relentless, painful coughing. And now I realize he’s coughed up a hallucination!
This is new to me. I tell him as lightly as possible he must be seeing things because there are no men working in the carpet. He gives me a sheepish grin. I feel a strong wave of compassion for him with an equally strong wave of fear. I know I have to help him get to the cardiologist in the morning, the urologist in the afternoon, and the oncologist the next morning. That’s what I know, so that’s what I do.
I presume in any disaster, one can only put one foot in front of the other and proceed with the next required step. What portion of denial is necessary in order to carry on when frightened? What portion is avoidance? Ignorance? Selfishness? My flight back to Chicago is booked for tomorrow night. I know father has asked me to be here with him, “in the end” to take care of him. I do not let myself believe this is, “in the end” yet.
I pull the silver Grand Marquis, father’s dream car, into a parking space at Linden Oaks Medical Center and unfasten his seat belt. He points down to the floor by his feet, “Cher, I see a box with numbers in it, and I’m in that box.”
“Okay, Dad, it’s time to go see Dr. Curran.” I walk around the back of the car to open his side door and set up the walker.
I think to myself, “Alright, I’m going to pretend that did not just happen. I have to keep going. What else can I do?”
I tell the cardiologist everything I can think of. He examines father and says he looks great--for the condition his heart is in, he is doing fabulously! Later, in the afternoon, the urologist schedules father for surgery in four weeks.
“I'm waiting for you, what do we have on the schedule today?”
I sit next to him, ready to explain about two doctor’s appointments when he points down to the carpet between us, “Cher, I see men in blue uniforms, working. Do you see them? Look, they’re right there.”
As usual, he had not slept. His routine encompassed a seemingly infinite number of trips to the bathroom, many of them followed by a walk to the kitchen. For years now he has been eating in the night, all night long. He makes roast beef sandwiches or re-heats leftovers from dinner. He finishes off pies, cakes or cookies, dill pickles, canned fruit, or hard-boiled eggs. He relishes long drinks of apricot juice or ginger ale. Ice cream disappears quickly. When questioned about his nightly eating habits, father confesses only to having little bits, or tiny bites, “…a little something to help me go back to sleep.”
This Tuesday morning I know it was not the nocturnal feasting that kept him awake. I heard his cough return in the night. It is not related to any kind of cold or infection. What does one do when everything has been tried? Sitting, standing, pacing, drinking, cough drops, cough syrup, inhalers—nothing quells the incessant, relentless, painful coughing. And now I realize he’s coughed up a hallucination!
This is new to me. I tell him as lightly as possible he must be seeing things because there are no men working in the carpet. He gives me a sheepish grin. I feel a strong wave of compassion for him with an equally strong wave of fear. I know I have to help him get to the cardiologist in the morning, the urologist in the afternoon, and the oncologist the next morning. That’s what I know, so that’s what I do.
I presume in any disaster, one can only put one foot in front of the other and proceed with the next required step. What portion of denial is necessary in order to carry on when frightened? What portion is avoidance? Ignorance? Selfishness? My flight back to Chicago is booked for tomorrow night. I know father has asked me to be here with him, “in the end” to take care of him. I do not let myself believe this is, “in the end” yet.
I pull the silver Grand Marquis, father’s dream car, into a parking space at Linden Oaks Medical Center and unfasten his seat belt. He points down to the floor by his feet, “Cher, I see a box with numbers in it, and I’m in that box.”
“Okay, Dad, it’s time to go see Dr. Curran.” I walk around the back of the car to open his side door and set up the walker.
I think to myself, “Alright, I’m going to pretend that did not just happen. I have to keep going. What else can I do?”
I tell the cardiologist everything I can think of. He examines father and says he looks great--for the condition his heart is in, he is doing fabulously! Later, in the afternoon, the urologist schedules father for surgery in four weeks.
Denial all around.
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