TheBanyanTree: My Father

[smack58 at nycap.rr.com]

Powerful and moving.  Having lost both of my parents I see so much similarity in much that you describe.  It is both a hardship for them and for their family members.  You write this so poignantly I actually had tears in my  eyes.

Sharon
---- Pat M <ms.pat.martin at gmail.com> wrote: 
When I arrive at the Extended Care Unit, Dad sits quietly in his wheelchair
looking out the window, his back to the common room and the other residents.
 What is he thinking? I wonder, as he stares at the sunny day outside,
unaware of my presence.


Now that he is a resident of ECU, he is dressed in street clothes.  It’s a
relief, a scrap of normality after two months of tie-at-the-back-of-the-neck
cotton hospital gowns.  He looks so good in his gray sweatshirt, navy
jogging pants and black running shoes that I almost expect him to be the Dad
I knew before the stroke two months ago.


During the past year, Dad and I have grown close; we’ve gotten to know and
accept each other. Whilst unaware, I have forgiven the man who was present
in body only throughout my childhood, the man who walked away while my
mother beat me because he was just as afraid of her as I was.  Effortlessly,
my bitterness that he was as absent for my daughter as he was for me, has
vanished.


All around me, residents in wheelchairs are seated at tables. Some are
already eating; others are waiting for someone to deliver their lunch. It is
early December and the overhead light fixtures have festive red and green
bulbs in them. A large decorated Christmas tree sits in one corner.


One of Dad’s hearing aids is away for repairs so his already compromised
hearing has worsened.  I approach him and touch his shoulder. I put sunshine
in my voice as I lean close. “Hi Dad!” I want to do whatever I can to cheer
him; he doesn’t belong in this place where people live out their final days.


 “It’s me, Pat,” Because of his impaired vision, I identify myself.


 Lately, Dad’s discontent has shown on his face, but for the moment he seems
relaxed, almost happy.


“Hi Pat,” he says.


“It’s lunchtime. Let’s get you up to a table.”


The wheelchair is cumbersome; it is a borrowed, uncomfortable beast that
will soon be replaced. I release the brake and wheel him over to the closest
table. This is his second day in ECU and he hasn’t yet been assigned to one.



Dad’s head is turned to the right – the only side his brain is aware of.  It’s
a challenge to get him to look forward for any length of time.  A dead
weight, his badly swollen left arm rests on the transparent tray fixed to
his chair.


With a little help from the kitchen staff, I figure out the meal routine. I
find his tray and take it to the server. I pass her the card that tells her
what Dad is allowed to eat.  There is soup, a pureed sandwich and a small
bowl of butterscotch pudding.  The clean bibs are heaped in a huge laundry
hamper and I take one in passing.


As I set up his meal, Dad says, “If I end up like that, take me to the top
of a steep hill and let me go.”  I follow his gaze to a woman slumped over
in her wheelchair with her mouth gaping.


“Oh Dad,” I say, trying to make light of his comment but I know he is
serious.


I snap on the bib and set his plate in front of him. I hand him a spoon so
he can eat his sandwich, a thick beige sludge in the center of a melamine
plate. It couldn’t look more unappetizing.  Dad’s right hand is stiff, and
he has to work hard to curl his fingers around the spoon’s handle.  As he
brings his food to his mouth, he spills some on his bib.


“Tastes as good as it looks,” he mutters as he scrapes up another spoonful.
Pureed sandwich dribbles down his chin.  It would be easy to take over and
feed him to avoid the mess but it is more important he use his one
functioning hand.


“Here’s a napkin, Dad.”


He puts down the spoon and wipes his mouth thoroughly; it’s something he
does well.


“Let’s try some of the soup. It smells pretty good,” I say, removing his
sandwich plate from his tray and replacing it with a bowl.


Dad doesn’t pick up his spoon so I lift his hand and wrap his fingers around
it.


“Here’s the spoon, Dad. Give that soup a try. You need to use your hand or
it’s going to freeze up on you and you won’t be able to use it.”


Dad takes the spoon and eats his soup and then his pudding.  I help him by
scraping out the last spoonful of pudding. By the time he is finished, his
bib is stained with food.


“All done?”


“Yes.”


“What about a drink?  You’ve got Boost, milk or water.  I place all three
thickened beverages in front of him. His hand has limbered up now and he
lifts the milk glass and takes several consecutive gulps. That’s an
improvement; it wasn’t too long ago that one swallow made him choke.


“Last night there was a blue grouse hiding in the basement,” he tells me.
“You know how still they can be and then when you go near them, they
explode.” He gestures with his one good hand.


“Oh. Yes. I know,” I say. It’s better to go along with his stories.


“When I went near it, it shot up in front of me.”


I nod, an attentive listener.


He is quiet now.  I am, too. I don’t know what to say.


“Can you take me to the bank and the Credit Union? I need some money.”


“OK,” I say, knowing within minutes he will forget he asked, and I won’t be
held to it.


“Have you heard from Greg and Stan?” Suddenly his eyes are watery and
red-rimmed. He asks about my brothers every day.


“Yes. Stanley will be down in about ten days, and Greg will be over when he
can. You know the only reason they aren’t here is because they have to
support their families.”


Dad doesn’t respond. We sit in silence. His eyes close and his head falls
forward. I look around the room at the elderly, all of them seated in
wheelchairs. A woman cries out for her mother with a voice as thin as her
emaciated body. A man bellows repeatedly.  Some residents are asleep; a few
have visitors.  A woman’s shrill scream shatters the relative quiet. “Why?”


Yes, I think, why?


Dad opens his eyes. “I need Tylenol,” he says.


“Are you in pain?”


“Yes.”


“What hurts?”


“My back.”


I adjust his wheelchair but it does little good. I try again and again.
There is no comfortable position.


“I’ll go find a nurse. I’ll be back in a minute,” I say but there is no one
at the front desk. A woman cleaning off the tables tells me the nurses take
a break after lunch.


I’m on edge because I can’t make Dad comfortable.


“Sorry Dad. You’re going to have to wait,” I say apologetically.


As soon as a nurse appears, I approach her with my request. She checks his
chart and tells me he had Tylenol first thing in the morning and he can have
another dose now.  A few minutes later, she arrives with his Tylenol crushed
and mixed with pudding.  Dad opens his mouth like a baby bird waiting to be
fed, and she spoons it in. I pass him his thickened water to rinse the
bitter taste from his mouth.


“He’s been up since early this morning. Does he usually go to bed about this
time?” the nurse asks.


“Yes.”


Sitting up for five hours is new for Dad and I know he needs to get back
into bed as soon as possible.


“Take him to his room. The nurses are starting to put them to bed. They
start at the far end of the corridor but it shouldn’t be too long before
they get to him.


There are differences between the hospital and ECU, I realize. In the
hospital, I could ask the nurses to put Dad to bed whenever he felt
uncomfortable and they would attend to it.  ECU is more regimented.  Dad
must sit in his chair in pain until it’s his turn to go to bed, and there is
nothing I can do about it.


I wheel Dad down the hall to his room to wait.


“It shouldn’t be this way,” he says. His forehead is creased; his expression
is wounded. No wonder. He has no say in his own life anymore. Phyllis, his
wife, my step-mother, is calling the shots.


I am strong; I hold it together. “I know, Dad. It shouldn’t, but there’s one
thing we know about life, it’s not fair.”


The nurse finally arrives. She uses a lift to move him from the chair to his
bed and asks me to wait in the hallway while she changes him.  When she is
finished I am allowed in the room again. There are 4 beds in Hemlock #303.
The man in bed next to Dad is making loud, unintelligible noises. I whisper
to the nurse, “This is one time that Dad’s hearing problem is a good thing.”


Dad’s eyes are closed, but he senses my presence and opens them. They are
full of tears.


“Well Dad. I’m going to head off now. “


“I know. That’s why I’m crying,” he murmurs.


It’s hard to leave but I must. I press my lips to his forehead, give him a
kiss.


“I love you Dad.”


“I love you too.”


“See you tomorrow,” I say.


I steel myself; turn my back and walk away; I leave him there.


*****