TheBanyanTree: Father's Day

[auntiesash]

Pat - you are in my heart.  Your love and compassion is how the divine acts
in this world.  Find all the grace that you can and ask everyone around you
for the help you need - even if it's just more hugs than usual.

You have expressed this so beautifully.  I can smell the care center where
mom was before she went "home" to the alzheimer's facility (and then "home"
for good).  I remember the surprise from the staff when I showed up every
lunch and dinner to be sure that mother ate what she would, got back to her
room, had music playing, was clean.  I couldn't be there all the time, but I
could know that before bed and once mid day, everything that could be done
for her WAS done for her.

I wish I had more words for you.  Thank you for doing what you can as long
as you can.

in peace,
SarahAnne

On Fri, Jul 8, 2011 at 11:45 AM, Pat M <ms.pat.martin at gmail.com> wrote:

> Father’s Day
>
>
>
> It’s Sunday, June 19th, 2011 - Father’s Day and I key in the security code
> to enter the Extended Care Unit of the hospital. After Thanksgiving dinner,
> some eight months ago, Dad had a major stroke. He survived, but we lost Dad
> that day just the same.
>
>
>
> I hardly knew my father and he certainly didn’t know me although we lived
> in
> the same house. Remote and uninterested, he hardly spoke to me throughout
> my
> entire childhood. Fatherhood to him meant putting a roof over my head and
> supplying food and clothing – the necessities and he did a good job of
> that.
> I needed more; I needed to know he loved me and I needed him to protect me
> from Mom’s violent rages. On those counts he failed. Only in the year
> before
> the stroke when I was in my mid-fifties had we begun building our fragile
> relationship into something stronger. And sometime in those months,
> forgiveness had come without me knowing it: forgiveness that not only had
> he
> been absent for me but he had failed my only child, Michelle too.  Although
> we lived in the same small town for the first ten years of my daughter’s
> life, not once had he and my step-mom invited her to their home or showed
> any interest in getting to know her.
>
>
> The common room I enter is large and bright with circular tables
> throughout.
> It is lunchtime and almost all of the seventy-five residents are seated in
> wheelchairs around their tables. It’s like looking at a portrait of
> old-age,
> a collage of disabled bodies, slack mouths and skewed minds, and an
> unpleasant reminder of how we may end up if we live long enough.
>
>
> Dad’s left side was paralyzed by the stroke and he suffered major brain
> damage resulting in memory loss, delusions and confusion. In the beginning
> there was hope. I learned something about my soft-spoken father: he has a
> strong will. He was motivated to do the exercises I helped him with in the
> hope his wife would take him home.
>
>
> Eventually he was able to move his wheelchair with his one good arm and his
> mind improved too. The delusions were diminishing and he was lucid most of
> the time.  He was doing so well that I started taking him to private
> physiotherapy to speed up his recovery. I had high hopes, hopes that were
> dashed when he took a sudden turn for the worse.
>
>
> We suspect Dad had a mini-stroke or a series of them as his vision suddenly
> deteriorated and his dementia began to rapidly worsen. For the past couple
> of months he has been in a steady decline. I’ve had to give up hope he will
> ever leave this institution and I am buckling under this heavy weight.
>
>
> I make my way toward Dad trying to gauge his condition. I never know what
> to
> expect. He slumps in a low-slung wheelchair next to Table 3, a shell of the
> man he was. With forced good cheer, I put a smile in my voice.
>
>
> “Hi Dad! It’s Pat.”
>
>
> I note his wrinkled brow. Something is worrying him. He looks around
> slowly,
> unable to track the direction of my voice. Some days he is completely
> blind;
> other days he has limited vision. Today it isn’t apparent whether he can
> see
> me or not.
>
>
> “Hello,” he says.
>
>
> “How are you?” I ask.
>
>
> “Not good,” he says. “I had to pee myself.”
>
>
> “I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t like it any better than you do, but that’s
> the way they do things in here.”
>
>
> Dad frets because the nurses won’t put him on the commode and he is forced
> to go to the toilet in a diaper. Nearly every time I visit, he brings it
> up.
>
>
>
> “I haven’t …. myself in eighty years and I’m not going to start now,” he
> often says, but unfortunately he has no choice. It’s easier and quicker for
> staff to change a soiled diaper than to put an invalid on a bedpan. It
> angers me that the elderly are forced to lose their dignity in this way.
>  Those
> who seldom visit the ECU think it is a good place and have praise for the
> staff. Those, like myself, who are there often are disillusioned.
>
>
> Recently my sister visited Dad around 3 pm and at that time told staff he
> needed to be changed. They advised they would do so. When I arrived at
> dinnertime, Dad was covered in his own waste after trying to remove his
> soiled diaper himself. The caring staff had left him in his own mess for
> hours. Without a second thought, I’d cast the soiled blankets on the floor,
> changed his nightgown and disinfected his hands. Where there is love, one
> can do anything.
>
>
> Dad’s biggest worry though is his failing memory. He spends hours trying to
> remember people’s names and is just cognizant enough to know he is losing
> his mind. He tries to hang onto his sanity and suffers his failure.
>
>
> “Do you know who I am?”
>
>
> “Tommy Bird,” he says.
>
>
> Tommy Bird was a boy who lived a few doors over from the home I grew up in
> so many decades ago.
>
>
> “No Dad. It’s Pat.”
>
>
> He should know me by the sound of my voice I reason, but there is nothing
> reasonable about dementia.
>
>
> The lunch trolley has arrived.
>
>
> “Are you hungry? I’m going to get your lunch. I’ll be back in a minute,” I
> chirp, trying to remain positive.
>
>
> Dad’s lunch is served on a pink tray which signals he is a ‘feed’.  A few
> months ago he was able to eat on his own but now with his impaired vision
> and declining strength, he is helpless.
>
>
> I return with his tray. He is like a sparrow. I spoon food into his open
> mouth. He stares at me and I stare back. I am reminded of when I breast-fed
> Michelle. The eye contact is the same. I am his mother; he is my child. I
> am
> overwhelmed with love. And then he is gone.
>
>
> “I want to speak to Pat. She was here a few minutes ago,” he says.
>
>
> My insides twist.
>
>
> “I’m here Dad. It’s me.”
>
>
> “Pat!” he shouts.
>
>
> “It’s me, Dad,” I say again.
>
>
> “I know it’s you but I want to speak to Pat!  Pat!” he bellows again.
>
>
> I gently cup Dad’ face in my hands and turn him toward me.
>
>
>
> “Look Dad. It’s me. Pat. What do you want to talk about?’
>
>
> “I need to talk to Pat. She’s over there.” He nods to indicate where he
> thinks he sees me.
>
>
> I get up, walk away and return, playing along.
>
>
> “Hi Dad,” I say.
>
>
> He doesn’t buy it.
>
>
> “I need to talk to Pat!”
>
>
> Over and over he calls me. I am at a loss. Others are watching. I’m upset
> and embarrassed. Dad is showing everyone what I want to deny: he is
> slipping
> away and no amount of love can hold him back.
>
>
> “Let’s finish your lunch,” I say and spoon some food into his mouth. I am
> rattled but it will do no good to walk away. Love holds me there; love will
> give me strength to get through this. Love is the way.
>
>
> xxxx
>



-- 
Everyone is from somewhere - even if you've never been there
So take a minute to remember the part of you
That might be the old man calling me - *Jethro Tull*