A patio set

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

My Dad, 90 years old next week, was recently moved into a nursing home, due to complications from Parkinson's. My Mom died last October. This summer, we finished emptying my Dad and Mom's house, and then we drove a U-haul filled with treasured belongings from their house in Maine to my home in Maryland. This poem is about one of those treasures, a patio set, that now resides at my house.

A patio set,
wicker, soft, and blue,
a place for them to be,

a gift of love just a few years back,
to welcome them
to their new home in Maine.

A patio set,
wicker, soft, and blue,
easing them into

a small home with caregivers, after
the abrupt end of their life in the south, 

in a coastal paradise. 

A patio set,
wicker, soft, and blue,
meant to help them adjust
to less independence,

a place for them to be,
in hopes of helping them feel more at home,
to remind them of the beach and the sea.

A patio set,
wicker, soft, and blue,
we hoped they'd spend years
sitting, enjoying the birds and the trees,
surrounded by their
cherished photos,
familiar trinkets,
loving family.

Not to be, not to be.

A patio set,
wicker, soft, and blue,
is now my place to be.

Although not an an heirloom or antique,

instead, purchased for them

recently,

it is lush with meaning.

A patio set,
wicker, soft, and blue,
reminds in the midst of birds and trees,

of strong and fragile,

of living, breathing, loving,
of all that is possible and might not,
of how things change.

A patio set,
wicker, soft, and blue,
new to me, meant to be.

SOL: Parkinson's

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life.  
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, 
on Tuesdays.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect!!

Seeing my Dad this past weekend was, once again, really hard. He is 89 and lives in a nursing home in Maine. He suffers from Parkinson's, and his decline continues with abandon.

I think about how I work with preschoolers to accomplish some small skill - say, printing the letters of their name, or zippering up their coat, or cleaning up their toys. Often, with practice, I see marked improvement very quickly, as they work on these skills. For Dad, with Parkinson's, his daily work is the mirror opposite - not skill-building, but trying to delay skill-disappearing. He works very, very hard to not regress in his skills. He wants to hold on to that which he can do - and, honestly, these past few months, it seems to be to no avail. Over time - over much too short time - he is losing his ability to do absolutely everything. As hard as it is for me, his child, to watch this, I know it has to be eviscerating for him to live it out.

An example:
Just three weeks ago, he needed my help a little bit to get out of his bed or chair, and then he walked with a walker. Today, I cannot coach him by myself; I need the assistance of a caregiver to get him up. I watched/assisted as she gave him step-by-step directions - "hold this," "reach here," "step here." It was clear to me that Dad could not follow her slow and clear words. Also, just three weeks from when I last saw him, he is no longer able to walk with a walker and now uses a wheelchair. Together, the caregiver and I lifted and moved him into the wheelchair, with little or no help from Dad, little or no ability from Dad. This decline is stunning.

My brother has done a lot of reading about Parkinson's (I probably should, as well!) and he says that the progression of this disease is uneven. Although there are specific stages of decline, these are achieved in irregular patterns - sometimes moving slowly and other times deteriorating very quickly. There is rarely any "bounce back," but a progression towards immobility. Since Mom's death in October, Dad's decline is like an elevator, dropping down rapidly. Grief coupled with Parkinson's, that's how I describe his condition.

This poem is my reflection on this new chapter in Dad's/my life.

How can it be that

yesterday he could,

today he can't?

Sliding
      down a slippery slope,
                      surrendering to
                                         silence.
                                             

How can it be that

yesterday he could,

today he can't?

Moving backwards

mind muddled,                           

 a mask of oneself,                                           

miserable.                                                                

How can it be that

yesterday he could,

today he can't?

Forgetting,

 falling,

 frail,

   forever gone.

Parkinson's

means
progressive
powerlessness.

SOL19 Slice #3 Aging is painful work

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL19)
All participants are writing about one moment, one part of their day, every day for the month of March 2019.

A big thank you to Two Writing Teachers for providing this unique opportunity
for teacher-writers to share and reflect.

Paper cut: a cut caused by the sharp edge of a piece of paper (MacMillan Dictionary)

Tiny, almost imperceptible, and yet so painful. 

Mom died four months ago, in late October.
We moved Dad from their house to an assisted living apartment, at his behest, a couple weeks after Mom died, so that he would have caregivers close at hand. A month or so later, it was clear that he would never be able to live so independently again, and we emptied his house of belongings, dispersing them to family members, giving things away to thrift shops, and throwing things out.

Another month later, we moved him from his assisted living apartment into the nursing home. After a few weeks here, we realized he would never be able to live even minimally independently again, and, the last week of February, we emptied his assisted living apartment of belongings, dispersing them to family members, giving things away to thrift shops, and throwing things out. He will live out his days in the nursing home.

Aging is painful work for all of us.

He is 89, suffering from Parkinson's and profound grief. He and Mom met in 8th grade. He doesn't know how to move on, without. Yet he must.

He lives 600 miles away and I try to visit him monthly, now that he is so alone. Thankfully, my brother lives just a mile from Dad, overseeing his care. He has many visitors - his children and grandchildren.

There are so many small moments that profoundly hurt, like paper cuts.

A former Admiral, he is now powerless.

Used to giving orders, he is now entirely dependent.

Avid reader and television news junkie, he is nearly blind.

Conversations or books on tape are impossible because he is quite deaf.
A keen mind, he has the beginnings of dementia.

A once strong, athletic man, he has lost much of his balance, needing a walker to move, and he needs assistance to get out of bed or a chair.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

falling out of bed,

needing assistance to the bathroom,
trying to remember someone's name,

wanting a snack right now, right this very minute - but having to wait,
"Where's my BLT?" he roars.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about.
He is incapable of 

changing into his favorite sweatshirt,

listening to his favorite singer [Eddy Arnold],

making his own bed,
remembering his own meds.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

not particularly liking the caregiver on duty,

surrounded by 'old people' [his words!] more fragile than he,

unable to remember the date or time or what comes next in his schedule,
seeing only the vaguest outline of the high school photo of Mom on his nightstand.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about,
Each day offering a little less
mobility,
memory,
sound,
sight.

All the little things that pain him and he can do nothing about:

but he is aware of each,

with heightened awareness,
just like paper cuts.

He shares with me a story:

"I said no to my physical therapist this morning. I don't see why I should even bother. Last night, at dinner, they made me sit next to an old guy. He was holding a baby doll! He was holding a baby doll that looked real, but, come on, you and I know - it wasn't real. Maureen, he was cooing at the baby doll. How did I end up in this place? I was never, ever, ever going to live in an old folk's home. This is hell."

Learning

after all these years

to accept, to be humble, to delight in very small things,

like the window seat in the sunshine,

at the end of the hall,

where he can sit

and savor

all that came before.

I don't know if it is possible for Dad to learn this.

To be with my father, right now, is as if to watch him die from 10, 000 paper cuts.