Zooming through

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!

"Maureen, would you go and get me a cranberry cocktail?," my father asked me. Cranberry 'cocktail' is non-alcoholic and a nursing home favorite - half cranberry juice and half ginger ale; at age 90, he's earned the right to drink as many of these as he wants.

The only problem was, I was on a video call with him when he asked for one! 

Dad is isolated in a nursing home in Maine, and I am sheltering-in-place in Maryland. It is really hard not to be able to visit him, and each passing week of this pandemic makes me a little more depressed, as I think, realistically, will I see him again? How will it ever feel 'safe' enough to enter his nursing home, before a vaccine is made? Will it ever feel fair to his caregivers and their families, to have visitors entering the facility on a regular basis? How long will it take to make a vaccine? 

About three weeks ago, the Activities Director at Dad's home arranged for families to make video calls to their loved ones. What a blessing this has been! Although it had been many weeks since I had seen him, that first video chat revealed my Dad in much the condition as he was when I saw him last: sleepy, his face set in a frown (always!), yet good color, healthy, clean, and relaxed. 

Dad has some vision impairment, he's hard of hearing, plus he has a little dementia (as a result of Parkinson's). He can be very confused about some things (for example, he often talks about my Mom as if she is still alive). I wondered how successful video calls would be, against these odds, but, honestly, they are a very good way to connect. When he asked me to get him a cranberry cocktail, I realized he was mistaking my image for the real thing - how great is that? The Activities Director immediately said, "I'll go get you that drink; we'll let you talk to your daughter. You don't get to see her much!" I loved how he took Dad's request seriously and in stride. 

The Activities Director is quick to make technical adjustments with each call - when Dad had trouble hearing, he got head phones; when Dad rejected these, he connected speakers to the tablet. The speakers are phenomenal, giving such great sound, and making him think I am right there with him.

One call, Dad asked me very seriously: 

"What's your evaluation of Mom?"

He had slipped back in time. 

Background story - Mom suffered from mental illness and Dad spent years asking me this same question, as if to get reassurance that she was doing well. Often, I think, he was seeking a 'pat on the back' because she always refused any and all medical help; Dad didn't fight her about this, and simply took care of her himself. If I responded, "she seems great," then I was effectively saying he was doing well by her.

Mom died a year and a half ago, so "What's your evaluation of Mom?" is a very odd question these days.

I responded gently, "I think she's calm. I think she's missing you."

He nodded his head, resignedly...perhaps, understanding.

Then I said, "What's your evaluation of you?"

He said, "What?"

I repeated the question.

He said, "I'm sad." 

Ah, isn't that the truth? Aren't we all? Isn't this hard? How are we supposed to feel anything other than sad these days?

I decided to be silly and give him a taste of his own medicine - 

"Well then, my Dad always says, you have to stand on your head and turn your frown upside down." 

This made him chuckle. 

Which I call a win.

Just like I do with my preschoolers, I have to take Dad exactly as he is, in whatever mood I find him. The Activities Director does a great job "transitioning" Dad to the call, getting him ready a few minutes beforehand, trying to get him excited and alert. It doesn't always work out. Our last video chat, he had absolutely zero interest in talking to me. He looked off to the side, not acknowledging my voice at all; I asked question after question, trying to joke with him, compliment him, using up pretty much everything in my "bag of tricks." Then I said, "Gee, Dad, you are really making me 'up' my entertainment game, today; I guess you really aren't in the mood to talk." Dad turned his face right to the screen and said, "Would you allow me to go downstairs and get a cup of coffee? Bye, Maureen."

Ha! 

That's called, 'being shown the door.'


Every call brings an anecdote, some surprising little nugget, a shared moment together. I am truly thankful to have the ability to video chat. 

It is so good to see him.

Tony and I "zooming" with Dad.

SOL20 Slice #29: Dread

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL20).  
All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 
 every day for the month of March 2020.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

Laying on my bunk in the cabin, I was wide awake and terrified. Every detail of the ghost story that the older girls had shared around the campfire earlier in the evening was now omnipresent in my mind. Every exaggerated, imaginative depiction that I had laughed at earlier, sitting next to peers, now seemed very plausible and real, alone, in the dark of night. I listened to my roommates' uneven breathing. One girl had a cold, and her breaths would catch and then rattle, unpredictably, intermittently. My image was of this big, thick, dark green, slimy, amorphous monster that came out in the middle of moonless nights, just like this night. It would quietly creep, almost flow, across the surroundings. It would pass under the thin opening at the base of a door, and spread out into our cabins, and across our bodies. It was a green so dark that it was impossible to see without moon and stars to provide a light. Sometimes it suffocated you. Sometimes it just passed over you, leaving a deep green stain across your face. In my bunk that night, I knew the wind through the branches of the trees was IT, coming. That cracking noise...IT! Was it near?  Perhaps it had just bumped into something...maybe that was just the sound of its weight, as it slithered along. Was it repelled by light? If you had a flashlight, could you ward it off? Why didn't I ask this before? I pulled the thin cover up over my head and just waited, paralyzed, impotent, helpless. At some point, exhausted, I fell asleep.

Honestly, I believe this is my only take-away from my brief stint in the Girl Scouts. I have long heard many more honorable things about this organization, but I only remember that night-time dread, while participating in a one night sleepaway camp in the woods. 

Even though some fifty years have gone by, I can still conjure up that creepy monster; I am all too familiar with that ominous dread.

It's back.

We just got word that COVID-19 has made its way into the nursing homes of two folks we love. One, up in Maine, my Dad (age 90) - a fellow resident was suspected to have the disease several days ago, and was immediately isolated, and the test just came back positive; every resident in the home is now isolated in their own rooms. Two, my sister-in-law's mother (age 93) -  her roommate was diagnosed with the disease, here in Maryland; the beloved caregiver was sent home on a two-week quarantine; the mother is now isolated in her own room, showing no signs of having the infection.

No visitors are allowed in. No family members are allowed to visit. 

Doctors and staff are present.

Until they get sick or exposed.

I wonder if nursing homes are kind of making it up as they go? Do they feel paralyzed and impotent, just lying in wait for this disease? I know I do.

My sister-in-law was able to sneak over to the outside of her mother's first-floor room and hang paper hearts all over this exterior window  - "I love you, Mom." She says her Mom gave her a big smile and a wave. 

Dad's on the second floor of a complex, making this loving action near impossible. I smile at the thought of "doing a John Cusack" (in Say Anything) and bringing a boom box underneath his window, blasting his favorite songs. Dad would want to hear Willie Nelson and Jim Croce. 

I am filled with dread. I think dread necessarily involves a lack of knowledge, an eerie prediction, some fatalism, but always - YOU. DO. NOT. KNOW. IF. IT. WILL. HAPPEN.

I laughed with delight, in fact, at this clip from CNN on this past Friday (March 27, 2020):

Meanwhile, a 101-year-old man was released from hospital after recovering from the coronavirus, Gloria Lisi, the deputy mayor of the Italian city of Rimini, has said.
The man, who has been named only as "Mr. P," was admitted to hospital in Rimini, northeast Italy, last week after testing positive for Covid-19 and left the hospital on Thursday.
Lisi said his "truly extraordinary" recovery gave "hope for the future."

As I write into this sense of dread that is growing in me, I must say - I'm not surprised or afraid that Dad will die. I mean, seriously, he is 90. I think if I were to speak about 'fears of dying of this virus' they would center around losing younger, healthier family members and friends. My Dad has had a long, full life. My dread is about how this plays out in real life - this deeply sad image of dying alone. No matter your age. The effect of having this virus, of being in proximity to someone with the virus, means that you will be acutely isolated. You will suffer alone. All by yourself.

Yes, that's it: I find that I am perseverating on the image of these two much-loved people being so alone right now. So alone. 

What gives them peace while they are hunkered down and waiting it out? I hope my Dad is lost somewhere on memory lane, remembering all those times when he felt strong and happy, thinking about silly antics of the past. Maybe he's even well-trained for this time of isolation, having spent so much time on submarines, away from all the physical space and pleasures of our world.

It helps to think he's laughing.

SOL20 Slice #22: Here's to you, Dad

I am participating in the
 Slice of Life Story Challenge (SOL20).  
All participants are sharing stories about moments in their lives, writing 
 every day for the month of March 2020.
Thank you, Two Writing Teachers!

I visit my 90 year old father regularly, and had a trip planned for the end of this week, along with two of my brothers - we were all excited to get together, and see him. Obviously, the trip is cancelled. Here I am, isolated in my home in Maryland, and Dad is isolated in his nursing home in Maine. He's very much on my mind. My oldest brother lives just a mile from the home, but that proximity isn't an advantage these days - the nursing home is closed to all visitors, as the staff tries its very best to keep out coronavirus. It is very hard, but we are just letting Dad be, trusting the nursing staff that he is doing well and that he enjoys the daily routine. He's hard of hearing, with limited vision, and the beginnings of dementia...to try to do a phone call or set up a Skype visit is incomprehensible to him; it leaves him confused and agitated. At their suggestion, we're trying to be content with simply reaching out to the nursing staff regularly, and hearing about how he is doing.

I have no doubt that Dad is doing better with this time apart than we are. He has the advantage of time being very whimsical.

On the last day of my most recent visit, I found him sitting quietly in his room in his wheelchair. I sensed he was brooding, and I bent down to give him a light kiss on his forehead, with a gentle, "Hi, Dad." He said, "What do you think Mom will do? She has to meet with the psychiatrist before she gets out, and she is refusing to do so."
Ah, time traveling.
I played right along, although Mom died a year and a half ago - "She doesn't much like to talk to psychiatrists, right?"
Him, "Oh no."
I fished for memories. "How many different hospitals has she been in? There was northern Virginia, and Charleston. Was she ever in the hospital in New Hampshire?"
Him, "I don't remember."
Me, again, softly, desiring so much more - "Did she ever talk to you about her mental issues?"
Him, "Oh, no way,  no way!" and then he just slipped into a quiet fog.

We sat quietly together in the silence.

After a few minutes, he announced - "Let's see what everybody's up to, " and wheeled himself over to the dining area and right up in the center of everyone. His new pals. I join in the fun. To sit alongside these folks in the nursing home is to travel in myriad directions, not unlike a preschool classroom, where some are present, others have wandered in their minds to someplace altogether different, and others seem to have one foot in both places. Everyone feels what they feel very strongly, right then and there, and there's an insistent undercurrent of 'hey! why don't you take care of this!! Yes, just like preschool. My biggest takeaway, the one that warms my heart during this time of isolation: Dad's happy these days. He is accepting of his lot in life, and seems to be more or less at peace with the nursing home.

Amusingly, he is very attracted to this sharp-tongued, acerbic, crusty gal who seems to not take any nonsense from him or anyone on staff. She spews sarcasm and random complaints and wonderings. When I said goodbye to him, he was seated right next to her, wheelchair to wheelchair, holding her hand. Is her edgy way, her cold, distant manner, reminiscent of Mom? Or does he like that she is feisty, with some life in her, that jumps out and sparkles, just like him? I hope she is making him chuckle.

An invaluable gift of this time of isolation is the recognition, once again, that I am not in control. I am passing through, doing the best I can, with what I've been given, with hopes for more, and goals of my own. The reality is: us. We are so interconnected, dependent on one another. We need each other. We move forward together. We trust. Dad's figured this out in these last few years. I'm seeing it now, too. This, with some deep cleansing breaths, leads to a sense of floating, a softening, and acceptance.

SOL19 Slice #17: Not too long ago

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.

I drop by to see him one last time, before leaving for the airport. He's sound asleep, snuggled in a nursing-home-issued blanket, mouth agape, his right hand folded gently under his chin, as if he is lost in thought, deep thought. I really haven't had very much "good" interaction with Dad on this trip. I spent most of the day with him yesterday, and he said only a word or two. It's as if he is here with us physically, only.

I want to interact with him before I leave; I only have an hour. Should I wake him up?

The nurse says he had a very wakeful night, very unsettled, that he kept getting up, coming out of his room (with his walker), making his way to the sitting area, then going back into his room and back to bed again, over and over. At one point, he curled up on the nursing home couch and fell asleep. The night caregiver covered him with a blanket, not wanting to disturb him, hoping he might finally sleep.

This image of my elderly father wandering, restless, searching, in the middle of the night, just breaks my heart.

I cannot write it, without crying.

Right now, it is morning, and sunshine streams in the beautiful large windows, a bright winter sun, gliding easily through the branches of deciduous trees. The day beckons. This nursing home sparkles. It is a nice place, well taken care of, with good, kind personnel. Truly, this nursing home is a lovely place, considering.

I think of him in the middle of the night and I think - this nursing home, this is not his home. He doesn't know where he is. She (Mom) is not here. He doesn't want to be here. My family and I wonder, is he - perhaps - afraid of where he's headed, what death means?

Disquiet.

Anonymous people caring for him, calming him, redirecting him, encouraging him. They speak gently. They give him space and freedom to wander a bit, keeping him safe.

This image of my elderly father wandering, restless, searching, in the middle of the night - maybe he's remembering making rounds at the shipyard? Checking on things.

I'll never know.

I decide to walk over and just stand at his bedside, quietly. Remember that trick we all had as young children, where you stare your parent into awake? Yes! I decided to try it again.

I stood next to his bed, bending over, looking, staring, sending him the unspoken message, "Wake up, I am here!"

He woke!!
Truly!
He sensed me.
His first thoughts were muddled - Who's there? What? Then, "Oh, yeah, Maureen, you have to go back this morning." (He remembered!!)

He is quiet for a minute or two. Then,

"Maureen, look at you in that picture. You were very little then, weren't you? It doesn't seem that long ago."

I turn my head to see the photo that he is looking at, hanging on the wall near his bed:




This photo was taken about fifty years ago.

"No, Dad, it doesn't. It doesn't seem that long ago at all."



Such a precious few minutes with my father. I am blessed.

SOL 19 Slice #16 What am I doing

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.

Somehow

I am undoing,

totally undoing,

all my healthy living intentions

by unrestrained

indulgences,

snacks, chocolate, and wine,

here in Saco,

visiting my elderly father.

Unfettered, I am.

Unquiet.

Unable.

Briefly,

so briefly,

these

blunt,

soothe,

temper.

Food and drink as anesthetic.

Not good.

I will amend my ways when I return home tomorrow.

SOL 19 Slice #15 Packing for the trip

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.

Packing for the trip.

I am up and down the stairs, to and from the laundry room, finding the clothes I need. Packing my suitcase. How cold will it be in Saco? Have I packed enough warm things? It's time to go see Dad again, up in Maine, in the nursing home. My new monthly tradition since Mom died.

Heavy heart. Full heart. Happy heart. Muddled heart. Dad.

Packing for the trip.

Check these off the list: toiletries, nightgown, underwear, socks, jeans, two nights only. Journal. Book. Writing pens. What am I missing in this suitcase?

We imagined, we hoped for such a different now for him. We dreamed Dad might rally, might find life satisfying, that he might gain energy somehow, from not being consumed by the care of Mom and her all-consuming dementia. Of course, grief isn't 'clean' or 'clear' like that. Grief is a liquid that permeates and bleeds and moves in unexpected ways, affecting so many things. He's lost his purpose, he's lost his will. His legs are giving out, his brain is no longer firing as sharply as it once did. He's addled and mixed up and confused much of the time. 

Packing for the trip.

Maybe the bright red shirt? Maybe this will catch his eye, help him to be a little more alert, maybe make him smile? He seemed to like the vibrant colors last month. Clothes, as cheerleader. Clothes, as possibility and hope. 

I remember last month, slumped in confines of the easy chair, he asked, "Why am I here?" Me, cheerleader, I moved closer to him and tapped him gently on the legs, "It's these legs, Dad. They need to get stronger, to be rehabilitated. They're just not working." 

"Yes," Dad agreed, "They've been very shaky."

I am cheerleader. I am there to soothe, to comfort, to quiet, to brighten, to smile.

Packing for the trip.

Who am I kidding? Parkinson's is a continual taking away, an inevitable decline. This is not like a young child, who begins to learn more due to focused attention on his needs. This is its painful opposite...a withering, a leaving, a letting go.

Do I need to pack shoes for a good long walk? Will we have time for a walk, Tony and I? Walking is the very best way to find a little peace in the midst of the lowness, if/when we find Dad sad and grouchy. 

Yes, I'm going to pack my walking shoes. 

I'll make a walk happen. Self-care. I must think of me, too.

Packing for the trip.

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.