Dear Dad,
It has been two days since I wrote, and I have a lot to say, and little to report on.
Yesterday, it was amazing, you were "overloaded" with your medications until you were clear minded, and it lasted such a short time. The doctor came in and told you that you will never go home, that your final days would be spent running from the nursing facility to the ER and each time your body would suffer more, and each time you would be a weaker than before, that you were being kept in this state by medication, and if you stopped taking your meds, you would die.
Later, after she left, you talked with me about it. You told me you did not want to return to the hospital again, that if this was as good as it was going to get, you would rather go ahead and stop taking the meds. I think the clincher was when the doctor told you that you would probably last about 4 days until your next "episode."
I called the doctor for you and asked her to stop the meds.
It was hard, but I knew you were right.
We talked a lot. Your mind was so clear, it has been a long time since we have talked like this, but I knew it would be gone again soon. You called your sister and told her goodbye, you talked with your pastor, and you talked with me, a lot.
I told you I would miss you, and we both cried.
Then I stopped and said, "you won't miss me" and you looked at me kind of funny, and I said, "You will be with your mother and father, and your friends that have gone before. You will be living that thing we sing about, the Joy Unspeakable ... full of glory, eternal peace and happiness."
It seemed to settle you for awhile.
Later, we talked about how you wanted to distribute items, and what you wanted in your funeral.
It was a time to just be still, and listen.
I went home after you started resting, and sent some messages to my son.
I told him how you made choices to stand up to not the possibility of death, but the assurance of death, and you did not back down. You faced it with dignity and courage.
You continue to make an impact on your family.
Yesterday, when I arrived, you were asleep in front of your breakfast tray. I woke you up, helped you eat, and you asked me if I thought you were committing suicide by doing this. I answered, "No, you are just no longer fighting the inevitable. You are allowing God to take over and bring you home at his schedule."
Family arrived, and you had a busy day.
At the end of the day, you were exhausted, it was hard to talk in more than a whisper.
You told us to never miss an opportunity to serve God, that is the most important thing in life
I left with a lot of the family, and gave you some time with my brother. He came in from Kansas City and wanted to spend some time with you.
I think about the highlights of the day, talking with hospice as they described your final days. As your liver functions begin to cease, you will begin to experience more confusion and feel weak, eventually slipping into a coma, where you will make your journey home.
There will be no pain.
You told the doctor you wish you could live longer, but you are ready.
Ready...confident...assured...soon to be complete and perfect.
It is hard to say goodbye, but in eternity, where time exists no more, it will be only a blink and we will be with you.
All is well, try to rest Dad.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
A long night
Dear Dad,
As I promised, we went to see you today.
Sometimes you amaze me. You won't give up. When I think you are about to give up, you bounce back. Unfortunately, the bounces are taking their toll on you.
I walked in, you saw me, and called me by my name. You seemed sad...
We talked, and I noticed you were really upset, you had tears in your eyes, and you were very aware of everything going on around you.
My brothers, one by phone and the other in person, took turns telling you how they were glad you are their father and talked about how you have taught them to be men, and what a great impact you have made on their lives. They also told you that you did not have to worry about them, that they were okay and you could join your family that passed away before you.
I watched you cry when they talked with you. It really seemed to upset you.
For some reason, I just did not feel I needed to say that. You see, we have already had this talk. You know where I stand,. Instead, I told you that as long as I could, I would fight for you to live. That I want you to live forever, and until you say stop, I will try to find ways to improve your health. I want you here, alive, and at home. I want you to make a miraculous comeback, and I will try to help you.
You did not cry, you nodded and said, "Thank you."
Later, I noticed you were crying, and sometimes I could hear you whispering "Jesus" as you were praying. I asked if you would like us to pray with you, you said yes.
So we prayed, nothing spectacular, certainly not any prayers that will be remembered in history. Just simple prayers of thanksgiving for your life, recognition of our frailties, and requests for your health.
You seemed to settle down and rest better, you were fairly restless before this.
Dad, I have to make a decision tomorrow. When I see you tomorrow morning, I will talk with the doctor on your condition and we have to decide whether we will extend your life as it is, if your quality of life and health is improving, or if we just need to make you comfortable and let your old body do that which it is pressing to do.
I know your intent in the past, but that was before you were lying in bed, possibly dying. Now, I have to consider not just what you may have indicated in an order, but also what you want now, and what is the best for you.
It will be a long night...
It's not Christmas Eve, but the Eve of decision.
I know you heard this before, but I will do the right thing, and I may not know what it is until I do it, but I will do the right thing. This is why you asked me to take care of this for you - I have everything to lose and nothing to gain by your passing.
It will be a long night...
As I promised, we went to see you today.
Sometimes you amaze me. You won't give up. When I think you are about to give up, you bounce back. Unfortunately, the bounces are taking their toll on you.
I walked in, you saw me, and called me by my name. You seemed sad...
We talked, and I noticed you were really upset, you had tears in your eyes, and you were very aware of everything going on around you.
My brothers, one by phone and the other in person, took turns telling you how they were glad you are their father and talked about how you have taught them to be men, and what a great impact you have made on their lives. They also told you that you did not have to worry about them, that they were okay and you could join your family that passed away before you.
I watched you cry when they talked with you. It really seemed to upset you.
For some reason, I just did not feel I needed to say that. You see, we have already had this talk. You know where I stand,. Instead, I told you that as long as I could, I would fight for you to live. That I want you to live forever, and until you say stop, I will try to find ways to improve your health. I want you here, alive, and at home. I want you to make a miraculous comeback, and I will try to help you.
You did not cry, you nodded and said, "Thank you."
Later, I noticed you were crying, and sometimes I could hear you whispering "Jesus" as you were praying. I asked if you would like us to pray with you, you said yes.
So we prayed, nothing spectacular, certainly not any prayers that will be remembered in history. Just simple prayers of thanksgiving for your life, recognition of our frailties, and requests for your health.
You seemed to settle down and rest better, you were fairly restless before this.
Dad, I have to make a decision tomorrow. When I see you tomorrow morning, I will talk with the doctor on your condition and we have to decide whether we will extend your life as it is, if your quality of life and health is improving, or if we just need to make you comfortable and let your old body do that which it is pressing to do.
I know your intent in the past, but that was before you were lying in bed, possibly dying. Now, I have to consider not just what you may have indicated in an order, but also what you want now, and what is the best for you.
It will be a long night...
It's not Christmas Eve, but the Eve of decision.
I know you heard this before, but I will do the right thing, and I may not know what it is until I do it, but I will do the right thing. This is why you asked me to take care of this for you - I have everything to lose and nothing to gain by your passing.
It will be a long night...
Dates are insignificant now
Dear Dad,
I spoke with your doctor a little while ago. I really like her, she is a good doctor and a good person. Sometimes hard to find the two together in the same body.
You are not getting better. You are getting worse. Your body is trying to tell us to let you go, but we are having a hard time.
You cannot swallow, the IVs are providing fluid to restore (if possible) the failing kidneys, but the fluids will begin to collect in your abdomen and we have to give you diuretics, which in turn, cause kidney failure. You have encephalopathy from the increased ammonia levels and are in and out of consciousness, and since you cannot swallow, your medication has to be administered through an enema. The treatment for the encephalopathy is to give you powerful laxatives, that will take the ammonia out of your system with the wastes. Unfortunately, for the laxatives to be effective, it causes you to be dehydrated, so you need more IV fluids, and the cycle continues.
The doctor said we need to consider making you comfortable and allowing your body to do that which it is trying to do.
I have a hard time with this, only because we have been taught to never give up hope.
I have not.
Even though we see the perceived finality of life in this world we inhabit, we have to look beyond today, tomorrow, and the day after.
We have to look at this mystery called eternity and apply our reality to the reality we cannot understand.
Somewhere in this beach of eternity, is a grain of sand that is the longest period we can imagine. When you join your family before you in eternity, it will be less than a grain of sand before we will be with you also.
A blink, a "twinkling of an eye", and we will be together again.
We will not be separated by time, nor space or even circumstances.
We are family.
Family is forever.
I am headed to the hospital to see you.
It is your choice, you can go home anytime you like.
I spoke with your doctor a little while ago. I really like her, she is a good doctor and a good person. Sometimes hard to find the two together in the same body.
You are not getting better. You are getting worse. Your body is trying to tell us to let you go, but we are having a hard time.
You cannot swallow, the IVs are providing fluid to restore (if possible) the failing kidneys, but the fluids will begin to collect in your abdomen and we have to give you diuretics, which in turn, cause kidney failure. You have encephalopathy from the increased ammonia levels and are in and out of consciousness, and since you cannot swallow, your medication has to be administered through an enema. The treatment for the encephalopathy is to give you powerful laxatives, that will take the ammonia out of your system with the wastes. Unfortunately, for the laxatives to be effective, it causes you to be dehydrated, so you need more IV fluids, and the cycle continues.
The doctor said we need to consider making you comfortable and allowing your body to do that which it is trying to do.
I have a hard time with this, only because we have been taught to never give up hope.
I have not.
Even though we see the perceived finality of life in this world we inhabit, we have to look beyond today, tomorrow, and the day after.
We have to look at this mystery called eternity and apply our reality to the reality we cannot understand.
Somewhere in this beach of eternity, is a grain of sand that is the longest period we can imagine. When you join your family before you in eternity, it will be less than a grain of sand before we will be with you also.
A blink, a "twinkling of an eye", and we will be together again.
We will not be separated by time, nor space or even circumstances.
We are family.
Family is forever.
I am headed to the hospital to see you.
It is your choice, you can go home anytime you like.
December 28, 2009
Dear Dad,
Last night was a long one. At 10:30 pm, I received a call from the nursing center that you had been sick most of the evening, and the doctor felt it was necessary to send you back to the hospital, via ambulance to the emergency room.
I was actually just about to get into bed...so I dressed and drove to your facility and waited with you for the ambulance.
You were never responsive more than opening your eyes after several times of calling your name.
En route to the hospital, while I was following the ambulance (normal speeds, no siren or lights), suddenly the lights flipped on, the siren went off and the ambulance took off, leaving me behind. You had some "irregularities" with your heart and were starting to have cardiac arrest. The EMTs were able to stabilize you and your pacemaker took over, and you made the trip fine.
You were in pretty bad shape. The vomiting left you dehydrated, and your ammonia levels were elevated. You had not been eating or drinking enough, and the doctors said your kidneys were suffering as a result. They also said the dehydration affected your heart, and the irregular heartbeats may stabilize.
It was a long night in the ER. The doctor decided to keep you for a couple of nights, help you get back to "normal", whatever that may be now.
When I called your wife, Marion, to tell her your status, we discussed your desire to not be resuscitated.
That puts me in a dilemma. You told me you want to recover and go home, you have a lot to live for.
I discussed this with the doctor, and he told me this is treatable, that we are in a bad time right now, but it is treatable.
Needless to say, you are stable now, in a room, and looking better.
I have said this before, and I will say it again...you have been and always will be a good man. I will stand for you, as will your other 2 sons, and we will pray for your recovery. It is a long shot, but isn't the basics of faith believing the impossible?
If you do not recover, we have nothing to gain through this...we are losing our father, our guide, our mentor.
We are strong, and will do the right things.
Last night was a long one. At 10:30 pm, I received a call from the nursing center that you had been sick most of the evening, and the doctor felt it was necessary to send you back to the hospital, via ambulance to the emergency room.
I was actually just about to get into bed...so I dressed and drove to your facility and waited with you for the ambulance.
You were never responsive more than opening your eyes after several times of calling your name.
En route to the hospital, while I was following the ambulance (normal speeds, no siren or lights), suddenly the lights flipped on, the siren went off and the ambulance took off, leaving me behind. You had some "irregularities" with your heart and were starting to have cardiac arrest. The EMTs were able to stabilize you and your pacemaker took over, and you made the trip fine.
You were in pretty bad shape. The vomiting left you dehydrated, and your ammonia levels were elevated. You had not been eating or drinking enough, and the doctors said your kidneys were suffering as a result. They also said the dehydration affected your heart, and the irregular heartbeats may stabilize.
It was a long night in the ER. The doctor decided to keep you for a couple of nights, help you get back to "normal", whatever that may be now.
When I called your wife, Marion, to tell her your status, we discussed your desire to not be resuscitated.
That puts me in a dilemma. You told me you want to recover and go home, you have a lot to live for.
I discussed this with the doctor, and he told me this is treatable, that we are in a bad time right now, but it is treatable.
Needless to say, you are stable now, in a room, and looking better.
I have said this before, and I will say it again...you have been and always will be a good man. I will stand for you, as will your other 2 sons, and we will pray for your recovery. It is a long shot, but isn't the basics of faith believing the impossible?
If you do not recover, we have nothing to gain through this...we are losing our father, our guide, our mentor.
We are strong, and will do the right things.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
December 26, 2009
Dear Dad,
The last time I wrote, you were waiting to go home. It never happened. In fact, you were transferred to a rehab facility. You were in such poor condition, we wondered daily if you would survive the night, and when the morning came, we were surprised.
And we started the day all over again.
Christmas Eve, my wife and I went to see you. We talked ...really, I talked, I don't even know if you listened. I don't know if you were really there. You ate very little that day, I had to feed you. The three bites of scrambled eggs were all you had. You told me "no more" as I fed you, wondering how it felt when you fed me, as a child.
The difference is you had hope for what I was becoming, dreams for my life. With every bite, I was an astronaut, a teacher, a lawyer, an engineer. With you, every bite is one step closer to what you are becoming, something new, someone else...someone not here.
One of the wisest people I ever met told me with every change where you are farther from us, you become closer to Jesus. It is comforting to think that you are moving to something better, that the only ones losing anything or anyone is us...you are gaining.
Christmas day arrived and we visited you. It was sad, but I am glad you never knew how it hurt to see you this way. You were immobile, could not move your arms or legs, and when I talked with you, you could not answer except to say "yes" or "okay". When I called your name, you would open your eyes, then close them again.
Once again, I fed you. I gave you bites of cheesecake, and you savored each bite as if it was a gourmet dish. You were unable to suck water from a straw, so I poured a little into your open mouth. You swallowed a few mouthfuls and then you closed your eyes, you were through.
I left, took my family and we drove to our Christmas celebration. It was good to be with more family, the family you enjoyed so much for so many years.
It was good.
My brother called me from out of state. He talked with you and had prayed with you. He is a pastor, and was preparing for his Christmas message in the small town in northern Missouri, struggling as his father lay dying in Texas.
The snow was so heavy, they were probably going to cancel the service, and he could not make it to Dallas to see his father. He cried with me, and I just listened.
We were little boys once again, standing together at the airport, saying goodbye to our father as he was boarding the plane to places unknown, hopefully to see you again one day.
Although this is not new, it never gets easy.
Today, the day after Christmas, we went to see you again.
I expected to see you pale, withering, and helpless.
You were laying on your bed, arms crossed behind your head, dressed and awake.
You were weak, but you were there.
You asked questions, why you were there, how long you would be there. I answered you and told you this was just to give you the strength to go home.
You are not out of the woods yet, but it was a small miracle.
For a while, you were almost back.
I pushed you around the place in a wheelchair, showed you the dining room, and the area where you have church services. You asked me if you were going to get to go home, I said, "yes."
Of course you will.
There is no way we could ever keep you here.
Good night Dad, I'll be there again tomorrow.
You are not out of the woods yet, but it was a small miracle.
For a while, you were almost back.
I pushed you around the place in a wheelchair, showed you the dining room, and the area where you have church services. You asked me if you were going to get to go home, I said, "yes."
Of course you will.
There is no way we could ever keep you here.
Good night Dad, I'll be there again tomorrow.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
December 20, 2009 - Sunday Morning
Dear Dad,
I saw you last night at the hospital, and when I walked into your room, you were sitting in the dark, alone, trying to read. You did not realize you could turn a light on and see better.
I turned on the lights, then we talked a bit. Your voice was slower, more deliberate than ever before.
Your meal for the evening came, and you told me you had no appetite all day and were just weak. I helped you, I cut the food into manageable pieces, and made sure your shakey hands did not spill your drink.
It was hard, yet I felt honored.
As my heart broke to see the man once so strong, so intelligent, reduced to a whisper of his former self, I realized I am the one that is here for you, I am with you at the end.
My father, I cried when I left you. I wish I had been a better son, but again - I know those days are long gone and we are here now, with me standing for you, helping you as the nights grow longer and winter sets in.
The wind felt cold last night as I walked to my vehicle. My wife and I were silent as we drove away.
What can you say at times like this?
Today, the doctor called and said you will not be released, things have taken a turn for the worse.
She said when she arrived at your room, you were talking on the phone and nobody was on the other end of the connection. You were bloated and had to be catheterized, as you were not emptying your bladder. She said you might not ever go home again.
By the time I got to the hospital, you were resting, and you looked so bad, so weak, so pitiful. It was hard to see you. Your meal for the evening was in front of you and you were asleep.
I woke you, and asked how you were, you said "tired."
Once again, I cut up the food, and prepared it so you could eat, but when the nurse tried to feed you, you told her it had no taste. You were eye-balling the pie and said the pie looked good!
You were moved to be closer to the nurses station, they want to keep an eye on you tonight.
When we were alone, you said, "This could..." and you fell asleep.
This could...
Dare I complete the sentence?
The nurse woke you and asked you where you were, you did not know. She asked you what month it was, you did not know. She asked you what special day was coming, and you said, "hopefully, when I get to go home."
That's right.
It will be a special day when you get to go home.
I have a picture of you, just a boy, taken over 65 years ago. Sitting on your bicycle, holding your dog. It was one of your favorite pictures, you loved that dog. I think about you as a little boy, and soon, the joy of being with your family will return. Just like a little boy, you will be greeted by your mother and father and once again, you will be home.
It will be a special day.
Good night, Dad - I hope to see you tomorrow, but if not - we are okay, you did a good job..
I saw you last night at the hospital, and when I walked into your room, you were sitting in the dark, alone, trying to read. You did not realize you could turn a light on and see better.
I turned on the lights, then we talked a bit. Your voice was slower, more deliberate than ever before.
Your meal for the evening came, and you told me you had no appetite all day and were just weak. I helped you, I cut the food into manageable pieces, and made sure your shakey hands did not spill your drink.
It was hard, yet I felt honored.
As my heart broke to see the man once so strong, so intelligent, reduced to a whisper of his former self, I realized I am the one that is here for you, I am with you at the end.
My father, I cried when I left you. I wish I had been a better son, but again - I know those days are long gone and we are here now, with me standing for you, helping you as the nights grow longer and winter sets in.
The wind felt cold last night as I walked to my vehicle. My wife and I were silent as we drove away.
What can you say at times like this?
Today, the doctor called and said you will not be released, things have taken a turn for the worse.
She said when she arrived at your room, you were talking on the phone and nobody was on the other end of the connection. You were bloated and had to be catheterized, as you were not emptying your bladder. She said you might not ever go home again.
By the time I got to the hospital, you were resting, and you looked so bad, so weak, so pitiful. It was hard to see you. Your meal for the evening was in front of you and you were asleep.
I woke you, and asked how you were, you said "tired."
Once again, I cut up the food, and prepared it so you could eat, but when the nurse tried to feed you, you told her it had no taste. You were eye-balling the pie and said the pie looked good!
You were moved to be closer to the nurses station, they want to keep an eye on you tonight.
When we were alone, you said, "This could..." and you fell asleep.
This could...
Dare I complete the sentence?
The nurse woke you and asked you where you were, you did not know. She asked you what month it was, you did not know. She asked you what special day was coming, and you said, "hopefully, when I get to go home."
That's right.
It will be a special day when you get to go home.
I have a picture of you, just a boy, taken over 65 years ago. Sitting on your bicycle, holding your dog. It was one of your favorite pictures, you loved that dog. I think about you as a little boy, and soon, the joy of being with your family will return. Just like a little boy, you will be greeted by your mother and father and once again, you will be home.
It will be a special day.
Good night, Dad - I hope to see you tomorrow, but if not - we are okay, you did a good job..
New Format
Once upon a time, long ago, I kept a journal. Someone I love very much was going through a hard time, and I kept a journal for them, to help them remember if they needed it.
It became our legacy.
It became not only who we are, but why we are.
And we learned how nothing is stronger than love.
That was 20 years ago.
Here I am again, but this time there is not an option for my loved one to read the journal, not now - not later.
So, there is a new format. Since this is written about my father, it will also be written to my father.
It became our legacy.
It became not only who we are, but why we are.
And we learned how nothing is stronger than love.
That was 20 years ago.
Here I am again, but this time there is not an option for my loved one to read the journal, not now - not later.
So, there is a new format. Since this is written about my father, it will also be written to my father.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Time for some good stuff...
Okay, I know this is serious. I see it daily, I hear it all the time, especially when I try to talk with my Dad and he is really having a hard time comprehending things or finding a word.
By no means am I trying to be disrespectful, i just thought it was time to lighten up, laugh a little, remember the funny things.
There were a lot of funny times.
The time I held up the sign in the car, while we were traveling from Georgia to Texas for the Christmas holidays...The "sign", actually the back of a tablet, had the message, "Help, I have been kidnapped" written on it in large letters. I held it up as if I was drawing, until the Mississippi State Troopers pulled us over.
After a brief exchange with my father, the Army Sarge, I was summoned outside..."Donald (I knew I was in trouble when he used my full first name), get out here!"
After feigning innocence ("what, you mean THIS is on the back of my tablet???"), I was released to my father's discipline. A "spanking" (not really, I remember a terrible CIA torturous beating!) was administered - PUBLICLY, on the side of the road. I could have sworn I heard cheering from all the people that were subjected to one of my many pranks!
Needless to say, there were no more signs the rest of the way to Texas!
Oh, I got him back...the next time the dog decided she needed to stop, I just pretended to be asleep....unfortunately, it was REALLY hard to fake sleeping through the terrible smell that resulted from ignoring her whining! Of course my Dad was the one that stopped the car, and when the rest of us piled out gagging, he had to clean it up! Isn't that what Dads are for?
Now that I think about it...I was not exactly the greatest kid...my Dad must be a saint! I should have received more punishments than I actually had!
How about the time I talked with my friends in church, I was just old enough to sit by myself, and my father would get up, walk over to me, tap me on the shoulder, and make me follow him all the way around the back of the church, until I ended up next to him and my mother.
Well, that was just humiliating!
So, being the incredibly smart guy I thought I was, I devised a plan to stop this nonsense once and for all!
The next time he tapped me on the shoulder and signaled to come with him, I simply shook my head "NO" and stayed there! I mean, what are you going to do, this is church!
He motioned again, and again, I said "NO".
He looked at me, and said, "Come with me"...I said "NO"....
I noticed it was extremely quiet in the church...even the preacher was watching...I hear my older brother, many rows behind me whisper, "you idiot" (Remember The Wonder Years TV show?)...
My Dad stood up, looked at me, and said,"Wait until we get home."
And he walked back to his seat...alone.
I forgot that church ends eventually!
When I realized what I had done, I could not believe it...I had to agree with my older brother!
When church ended, my Dad went to the car and waited. I wanted to go somewhere else!
My brothers were arguing "over my stuff", after all, I was a dead man! Nobody could possibly survive this!
Embarrass my Dad in public - immediate death sentence!
All I can say is this - after our "discussion" and "application of truth" that afternoon, we NEVER experienced that in church again!
My father never even had to get up again! First of all, it was a LONG TIME until I was allowed to sit somewhere other than next to him! Second, when I did - I knew better than to misbehave!
My Dad did not raise a dummy, just an idiot!
Life goes on, we had a lot of funny times, some weren't funny until years later, but we laugh about them now...
It helps to laugh. I want to remember these things. I want to remember how my dad loved to laugh so much, and we inherited that joy of laughter. Loving to have fun...living life to the fullest...
I remember our last trip to Disney World, he wore shorts longer than his knees, tube socks to the knees, and tennis shoes, golf shirt. He looked like an old man trying to be a skater!
"Tell me Fashion Doctor, how long do I have? It is a genetic disorder, I am destined to nerdify sometime in the future!"
"Will I know when it happens? Or will I just drift away into old man land and never even know it?"
I have noticed symptoms lately...plaid shorts are looking better to me. The desire to wear black socks with my tennis shoes happens sometimes, but I control it.
It will be my little secret...nobody will know I am secretly pulling my pants up to my chest when alone, or I am waddling with that old man weeble like waddle when I think nobody is looking, Or that I complaining about the traffic under my breath when there are only 2 cars on the road!
Nobody will know.
I look in the mirror, I see my Dad, and I am so glad I did not have a child like me!
Sorry Dad - maybe Grandma was right...she always said I was just like you...much to your dismay, I think she may have told the truth!
By no means am I trying to be disrespectful, i just thought it was time to lighten up, laugh a little, remember the funny things.
There were a lot of funny times.
The time I held up the sign in the car, while we were traveling from Georgia to Texas for the Christmas holidays...The "sign", actually the back of a tablet, had the message, "Help, I have been kidnapped" written on it in large letters. I held it up as if I was drawing, until the Mississippi State Troopers pulled us over.
After a brief exchange with my father, the Army Sarge, I was summoned outside..."Donald (I knew I was in trouble when he used my full first name), get out here!"
After feigning innocence ("what, you mean THIS is on the back of my tablet???"), I was released to my father's discipline. A "spanking" (not really, I remember a terrible CIA torturous beating!) was administered - PUBLICLY, on the side of the road. I could have sworn I heard cheering from all the people that were subjected to one of my many pranks!
Needless to say, there were no more signs the rest of the way to Texas!
Oh, I got him back...the next time the dog decided she needed to stop, I just pretended to be asleep....unfortunately, it was REALLY hard to fake sleeping through the terrible smell that resulted from ignoring her whining! Of course my Dad was the one that stopped the car, and when the rest of us piled out gagging, he had to clean it up! Isn't that what Dads are for?
Now that I think about it...I was not exactly the greatest kid...my Dad must be a saint! I should have received more punishments than I actually had!
How about the time I talked with my friends in church, I was just old enough to sit by myself, and my father would get up, walk over to me, tap me on the shoulder, and make me follow him all the way around the back of the church, until I ended up next to him and my mother.
Well, that was just humiliating!
So, being the incredibly smart guy I thought I was, I devised a plan to stop this nonsense once and for all!
The next time he tapped me on the shoulder and signaled to come with him, I simply shook my head "NO" and stayed there! I mean, what are you going to do, this is church!
He motioned again, and again, I said "NO".
He looked at me, and said, "Come with me"...I said "NO"....
I noticed it was extremely quiet in the church...even the preacher was watching...I hear my older brother, many rows behind me whisper, "you idiot" (Remember The Wonder Years TV show?)...
My Dad stood up, looked at me, and said,"Wait until we get home."
And he walked back to his seat...alone.
I forgot that church ends eventually!
When I realized what I had done, I could not believe it...I had to agree with my older brother!
When church ended, my Dad went to the car and waited. I wanted to go somewhere else!
My brothers were arguing "over my stuff", after all, I was a dead man! Nobody could possibly survive this!
Embarrass my Dad in public - immediate death sentence!
All I can say is this - after our "discussion" and "application of truth" that afternoon, we NEVER experienced that in church again!
My father never even had to get up again! First of all, it was a LONG TIME until I was allowed to sit somewhere other than next to him! Second, when I did - I knew better than to misbehave!
My Dad did not raise a dummy, just an idiot!
Life goes on, we had a lot of funny times, some weren't funny until years later, but we laugh about them now...
It helps to laugh. I want to remember these things. I want to remember how my dad loved to laugh so much, and we inherited that joy of laughter. Loving to have fun...living life to the fullest...
I remember our last trip to Disney World, he wore shorts longer than his knees, tube socks to the knees, and tennis shoes, golf shirt. He looked like an old man trying to be a skater!
"Tell me Fashion Doctor, how long do I have? It is a genetic disorder, I am destined to nerdify sometime in the future!"
"Will I know when it happens? Or will I just drift away into old man land and never even know it?"
I have noticed symptoms lately...plaid shorts are looking better to me. The desire to wear black socks with my tennis shoes happens sometimes, but I control it.
It will be my little secret...nobody will know I am secretly pulling my pants up to my chest when alone, or I am waddling with that old man weeble like waddle when I think nobody is looking, Or that I complaining about the traffic under my breath when there are only 2 cars on the road!
Nobody will know.
I look in the mirror, I see my Dad, and I am so glad I did not have a child like me!
Sorry Dad - maybe Grandma was right...she always said I was just like you...much to your dismay, I think she may have told the truth!
Not good...
2 days ago, my father went to the doctor for a scheduled appointment. Prior to that, he had been experiencing severe "intestinal difficulties". Probably the nicest way you can refer to something so incredibly horrible and private, but let's just say it was very bad, and caused dehydration.
The problem is, in his weakened condition, dehydration takes more of a toll on him. According to his doctor, cirrhotic patients are more susceptible to MANY things, due to the liver malfunctioning, and a minor "flu-like" issue can cause great harm.
So, back to the appointment. He has lost 14 pounds in 2 weeks, he is not on a diet, and is weak. The doctor said he was weaker than she had ever seen him, and she started talking about something different...she talked about we (the family) need to consider the quality of life he has and will have in the future with multiple hospital stays, and we need to discuss the possibility of Comfort Care.
I asked, "what is Comfort Care?"
She replied, "Comfort Care is basically hospice. We reduce his medications, get him on some pain medications that will allow him to die peacefully at home."
She looked at my father and said, "Mr. Wallace, you are not getting better. You will not get better. It is a matter of time until this discussion will be a reality."
My dad was pretty quiet. At that moment, I wish he had dementia and did not understand.
Unfortunately, he understood.
The doctor admitted him to the hospital for some tests. She said it would be for about 3 days.
When we got on the elevator, I put my hand on his shoulder (that is about as close as we have ever come to a "hug") and said, "are you okay?"
He said that was a hard thing to hear.
I agreed.
I said, "Dad, if there is anything I know, it is I will not stop fighting until I am gone. I will fight physically, and when I am unable to move, i will fight in my heart. I will never give up, because if I can hope, there is a chance."
He said, "Me too."
I said, "come on - let's get this hospital visit over with so we can go home."
Inside, I knew differently. Perhaps I should not have talked about fighting, but I don't want him to give up until it is time, until he is past the point of no return. When is that? I don't know...I really don't.
He was admitted on Tuesday.
Wednesday, he got worse.
Today is Thursday. He is worse still.
Weak, confused, wondering if he is coming home, when will he come home?
He is alone.
I am past the stage of anger and complaining. It is a hard drive to the hospital, she is 75 years old, so I am leaving it at that.
But he is alone.
I am starting to think of more things now. I am trying not to be morbid, but this is not looking good.
I am going to talk with my dad and tell him some things he needs to hear.
1. The reason I have accomplished the things I have is due to his influence, his pushing me. He demanded the best - academics, sports, and work (life). He hated excuses. There are reasons for delay, never an excuse to quit or fail.
2. The reason I have not accomplished more is me. Where I have failed to meet the mark, was my fault. I paid the price and continue to do so. My failures are my lack of following his lead.
3. He was and is a good man, and a good father. Even as a self centered teen, I knew any errors in judgement were just that, an error. People make mistakes and they have to live with it forever. It is only the most gracious that helps the fallen, that helps the discouraged get back on track.
I sit here, before the keyboard, in silence...
I just don't know what to say.
I hope this is just the most recent bout with the symptoms and I am over reacting.
I hope...
I think of the many things we have experienced this year, my grandfather passed away within 24 hours of my father in law passing away. Both great men, both men of God, men of principle, heroes to our families. Amazing enough, friends to each other.
The economy has been a thorn in everyone's side, worries over jobs and will we have one next week, next month...tomorrow? A hard year.
No time to mourn, almost immediately after the death of my grandfather, my father began this dark journey.
Now, sometimes I feel this thing in my chest, it reminds me of times as a little boy when it hurt so bad all I could do was cry, but now nothing comes out. I regain my focus, I blink away the watery eyes, and I get back on track.
No time for that stuff right now.
Sometimes I remember the old saying, "Big Boys don't cry." How true - they just get crazy!
(Try to laugh with me - if we can't laugh, we will cry).
So here it is...my dad is not doing well, I have to go to his house during the Christmas holidays and make sure everything is in order.
Then we can rest.
It was a long time ago, 1966 to be precise. I was 6 years old. My older brother was 8, my younger was 4. We lived in Germany, on an American military base. That summer, we went on a vacation to Italy. 2 weeks, camping in Italy.
I remember being in the tent at night (the old family tent), and my dad and mom outside, sitting around the camp stove, talking and playing cards with other Americans on vacation, listening to the final strains of some popular song on the radio as the night settled in.
It was good.
I was safe.
My dad was there, and nothing could hurt us.
He was 30 years old, with 3 boys and there was no one bigger or stronger.
That was 43 years ago.
Now, I want my dad to rest, while I listen to the old familiar strains of some song whose popularity faded long ago, and know all is okay.
I am here...This time, he can rest while I keep watch...
I am not leaving...
The problem is, in his weakened condition, dehydration takes more of a toll on him. According to his doctor, cirrhotic patients are more susceptible to MANY things, due to the liver malfunctioning, and a minor "flu-like" issue can cause great harm.
So, back to the appointment. He has lost 14 pounds in 2 weeks, he is not on a diet, and is weak. The doctor said he was weaker than she had ever seen him, and she started talking about something different...she talked about we (the family) need to consider the quality of life he has and will have in the future with multiple hospital stays, and we need to discuss the possibility of Comfort Care.
I asked, "what is Comfort Care?"
She replied, "Comfort Care is basically hospice. We reduce his medications, get him on some pain medications that will allow him to die peacefully at home."
She looked at my father and said, "Mr. Wallace, you are not getting better. You will not get better. It is a matter of time until this discussion will be a reality."
My dad was pretty quiet. At that moment, I wish he had dementia and did not understand.
Unfortunately, he understood.
The doctor admitted him to the hospital for some tests. She said it would be for about 3 days.
When we got on the elevator, I put my hand on his shoulder (that is about as close as we have ever come to a "hug") and said, "are you okay?"
He said that was a hard thing to hear.
I agreed.
I said, "Dad, if there is anything I know, it is I will not stop fighting until I am gone. I will fight physically, and when I am unable to move, i will fight in my heart. I will never give up, because if I can hope, there is a chance."
He said, "Me too."
I said, "come on - let's get this hospital visit over with so we can go home."
Inside, I knew differently. Perhaps I should not have talked about fighting, but I don't want him to give up until it is time, until he is past the point of no return. When is that? I don't know...I really don't.
He was admitted on Tuesday.
Wednesday, he got worse.
Today is Thursday. He is worse still.
Weak, confused, wondering if he is coming home, when will he come home?
He is alone.
I am past the stage of anger and complaining. It is a hard drive to the hospital, she is 75 years old, so I am leaving it at that.
But he is alone.
I am starting to think of more things now. I am trying not to be morbid, but this is not looking good.
I am going to talk with my dad and tell him some things he needs to hear.
1. The reason I have accomplished the things I have is due to his influence, his pushing me. He demanded the best - academics, sports, and work (life). He hated excuses. There are reasons for delay, never an excuse to quit or fail.
2. The reason I have not accomplished more is me. Where I have failed to meet the mark, was my fault. I paid the price and continue to do so. My failures are my lack of following his lead.
3. He was and is a good man, and a good father. Even as a self centered teen, I knew any errors in judgement were just that, an error. People make mistakes and they have to live with it forever. It is only the most gracious that helps the fallen, that helps the discouraged get back on track.
I sit here, before the keyboard, in silence...
I just don't know what to say.
I hope this is just the most recent bout with the symptoms and I am over reacting.
I hope...
I think of the many things we have experienced this year, my grandfather passed away within 24 hours of my father in law passing away. Both great men, both men of God, men of principle, heroes to our families. Amazing enough, friends to each other.
The economy has been a thorn in everyone's side, worries over jobs and will we have one next week, next month...tomorrow? A hard year.
No time to mourn, almost immediately after the death of my grandfather, my father began this dark journey.
Now, sometimes I feel this thing in my chest, it reminds me of times as a little boy when it hurt so bad all I could do was cry, but now nothing comes out. I regain my focus, I blink away the watery eyes, and I get back on track.
No time for that stuff right now.
Sometimes I remember the old saying, "Big Boys don't cry." How true - they just get crazy!
(Try to laugh with me - if we can't laugh, we will cry).
So here it is...my dad is not doing well, I have to go to his house during the Christmas holidays and make sure everything is in order.
Then we can rest.
It was a long time ago, 1966 to be precise. I was 6 years old. My older brother was 8, my younger was 4. We lived in Germany, on an American military base. That summer, we went on a vacation to Italy. 2 weeks, camping in Italy.
I remember being in the tent at night (the old family tent), and my dad and mom outside, sitting around the camp stove, talking and playing cards with other Americans on vacation, listening to the final strains of some popular song on the radio as the night settled in.
It was good.
I was safe.
My dad was there, and nothing could hurt us.
He was 30 years old, with 3 boys and there was no one bigger or stronger.
That was 43 years ago.
Now, I want my dad to rest, while I listen to the old familiar strains of some song whose popularity faded long ago, and know all is okay.
I am here...This time, he can rest while I keep watch...
I am not leaving...
Sunday, December 13, 2009
I try not to think about things...
I talked with the doctor this week.
She agreed that my father told me "everything" except...
She said he will not get better.
This is as good as it will get.
His cirrhosis is now in the second of three stages. The doctor said all they can do is treat the symptoms and try to make him comfortable. The third stage will be the same as the second, with more symptoms. At some point, the symptoms will no longer be treatable at home, and things will change.
I don't think my father knows he will not get better, or he has not talked about it.
My father is the type to make things right with people, but unlike his son (guess who), he does not seem to have very many issues to "make right."
I try not to think about it....
His example is a hard one to follow at times. He always wanted peace in his life, so much that he avoided conflict to a fault. I never wanted to be that way. I went the other direction...conflict even when unnecessary...
So where is the balance?
I try not to think about it...
My dad is becoming more feeble, physically and otherwise. I moved recently, we are no longer just down the road, and it is a labor to visit now. We talk on the phone sometimes, but that is about it. I had hoped I would be there for him more, help him out as we sat and discussed life and the journey, what we want to leave behind...but it is not happening that way.
So here we are again...frustrated, helpless, ignorant, scared, frustrated, helpless, ignorant,scared...never ending...Groundhog Day...Every Day...Never Ending...unlike the movie, I redo everything over and over, yet something always changes...and we never repeat it EXACTLY...so you never get better at anything...
I try not to think about things...
It is 2 weeks until Christmas, and my Father is no longer as mobile as he once was. His doctor is recommending a "scooter" - a motorized chair to assist him in getting around. He falls frequently, and is unable to get up without help.
The next door neighbor works for nursing home, so he was able to help. Goodness in the middle of a bad time.
In this holiday snow globe of life we seem trapped inside, we learn to be comfortable when the flakes settle and it becomes easier to look through the bubble at the world passing by, then someone shakes the globe...
and the tornado starts all over again.
She agreed that my father told me "everything" except...
She said he will not get better.
This is as good as it will get.
His cirrhosis is now in the second of three stages. The doctor said all they can do is treat the symptoms and try to make him comfortable. The third stage will be the same as the second, with more symptoms. At some point, the symptoms will no longer be treatable at home, and things will change.
I don't think my father knows he will not get better, or he has not talked about it.
My father is the type to make things right with people, but unlike his son (guess who), he does not seem to have very many issues to "make right."
I try not to think about it....
His example is a hard one to follow at times. He always wanted peace in his life, so much that he avoided conflict to a fault. I never wanted to be that way. I went the other direction...conflict even when unnecessary...
So where is the balance?
I try not to think about it...
My dad is becoming more feeble, physically and otherwise. I moved recently, we are no longer just down the road, and it is a labor to visit now. We talk on the phone sometimes, but that is about it. I had hoped I would be there for him more, help him out as we sat and discussed life and the journey, what we want to leave behind...but it is not happening that way.
So here we are again...frustrated, helpless, ignorant, scared, frustrated, helpless, ignorant,scared...never ending...Groundhog Day...Every Day...Never Ending...unlike the movie, I redo everything over and over, yet something always changes...and we never repeat it EXACTLY...so you never get better at anything...
I try not to think about things...
It is 2 weeks until Christmas, and my Father is no longer as mobile as he once was. His doctor is recommending a "scooter" - a motorized chair to assist him in getting around. He falls frequently, and is unable to get up without help.
The next door neighbor works for nursing home, so he was able to help. Goodness in the middle of a bad time.
In this holiday snow globe of life we seem trapped inside, we learn to be comfortable when the flakes settle and it becomes easier to look through the bubble at the world passing by, then someone shakes the globe...
and the tornado starts all over again.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
The latest
My Dad called me yesterday, he had just been to the doctor. He was encouraged, she said the diuretics were working, and she increased the dosage. She also gave him a new schedule, she wants to see him every 2 weeks instead of every week.
The doctor told him if he can get the edema stabilized, she feels he would have no problem with the surgery to correct the herniated disc and relieve some pressure on the spine.
I called the doctor and spoke with her myself -
She said what he told me...and more.
She said this is where he is now. He will not get better. His symptoms (from the PBC or Primary Biliary Cirrhosis) are increasing, and not reversing. As his disease progresses, his symptoms will increase...
I am tired...I am hoping for this time to be tolerable, but it doesn't look good right now.
The doctor told him if he can get the edema stabilized, she feels he would have no problem with the surgery to correct the herniated disc and relieve some pressure on the spine.
I called the doctor and spoke with her myself -
She said what he told me...and more.
She said this is where he is now. He will not get better. His symptoms (from the PBC or Primary Biliary Cirrhosis) are increasing, and not reversing. As his disease progresses, his symptoms will increase...
I am tired...I am hoping for this time to be tolerable, but it doesn't look good right now.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Thanksgiving..,more symptoms
It's the day after Thanksgiving, and things have taken another turn for the worse.
The cirrhosis is advanced now.
See the following info:
The cirrhosis is advanced now.
See the following info:
Cirrhosis takes years to develop. During this time, there are usually no symptoms, although fatigue, weakness and decreased appetite may occur and worsen with time. When cirrhosis is fully developed, a number of signs may be present:
- Fluid retention in the legs and abdomen -- The liver produces a protein, called albumin, that holds fluid in blood vessels. When the blood level of albumen falls, fluid seeps out of the tissues into the legs and abdomen, causing edema (fluid accumulation) and swelling.
- Jaundice -- The liver produces bile that normally flows into the intestine. With advanced cirrhosis, bile can back up into the blood, causing the skin and eyes to turn yellow and the urine to darken.
- Intense Itching -- Certain types of cirrhosis, such as chronic bile duct blockage, can produce troublesome itching.
- Gallstones -- Cirrhosis causes the abnormal metabolism of bile pigment. Due to this, gallstones develop twice as often in cirrhosis patients as in those without the disorder.
- Coagulation Defects -- The liver makes certain proteins that help clot blood. When these proteins are deficient, excessive or prolonged bleeding happens.
- Mental Function Change -- The liver processes toxins from the intestine. When these substances escape into the bloodstream, as occurs in severe cases of cirrhosis, a variety of changes in mental function can develop.
- Esophageal Vein Bleeding -- In advanced cirrhosis, intestinal blood bypasses the liver and flows up and around the esophagus (the food tube) to the heart. The veins in the esophagus dilate (widen) and may rupture, causing slow or massive intestinal bleeding.
All of the bold items are present, except the esophageal vein bleeding - the veins are dilated but not bleeding...yet.
His legs and abdomen have been swollen for a couple of weeks now, and he is having more difficulty walking. This week, he has needed assistance dressing himself, and he has started falling more often.
He has another doctor appointment on Tuesday, hopefully we will know more then.
Funny (not humorous) - this started with the thought he was headed down that long dark corridor of alzheimers...now I am beginning to think that was all symptoms of the liver disorder. Unfortunately, we know more about this and know what his next steps will be.
Everything I have read about cirrhosis indicates it is a painful, horrible way to go.
I just don't seem to have anything cool or touching to write. Looks like a long haul ahead.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
We talk...sometimes
How much has life changed...you have gone from strong to helpless to hopeful to nearly helpless to stable...somewhere between hopeful and helpless.
You were doing better, moved from the walker to a cane, things looked really good, your mental clarity returned, and then out of the blue - you were "lost" again.
It always feels like we are running in the dark...this time, it feels like I am not only trying to find our way out, but I am trying to find you also!
Your ability to communicate, to comprehend, to walk, to follow directions...just went away.
Overnight.
One of the doctors told us recently, this may be your new normal.
I had a hard time accepting that...since when were we ever "normal"?
It is late in the year. October...Halloween will be here soon, then Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Lots of changes this past year. Jobs, homes, deaths, births, and here we are - we haven't changed much.
Sometimes I feel like we are living the old 70s song "Cat in the Cradle". You were gone so much when I was growing up, that it became a way of life to exist without you. Now, I realize I needed you, and you still need me - so I have to break the pattern, and do that which is not "natural" and talk with you, visit with you, spend time with you.
I remember my grandmother, your mother, or "Grandma" as we called her. There was no person I have ever met that I felt loved us more. Grandma wasn't wealthy, and we all knew what a horrible cook she was! The only thing Grandma made that tasted good was fried chicken. There was something special about Grandma - I think it was the fact she loved us. There were no doubts about it. When we spent years overseas, and did not see Grandma for a long time - we knew she never changed.
Even today, one of my favorite meals is cold fried chicken, Grandma always made chicken for us when we left her house and we kept in in the ice chest until we stopped for lunch. Cold fried chicken means somebody really loves you!
Sometimes you remind me of Grandma in her final days. She was weaker, feeble, but who she was never changed.
You are weaker, sometimes struggle with your words, but who you are on the inside seems intact, he just can't get out.
We talk...sometimes, but not enough.
You went to a new Neurologist yesterday. He said you have too many problems to point at just one as the primary cause. You are at a new "plateau", unfortunately, I do not think you have the momentum to go uphill any more. This last episode seemed to really take a lot from you.
You don't talk about driving anymore.
You don't talk about what you are going to do when you get better anymore.
You are a little more quiet than before.
Sometimes I get busy, and I forget to call, then when I do - I see the struggle is harder than the last time we talked.
I am sorry Dad, I know this is hard for you. To be 73 and nearly helpless. For a man that survived combat, a military career, another career, worked full time while attending college full time, how can this be? You should be able to just get up, and march on! That is what you always did...that is what you taught us to do...in the rain, the snow, through heartache...
I remember you saying, "Be a MAN"...when we wanted to give up as teenagers. When it was hard to play football, and work, and go to school, I remember you telling us, ordering us to suck it up and be a man - that life is not easy and if we give up now, we will never make it when it counts!
Maybe there was a little bit of the Army in those words, but they are true. If you can't make it when it is "easy", what are you going to do when it is hard?
We owe you a lot...I wonder if you realize we are okay now, and you were a part of that. Along with our mother, our grandparents, our in laws, our teachers, our friends, we became who we are today.
We are okay.
We talk...sometimes...
We need to talk more...
Keep who we are alive.
You were doing better, moved from the walker to a cane, things looked really good, your mental clarity returned, and then out of the blue - you were "lost" again.
It always feels like we are running in the dark...this time, it feels like I am not only trying to find our way out, but I am trying to find you also!
Your ability to communicate, to comprehend, to walk, to follow directions...just went away.
Overnight.
One of the doctors told us recently, this may be your new normal.
I had a hard time accepting that...since when were we ever "normal"?
It is late in the year. October...Halloween will be here soon, then Thanksgiving, and Christmas. Lots of changes this past year. Jobs, homes, deaths, births, and here we are - we haven't changed much.
Sometimes I feel like we are living the old 70s song "Cat in the Cradle". You were gone so much when I was growing up, that it became a way of life to exist without you. Now, I realize I needed you, and you still need me - so I have to break the pattern, and do that which is not "natural" and talk with you, visit with you, spend time with you.
I remember my grandmother, your mother, or "Grandma" as we called her. There was no person I have ever met that I felt loved us more. Grandma wasn't wealthy, and we all knew what a horrible cook she was! The only thing Grandma made that tasted good was fried chicken. There was something special about Grandma - I think it was the fact she loved us. There were no doubts about it. When we spent years overseas, and did not see Grandma for a long time - we knew she never changed.
Even today, one of my favorite meals is cold fried chicken, Grandma always made chicken for us when we left her house and we kept in in the ice chest until we stopped for lunch. Cold fried chicken means somebody really loves you!
Sometimes you remind me of Grandma in her final days. She was weaker, feeble, but who she was never changed.
You are weaker, sometimes struggle with your words, but who you are on the inside seems intact, he just can't get out.
We talk...sometimes, but not enough.
You went to a new Neurologist yesterday. He said you have too many problems to point at just one as the primary cause. You are at a new "plateau", unfortunately, I do not think you have the momentum to go uphill any more. This last episode seemed to really take a lot from you.
You don't talk about driving anymore.
You don't talk about what you are going to do when you get better anymore.
You are a little more quiet than before.
Sometimes I get busy, and I forget to call, then when I do - I see the struggle is harder than the last time we talked.
I am sorry Dad, I know this is hard for you. To be 73 and nearly helpless. For a man that survived combat, a military career, another career, worked full time while attending college full time, how can this be? You should be able to just get up, and march on! That is what you always did...that is what you taught us to do...in the rain, the snow, through heartache...
I remember you saying, "Be a MAN"...when we wanted to give up as teenagers. When it was hard to play football, and work, and go to school, I remember you telling us, ordering us to suck it up and be a man - that life is not easy and if we give up now, we will never make it when it counts!
Maybe there was a little bit of the Army in those words, but they are true. If you can't make it when it is "easy", what are you going to do when it is hard?
We owe you a lot...I wonder if you realize we are okay now, and you were a part of that. Along with our mother, our grandparents, our in laws, our teachers, our friends, we became who we are today.
We are okay.
We talk...sometimes...
We need to talk more...
Keep who we are alive.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Sometimes...things change
Since the last hospital visit, my Dad's ammonia levels have dropped (he has been on Lactulose - 3 times per day). With the drop in ammonia, he has been more "himself" (is this who he is now?), and is more clear minded than before. He has been in physical therapy, getting stronger, and has even been taken off the walker while in the house. He is using his cane while indoors.
The downside is the side effect of the Lactulose. It is a laxative that "binds" the ammonia, and removes it from his system. basically, there is not enough time for the ammonia to be absorbed in the colon as a result of this medication. Unfortunately, he doesn't get to go out much.
So...he requested the doctor lower his medication levels, so he can have more mobility.
She did, dropped his dosage to 1 time per day.
That was about a week ago.
He is starting to show signs of slight confusion again. Just slight...not anything major.
But we recognize it.
He called my brother by my name. I know, you might think that is normal. Normal is relative.
That is not normal for my Dad. He is a perfectionist.
We have to find the balance - somewhere in the meds and the side effects is hope...I think.
Things change...we have gone from horrible diagnosis to hope to hopeless to hope again, it is getting harder to feel much of anything except simple acceptance of the situation.
The hardest thing about all this, is life has become so busy, so complicated in spite of my Dad's situation. I sold my house, moved, bought a new house (moved in - we had our LIFE in storage for 2 months), the job is crazy busy, my mother sold her house and also moved - needed help with coordination and getting out of her place, then other members of the family have their own changes - moves, additions, and hopefully happy times - I hope one day they understand I can only stretch so far.
Maybe I was Superman once...Sometimes...Things change...
You turn into Clark Kent and can't remember where you left your cape...
Just when I think I am okay, when I think life is setting down, another piece of this old wagon falls off. My mother in law had a stroke last week - fortunately, she is still with us. She is 93 years old, and still hanging in there. She may recover...
Things change...
If this were a ride at an amusement park, it would have a warning -
"This life is not for the faint of heart...Changes are coming...Some are painful..."
We will be okay.
I don't cry about it anymore, am I stronger? Maybe the tear factory has shut down.
Not much I can do about it. I don't know the stages a person goes through in acceptance of hard situations, I did not pay that much attention in my Psychology classes 100 years ago as a freshman in college, but I know this much - I have gone from fighting, to anger, to sadness, to finally accepting it.
Every now and then, I still rise up and say, "what if..." and try something new...
I still hope...
The downside is the side effect of the Lactulose. It is a laxative that "binds" the ammonia, and removes it from his system. basically, there is not enough time for the ammonia to be absorbed in the colon as a result of this medication. Unfortunately, he doesn't get to go out much.
So...he requested the doctor lower his medication levels, so he can have more mobility.
She did, dropped his dosage to 1 time per day.
That was about a week ago.
He is starting to show signs of slight confusion again. Just slight...not anything major.
But we recognize it.
He called my brother by my name. I know, you might think that is normal. Normal is relative.
That is not normal for my Dad. He is a perfectionist.
We have to find the balance - somewhere in the meds and the side effects is hope...I think.
Things change...we have gone from horrible diagnosis to hope to hopeless to hope again, it is getting harder to feel much of anything except simple acceptance of the situation.
The hardest thing about all this, is life has become so busy, so complicated in spite of my Dad's situation. I sold my house, moved, bought a new house (moved in - we had our LIFE in storage for 2 months), the job is crazy busy, my mother sold her house and also moved - needed help with coordination and getting out of her place, then other members of the family have their own changes - moves, additions, and hopefully happy times - I hope one day they understand I can only stretch so far.
Maybe I was Superman once...Sometimes...Things change...
You turn into Clark Kent and can't remember where you left your cape...
Just when I think I am okay, when I think life is setting down, another piece of this old wagon falls off. My mother in law had a stroke last week - fortunately, she is still with us. She is 93 years old, and still hanging in there. She may recover...
Things change...
If this were a ride at an amusement park, it would have a warning -
"This life is not for the faint of heart...Changes are coming...Some are painful..."
We will be okay.
I don't cry about it anymore, am I stronger? Maybe the tear factory has shut down.
Not much I can do about it. I don't know the stages a person goes through in acceptance of hard situations, I did not pay that much attention in my Psychology classes 100 years ago as a freshman in college, but I know this much - I have gone from fighting, to anger, to sadness, to finally accepting it.
Every now and then, I still rise up and say, "what if..." and try something new...
I still hope...
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Another day...another day...another day
Endless, same old thing...is this the reality of the movie "Groundhog Day"?
Unfortunately, we don't get to make the wrong things right. If the same thing happens again today that happened yesterday, and we do the "right thing", we have no guarantee the result will be any different.
We are in a waiting mode, and he is back where he was, 6 months ago, healthier (good thing), walking better, and for some reason - he feels the need to tell distorted truths about the quality of care he receives. He likes to make everyone think it is better than we see.
I can tell he is still suffering from some form of dementia, he doesn't think we see the truth, but it is evident to everyone.
So, all we can do is watch and wait.
She knows...and fortunately, she is doing better...
So we watch...
Another day... and another... and another...
Until we experience the next crisis.
It is quiet, and we are resting...
Unfortunately, we don't get to make the wrong things right. If the same thing happens again today that happened yesterday, and we do the "right thing", we have no guarantee the result will be any different.
We are in a waiting mode, and he is back where he was, 6 months ago, healthier (good thing), walking better, and for some reason - he feels the need to tell distorted truths about the quality of care he receives. He likes to make everyone think it is better than we see.
I can tell he is still suffering from some form of dementia, he doesn't think we see the truth, but it is evident to everyone.
So, all we can do is watch and wait.
She knows...and fortunately, she is doing better...
So we watch...
Another day... and another... and another...
Until we experience the next crisis.
It is quiet, and we are resting...
Saturday, September 12, 2009
I am awake...
We talked today. We do a lot of that lately.
So here it is Saturday night, 11 pm, and as usual, I feel like the only one in the world still awake.
It has been a long haul, and now - you appear to be improving...
or are you just learning to compensate at the new "benchmark", the new level?
You say you are doing better, but my brother and I both noticed the far away look in your eyes in still there.
Am I faithless?
She came in while we were there...
I have never met anyone with more of an emotional vacuum in my life. The joy, the happiness, the life of any moment seems to disappear upon her arrival.
And you try to disguise your situation with humor...
I am not sure I have ever seen her laugh.
Where will it end?
Will she be around?
For richer and poorer, for better or worse, in sickness and health...
Do these words matter?
Is she really going to be there for you?
You said your wife feels awkward because I have the medical power of attorney, while she is the one responsible for your medicine. You asked if I understand...
I said no.
How can I understand? She said she never loved you, that she never will, the only reason she married you 10+ years ago was becuse she could not afford to live on her own. I told you we are your family, and we are the ones that will care for you.
You are our father.
Please don't make this harder than it is...
Sometimes it feels like winter, and I can't remember the summer sun.
All I know is right now, and you can't seem to understand we are trying to help you.
I am tired...and the rest of the world is asleep while I watch out for you...
So here it is Saturday night, 11 pm, and as usual, I feel like the only one in the world still awake.
It has been a long haul, and now - you appear to be improving...
or are you just learning to compensate at the new "benchmark", the new level?
You say you are doing better, but my brother and I both noticed the far away look in your eyes in still there.
Am I faithless?
She came in while we were there...
I have never met anyone with more of an emotional vacuum in my life. The joy, the happiness, the life of any moment seems to disappear upon her arrival.
And you try to disguise your situation with humor...
I am not sure I have ever seen her laugh.
Where will it end?
Will she be around?
For richer and poorer, for better or worse, in sickness and health...
Do these words matter?
Is she really going to be there for you?
You said your wife feels awkward because I have the medical power of attorney, while she is the one responsible for your medicine. You asked if I understand...
I said no.
How can I understand? She said she never loved you, that she never will, the only reason she married you 10+ years ago was becuse she could not afford to live on her own. I told you we are your family, and we are the ones that will care for you.
You are our father.
Please don't make this harder than it is...
Sometimes it feels like winter, and I can't remember the summer sun.
All I know is right now, and you can't seem to understand we are trying to help you.
I am tired...and the rest of the world is asleep while I watch out for you...
Still Here
We had our struggles, I remember you literally "man-handling" me, in my teenage rage to keep me from running away. Then I remember you telling me you would spend every dime you had to find me if I ever left.
I stayed.
And the rage went away.
I remember you helping me pick up the pieces of my life, when all hell broke loose as a young man, you stepped in the gap when I needed it. When the tears flowed unendingly, you never left.
And the pain went away.
I remember you calling me when you were blind sided by the one you trusted more than life itself.
I stood in the gap, and though it cost all of us something that will never be replaced, we were strong. We wept in the darkness alone, as only men weep when they think they are alone. We held tight to our faith, that faith you passed to us.
And the loneliness went away.
I remember you standing so strong when you watched your own heritage fade, and you said goodbye to your history, and stepped up to be the next in line.
This time, the pain did not go away.
I am with you now, in your shoes as I help you through the hard days of today, and the harder ones before us.
I am not going away.
I stand with you, and when you can no longer stand, I will stand for you.
You taught me well, and I am not leaving.
I am still here.
I stayed.
And the rage went away.
I remember you helping me pick up the pieces of my life, when all hell broke loose as a young man, you stepped in the gap when I needed it. When the tears flowed unendingly, you never left.
And the pain went away.
I remember you calling me when you were blind sided by the one you trusted more than life itself.
I stood in the gap, and though it cost all of us something that will never be replaced, we were strong. We wept in the darkness alone, as only men weep when they think they are alone. We held tight to our faith, that faith you passed to us.
And the loneliness went away.
I remember you standing so strong when you watched your own heritage fade, and you said goodbye to your history, and stepped up to be the next in line.
This time, the pain did not go away.
I am with you now, in your shoes as I help you through the hard days of today, and the harder ones before us.
I am not going away.
I stand with you, and when you can no longer stand, I will stand for you.
You taught me well, and I am not leaving.
I am still here.
Monday, September 7, 2009
The Voyage
It feels like this old ship is sinking.
Just about the time we think we have everything under control, we realize all the treatments have little to no effect. I called you this morning and your loss of words has not improved. You seem to comprehend everything, but the ability to communicate is a lost art.
We will continue to address everything we can, but I think this is the stage called "Acceptance."
Not you, but me.
I am accepting this truly is bigger than me, and this ride of life has taken a detour I never anticipated.
I don't know what is easier - the sudden loss, or the gradual one.
This is selfish, but I feel like a part of me is going away with you.
I have always been my father's son, and when you are gone, it feels like that part of me will be gone also. Perhaps that is a part of the grieving - we are losing some of our own identity when we lose someone close to us.
I am not giving up, but sometimes it is hard - especially when your (not mine) wife is so negative, sees no hope, and complains ALL THE TIME about having to help you. She doesn't make it easy, and you have talked with me about how you can tell she does things out of obligation, rather than love. I know this is why you want to do all you can to be independent.
How strong you are to continue with your goodness, and not become bitter.
Perhaps this old ship is sinking.
A mighty vessel once, glorious in her day, master of all in sight. The scars are memories, imprinted deep within the hull, all the way to the heart. Memories of battles, of adventures, of a life lived to the fullest. Central America, Europe, Asia, the Caribbean, Alaska, and much of the United States, what great memories.
This old ship is struggling on that last trip home.
We gather around, the new fleet, escorting you home. There are newer, faster, and more advanced vessels, but none with your honor. This is not about us, it is about you.
As we approach the home port, and the welcome home begins, the skies will fill with wonderous celebration, the crowds and witnesses that went before you will cheer and welcome you home.
And we, your escorts, will fade away. Only you, and the majesty of your return home will be as joyful as your maiden voyage years ago.
Rest easy, your journey home has started.
Just about the time we think we have everything under control, we realize all the treatments have little to no effect. I called you this morning and your loss of words has not improved. You seem to comprehend everything, but the ability to communicate is a lost art.
We will continue to address everything we can, but I think this is the stage called "Acceptance."
Not you, but me.
I am accepting this truly is bigger than me, and this ride of life has taken a detour I never anticipated.
I don't know what is easier - the sudden loss, or the gradual one.
This is selfish, but I feel like a part of me is going away with you.
I have always been my father's son, and when you are gone, it feels like that part of me will be gone also. Perhaps that is a part of the grieving - we are losing some of our own identity when we lose someone close to us.
I am not giving up, but sometimes it is hard - especially when your (not mine) wife is so negative, sees no hope, and complains ALL THE TIME about having to help you. She doesn't make it easy, and you have talked with me about how you can tell she does things out of obligation, rather than love. I know this is why you want to do all you can to be independent.
How strong you are to continue with your goodness, and not become bitter.
Perhaps this old ship is sinking.
A mighty vessel once, glorious in her day, master of all in sight. The scars are memories, imprinted deep within the hull, all the way to the heart. Memories of battles, of adventures, of a life lived to the fullest. Central America, Europe, Asia, the Caribbean, Alaska, and much of the United States, what great memories.
This old ship is struggling on that last trip home.
We gather around, the new fleet, escorting you home. There are newer, faster, and more advanced vessels, but none with your honor. This is not about us, it is about you.
As we approach the home port, and the welcome home begins, the skies will fill with wonderous celebration, the crowds and witnesses that went before you will cheer and welcome you home.
And we, your escorts, will fade away. Only you, and the majesty of your return home will be as joyful as your maiden voyage years ago.
Rest easy, your journey home has started.
Saturday, September 5, 2009
Almost Normal
My father had another short stay in the hospital, he came home today.
His ammonia level went from 324 to 100 to 57 to 87, and since it is lower, and hopefully staying lower (new meds...how long will they work?), he was released.
The doctor said she believes he has encephalopathy from the cirrhosis, she said this may be his new "benchmark."
We talk a lot, most conversations take 2 to 3 times longer than normal, he really has a hard time sometimes finding the words. I have stopped filling in the blanks for him. I just let him work with it as long as he wants to.
Not much to say today...it is Saturday...
I wonder how long before the next trip to the hospital...
For some reason I can't get this one picture of my father out of my head. It was the night before he went to VietNam, we were already asleep, and my Dad, being the stereo buff he has always been, had his headphones on, and was listening to music. He was facing the wall, had his chin resting in one hand. I don't think he knew my mother took the picture...she caught him in one of the few moments when tears were visible...
I always wondered what he was thinking...
In 1970, after he returned from VietNam, he had his first issue with his liver. He was hospitalized for 64 days, his liver was enlarged almost 3 times the normal size. He was in incredible pain, and nothing seemed to help. We never knew it then, but now he said he thinks this is from exposure to Agent Orange or worse.
While in the hospital, he had a liver biopsy, and was supposed to stay very still to avoid internal bleeding.
Being the stubborn man he is, he got up to go to the bathroom.
He felt himself passing out, and the staff found him on the floor in the bathroom, and of course - he was bleeding internally.
He told us he thought he was dying, and the thought in his mind was one of complete confidence he was entering eternity the right way. No fear.
Wow.
That confidence, that faith, is hard to find.
That was almost 40 years ago.
His faith is stronger, although his belief in himself is weaker.
He knows the God that created the universe is with him and keeps him safe, but he said sometimes he feels like he has failed. He never became a rich man, or a powerful man, his sons have struggled, he felt his impact was miniscule.
What a lie.
His love of math and science is in his 3 sons, one in engineering, another in construction, and another with medical. His pursuit of his faith - all 3 sons and families share his faith. His love of travel, of history, has also been passed on.
His kind, gentle spirit, is within us. I remember flying one of my many trips from somewhere home, and I always sat next to someone that needed encouragement. The two I remember most is the lady flying to Texas to visit her son on death row. What do you say? All I could think of was to share the good news, to encourage HER, to be a Christian at THAT MOMENT, and listen to her.
The other was a man that had just found out his wife had cancer.
I shared my own experience with my wife and her battle.
In both times, I told them both the story of how in my hardest time in life, how I read Isaiah 43:1 and realized we are not alone.
It was hard to listen to someone's sad story. It was harder to relive mine, and encourage them through this. They said thank you, and I hoped they were stronger for the challenge ahead.
I knew something real had happened, as I never forgot those moments, and I felt drained, like I had given a part of myself away.
I notice my Father talks about feeling drained a lot lately. Perhaps he is giving of himself more than before.
He told me once, if a person could spend one day in God's presence, just how different they would be. We got into a discussion about what was the least amount of time needed to spend in God's presenceto change a person. One day became one hour. One hour became one minute. One minute became one second. One second became the speed of thought - a "twinkling"...
Less than a breath, less than a look, just a glance, something so fast you cannot measure it...
That is all it takes to be changed....
How changed are we that have spent a lifetime with someone so close to God?
It is Saturday, my Father is home for now, and life is ALMOST normal...
His ammonia level went from 324 to 100 to 57 to 87, and since it is lower, and hopefully staying lower (new meds...how long will they work?), he was released.
The doctor said she believes he has encephalopathy from the cirrhosis, she said this may be his new "benchmark."
We talk a lot, most conversations take 2 to 3 times longer than normal, he really has a hard time sometimes finding the words. I have stopped filling in the blanks for him. I just let him work with it as long as he wants to.
Not much to say today...it is Saturday...
I wonder how long before the next trip to the hospital...
For some reason I can't get this one picture of my father out of my head. It was the night before he went to VietNam, we were already asleep, and my Dad, being the stereo buff he has always been, had his headphones on, and was listening to music. He was facing the wall, had his chin resting in one hand. I don't think he knew my mother took the picture...she caught him in one of the few moments when tears were visible...
I always wondered what he was thinking...
In 1970, after he returned from VietNam, he had his first issue with his liver. He was hospitalized for 64 days, his liver was enlarged almost 3 times the normal size. He was in incredible pain, and nothing seemed to help. We never knew it then, but now he said he thinks this is from exposure to Agent Orange or worse.
While in the hospital, he had a liver biopsy, and was supposed to stay very still to avoid internal bleeding.
Being the stubborn man he is, he got up to go to the bathroom.
He felt himself passing out, and the staff found him on the floor in the bathroom, and of course - he was bleeding internally.
He told us he thought he was dying, and the thought in his mind was one of complete confidence he was entering eternity the right way. No fear.
Wow.
That confidence, that faith, is hard to find.
That was almost 40 years ago.
His faith is stronger, although his belief in himself is weaker.
He knows the God that created the universe is with him and keeps him safe, but he said sometimes he feels like he has failed. He never became a rich man, or a powerful man, his sons have struggled, he felt his impact was miniscule.
What a lie.
His love of math and science is in his 3 sons, one in engineering, another in construction, and another with medical. His pursuit of his faith - all 3 sons and families share his faith. His love of travel, of history, has also been passed on.
His kind, gentle spirit, is within us. I remember flying one of my many trips from somewhere home, and I always sat next to someone that needed encouragement. The two I remember most is the lady flying to Texas to visit her son on death row. What do you say? All I could think of was to share the good news, to encourage HER, to be a Christian at THAT MOMENT, and listen to her.
The other was a man that had just found out his wife had cancer.
I shared my own experience with my wife and her battle.
In both times, I told them both the story of how in my hardest time in life, how I read Isaiah 43:1 and realized we are not alone.
It was hard to listen to someone's sad story. It was harder to relive mine, and encourage them through this. They said thank you, and I hoped they were stronger for the challenge ahead.
I knew something real had happened, as I never forgot those moments, and I felt drained, like I had given a part of myself away.
I notice my Father talks about feeling drained a lot lately. Perhaps he is giving of himself more than before.
He told me once, if a person could spend one day in God's presence, just how different they would be. We got into a discussion about what was the least amount of time needed to spend in God's presenceto change a person. One day became one hour. One hour became one minute. One minute became one second. One second became the speed of thought - a "twinkling"...
Less than a breath, less than a look, just a glance, something so fast you cannot measure it...
That is all it takes to be changed....
How changed are we that have spent a lifetime with someone so close to God?
It is Saturday, my Father is home for now, and life is ALMOST normal...
Thursday, September 3, 2009
20%
My father is in the hospital. He did not want to go, but he is changing, he sits and sleeps alot, and expresses little interest in the things he once lived for.
We talked a little last night, he was telling me the things he wanted to do "if he lived"...
I told him he was a good father, and I was really glad he was there to teach me the things I know, and that he has a great legacy - his children carry his faith, his grandchildren and even his great grandchildren. I told him he was a successful man...
He said he really appreciated hearing that. He said the night before had been a hard one, that he felt about as low as you can feel. I told him that was not true, that he is a great man, and we all love him and are fighting for him.
Today, I talked with my cousin - she told me how heart broken the family is over his illness. She, her mother (his sister) and her daughter (his great niece) are all really upset.
She said she is glad I am here to care for him.
My wife and I are going to see him tonight - this has been an incredible amount of hospital stays for my Dad.
I am tired...
Last night, my Dad said he was not happy with the care I was giving him, that he thought I was interrupting the doctor's plan. I told him he was right - I did interrupt the doctor. I wanted him in the hospital getting some answers to his problems - getting a diagnosis - not waiting for the VA to send some data that will never arrive! I also told him I could not live with myself if I did not do everything I could for him, and until he says "enough", I will not give up.
He settled down.
I told him I was doing for him, like he did for his father.
He told me he understood, and he appreciated it.
Sometimes this makes me wonder if I will have someone caring for me in this manner...
Can't think about that now - too much to do.
I am still tired...
It is getting harder to feel much anymore, I find myself starting to shut doors on my emotions, I feel like I can't waste time with my feelings right now, I havetoo much at stake, he has too much at stake...and I can't let him down.
My dad taught me long ago, one night in those late night drives from nowhere to home, that family means giving your all for the ones you love. I was 4 years old, and he tried to explain it in a way I would understand...
He said, "If you were hungry and I was hungry, and all I had was enough money for one hamburger, I would buy it and give it to you."
For some reason, that always stuck with me.
Take care of your loved ones first.
Well, Dad bought the hamburgers for a long time, and now it is my turn.
Sometimes I feel like I am driving an ambulance or an old wagon on a trail, trying to get him to the doctor as quickly as I can...and the mush we are driving through is slowing us down.
Time is something we do not have. 80% of people in his condition die.
But 20% live!
Let's go for it...20% is not a bad option...
1 in 5 - this is not the first time we beat the odds.
I wish I could say something encouraging...but it still feels like I am running in the dark...
We talked a little last night, he was telling me the things he wanted to do "if he lived"...
I told him he was a good father, and I was really glad he was there to teach me the things I know, and that he has a great legacy - his children carry his faith, his grandchildren and even his great grandchildren. I told him he was a successful man...
He said he really appreciated hearing that. He said the night before had been a hard one, that he felt about as low as you can feel. I told him that was not true, that he is a great man, and we all love him and are fighting for him.
Today, I talked with my cousin - she told me how heart broken the family is over his illness. She, her mother (his sister) and her daughter (his great niece) are all really upset.
She said she is glad I am here to care for him.
My wife and I are going to see him tonight - this has been an incredible amount of hospital stays for my Dad.
I am tired...
Last night, my Dad said he was not happy with the care I was giving him, that he thought I was interrupting the doctor's plan. I told him he was right - I did interrupt the doctor. I wanted him in the hospital getting some answers to his problems - getting a diagnosis - not waiting for the VA to send some data that will never arrive! I also told him I could not live with myself if I did not do everything I could for him, and until he says "enough", I will not give up.
He settled down.
I told him I was doing for him, like he did for his father.
He told me he understood, and he appreciated it.
Sometimes this makes me wonder if I will have someone caring for me in this manner...
Can't think about that now - too much to do.
I am still tired...
It is getting harder to feel much anymore, I find myself starting to shut doors on my emotions, I feel like I can't waste time with my feelings right now, I havetoo much at stake, he has too much at stake...and I can't let him down.
My dad taught me long ago, one night in those late night drives from nowhere to home, that family means giving your all for the ones you love. I was 4 years old, and he tried to explain it in a way I would understand...
He said, "If you were hungry and I was hungry, and all I had was enough money for one hamburger, I would buy it and give it to you."
For some reason, that always stuck with me.
Take care of your loved ones first.
Well, Dad bought the hamburgers for a long time, and now it is my turn.
Sometimes I feel like I am driving an ambulance or an old wagon on a trail, trying to get him to the doctor as quickly as I can...and the mush we are driving through is slowing us down.
Time is something we do not have. 80% of people in his condition die.
But 20% live!
Let's go for it...20% is not a bad option...
1 in 5 - this is not the first time we beat the odds.
I wish I could say something encouraging...but it still feels like I am running in the dark...
Monday, August 31, 2009
Good Memories
1965...I was 4 years old, we were on a ship to Germany, all of us. You were 29 years old, with a wife and 3 little boys. Just a "poor E-5", but we didn't know any better. As young as I think a 29 year old is now, you were a giant back then.
I remember when we hit the hurricane in the Northern Atlantic, you had no fear. You helped us "batten down the hatches" and put on our life jackets when we stood on deck, preparing to disembark if needed....but we never had to. There we stood, all of us, our family - facing whatever we had to, together. Complete trust that Daddy had it under control.
It's funny, the things I remember from that trip.
That was the first time I remember you telling me you like Lemon Lime drinks instead of cola drinks.
That never changed. Even a few weeks ago, when we ate some burgers together, you still drank Lemon Lime.
I remember when our ship left New York, you held me up so I could see the fanfare as people waved goodbye to us.
I remember when we docked in Germany, you got the car and we took off, a little family in a strange land, but it was okay, you had it all under control.
We had great times - Sunday afternoon picnics on the mountain, cooking burgers on the little charcoal grills, touring German Castles, seeing bombed out bunkers from WWI and WWII, and you telling us the stories behind the fallen heroes. I remember the silence of Dachau, the concentration camp, and the awesome engineering marvels in Rome, the Vatican, the Catacombs, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Pizza in Naples, snow in Switzerland, and camping in Italy.
Good memories.
I remember the trip back to the US, and how in the 4th grade, I attended my first "American" school. We lived south of Tucson and that was the year you drove us to the shopping center and bought me the first "cool" bike! I was 8 years old and had my first Stingray Bike with a Banana Seat, and high rise handlebars.
You made it easy to be "cool".
It wasn't too long after that you had to leave for VietNam. I was 8, the oldest was 10, the baby was 6. It was hard, that year without you. I remember talking with you on the phone through a 2 way radio, having to say "over" when we were through so the technicians could release the microphone so you could talk back to us. I remember those were the days we sent tapes back and forth in the mail, and I remember the one from you when the air raid sirens went off while you were talking and we heard the rockets coming in. Later we heard you describe the attack you had just experienced.
I remember how happy we were to see you. How you slept so incredibly long the next day...
I remember lots of good memories, always the coolest toys, and even though you complained, we always had the trendy clothes.
I remember dogs, many dogs, and home made skate boards, tree houses, incredible hunting trips with our BB guns, summers when the pool was more of a home than our own house, any musical instrument and lessons we wanted, football, baseball, basketball, and track.
We were boys and you helped us be anything we wanted.
Motorcycles at 15, you parking your car in the driveway so I could build my own "man-cave" in the garage to practice our first rock band.
Teaching me how to use single frame action 8mm cameras to make movies from GI Joes...stuff nobody else ever thought of!
I remember the time you thought Teriaki was the ultimate sauce...it felt like we ate teriaki EVERYTHING for a year! I remember some of your experimental bbq dishes...there are somethings that still scare me!
We have a lot of good memories, we lived great lives, and you made it happen.
Thanks Dad, this life was not an accident - you chose it.
To quote your 3 year old great granddaughter, my granddaughter, "High Five Granddaddy - Good Job!"
Hang in there Dad - we are still here with you.
I remember when we hit the hurricane in the Northern Atlantic, you had no fear. You helped us "batten down the hatches" and put on our life jackets when we stood on deck, preparing to disembark if needed....but we never had to. There we stood, all of us, our family - facing whatever we had to, together. Complete trust that Daddy had it under control.
It's funny, the things I remember from that trip.
That was the first time I remember you telling me you like Lemon Lime drinks instead of cola drinks.
That never changed. Even a few weeks ago, when we ate some burgers together, you still drank Lemon Lime.
I remember when our ship left New York, you held me up so I could see the fanfare as people waved goodbye to us.
I remember when we docked in Germany, you got the car and we took off, a little family in a strange land, but it was okay, you had it all under control.
We had great times - Sunday afternoon picnics on the mountain, cooking burgers on the little charcoal grills, touring German Castles, seeing bombed out bunkers from WWI and WWII, and you telling us the stories behind the fallen heroes. I remember the silence of Dachau, the concentration camp, and the awesome engineering marvels in Rome, the Vatican, the Catacombs, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, Pizza in Naples, snow in Switzerland, and camping in Italy.
Good memories.
I remember the trip back to the US, and how in the 4th grade, I attended my first "American" school. We lived south of Tucson and that was the year you drove us to the shopping center and bought me the first "cool" bike! I was 8 years old and had my first Stingray Bike with a Banana Seat, and high rise handlebars.
You made it easy to be "cool".
It wasn't too long after that you had to leave for VietNam. I was 8, the oldest was 10, the baby was 6. It was hard, that year without you. I remember talking with you on the phone through a 2 way radio, having to say "over" when we were through so the technicians could release the microphone so you could talk back to us. I remember those were the days we sent tapes back and forth in the mail, and I remember the one from you when the air raid sirens went off while you were talking and we heard the rockets coming in. Later we heard you describe the attack you had just experienced.
I remember how happy we were to see you. How you slept so incredibly long the next day...
I remember lots of good memories, always the coolest toys, and even though you complained, we always had the trendy clothes.
I remember dogs, many dogs, and home made skate boards, tree houses, incredible hunting trips with our BB guns, summers when the pool was more of a home than our own house, any musical instrument and lessons we wanted, football, baseball, basketball, and track.
We were boys and you helped us be anything we wanted.
Motorcycles at 15, you parking your car in the driveway so I could build my own "man-cave" in the garage to practice our first rock band.
Teaching me how to use single frame action 8mm cameras to make movies from GI Joes...stuff nobody else ever thought of!
I remember the time you thought Teriaki was the ultimate sauce...it felt like we ate teriaki EVERYTHING for a year! I remember some of your experimental bbq dishes...there are somethings that still scare me!
We have a lot of good memories, we lived great lives, and you made it happen.
Thanks Dad, this life was not an accident - you chose it.
To quote your 3 year old great granddaughter, my granddaughter, "High Five Granddaddy - Good Job!"
Hang in there Dad - we are still here with you.
Running...and the darkness is unforgiving
Same old thing...rushed on the weekend...running to take care of everything...something is missing... as usual, that which goes unattended is the thing with the least amount of "squeek." (squeeky wheel gets the grease).
Is it just me, or is time moving faster now?
Sometimes, it is like a dream, one of those where you feel like your feet are planted in mud, in marshmallow, in glue, and you can't move fast enough to do whatever you need...all you can do is watch the slow motion version of life as it runs amok.
You touch a hand as it slips away...
You try to say that thing of value...and your voice fails you...
The sun is setting and we are running with all our might. We no longer know the path, our sense of direction has failed us, all we can do is hope we were headed right when we started...
Lately, darkness has been arriving earlier, autumn is becoming winter, and soon we will be in the solitude of memories.
I talked with my father yesterday, he struggled to answer me. The ammonia level is increasing more all the time, he sleeps a lot now. When he wakes, he no longer tries to tell me he is "ok", now he talks about his dizziness, his confusion, and he just sits quietly...a lot.
I try not to think of inevitable. I hope for my family to last forever, but I know that is a foolish hope.
I have lost the living and the dead, and the mourning is the same regardless.
Dad, we are increasing the doctor's visits, the tests, the pursuit of your health.
I know this is hard for you. At some point we may have to accept this as it is, and try to comfort you.
Until that time - I will do what you would do for me - I will not give up. I will do all within my ability, and more. I will ask for help when it is beyond me.
I am there now...
This is too big.
My older brother and I talk a lot now. We were always pretty close, only one year apart in school. For a short time, we were roommates in college. Now we try to be strong with each other, but we know our father's name, and we know the voice of our maker.
Sometimes, when we are quiet, we can hear the voice of eternity whisper his name...calling him...inviting him...welcoming him home.
I try to drown out the voice with my own...I am not ready to let go yet.
I am running...and the darkness is unforgiving...
Is it just me, or is time moving faster now?
Sometimes, it is like a dream, one of those where you feel like your feet are planted in mud, in marshmallow, in glue, and you can't move fast enough to do whatever you need...all you can do is watch the slow motion version of life as it runs amok.
You touch a hand as it slips away...
You try to say that thing of value...and your voice fails you...
The sun is setting and we are running with all our might. We no longer know the path, our sense of direction has failed us, all we can do is hope we were headed right when we started...
Lately, darkness has been arriving earlier, autumn is becoming winter, and soon we will be in the solitude of memories.
I talked with my father yesterday, he struggled to answer me. The ammonia level is increasing more all the time, he sleeps a lot now. When he wakes, he no longer tries to tell me he is "ok", now he talks about his dizziness, his confusion, and he just sits quietly...a lot.
I try not to think of inevitable. I hope for my family to last forever, but I know that is a foolish hope.
I have lost the living and the dead, and the mourning is the same regardless.
Dad, we are increasing the doctor's visits, the tests, the pursuit of your health.
I know this is hard for you. At some point we may have to accept this as it is, and try to comfort you.
Until that time - I will do what you would do for me - I will not give up. I will do all within my ability, and more. I will ask for help when it is beyond me.
I am there now...
This is too big.
My older brother and I talk a lot now. We were always pretty close, only one year apart in school. For a short time, we were roommates in college. Now we try to be strong with each other, but we know our father's name, and we know the voice of our maker.
Sometimes, when we are quiet, we can hear the voice of eternity whisper his name...calling him...inviting him...welcoming him home.
I try to drown out the voice with my own...I am not ready to let go yet.
I am running...and the darkness is unforgiving...
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Today...another day in the life
Today, my Dad has another appointment at the gastroenterologist. It is amazing all the things we have learned lately. He has a neurologist, a gastroenterologist, a cardiologist, an orthepedic surgeon, a hepatologist, and a primary care physician.
I am sure I am leaving someone out, so unlike the academey awards where some overpaid entertainer gushes on thanking people most of us have never heard of, I try to remember the names and functions of the few heroes that help my father and tell them thank you every chance I get.
Today we find out more about the elevated ammonia levels. He is on medication now, supposedly to reduce the ammonia level (a byproduct of protein digestion). According to the information I heard from the doctors and my own personal research, a level of 35 - 65 is normal. When the level is in the 90's, a liver transplant is recommended.
His first test was 186.
His second test was over 200.
The test after the medications was 320.
It does not appear anything is helping.
Have you ever felt helpless, standing by a loved one's side...while they fought the battle of their life? I did the right stuff...so it is all supposed to work out, right?
I guess sometimes it is not our call.
I don't know I have ever seen my Dad this weak, this frail, this feeble.
I know in his heart, he is still the same healthy old Army Sarge, the anchor of so many lives. He could run with the wind, had muscles on muscles, was a superman to us, his family. He stood tall in that uniform, whether in a dress uniform or his combat boots and jungle greens, there was no mistaking him as a man's man.
I remember getting a whack on the back of the head when I did not put my hand over my heart during the National Anthem, I remember him being unafraid to walk onto a basketball court or a football sideline and "rip me a new one" when he saw me being disrespectful to my coach or the other team. He did not allow us to do anything that would bring shame on the family or our heritage as Americans (most of this was in Germany).
I remember him standing so strong, he could be intimidating to my friends. But I also remember waking him when I was scared, when I needed him, and he never hesitated to be there, to be what was needed, when it was needed.
He never asked for thanks.
He just did the right thing.
He did not sit us down, and teach us what to do; he did not say to us, "You boys (he still calls us boys) need to hold a job, and take care of your family." But we knew what to do.
When my children were younger, I worked...I worked...and I worked...sometimes there was so much more than I could ever do. But I worked...as an hourly civil design technician, OT made the difference. Sometimes, I felt like I was the only person left in the world awake, running design applications at 3 am Sunday morning, trying to find the "hole" in the design...and it paid off. Not only did I complete the project(s), but I completed my night school education, and ended up working for the company that created the design apps.
I never thought all those things would come out of working extra, all I knew was I had to take care of things, and this was an opportunity. This was no different than what my Dad would do.
He never told me what to do, he just did it.
When my older brother, one of the most educated men I know, was laid off 2 months ago from his job, he never complained. He just did whatever it took. For 2 months he worked as a custodian at a school while he looked for a job. We learned a long time ago...
There is no shame in doing whatever it takes.
There is a glory that comes afterwards, when the dreams begin to materialize and we know, in our heart of hearts, that we did the right thing.
My brother made it through the rough times, life is getting better as he starts his new job in two days.
We try not to tell my Dad the things that would upset him, we just let him see us, his boys, do the right thing.
I remember when we were children, wearing Daddy's combat boots, struggling to take big steps, and my Dad laughing at our silly antics. Sometimes he would throw his hat or his helmet on our heads and there we were, little boys in a man's combat gear, trying to be like Daddy.
The boots fit better now, the helmet is snug, the flak vest is the right size, and here we stand, no longer little boys playing in Daddy's gear, but men...fighting the fight, continuing his legacy.
Just doing the right thing...
Rest easy Dad, your little boys grew up and are here for you.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Reality (again)
This is Monday. On Friday, I went to see my Dad, we went to get a few papers notarized. I wasn't sure how he was doing, until I saw him try to sign his name...
He would write a few letters, stop, and think...I f I gave him the next few letters, he would write, stop, and think... this went on everytime.
He recognized it.
He was embarrassed, but I never said anything. Why would you say something that only served to bring shame to someone?
I heard a preacher a long time ago. He preached a sermon on failures, and how we need to help people that fail, keep their integrity and not raise their failure publicly to shame them.
I have always remembered that lesson.
So here we are, and as my Dad continues to "fail", I will do all I can to keep his integrity intact.
Ramblin' time...
I miss my Dad. He is still here, but we don't get to talk, to share anymore. I miss that. He was a real confidant, someone I could trust, someone that listened more than he talked.
He still does...but I am not sure how much he understands anymore.
Sometimes when I try really hard, I can remember my Dad, a young man, carrying me when I was about 4 years old. I remember times when I was so very young, and how unbelievably safe I felt when he was taking care of things, of our family, of us.
I had no idea how hard it was.
I remember my Dad working 2 or more jobs at a time, days were on the base, his Army "job", nights were a fry cook at some diner or cafeteria. He never complained. This was a privilege, a responsibility, it was what men did.
Later, after he retired from the Army, he went to school full time in the day and worked full time at night. By this time, I was 15 years old.
He never complained about what he did, only about what I didn't do!
It was a long time ago.
Friday, I saw my Dad, he was weaker than ever, and he really looks bad.
I wish I could say "hang in there" and my words would amount to something. Right now, all I can say is "I'm so sorry."
You never deserved this - all you did was what you believed to be right. You just worked, and took care of LIFE, while we played.
Thanks Dad. You taught me the value of an education, and now I have a daughter that is a college graduate. You taught me how to work, and now i have a good job.
I just wish you had taught me how to tell you I love you.
Maybe before it is too late...
He would write a few letters, stop, and think...I f I gave him the next few letters, he would write, stop, and think... this went on everytime.
He recognized it.
He was embarrassed, but I never said anything. Why would you say something that only served to bring shame to someone?
I heard a preacher a long time ago. He preached a sermon on failures, and how we need to help people that fail, keep their integrity and not raise their failure publicly to shame them.
I have always remembered that lesson.
So here we are, and as my Dad continues to "fail", I will do all I can to keep his integrity intact.
Ramblin' time...
I miss my Dad. He is still here, but we don't get to talk, to share anymore. I miss that. He was a real confidant, someone I could trust, someone that listened more than he talked.
He still does...but I am not sure how much he understands anymore.
Sometimes when I try really hard, I can remember my Dad, a young man, carrying me when I was about 4 years old. I remember times when I was so very young, and how unbelievably safe I felt when he was taking care of things, of our family, of us.
I had no idea how hard it was.
I remember my Dad working 2 or more jobs at a time, days were on the base, his Army "job", nights were a fry cook at some diner or cafeteria. He never complained. This was a privilege, a responsibility, it was what men did.
Later, after he retired from the Army, he went to school full time in the day and worked full time at night. By this time, I was 15 years old.
He never complained about what he did, only about what I didn't do!
It was a long time ago.
Friday, I saw my Dad, he was weaker than ever, and he really looks bad.
I wish I could say "hang in there" and my words would amount to something. Right now, all I can say is "I'm so sorry."
You never deserved this - all you did was what you believed to be right. You just worked, and took care of LIFE, while we played.
Thanks Dad. You taught me the value of an education, and now I have a daughter that is a college graduate. You taught me how to work, and now i have a good job.
I just wish you had taught me how to tell you I love you.
Maybe before it is too late...
Coffee - an old one, renewed for this blog
It was a long time ago.
So long ago, the memories are fuzzy. Only a few items of clarity still exist.
I remember it was dark, early in the morning. Far too early for life to have started, but there we were, my young parents and three sleepy little boys, settling in for the beginning of "The Trip."
Who knows where we were going. Another vacation, another trip to the grandparents, it did not matter - they were all the same. Get up at some inhuman hour, struggle to get dressed, end up magically in the car.
I remember after we "got on the road", she would open the thermos of coffee, pour him a cup, and the smell would fill the car. The only noises heard were the steady hum of tires on the pavement, the scratchy AM radio playing Jim Reeves crooning softly, and my thoughts.
I was warm, I was safe, and there was coffee.
This was our life, for many years - and coffee was always a part of it.
When we arrived at my grandparents, the hugs, the laughter, and coffee.
Coffee was a joy, coffee was family.
As I grew up, things changed.
I left home, worked, had a family, and coffee changed.
It was no longer the happy, secure aroma. It bacame the life giving energy needed at 2 am when meeting deadlines. It became the harsh muscled up PE Coach in the fourth grade screaming for me to work harder, faster, and deliver more than I thought possible.
It was required.
No day could start without coffee. No project complete without gallons of coffee. It was the jet fuel for our rocket engines, the life giving energy we needed to survive.
Coffee, my friend, my task master.
No matter how many trendy coffee shops I have entered, no matter how many frappa-mappa-chickie-cinos I ordered, nothing ever had the experience of the original coffee memories.
Many years have passed, I raised children of my own, the nest is empty now - just the two of us.
Sometimes, late at night, when the rest of the world is asleep and the gallons of coffee are still percolating in my veins, I'll listen to some old crooner and as I drift to sleep...
It is warm, the hum of tires against pavement lulls me, and I smell it again...
Coffee...and I am home.
So long ago, the memories are fuzzy. Only a few items of clarity still exist.
I remember it was dark, early in the morning. Far too early for life to have started, but there we were, my young parents and three sleepy little boys, settling in for the beginning of "The Trip."
Who knows where we were going. Another vacation, another trip to the grandparents, it did not matter - they were all the same. Get up at some inhuman hour, struggle to get dressed, end up magically in the car.
I remember after we "got on the road", she would open the thermos of coffee, pour him a cup, and the smell would fill the car. The only noises heard were the steady hum of tires on the pavement, the scratchy AM radio playing Jim Reeves crooning softly, and my thoughts.
I was warm, I was safe, and there was coffee.
This was our life, for many years - and coffee was always a part of it.
When we arrived at my grandparents, the hugs, the laughter, and coffee.
Coffee was a joy, coffee was family.
As I grew up, things changed.
I left home, worked, had a family, and coffee changed.
It was no longer the happy, secure aroma. It bacame the life giving energy needed at 2 am when meeting deadlines. It became the harsh muscled up PE Coach in the fourth grade screaming for me to work harder, faster, and deliver more than I thought possible.
It was required.
No day could start without coffee. No project complete without gallons of coffee. It was the jet fuel for our rocket engines, the life giving energy we needed to survive.
Coffee, my friend, my task master.
No matter how many trendy coffee shops I have entered, no matter how many frappa-mappa-chickie-cinos I ordered, nothing ever had the experience of the original coffee memories.
Many years have passed, I raised children of my own, the nest is empty now - just the two of us.
Sometimes, late at night, when the rest of the world is asleep and the gallons of coffee are still percolating in my veins, I'll listen to some old crooner and as I drift to sleep...
It is warm, the hum of tires against pavement lulls me, and I smell it again...
Coffee...and I am home.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Current Status
My wife's father died this year.
It woould be easy to call him my Father in Law, but he was more than that, he was Daddy to a little girl, to 2 little girls - for many years. Then he bacame Papaw to his grandchildren and great grandchildren.
Somewhere in the mix, he became my Father in Law, my friend.
We watched this giant of a man slowly change until he was a wisp of his former self. Then, when he was barely here...he suddenly wasn't.
It wasn't quick, but he was gone far too soon.
Sometimes, we are in a store, and she sees something that reminds her of her Dad; some old style candy, reads a silly verse, hears a song, and she misses him. I guess that will always happen. She really loved her Father - he was an incredibly good man.
Now my Dad is the one we watch. He has lost weight, has a hard time getting around, and we are starting all the testing to determine where he is in this journey.
It was a long haul with my Father in Law, and this one is just starting.
This is the official story to date -
He retired from the Postal Service a few years back, has had back surgery, two hip replacements, a shoulder replacement, cataract surgery, and elbow surgery. Somewhere in this mix may have been a stroke, but details are not real clear, as he has a pacemaker and is unable to have an MRI.
He has Non-Alcoholic Cirrhosis of the Liver (Cirrhosis is scarring of the Liver), also called Primary Biliary Cirrhosis (PBC). The PBC causes his blood to be "out of whack" and can give pre-luekemia (Myelodysplasia) symptoms. In addition, he has an extremely high level of ammonia in his blood.
He has also been diagnosed with "Slow Stomach" or Gastroparesis, again - this is sometimes associated with Cirrhosis.
He uses a walker, and is in pain from the arthritis all over his body (in particular, spinal stenosis), and the herniated disk in his neck that has calcified and pressing against the spinal column, causing wekness in his extremeties.
Sometimes when we talk, he is there - he is still the same man I have known my entire life. Sometimes, he is not. We have not been able to establish a pattern yet to determine what causes the good days or bad, but we are "mapping" them.
Other than the slow stomach causing near spontaneous vomiting, he is doing a little better, at least we are a little more informed.
The only real change has been the medical - he was a recipient of our wonderful government managed halth care system for Veterans, and it nearly took him from us. Only after we got him into reputable civilian doctors did we get better response, better treatment and more choices.
He is only 73, but he seems 10 yrars older, and more feeble.
No fancy words or rhetoric today - just how it is.
I called him, he answered and we talked awhile. I try to avoid too much info at one time - it can get confusing.
So, here it is - the current status,
I hope, I pray, this is the bottom, that life will only get better from here...
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
We were idiots...
We were idiots...we never thought we would live this long, we never thought we would grow up, and people would count on us, depend upon us...
Horrible motorcycle accidents, sliding on pavement, seeing cars race by my head while I rolled out of the way...sticking my arm out at 60 mph trying to knock down a traffic barrier, getting ripped off the back of the bike and ending up a tangled mess in a ditch...
Walking away...
Riding off a small "cliff" - fearless, hitting the ground so hard the frame breaks...this time I felt it...
Limping away...
Somehow we survived.
We grew up, cut our hair, became old and uncool...and settled down...thankful the days of stupid challenges are over.
I chose engineering, I like the predictability. Challenges can be calculated away, solutions are always planned, if -then statements rule...no heart ache...no surprises...and certainly no danger...
I don't like unpredictability - I strain at a gnat and ignore the elephant...
So here I am, older, greyer, a little slower...but on the inside...
I am 17 again - long hair blowing in the wind, riding with a purpose, and when needed...fearless...
Perhaps I can use this strength when the harder times arrive...I have learned to conceal the fear, God knows I can stand and scream at the enemy while shaking on the inside...perhaps the rebellion has become something I can count on, something others can depend upon...I will not leave...I will not change...
It's hard when it isn't your battle.
I want to give my Dad all my strength, take him back to his younger years. He was a good man, should have been a great man.
Me - well, I am no "chip off the old block..."
I am the guy that struggles to have faith, while standing behind my Dad in this assembly line of life. I see the inevitable, and I am not afraid...but I fight...this is not right, good men are supposed to live forever...not fade away...
I don't get it...
I grew up hearing all the stories about miracle events...where are they now?
If anyone deserves a miracle, it is the good people, the ones full of faith.
If it were possible, I would jerk him back from the edge of the abyss and stand in his place...I fear what I will be after he is gone...when I stand alone...
I know this is supposed to be about him and his struggle, but I missed so many years in my pursuit. I missed the years with him. Always too busy to go with him when asked to go fishing, to go to ball games...my visits were short and usually tucked in between projects...
Too much at stake, too many mountains to climb...too many dreams to chase...
Now I need to make it count.
Maybe my heart is just sorry for the missed times and I am trying to make myself into some hero in order to deal with it.
Maybe I just need to slow down and listen to him.
We were together recently, I spent a few hours with him, took him to get his hair cut. We just chatted, enjoyed ourselves. I try not to ever make him feel indebted to me, after all, it is my debt that is so large.
I'll never forget...
One time when I was a much younger man, he extended a loan to me. In order to repay, I was making monthly payments to him. In the mean time, I struggled with who I was, and did God really have any place in my life? Was he who I thought he was? Who I hoped he was? Did he really love me?
I prayed I would receive an answer...
Then when I approached my father to give him the latest payment...
He said, "Your debt has been paid...you owe me nothing..."
I did not understand...
He said, "I paid your debt for you, there is nothing you can do to pay it off."
"But I owe you," I said...
And he said, "I know...but that is what grace is all about. I extended the loan, then paid it off, you can do nothing...it is bigger than you...and it is over..."
I learned a little about God that day...
That is what it is all about...grace...mercy...
I am still learning...still growing...hopefully, still changing...
Horrible motorcycle accidents, sliding on pavement, seeing cars race by my head while I rolled out of the way...sticking my arm out at 60 mph trying to knock down a traffic barrier, getting ripped off the back of the bike and ending up a tangled mess in a ditch...
Walking away...
Riding off a small "cliff" - fearless, hitting the ground so hard the frame breaks...this time I felt it...
Limping away...
Somehow we survived.
We grew up, cut our hair, became old and uncool...and settled down...thankful the days of stupid challenges are over.
I chose engineering, I like the predictability. Challenges can be calculated away, solutions are always planned, if -then statements rule...no heart ache...no surprises...and certainly no danger...
I don't like unpredictability - I strain at a gnat and ignore the elephant...
So here I am, older, greyer, a little slower...but on the inside...
I am 17 again - long hair blowing in the wind, riding with a purpose, and when needed...fearless...
Perhaps I can use this strength when the harder times arrive...I have learned to conceal the fear, God knows I can stand and scream at the enemy while shaking on the inside...perhaps the rebellion has become something I can count on, something others can depend upon...I will not leave...I will not change...
It's hard when it isn't your battle.
I want to give my Dad all my strength, take him back to his younger years. He was a good man, should have been a great man.
Me - well, I am no "chip off the old block..."
I am the guy that struggles to have faith, while standing behind my Dad in this assembly line of life. I see the inevitable, and I am not afraid...but I fight...this is not right, good men are supposed to live forever...not fade away...
I don't get it...
I grew up hearing all the stories about miracle events...where are they now?
If anyone deserves a miracle, it is the good people, the ones full of faith.
If it were possible, I would jerk him back from the edge of the abyss and stand in his place...I fear what I will be after he is gone...when I stand alone...
I know this is supposed to be about him and his struggle, but I missed so many years in my pursuit. I missed the years with him. Always too busy to go with him when asked to go fishing, to go to ball games...my visits were short and usually tucked in between projects...
Too much at stake, too many mountains to climb...too many dreams to chase...
Now I need to make it count.
Maybe my heart is just sorry for the missed times and I am trying to make myself into some hero in order to deal with it.
Maybe I just need to slow down and listen to him.
We were together recently, I spent a few hours with him, took him to get his hair cut. We just chatted, enjoyed ourselves. I try not to ever make him feel indebted to me, after all, it is my debt that is so large.
I'll never forget...
One time when I was a much younger man, he extended a loan to me. In order to repay, I was making monthly payments to him. In the mean time, I struggled with who I was, and did God really have any place in my life? Was he who I thought he was? Who I hoped he was? Did he really love me?
I prayed I would receive an answer...
Then when I approached my father to give him the latest payment...
He said, "Your debt has been paid...you owe me nothing..."
I did not understand...
He said, "I paid your debt for you, there is nothing you can do to pay it off."
"But I owe you," I said...
And he said, "I know...but that is what grace is all about. I extended the loan, then paid it off, you can do nothing...it is bigger than you...and it is over..."
I learned a little about God that day...
That is what it is all about...grace...mercy...
I am still learning...still growing...hopefully, still changing...
Lights on the horizon
I fell off the ship...
Somehow I found a piece of driftwood, a scrap of a someone else's journey, I hold onto for dear life.
The ship is now long gone, even though sometimes in the dark I still hear the sounds I left behind.
All I can do now is hold tight to what I see, what I feel.
And Hope...
My Dad received some medication to assist with the ammonia levels, it seems to be working, slowly. The dementia symptoms are fading, but others have taken their place.
What is this legion of health issues we face? Can someone just step in and take care of them, all at once?
If only that were true...
The stories I grew up hearing, provide little more than entertainment when reality is before us. Perhaps we can wish...and we hope...and we hope...and we hope...
But we know, if we don't do something, nothing will happen.
We can hold on to the piece of castaway driftwood, and hope the almighty tide will take us somewhere good...
Or we can hang on and start paddling, looking for the lights on the horizon, and set our course and minds to live, to succeed, to win.
What does it mean to win?
We made it to the horizon, we walked up on the beach of life, dragging our exhausted selves to a safe area, and collapse.
Only long enough to catch our breath - then we start again - too many people counting on us, got to do the right thing, whether it is understood or not, must press on.
We are in a lull - the storm is not raging, and I hope the lights on the horizon are not a mirage.
I think we are getting somewhere now...
Perhaps the rambling is too much - let me cut to the chase.
My Dad appears to be doing better, although his liver is still failing, and he has received another serious dignosis from the GI doctor - his mind is a little more clear than before.
He is still feeble and frail.
I feel I need to protect him, I owe it to him, he is my father.
As hard as it is for me, he has had the grace and strength to face his issues without waivering.
I am learning about strength...he teaches me still.
And I am paddling...looking for the lights on the horizon.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
A hot summer day
It was a hot one today.
Maybe it seemed hotter with everything we had to do. With all the "business" at hand, we are selling our house, we've got to pack, got to make sure all the "stuff" we need to take care of is done on time.
I don't think I can stop...
I feel like I am being chased by something bigger than me, and if it catches me, I may start crying and never stop.
I've got to keep going...
Got to suck it up - too much happening, no time to feel right now...maybe later.
Sleeping doesn't happen as much as it used to, too much to do, too much to think about. Not just what is happening with my Dad, but other things - my job, my wife's job, the sale of the house, the purchase of the new house, and always...is my Dad okay? What is next?
The appointment 2 days ago with the neurologist was "hopeful" - he said my Dad's condition may be linked to the high ammonia levels in his blood, but this only means we are addressing ONE of MANY problems. The problem with the ammonia level is the cause - a failing liver.
Then I read the neuro-psychologist report and felt everything all over again.
This is real.
Sometimes I wish for younger days, maybe I could have helped him prepare for this better...but that ends quickly.
This is now...This is real...
Got to keep running, this time I am in the dark, running until I can't feel myself anymore, the tears flow only in the darkness of the hidden places of my heart - can't let them out.
This is real...This is dark...This is hard today...
I'll be okay.
Got to stay focused, too much at stake.
I talked with my Dad a few days ago - we discussed his funeral arrangements. He said he wants to be buried in his uniform. He is proud of his career in the military, as the whole family is.
I never knew how strong he really was. He spoke of the inevitable, as if it was just another day. Perhaps that is what faith is all about, facing the darkness with a light that cannot be extinguished, believing a truth so deeply, it is nailed to the door of your heart.
Perhaps this is what you get after years of hoping and believing, you get the truth.
It is okay now, I am okay, sometimes I may ramble...I just need to rant, then I am okay again.
All I really know is this - I hate to see this happen to my Dad, and I will really miss him when he is gone.
Until then, I will fight for him - I will not give up hope, even when it means accepting reality.
I have this shred of hope, a tiny light of my own that was ignited by my father years ago.
I hope until I believe, then maybe it is faith.
Hang in there Dad, I've been on my knees calling for the cavalry.
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