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.

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...