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.
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