The Fourth

The only signs of the holiday are the skeleton staffs at both the hospital and care facility.  My mother was released today, and in very high spirits, grateful to be home and in her own bed.  Even with the constant ring of the phone and doorbell she was able to sleep, utterly exhausted from the experience.  My father had a restless, sleepless night and I'm very conflicted about leaving him at CareOne.  I'm witnessing the other side of the increased lifespan Americans boast about, and it's not pretty.  It's hard not to bump into thoughts about my own demise.  What is it like to depend on others for all of your basic needs?  What happens when the one in need isn't a family member, or a loved one, but an aging stranger in a facility where you work?  Sometimes I wonder why some of the people I've encountered have chosen this profession since they answer the call bell with disdain and disinterest.  Although my father willingly allows others to come to his aid, he's also told me he's embarrassed.  I fell asleep reading, as far off fireworks were booming in the darkened night. 

The Future

My mother got out of her hospital bed to kiss my father goodbye as he was wheeled out of the room.  I rode in the ambulance with him to the care facility two miles from their house.  Although this was the best of the facilities I toured, it is awful.  Infirm, ailing patients congregate in wheel chairs near the nurses’ station.  Several hours passed before my father was evaluated, no one seemed particularly interested that a new patient was admitted.   I’m horrified and exhausted.  There is no dignity in this process.  And yet my father's disposition remains cheerful.  Transfixed on nothing in particular, I asked him what he was thinking about.  "The future."  "What does it look like?"  I'm on the beach, running with you, your brother and sister."

Delusions

Every day I awake incredulous I'm still in my parents' guest room.  I know it's summer by the oppressive, humid heat and the scattered electrical storms.  I can tell by the tanned women who work in the hospital that the beach is near.  Flags and red white and blue streamers indicate a national holiday is approaching.  I'm walking through life, getting through each hour.  Although I'm much more alive than my father, I don't feel like I'm living.  Manhattan, two hours away, where so many of my friends live, is inaccessible.  I'm at the epicenter of so much drama, yet I feel disconnected.  Some feed off of this type of excitement, I prefer the simple things like un-airconditioned air, produce from my farmers market, morning stillness, a yoga class.  And yet this is where I want to be, so I tolerate the less than desirable things and savor the good moments.

Gathering

Depression era mentality keeps my parents’ cupboards full. When I asked my mother why she had a half dozen, large boxes of corn flakes, my father’s favorite, she replied, "they were on sale".  Last night we raided the walk in freezer and found: two turkeys, chicken breasts, pork chops, a London broil, sausage, chicken stock, cauliflower soup, cabbage soup, black bean soup, filberts, almonds, walnuts, chocolate chips, pie crust, ice cream, pumpkin bread, and Christmas cookies.  The tin of cookies was immediately retrieved and devoured. 

My parents have never lacked friends, and many of the adults I grew up with in the suburbs of NJ have all migrated 30 miles south to various adult communities.  They have carpooled to see my parents, recovering side by side in room 475.  A bittersweet way to connect with the women, my father is the last of the men, who have left a lasting impression on my childhood.  I remember BBQs, road trips, bar mitzvahs, shopping sprees to discount designer stores and the rings that still adorn their fingers.  There's always a silver lining.

 After a 24 hour, coma-like sleep my father was alert and eager to see his many visitors.  He was joking and teasing, very much himself, and said to me at the end of they day, "I never knew being in the hospital could be so much fun".  Once my mother's drugs wore off she was less than enthusiastic about her condition.  Still nauseous and uncomfortable, she didn't want to sip her liquids or engage in too much conversation.

At night, we return home, leaving them together in matching hospital gowns, and assemble eclectic meals cobbled together from the contents of their freezer and shelves.  

All Nighter

I can cross sleeping in a hospital bed off my list of things I've never done, same for napping on the cold linoleum floor of an ER.  My mother was scheduled for surgery on Monday for a strangulated inguinal hernia.  Yesterday she continued to vomit between her pre-op tests.  My father was unresponsive most of the day, unable to focus or keep his eyes open when I spoke to him.  His body was very active in the hospital bed, legs kicking and left arm rising high above his head.  At one point his fingers formed scissors, aggressively snipping the air.  He awoke briefly and said the ends were uneven.  Once a hairdresser always a hairdresser.  Later in the day he was mumbling about mountain gear for an icy climb in Germany.  On the start of this fourth of July weekend, both of my parents were in rapid decline.  My cousin Northie came after work to keep me company at the hospital as we waited for my sister who was en route from Massachusetts.  A dear family friend drove from Pennsylvania to be with my mother at home, who continued to wretch in a brown plastic bucket.  I left my father, whose breath had the distinctive rattle of death, at 1230am to tell my mother I wanted to bring her to the hospital.  She didn't refuse.  Through out the night we bounced from the ER to my father's room.  He greeted us with a drowsy good morning every time we entered.  Surprisingly, as morning broke and he found us sleeping in the bed next to him he was much more alert.  My father was unaware that down the corridor my mother was being prepped for emergency surgery.  Once under the knife, the surgeon found gangrenous tissue in her lower intestine.  Her body was slowly becoming toxic, a situation that could have been fatal.  My father's expression was priceless when I told him he was finally getting a roommate, my mother.

Double Trouble

Barely awake, my mother lifts her nightgown and exposes a large sausage shaped lump on her groin.  "I found this last night in the shower."  I'm speechless, and release giggles instead of sobs.  The doctor sees us immediately, and confirms it's an inguinal hernia.  In my father's hospital room she starts to wretch.  I leave his bedside and retrieve a plastic bowl in time for her to spew putrid, green bile.  She's convinced she has food poisoning from the salad she ate the day before.  Nerves, bad greens, the hernia.  I don't know what to think as I try to care for both of my parents.  All I want to do is giggle; certainly this isn't happening.  I take my mother home and contact friends to check in her.  I return to my father who is getting weaker, and more jaundiced.  His highlight of the day, is teaching the nurses how to give the perfect shave.  My mother has a consultation with the surgeon tomorrow at the same time my father starts chemo.  My gallows humor is kicking in.  I find this all absurdly comedic.  My life in LA is light years away.  Trying to conduct conference calls and respond to emails through out the day has been challenging, but staying in contact with my life at home reminds me that this too is temporary.

Cowboys and Roger

Getting acclimated to the routines in the hospital, the various doctors and nurses, the important questions to ask, the essential diagnostic procedures that will take place the next few days.  The mass on my father's neck continues to grow, wrapping around his throat like a heavy wool scarf.  Swallowing is difficult, yet nutrition is essential to combat chemo.  A gastric feeding tube was recommended, then rejected when the procedure proved to be too risky.  We agreed to try a round of chemo and monitor how he responds.  "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger", takes on a whole new meaning. 

Through out the day my father kept talking about cowboys.  His eyes darted around the room, often settling on static air.   I asked him if we were alone, and he said, "no".  "Who else is here?" "Rodger", a name I didn't recognize from his large pool of friends. "Do you know Rodger?" "No, but he knows me," he said smiling.  "Who is he?"  "My guide."

My father has no fear about the procedures, about dying, or about living with pain.  Before we leave I always ask if it's okay if we go home for awhile.  A karmic offering, since I  think it would be awful to be left alone in a hospital room.  He said he wanted to come with us "to say goodbye to the birds and trees and some other stuff."  "Don't go", so we stayed until 10pm.  After 12 hours, my mother was fading.  She spent the day reminiscing about the past, specifically the days pivotal people in her life passed.  She cried, and was exhausted by my father's frank, emotional conversations. He wasn't holding back, said we never woke up in the morning and just sat around and talked like we were doing now. We could have "squeezed more fun out of life".  He told me how much I've hurt him by not visiting more often.  "On this journey it's important to find loving people to be with."  It's strange to look forward to another day sitting by his side in a hospital bed, but I do.  Life is very pure at this moment, and our connection is possibly stronger than it's ever been.