The first step is always the hardest...at least that's what I'm told

The first step is always the hardest... or so I'm told. I sometimes don't realize I'm taking that "first step" until I've already walked a mile.

And so begins my journey.

I am not alone in my journey. No, not by far. My family and friends are almost always with me, and even when I'm alone, I can't help but wonder if there is a hidden video camera joining me during every waking moment. Which is why I stop frequently throughout my week and ask "Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?" Some days I am convinced that I am being filmed for some comedy show in the making.

My most recent 'journey' began last Thursday with a call from my dad's doctor. Before I realize, I am at the ER 115 miles from my home trying to convince my dad to allow the doctors to do their job. How in the world did I get here? How did I miss that 'hardest' first step?

Let me begin by briefly introducing you to my dad. He's a 77 year old transplant from London. He's either the most pleasant and fun person you'll ever meet or the grouchiest son of a gun...depends on the day, or maybe it depends on who you are. I still haven't figured out the rhyme or reason to that one. He's stubborn. And currently he is in the hospital due to suffering a stroke.

Which brings me to Friday 11am when I walk through the doors to the ER to find my dad sitting in bed and eating pancakes. And being grouchy...to say the least. He tells me things he thinks are important...they're not. He doesn't like the nurse... I don't either, really. He didn't like the MRI... I understand. He's refusing any more testing... now I'm grouchy.

"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"

Really? You're not letting them test? Okay, where's the camera?

I understand now that his brain was traumatized and rational thought couldn't be expected. But in that moment... wow.

I convince him to let them test. They're easy tests... in fact, pregnant women love the kind of tests he needed - ultrasound! Granted, his wasn't going to be on his belly, and the only life involved here was his own, but you get the idea... easy tests.

The neurologist arrives, tests dad's strength then shows me his MRI and the ugly white slug that indicates a stroke. I'm caught between this being the coolest moment I've been involved with in months, and the sick realization that this is real and my dad is not well. The hospitalist joins our little party and discusses vague plans for rehab once more testing is done.

Dad likes the neurologist. She's pleasant and he likes her smile. With that knowledge, I feel better.
Reflecting on that, I wonder if he was mirroring my reaction to her.
Either way, he 'felt' better and was going for those easy tests. And I suddenly felt the need to be useful. So I packed up dad's dirty clothes, my 3 year old, Jonah's back pack and headed out to find a laundromat.
Well, we step out the ER door and it's pouring. yay.
And there is a woman in a wheel chair clutching a hospital issue barf bag (that's the technical term, I'm pretty sure). She's using her foot to push her way aimlessly around under the roof of the entrance area. I'm on the phone with my husband, hoping the rain will let up for a moment or two. And I'm watching the woman. She is struggling. She wants her coat on, but is unable to accomplish this feat. Still on the phone, I help her into her jacket... still clutching the partially full barf bag. Now settled into her jacket she asks me for a cigarette.
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
Really? you want to follow up puking with a cigarette? Not to mention there are signs posted everywhere about it being a smoke-free campus. sigh.

Now I'm driving around a town I am unfamiliar with, trusting my iPhone maps feature to get me where I'm going. I'm trying to stay in contact with my sisters and my husband, successfully navigate this town, all while being attentive to my 3 year old Jonah.

What was that about the first step being the hardest?

But we did it. And by 'we' I mean my family and that pesky camera that I know is following me.

I return to the hospital to find the ER room empty - they have moved him to an actual room. yippee!
It's a quiet room. Pleasant, if you can use that term for a hospital room.
I find dad unsettled.
He needs to use the restroom. I tell him I'll get a nurse to help. No.
The next two hours continue like this. The floor is slippery. He wants to wear his sock and shoes.
"Dad, they have socks with 'grippys' on the bottom for you to wear." No.
He wants to get dressed in his own clothes.
"Dad, let me help you." No.
So for 45 minutes my father who is dealing with a traumatized brain, tries unsuccessfully to dress himself. So he sits in just his socks and shoes listing this way and that with effort to dress himself. And he eventually allows himself to slide to the floor to continue trying.

I wonder where the cameras are briefly before it dawns on me that this could be a permanent situation for us all.
Until this moment it hadn't crossed my mind that he wouldn't fully recover from this. Even with his traumatized brain, there were moments of complete lucidity that proved the 'old' dad was still there.



Dad is as settled as he is going to be. Dinner arrives and it doesn't look half bad. I try to talk it up to dad, sell him on the rolled roast beef and cute little baby potatoes. He tries to get started eating, but has trouble with the utensils that are enclosed in plastic. I offer help and he says "No." Go figure.
It breaks my heart to see this happening.
Again, what was that about the first step being the hardest?

It's time for me to drive home. I tell dad again that Lisa and Sue will be by tomorrow and I will be back on Sunday. We go back and forth about his car (for what seems the 50th time in a 4 hour period - "No dad, Dan isn't going to move your car... Sue will be here tomorrow and she will take it back to your house"). I reiterate that he needs to let the nurses and doctors help him. He tells me to "Stop mothering me".... sigh.
I give dad a kiss and Jonah and I head out the door.

We head towards dad's house to check on things. Jonah is asleep in his car seat before we hit the turnpike. And remains that way as I park in dad's driveway.
I wander around the house taking everything in. I so badly want to stay and clean up, but it is too daunting a task to begin this late in the day. And I'm ill - prepared.

With a brief stop for gas and McDonald's, Jonah and I make the 100 mile trek home.
And I am exhausted.