Perfect

If this photo could speak, it would tell you about a perfect day.   Almost as perfect as the photo itself.    It would tell you about an unusually warm day in October, 2011.    It would tell you how my boys and I visited my dad for the day.    It would tell you about a leisurely walk we took from dad's house to the lake and all the 'exploring' the boys and I did along the way.      It would tell you how we sat on the bench and chatted about the uncharacteristic weather we had and how perfect the lake looked in all its autumn splendor.    Perfect enough to capture in a photo.  This photo would tell you how incredibly normal everything in life was. And life was beautiful.

And just like the smooth glass lake surface in the photo is calm, so was this point in time. Calm. 

I know now that it was the calm before the storm. A quiet, seemingly innocuous storm that crept up slowly, without a warning bell or siren. A storm that has many parts.

Each part by itself can be handled with ease, but is overwhelming when combined. The Perfect Storm.

We recently had a perfect storm - weather wise. It rained. Then then temperature dropped. There was sleet. Then snow. It was still October, so the leaves still clung to the trees. The sleet and snow pulled down on the branches. Branches gave in and snapped. Power lines came down. Between 6 and 10 inches of snow in the area on already wet, leaf covered areas. Many without power for several days. Individually these things wouldn't be so daunting, but together they made the Perfect Storm.

We are now realizing the perfect storm that is my father's predicament. Years of unchecked health issues. A deteriorating mind. And finally a stroke.

Any one of these issues individually can be handled. Maybe even easily. But when all three came to a head at once, it became overwhelming.

As a family, I think we are all happy that dad was in the hospital for a bit because they were able to discover long term problems that went un-checked and go about fixing those problems. I think I can speak for everyone when I say the stay in the hospital was too long and aggravated an already trying situation.

Having an MRI of his brain we can see the shrinkage that was already in place prior to the stroke. We have slowly witnessed the decline in dad's memory, but dismissed a lot of it. Perhaps even the shuffling of his feet we just chalked up to old age.

Now that dad is in rehab things look a little brighter, or maybe just a little more clear. The future is still uncertain.

Dad is strong. But unbalanced. Trusts no one, but will have to rely on everyone.

Life is testing me and my sisters. Dad has always clung to the rational, and while we've watched his ability to reason decline slightly over the years, it is very trying to reason with someone who's brain is broken. And it is very difficult to remember that his brain isn't 'firing on all cylanders' and have some compassion in those moments.

Friday I left dad after having an argument regarding his situation. I was hot. And it was so hard trying to find that compassion. It began with him wanting me to help him get out of the wheel chair. He got mad when I refused to help. I told him to call a nurse, that he had to follow the rules if he wanted to get out of rehab. I felt like I was speaking to a child, and I think that made him even angrier. I was glad when the physician in the room backed me up, but it didn't make me feel better. I knew I was in the 'right', but winning the argument didn't really feel like winning. It was disheartening. Perfectly disheartening.

We're a long way from that perfect October afternoon. I hope that we're on the right track for a perfect recovery, but that is yet to be seen.

 

"Funny the way it is..."

The more frequently I listen to the Dave Matthew's Band song Funny the Way It Is, the more I'm convinced that it is their version of Alanis Morisette's Isn't It Ironic. Maybe I'm getting it all wrong. But we'll get to that later.

It is November 1st and my trusty sidekick and I are once again traversing to the North. We pass through Reading and I am again chuckling at one of the election signs I see. Someone named Barnhardt is running for Commissioner. If you are a fan of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum novels, you'll recognize the name. I'm sure there's no relation. And I'm sure that this Barnhardt is a perfectly pleasant person. But I just can't pass the big sign without chuckling as I conjure up a vision of the character Joyce Barnhardt and visualizing her running for any type of office.

We're about one hour into our trip when my phone rings. It's a number from the hospital. I answer quickly and Frank tells me that they are ready to move dad to rehab.
I am instantly excited. They are planning on moving him at 4pm, about the time I'll arrive.
I hang up the phone and say a prayer that dad doesn't do something in the next hour and a half to screw things up!
I suddenly can't drive fast enough and the traffic around me is instantly stupid and irritating... funny how it is, huh?
While I'm indifferent about the camera I'm sure is following me, I'm hoping the cops are not watching.

We arrive at the hospital at 3:45. And Jonah has wet pants. Really? And, of course, there are no child pants to be found in the car. Seriously?
So we were that family. A child in diapers, socks, shoes and a winter coat.
Hello? Is anyone else seeing this?
Oh right, everyone we pass by is.
And I think, oh well, my kid may be dressed inappropriately, but at least we're not the ones blatantly disobeying the the "Non-Smoking" signage that is everywhere on this health care campus.

We get to dad and sweep in. I'm bubbling over, I'm so happy today is the day. Dad seems a bit indifferent. This concerns me a bit. Why isn't he happier to be getting out of there?
I check with Frank to see what the plan is. He tells me that transport will arrive about 4:30 to take dad and that we should call a nurse to help get him dressed.
I thank him for his help, return to dad's room and hit the call button.
Dad doesn't want to wait. I help him put on socks. I get out the bag of clothes from the closet. He works on his shirt.
Twenty minutes pass...no nurse.
The transport team arrives. Dad is halfway there. Still no pants on.
Still no nurse.
"Hello? Is anyone else seeing this?"
Finally I flag down a nurse and she helps dad into his pants and coat.
The transport team gets him situated and we are on our way!

We meet up again in the elevator at the rehab center.
"Hey, long time, no see, dad!"

We get dad set up in the brain injury ward. There are several women there fawning over him to help him get settled. Almost instantly the accent questions begin. "Oh, I love your accent, where are you from."
I chuckle at the look on his face. I think he's getting tired of answering the question.
Once they get a dinner tray for him, Jonah and I head to his house to pick up his suitcase (and pants for Jonah).
When we return, dad seems content. We poke through his suitcase together to see what's what.
Jonah hands him the package of cookies we picked up for him. Everything is going well.

One of the women mentions that they have a 'sitter' assigned to dad -WHAT?
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
A sitter? My brain is overrun with thoughts. Are they serious? A sitter? You mean like someone who sits next to him to make sure he's okay and doesn't hurt himself? REALLY? As in the same thing that at the hospital delayed him from going to rehab? You mean that kind of 'sitter'?
"Funny the way it is.... Isn't it Ironic?"
The woman continues on to say that she doesn't think he needs one, because he seems fine to her.
Yes, at the moment, dad is lucid and friendly. That could change in an instant.

We tell dad goodnight and head back to his house for the night and promise to be by at lunch time to check on things.

*******

Wednesday morning comes and Jonah and I set out to accomplish a lengthy list of things... phone calls, errands and back to rehab by 11am.
After circling Wilkes-Barre (several times, I think), we finally have all the we started out for and head to rehab.

When dad is wheeled into the room, he looks tired. It's time for lunch. It doesn't look horrible.
Dad tells me he could do all the things they're asking, on one foot. I tell him, " Good! Do it! Show them how it's done!"

The sitter that brought dad in tells me she doesn't think he needs one. I tell her that his demeanor and understanding can change quickly, and until he's been here a few days, it's probably best to hang around.

Dad finished lunch, they prepare for his IV antibiotics and he lays down for a nap. I guess this rehab business is tiring.... you know, doing all the stuff they ask... on one foot.

The sun shines a little brighter on our drive home.

Hail Mary!

While the days (weeks) seem to march forward with no sign of stopping, and the fall foliage sneaks it's way down to the lower latitudes, we are definitely hitting autumn with full force. Halloween arrives quickly.

More quickly than I would like. I had not yet finished the costumes for the boys. And then my sewing machine craps out... oy. I'm no seamstress. I fudge my way through the sewing world by trial and error. I have a nice Singer sewing machine that has lots of bells and whistles. The bells and whistles don't always cooperate, but hey, why should my sewing machine be any different than my life?
So at 9:30 on a Friday night, I head to Walmart to find a quick <cheap> replacement.
And it's on... I'm sewing and hot-gluing my way to a costume for my three year old in no time.
Ha! Take that, hidden cameras!

Even Mother Nature seems to think a nice 'trick' for Halloween would be to douse the Northeast with snow. And not just a smattering of frost, but full on snow. Several inches of heavy, sloppy snow. Snow that grinds us to a halt. Interrupts Halloween parties (have they ever cancelled a Halloween party for snow before?), delays my drive to the hospital, and all around, seems out of place.

I kinda feel bad. I can only imagine how confusing the snow must be to dad. It was barely autumn when he was admitted to the hospital. Now, with a very early snow and what seems like forever already gone by, I can imagine how he may think that he's never going to leave there.
I make the trek to the hospital with my trusty side-kick, Jonah on a Sunday afternoon. We make good time for all the 'winter storm carnage' we see on the sides of the road.

We arrive and I see that dad has a new roommate. I'm hesitant to ask what happened to the old roommate. But regardless, this quiet, new man is a welcome change from Mr. Bedpan.
Dad slightly brightens when we enter the room, but it doesn't last long. He makes it pretty clear that he doesn't really want me there. I chuckle inside when he tells me to go and send my sister Lisa up.
I've only been in the room ten minutes and he's tired of me...
Dad is not in the best of spirits and he's confused. He speaks like he's in his home, or like a home that we all lived in at one time. I tell him that Lisa is at home in Virginia, and she won't be up for a while.
We go back and forth and I think we end up just nodding at each other like we are both trying to shut the other up.
Well, good, bad or indifferent, we settle in for the rest of the afternoon. We chat. Dad lectures. Tries to tell me what the saying: You can't teach an old dog new tricks really means.
"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"

The nurse comes in to set up a new IV antibiotic. The IV is in a bad place (darn those crappy veins for not cooperating!). So when dinner comes, dad is having issues eating because bending his right arm causes the IV alarm to go off. And he has no real desire to eat anyway because he doesn't like ravioli's. I offer to get him something else. He declines.

So we sit and relax.
"Mary!....Mary!...Mary!....Mary!....Mary!....Mary!....Mary!"
Seriously? The woman in the room across the hall is insistent that "Mary" come to her bed side.
"Mary!....Mary!...Mary!....Mary!....Mary!....Mary!....Mary!"

"Hello? Is anyone else hearing this?"
No really, is anyone else hearing this? I'm half irritated at the annoyance of this woman, but more irritated that nobody is going in to calm her.
Finally, I hear someone tell her that she's not at home and Mary isn't coming right now.
Silence.
"Help me!....Help me!.... Help me, please!.... Help me!.... Help me, please!..."

Oh good grief.

We get dad comfortable and say good night. We're headed to his house. I'm anticipating some shoveling in the driveway, and am pleasantly surprised that only the deck and stairs need cleared.
We get ourselves settled after a run to the grocery store and re-fuel for the next day.

*****

Monday morning finds dad in an okay mood. We brought him McDonald's coffee, that helps. Regardless, he's ready to dole out parenting advice. I find his advice more humorous than irritating. Whatever.
We speak to nurses, doctors, whoever walks in the door. Trying to find out all we can. One nurse informs me that they are going to insert a PICC line. She explains what it is and why it's needed. She leaves. I tell dad what's going to happen, and asks if he understands. He says he does. I ask if he's 'okay' with it. He says yes.
It seems like the PICC team arrives quickly...I'm caught off guard. They need a sterile room, so my sidekick and I will have to leave. Dad tells us not to come back. Ha! Fat chance. We'll be back because all our stuff is sitting around.
We hang in the cafeteria. We see some cute costumes. Then head back up.
The PICC team is done. And dad's demeanor has changed. He is completely pleasant. He even teases and plays with Jonah. It's almost a shame that we have to head home for trick or treat!
 Dad thanks me over and over as we prepare to leave. I wonder what the did to him when they inserted the PICC line, did they give him some "nice" drugs, too? Eh, I'll take it.

And so begins the journey home...