I have been emotionally battered and I am sore all
over. Mom is now in rehab in Omaha and
brother dearest is flying to dad today to help him drive home.
LESSON #6 when a family is stressed, every form of
dysfunction comes out to play. DETACH.
Dad, mom’s physical therapist and I decided that when mom
was able to be a “one-person” assist, I would fly down and bring her home to
rehab in Omaha. Next thing I get a call
from the Social Services gal who informs me that “they” want to call in an
outside wound specialist for mom’s burn and since her insurance will not cover
her in FL it might be best for me to bring her home now.
I fly to Fort Myer’s on Tuesday. Dad pulls up in mom’s red Miata, wearing his
Santa Claus beard and a Hawaiian shirt.
SO daddy. I monitor his driving
to determine if his macular is impeding his abilities or if he has just been
drinking. Neither. (My brother tells me daddy has always stopped
inches from the car ahead of him.
Correction – INCH.)
LESSON #7 you are never prepared to see a parent in a
hospital or rehab facility.
Mom is wrapped like a mummy – not because of her burn but
because she is freezing in bed at the rehab facility. The TV is blaring (where are your hearing
aids?) She has a grayish pallor, her
hair is horrendous, and she appears quite pathetic. OMG.
My mother has aged 100 years since I last saw her. My mother is an old lady.
With emotions in my throat, I take charge and investigate
mom’s body, taking pictures and ping them to my sister. Mom’s tongue looks like she has been sucking
on black licorice. This is the THRUSH
from the antibiotics. Mom’s right wrist is
wider than her forearm and her fingers are curled up with paralysis. WE ARE TOLD THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT. And
what I could never be prepared for…her leg burn. I nearly threw up. Serious.
Think large fish scales, really bad road rash, hamburger meat, and a
five inch, crater-like, divot above her inner ankle. Reds, purples, greens and yellows. Seepage.
No blood. Gooey yellow pus-like
paste fills the crater - the wound doc slowly scrapes it out. Mom doesn’t feel it because she has likely
burned her nerves. Me being me, I ask
the doc if MAGGOTS would do a better job?
Yep, he says. If that wound would
have smelled like a garbage dump I would have passed out. The doc assured me it is MUCH better than it
was. I cannot even imagine.
I make arrangements for the next day to work with the
physical therapist and mom to learn how to best help mom maneuver for the
flight home. Dad and I go out for lunch.
Dad. Where to
start? I really don’t know him
well. Growing up he was busy growing his
company. He was my softball coach for a
few summers before I discovered boys and quit. Next thing seems like I was
married and moving to Kansas City. Dad
is a man of very few words. Ask him a
question and it seems an eternity before he verbalizes a reply. Talking on the phone with him can be
agonizing. You wonder if he’s on the
other end of the line or fell asleep.
When dad wants to make a point and/or be heard, he raises
his voice. It sort of feels like he is
yelling at you. My brother and I learned
this from him and it has periodically caused us problems in our own relationships. Being with dad again is a good reminder for
me to watch my tone. His puts me on
edge, on the defense and my “listening” ability is tainted.
Loudly and with emphasis dad proceeds to tell me that my
mother has no relationship with effort and never has. He said he first noticed it when they were in
college and mom made no effort to study.
He proclaimed her entire life with him to be self centered with minimal
effort toward anything or anyone else. I
realize I am in the middle of my dad’s STORY.
I just listen.
He goes on to blast the rehab facility for bilking them
of money since they are private pay.
Insisting that they are not helping mom, merely placating her lack of
effort and enabling her addiction to ease.
I didn’t totally disagree and we both consented that it was time for
them to get home.
We hop into the Miata after lunch and dad takes me to the
rental house where they have been living since January. Once again, I wasn’t prepared. In my own house I live a certain way – and when
I live somewhere that isn’t mine I live a different way – usually on my best
behavior. Not so for dad. I try to tell myself his poor eyesight is the
culprit yet what I witness is….wait for it……lack of effort (or care).
The tile floors were covered with grass, twigs, wrappers,
dirt, dead bugs and what not. Seems he
kept all doors open so the dogs could let themselves out. Every flat counter surface was piled with
mail, packaged food, wrappers, papers, books and stuff. The counters, floors and rugs where decorated
with all sorts of dried spills and stains.
The kitchen appeared to have been sprayed with….I’m not sure…but it was
sticky and covered the dishwasher, fridge and stove fronts. A soup pot on the stove contained rice that wiggled.
There was dried diarrhea on the front of
the leather couch, on the floor and rug.
The toilets were caked with shit spray.
I was stunned into silence and while dad busied himself trimming the
dogs I started to clean. When I felt it
was clean “enough” I went to bed. Still incredulous.
Next day, Wednesday, we are back at the rehab facility
and mom and I are working with the PT.
Not so bad considering mom can’t use her right hand and has no conditioned
muscle in her legs. There are a few
momentum moves where mom and I work together to get her standing. Once she equalizes, I support her, she
shuffles herself around and we lower her onto a seat. A few rounds of this and we have it
down. No worries. Flying home should not be a problem.
Mom. Where to
start? I don’t really know her
well. Growing up she was busy watching
TV. She was my Camp Fire Leader a couple
of years before I decided it was uncool.
Mom is a woman of independence.
Ask her a question and she tells you to figure it out for yourself. Talking with her can be very lonely. You wonder if she’s practicing tough love or
just doesn’t want to be bothered.
Our flights from Florida to Nebraska were, for the most
part, easy. First class does have its
perks. Airline wheelchair people are
worthless….or I am as stubbornly independent as my mom and we can do it better ourselves,
thank you very much. My mom is embarrassed
to be so dependent. My embarrassment of
her inability to care for herself is slowly turning to compassion. She is safe in rehab in Omaha. She is now physically available for support
and encouragement from friends and loved ones.
Monday she and I meet with all the “Heads” at rehab and together we will
plan her recovery.
Today I dropped my brother at the airport. He is flying to FL to help dad drive back
home. When dad is back here at the house
with me, we are going to meet. Together
we will make a list of all he and mom’s business, money, house, health, etc . affairs
so I can now better help them with this transition.
I have finally accepted the fact: My parents are
old. They need help. And I need to stop railing at reality and
step it up. My internal mêlée with these
people is turning to a palliative conversation. The battle against the dark side of aging (and
my war with myself) is waning. The
acceptance of the inevitable course of life is no doubt going to illuminate some
magnificent transformation. I can’t
wait. Really.
LESSON #8 get out of your own way.
