Sunday, April 29, 2012

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.