A Three Story Life: Another Christmas

Holiday season. Coming off a cold, I got slammed anew by a nondefined malady that I choose to call passing my evil twin. I was asleep for 2 days. My father left a note on the dining room table the second day that he was at the Hyundai dealership getting his whoozit what-iffed, and Scott was asleep upstairs. I found the note on the third day. I assume Scott woke up, because he was there at dinner tonight. The tree's not up, nor do I personally employ the Christmas elf that has put the tree up for the last 7 Christmases. That after having shopped for, and bought the artificial tree. I have not shopped once this year. I think I may not. I hate shopping. I don't even like to pick up takeout. I thought the smell of evergreen was missing, so I bought some greens, and they are now dropping needles on the valet. I'll throw them out soon. They do not smell like evergreen. After doing dishes for the 3rd time today, I decided what I want for Christmas. I want the whole house cleaned top to bottom. I told Dad. Nothing will happen though, until I acquire a cleaning crew, organize a day when we can be all out of the house, get us all out of the house, and pay the crew. Be a problem-solver, Linda, my friend says. Fine. Do the research, find the crew, get the schedule organized. Put up the tree. Get, make or steal gifts for my own giving and my father and brother to give. Wrap same. Seems I've been sick at Christmas time more than once in recent years. Maybe the holiday hooha makes me sick. This year I'll promise myself again that next year I'll be somewhere with a beautiful fire, a hot drink, a few good books and only squirrels and deer outdoors for company, and all of us grateful, grateful, grateful.

A Three Story Life: Navigation

Yesterday Dad yelled down the stairs. "I'm going out to scrape my car." Okay, I thought. What's that about? He was leaving for the dentist in half an hour. Practicing observe and let it go, I took note and moved on to other tasks. A thought drifted into focus. Maybe this reportage is about bearings. I fell a couple weeks ago. Afterward my left brain got caught up in analyzing what happened. It was a new surprising event and I mentally gnawed on it to get its flavor. I lost my bearings. Spinning out, my father calls it. What Dad was doing when he gave me his location was using me like a star in a sea of change. At first it seemed I was a sextant, but that's a tool - there are still x and y points to locate in order to use a tool for navigation. We have physical locomotion needs: how far away is the ground? How close that step? And we have psychological placement needs. Establishing behaviors that define our physiologic borders. Scott has lost sense of where his body ends and the rest of the world starts. We don't know how he feels about this. Dad knows how it feels, and although he cannot communicate it any more than Scott can, he sets his internal sextant to coordinate the points he can recognize. If I know where he is, then he feels less at sea. I become either a point on the horizon or the north star. It's an awesome role, and I will respect the assignment with humility and reverence, and think of it as an opportunity for growth. And this awareness is a marker to watch for this in other seniors, and hopefully, to remember to use it myself.

These Are My Heroes. My Dad.

I'll draw a pencil portrait of Dad later, but I like this style of artwork for this post. It's the 1950s and 1960s when my father was working 12 to 16 hours a day as a machinist to support the family, and when his kids were growing up. When he wasn't at work, he taught us stuff. How to ride a bicycle. Swing a bat and a hammer, catch a fly, throw 'em out at second base, ice skate, block a goal, duck a punch, throw a punch, pass a football. When we were a little older, how to cut the grass, change spark plugs and a tire, paint a room, play an instrument, break up with grace. Later still, how to wet plaster. Okay, now add the plaster. Stir. Faster. Too slow. Throw that out. Start over. And in an emergency golf outing training session, how to play golf. Okay. You drive straight. Just keep doing that until the ball's in the hole. Always pick up your ball at 8. How to negotiate with machine tool guys. Don't snow them. Ask questions. Tell the truth. Walk tall. And now, how to cope with aging, pain, loss and grief. My friend Beckie's grandmother, Shirley, said that when you're old, what you miss most is how you defined yourself. I wish Dad could think of himself as a hero, as all of his children do.

A Three Story Life: Bared

Feeling slightly crazy, I have to, as my sister claims I do, find something or someone to blame. Maybe I'm not eating well. Check. Maybe I'm not sleeping. Check. Maybe I've been quite busy, and cannot find spaces and places to chill. Check. Maybe I'm not exercising enough. Or at all. My brain has stopped functioning at its usual high level of adaptation. Cannot make a decision about anything, including what to make for dinner. I just finished illustrating a book, sent it to the printer, got the proofs and it was laid out wrong. Just wrong. And I couldn't figure out either how that happened, or what I could do about it. For days. And I lost my nightgown. Seems like a simple hunt: it never left the dungeon. But it was gone. For days. Until I thought to check under the bed. I'm counting how many times I do dishes in a day, how many undershirts I fold. I left the oven on for half a day on Friday. Just now the Serial Yapper Dog was doing what he does, and Dad was screaming "shut up!" I listened to this, and had no reaction at all. Is this what burnout feels like? My brother and sister-in-law stopped by on Sunday, and while we were talking, Dad got up to go to the bathroom and he was in his underwear. He had his hearing aids in, but he had them on mute. His teeth were on the coffee table. And I had no reaction at all, which is probably for the best, but I wonder. Saw my beautiful friend Carol the other day and we enjoyed a wonderful afternoon. I told her about the brain power save, and she furrowed her brow. For a professional in the field of coping, this furrow was as significant as a doctor saying "hmm." She thinks I may be overwhelmed. I think so too.

A Three Story Life: Diapers

Dad got an evening call from the caseworker at MORC last week. Scott's health services personal companion had called her boss to find out what she could do about the smell in her car. I heard this second/third hand narrative as I walked in the door, still with my coat on. Dad asked if I'd gotten an email from Mary. I looked at my coat, the door. "Get an email when, where, from Mary who?" He started to tell the story, and I stopped him, said I'd make dinner and do dishes and then we'd talk. I asked Dad then to repeat the story, the sequence of contacts. Scott's personal companion (PC here on out) said Scott urinates in her car. This is what she relayed to her boss, who in turn called MORC. Still don't know the story from the concerned parties because right now it's hearsay from an unreliable narrator, but I've got the gist. Dad said he was depressed. I said "what are you depressed about? This isn't about you. This is about Scott and his dignity. Let's talk about solutions." First decision made: get the PC's car cleaned and de-stinked. The fact is Scott drops his pants to pee and stands sort of close to the toilet. He occasionally gets his pants. Diapers are not going to fix that. What are the alternatives? Retrain Scott to pee sitting down. Put diapers on him. Have the companion use my car. Get a great pad for the PC's car. Check on new PC because her limited schedule is part of the issue, and where they go (for 3 hr. coffee, with many pants peeing ops.) We will talk with Mary tomorrow, and the companion as well. I need to hear the other reporters' stories, then we will take appropriate action. Today I found out I bought tabbed diapers which won't work at all - Scott will just tear the tabs. So he and I talked about trying to sit on the toilet to pee. I don't have much hope for success, but I still want him to have options. I'll exchange the diapers. We'll talk to everyone. I'm damn proud of me. I switched my anger at the PC for not coming to us first to positive action. She did what seemed reasonable to her. I bushwhacked Dad's inability to cope by involving him in discussion and decision-making, and put aside my quaking heart to involve Scott in making choices about his dignity and freedom. Dad is calmer. I am calmer. Scott hopefully will remain calm. Anyone else's comfort is not my concern.

A Three Story Life: All Clear Sounds

The doldrums, it's called in equator sailing. Thank goodness, I call the calm this weekend. The week was rugged with new terrain amid emotional upheaval. What I figured out today is I am not able to analyze it all. I have an idea what Dad is going through, although he isn't giving me the data. His power is diminished, his physical strength gone. His ability to control his world (which was always, always an illusion) he sees as disappeared. I do not know if there are triggers for Scott's behavior, or if it's Alzheimer's bouncing his brain around. Is his medication okay, or is he having adverse side effects? Dad has no familiar ground, and he's miserable. I feel for his situation. He can't stand me interfering, but I will not have Scott yelled at, for things over which he has no control. I know Dad might not ever adjust, and I'm learning to let some stuff go. I can take his rage at me. Maybe we won't ever get a harmonious household again. But tonight, when Dad wanted to supervise how Scott ate, and Scott got mad, I told Dad "please let it go, and if you cannot, please eat in the other room." He got up and I took his plate, and milk in to him and asked if he needed anything else. I can hear him upstairs now sending the dog off his lap, so he's not happy. Scott smiled through the rest of his meal, but I won't credit anything but enjoying the food to that. That's all good enough. Right this minute life is good enough. And wow, I am so grateful.

A Three Story Life: The Sideways Ask

I learned about The Sideways Ask when I moved into the condo with Dad and Scott. My Dad usually gets himself what he wants. When he doesn't buy it for himself (he went out one afternoon to get a trailer hitch installed and came back with a brand new SUV because it came with a trailer hitch) he acquires favors, stuff, deeds, someone else's Lakers' jacket, etc. because he has us all trained. We have learned to surmise, assume, interpret, telepathically grind out what he's after. Especially any new in-laws, when one of us is dumb enough to marry again. A newbie spouse gave up the Lakers' jacket, right off his back. The family has all manner of working communication quirks that, when combined, equal twisty behavior and losing your favorite clothing. (I got my sister's thumbhole shirt, right off her back one Thanksgiving.) I inadvertently stopped participating in The Sideways Ask. It was pointed out on the phone with my sister (the one without the shirt), who was itemizing the obstacles she had to overcome to make it on time for Easter dinner. I listened, filed my nails, straightened my make-up drawer. Then I heard "you're not playing." I said, "what?" She said again "you're not playing." And I blinked on. I would always volunteer to pick up some of the duties, or my niece, whichever came first and second. I hadn't done that. "Huh," I said. Now I know how we learned The Sideways Ask. From Dad. I spot it at home a few times a week. "Yes, without a doubt two people can get that out of the car." "Get what out of which car?" I ask and then I'm in, hauling whatever is in the car out. "Yes, I think a hose clamp would do it." "Huh," I said. I'm glad to help when asked, if asked when I'm not in the middle of something else. That's when The Pounce shows up, check here for that behavior. It is a growth opportunity to ask for what we want and need. If we need something from another person, two people have successes and feel good. Sideways feels like a clever trap, and when recognized, is less effective. Be open, ask, and receive. Much more better, as Cap'n. Jack Sparrow says.