Shortly before Mom was diagnosed with cancer, I accepted a teaching job in a town about 60 miles from where my parents lived. I love the job and I love the district. While my mom was sick, I could drive home on weekends to help my dad and spend time with my mom. Things changed after she died.
When Dad was diagnosed, he didn't have my mom to be there like he was for her. My sister and her husband decided to move closer (they live about 7 miles from my dad) in order to be able to help out. However, people automatically assumed that I, the youngest child and single, would quit my job and move in with my dad to help take care of him. When I would tell these people that I wasn't doing that, I received no small amount of judgement.
Dad and I discussed it shortly after his diagnosis. He agreed that I needed to stay in a job I loved with administrators who support and advocate for me (unlike a previous position I held elsewhere) and that he'd like to be independent as long as possible. Plus I've lived with him on several occasions as an adult and we both agreed we'd probably kill each other.
Fast forward a year and a half and he can no longer walk and needs a caregiver. The one he's had informed him today that he's starting a new job on Monday and will no longer be able to help him out. I feel helpless and I feel guilty. Should I have done what everyone thought and put my life on hold to take care of him?
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Superheroes
The following post is one I wrote a couple of weeks ago for a different blog. That blog was just going to be my ramblings on whatever came to mind. But the more I think about it, the clearer it has come to me that I need to write about my grief as I journey through the sickness and eventual loss of my father. I doubt too many people are even going to see this, but maybe it will at least help me with my grieving process. Over the course of the last 4 years, I've seen my mom fight and then ultimately lose the battle to cancer. Now I'm watching my dad with his losing battle to ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease). If there are people who stumble across this somehow and are going through the same thing or something similar, I'd love to hear from you.
* * * * *
Superheroes
Most of spend a good portion of our lives believing our fathers are superheroes. They're strong and dependable. They can fix a scraped knee and help mend a broken heart. They offer advice on any subject, and it's almost always good because they've been there and done that. They protect you when you need protecting and push you when you don't realize that you could actually do something. They're invincible.
We grow up blissfully unaware just how human they really are. Sure, at some point we make that conscious acknowledgement that we realize they're not actually superheroes, but does that make them any less invincible? We go about our business picturing the future--our dads cheering us on at our graduations, walking us down the aisle at our weddings, holding their grandchildren for the first, fortieth, four hundredth times.
Then there's that day it all crashes down around us. The day we realize not only are our dads human, but they're mortal. Suddenly those dreams of the future don't look the same. For some people it happens in youth. For some it happens in adulthood. For some it happens after our fathers have lived long and full lives.
The realization could come after a freak accident. It could come along with the diagnosis of a disease. It could come as the once-healthy body becomes old and frail. It's different for all of us, but eventually it happens.
It happened to me ten months after my mom lost her battle with cancer. As my mom grew sicker, my dad started losing strength in his legs. Eventually he was unable to walk without a cane, and he fell often. He went to medical doctors, chiropractors, even neurologists. Each doctor had something different to say and some different treatment to try, but to no avail. Finally, a month shy of his 59th birthday, he went to the Mayo Clinic in Arizona to have testing done. Our worst fears were confirmed and he was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease).
The doctor told us what to expect. He was going to slowly lose the ability to lose his muscles. After awhile he'd no longer be able to walk. Eventually he would lose his ability to swallow on his own and breathe on his own. Most ALS patients live 2-5 years after a diagnosis because it is incurable.
Crash.
What do you do when you've been grieving the loss of one parent less than a year and you're told your other parent is going to die soon? Before he dies, his body is going to waste away until he becomes completely reliant on others to help him do the most mundane of tasks. His smart, funny, compassionate mind will be stuck in a body that won't work for him and he'll be completely conscious of that fact but can't do anything about it.
It's been nearly seventeen months since the diagnosis. I've seen him go from cane to walker to wheelchair. I've seen him go from independent to being unable to drive and needing help taking a shower. He's on his oxygen machine 80% of the day now because his lung capacity is diminishing.
Me? I deal with it the best I can. I make myself busy during the day so I'm distracted from thinking too much. I cry a lot at night. Sometimes I scream at God. I don't talk to too many people about it because they don't understand. They can sympathize, but they can't empathize.
I try to avoid certain situations altogether. I used to never cry at weddings. Now what is supposed to be a happy occasion only reminds me that my dad probably won't even get to see me get married, let alone walk me down the aisle. Baby showers are a happy occasion, but I can't get past the notion that my kids will never know their grandparents.
Mostly, though, I just cherish every valuable minute with my dad that I can.
* * * * *
Superheroes
Most of spend a good portion of our lives believing our fathers are superheroes. They're strong and dependable. They can fix a scraped knee and help mend a broken heart. They offer advice on any subject, and it's almost always good because they've been there and done that. They protect you when you need protecting and push you when you don't realize that you could actually do something. They're invincible.
We grow up blissfully unaware just how human they really are. Sure, at some point we make that conscious acknowledgement that we realize they're not actually superheroes, but does that make them any less invincible? We go about our business picturing the future--our dads cheering us on at our graduations, walking us down the aisle at our weddings, holding their grandchildren for the first, fortieth, four hundredth times.
Then there's that day it all crashes down around us. The day we realize not only are our dads human, but they're mortal. Suddenly those dreams of the future don't look the same. For some people it happens in youth. For some it happens in adulthood. For some it happens after our fathers have lived long and full lives.
The realization could come after a freak accident. It could come along with the diagnosis of a disease. It could come as the once-healthy body becomes old and frail. It's different for all of us, but eventually it happens.
It happened to me ten months after my mom lost her battle with cancer. As my mom grew sicker, my dad started losing strength in his legs. Eventually he was unable to walk without a cane, and he fell often. He went to medical doctors, chiropractors, even neurologists. Each doctor had something different to say and some different treatment to try, but to no avail. Finally, a month shy of his 59th birthday, he went to the Mayo Clinic in Arizona to have testing done. Our worst fears were confirmed and he was diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease).
The doctor told us what to expect. He was going to slowly lose the ability to lose his muscles. After awhile he'd no longer be able to walk. Eventually he would lose his ability to swallow on his own and breathe on his own. Most ALS patients live 2-5 years after a diagnosis because it is incurable.
Crash.
What do you do when you've been grieving the loss of one parent less than a year and you're told your other parent is going to die soon? Before he dies, his body is going to waste away until he becomes completely reliant on others to help him do the most mundane of tasks. His smart, funny, compassionate mind will be stuck in a body that won't work for him and he'll be completely conscious of that fact but can't do anything about it.
It's been nearly seventeen months since the diagnosis. I've seen him go from cane to walker to wheelchair. I've seen him go from independent to being unable to drive and needing help taking a shower. He's on his oxygen machine 80% of the day now because his lung capacity is diminishing.
Me? I deal with it the best I can. I make myself busy during the day so I'm distracted from thinking too much. I cry a lot at night. Sometimes I scream at God. I don't talk to too many people about it because they don't understand. They can sympathize, but they can't empathize.
I try to avoid certain situations altogether. I used to never cry at weddings. Now what is supposed to be a happy occasion only reminds me that my dad probably won't even get to see me get married, let alone walk me down the aisle. Baby showers are a happy occasion, but I can't get past the notion that my kids will never know their grandparents.
Mostly, though, I just cherish every valuable minute with my dad that I can.
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