It's Always Groundhog Day

One of the constants about living with Dad is what my sister and I call 'Groundhog Day'. For days on end you can count on having the same conversation over and over again. This week's Groundhog Day conversation is about money. I come into the hospital room and he says, "I haven't had aaannnnyyy money for dddaaaayyysss now." "That's right. You can't have any money. You're in the hospital and they don't allow you to have money here. They even ask that you send your money home with a family member." "No money? Why not?" "Because you don't need money when you're in the hospital. It might be a temptation to someone." "Well, what if I want to go buy some oranges at the store?" "You're not going to the store. You're in the hospital." "But I would like to have some oranges." "Then you can ask the kitchen to send some oranges." "Well, I would like to..." (he gestures reaching out his hand and rubbing his thumb and forefinger together) "give a little tip to people." "Hmmmm, Dad, these are professionals. And you don't tip professionals." The next day. Same conversation. And the following day. And the day after that.

Tennis Elbow

One Thursday morning last October I woke up to go to work. I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom. As I raised my right hand to turn the knob and open the bathroom door, I was greeted with an excruciating pain in my forearm. It was so intense I couldn't grasp the handle, and turning the knob was out of the question. What was going on? On further attempts to use the forearm, I discovered that just about any movement was going to be met with shooting, stabbing sensations. I couldn't lift a thing. I couldn't rotate the arm. I couldn't carry as much as a kleenex. Something was grossly wrong with my right arm. This was not good and I didn't know how long it was going to last. Fortunately, my annual physical exam was a few days later. The doctor checked it and told me I had tennis elbow. Yes, this woman who refuses to engage in any sports that involve chasing little balls, had tennis elbow. Apparently you can get tennis elbow without the joy---or, as in my case,the aggravation---of playing tennis. Due to a cyst on my right middle finger, I was being sent to a specialist to have the cyst lanced. When I saw him, I asked him about my 'tennis elbow'. He said not to ice it but taught me some stretching exercises to loosen up the area and hopefully help me regain my range of motion and strength. I dedicated myself to doing the exercises at least once a day. Fast forward a year. The pain is greatly reduced. I can carry things, I can rotate the arm, I can reach into the back seat of the car and pick up things. But I still have pain and the arm fatigues easily. Nighttime is the worst. Four or five times a night I am aware of stiffness and pain in my right arm and have to change my sleeping position, extend the arm, and roll over. It was once again time for my annual physical exam. Again I told my doctor about it because now the pain was somehow radiating up to my right shoulder. This time he refered me to the physical therapy department. What used to be a six-week wait for an appointment is no longer. I am in in a week. And what does the physical therapist say? I have pinched some nerves in my neck probably as a result of my Bejewelled addiction last year (one I gave up because it was too painful to play anymore) and my poor posture while reading on my iPad. My thoracic to cervical spinal juncture is getting constricted. What used to be a gentle 'S' in my neck now looks more like a 2. I need to straighten up. Geez. If only I had known that last year....Straighten up, practice turning my head with my chin down and my head aligned with my body, no tilting. Practice turning it to the left and to the right, chin down, no leaning, whenever I am driving and am stopped at a red light. Next appointment, bring 2 tennis balls and a sock.

Post Op

Dad is now in a weird situation. He can swallow solid foods. Therefore it's okay for him to take them orally. However, once the solid foods get to his stomach, they aren't sent on into the intestines. And, if they build up in the stomach, there is no way to suction them out. They can, though, suction out liquids in the stomach. That's what the suction tube is for. He can't take liquids by mouth because they get in his lungs. He can take thickened liquids by mouth. He can have them feed into his stomach through the tube. They started the liquid nutrition in his tube the evening after they were inserted. They also started the new medication that promotes digestion. One or both of them brought on the unsavory phenomenon we call 'Boom Boom'. Yes, the stomach was definitely passing things on into the intestines and beyond. Dad says he wants to come home and have a meal. I told him that even when he does come home, he won't be having meals. This is his future: tiny amounts of food by mouth and nourishment through the tube. That's it. Being home will not change it. When he was in the bathroom after Boom Boom, he cupped his hand and drank from the faucet again. Carmi and I both confronted him on it. He gave me what Laura calls the Death Stare. It's one of his specialties. He does it when he doesn't like what you've said. He closes his mouth and just looks you in the eye. For a long time. Saying nothing. It's meant to intimidate. I said, "Don't look at me like that! You drank from the faucet. Are you trying to kill yourself? Do you want to die?" He held up one crooked index finger, "One time. I only did it one time." "You only had a chance to do it one time, and one time will cause the pneumonia again. Do you want to die?" Death stare again. "Don't stare at me. I haven't done anything wrong. You can't drink out of the faucet. Not even one time." I am my father's parent.

Birthday Tubes

Dad got his very own feeding tube for his 92nd birthday. Actually, he got three tubes. One tube is for medications, another is for the 'food', and the third is for suctioning out things that are in the stomach and not being passed through. The surgery which was allegedly to last only about ten minutes, lasted almost an hour and a half. For several days prior to the procedure, I asked the nurses if they needed me to sign any forms giving my permission for them to do the procedure. They said, no, Dad had signed the form himself. I brought in the Power of Attorney form I had. They made a copy. I was taking care of the baby on the day they were to put in the tubes. They called. Before they could begin, they needed my verbal okay. They had two staff members speak to me to validate my consent. The surgeon called immediately after. He said that when they had gone in they discovered Dad's stomach was full of food. Despite fasting for over 15 hours, the stomach had not digested the prior day's meals. What did that mean? It meant we had another, new problem. There's a name for it; I forgot what it is. Generally it means that the peristalsis isn't working as it should and, of course, there is a medication they will be giving him. There's only one side effect: confusion. Personally, I think there is enough confusion in the 92-year-old territory anyway. Do we really need a medication that promotes it even further? Will Dad's confusion now move ahead at warp speed?

It's Time

I am finished going out to Bill's apartment. I don't know what it is exactly but every time I go out there, I wake up ill on the second day. Maybe it's dehydration. Maybe it's the poor eating I do out there because we don't cook in that kitchen. Why isn't the apartment enjoyable? I am so good at adjusting my attitude. I can take what one person thinks as an unenjoyable experience and find something to like. I do that lemonade thing pretty well. But these weekends in the desert give me a visceral reaction. I want it to be over now. I have done my due diligence. This weekend we finally, FINALLY rented a truck, loaded it up, and brought Bill's belongings back to my house. I never want to go back. Not even the evenings at the pools at the spa are enough enticement to get me out there again. I don't think I even want to go there for a spa weekend, not even if all my expenses were paid. I am over this. I am tired of all the cleaning, all the stuff, all the heat, all the chaos. I am done with that town in the desert. I want to put this behind me. It's time to move on.

You Have Two Options

On the day of my retirement party, my dad called 911. They took him to the hospital closest to the house. It's protocol. Carmi jumped in her car and went to the hospital where he usually stays. It took her a couple of hours to find him. The beauty of that hospital is that it's close-by. The ugly of that hospital is a laundry list, not the least of which is that it smells like excrement and the rooms are not only tiny but house two patients each. There is more to say about that experience but I'll pass. He came home five days later sounding worse than ever. There was an audible rattle when he breathed, and two days after that he had Carmi drive him to the hospital he loves, his home-away-from-home. The cardiologist's assistant asked me to call her. She said, "He has aspirational pneumonia again. This is the third time.I know this is hard for you but you have two choices: we can give him a feeding tube or we can make him comfortable, put him on palliative care, and wait for him to die." "I can't make that choice for him! And I don't want to make that choice by myself." A friend suggested I call my sister and ask her if she could come down. I even offered to pay for it. She said she'd help me any way she could. She would be glad to come down for four days and do whatever I needed; she'd even help me clean out Bill's. I gave her my credit card number and told her not to tell me how much it cost.

The Happy Half

The two years of our divorce were times of bad stuff, and that bad stuff evoked the memories of all the bad times in our marriage. I remembered the gambling, the lying, the financial treacheries, the broken promises, the disappearances, the times he embarrassed me in front of my family, or friends, or co-workers. The divorce was a time of adding more bad memories. There were times when I was fighting to keep what I had, times when I had to combat lies, defend myself, times I was repeatedly dragged back into court, and there was, of course, the continual bloodletting for legal fees. My story was one of assault after assault. I was in survival mode for much of those years. With Bill's death came a flipside. His death meant there was no more Bill on earth. No more Bill, ever, anywhere. Death's finality brought out opposite emotions. It was as if floodgates had been opened, and I was suddenly inundated with all the good memories, the reasons I had fallen so madly in love with him in the first place: the courtship, the adventures, the sweet nothings, the tenderness, the love-making, the proposal, the wedding, the pregnancy and closeness we felt when our child was born....this is what dominated my thinking and thrust me into a period of grieving. I fell into a state of listlessness and confusion. And I was angry with myself for mourning him. I functioned better when I was defending myself against his outrageous behavior, his outrageous lies, his outrageous allegations. Falling into a state of melancholy was not what I wanted to do. All the projects I had for myself, my exercise regimen, my schemes to make money, were all evaporating, and I couldn't summon them back. But as I begin to emerge from this time I see how it has been good for me. I was never going to recover from the marriage if I wasn't going to make peace with ALL of it. I now see how incomplete it would be for me to think I could ride off into the sunset only remembering the insults and injuries. In order for me to be free of all of Bill and the marriage, I was going to have to reconcile the negative with the positive, the ugly with the beautiful, and only then would I be able to put the twenty-six-year matter behind me. And seriously, that's what I want: to put it behind me. I will come out of this. I will move on. In a way, Bill's death might accelerate this.

Check Up

Today I had my annual physical exam. I love getting these things out of the way. I feel like I've been so good to myself when I do. Annual physical exam. Check! Out of the way. I also threw in a flu shot for good measure. Every year I've skipped the flu shot has been one fraught with at least one case of a nasty flu that lingers for a minimum of three weeks. For me, it's like playing Russian Roulette. And I'm through with intentional gambling. When I got to the office, the new nurse, a male, ushered me in and started with the preliminaries, weight and blood pressure. The scale was dark. He thought the batteries were dead. I commented on what a shame it would be if we couldn't get my weight. With a little jiggling of wires and connection-checking, he got the thing going. Hmmm, lucky me. But the numbers weren't scary. I remembered that the doctor's scale weighs me two pounds less than mine does. My blood pressure was low, as usual. He also announced that they'd be doing a pap smear. I said, "Really? I'd forgotten I'd had one of those things." I guess I caught him off-guard. He almost fell out of his chair laughing. After a sizeable wait during which I read a book on my iPad, the doctor came in and asked questions. I told him about all the parts of me whose functioning are not up to snuff. Then I had to get into the stirrups. I suppose I have one of these smears every year but they're not memorable. However, the field seems to be advancing and I soon found out there has been a recent 'improvement' in the equipment. It was the incredible pain that first caught my naive attention. It's been a looonnnnngggg time since I've had cramping and bleeding in that vicinity. In fact, I felt as though frozen in a sort of living rigormortis. Then my body slowly curled into a 61-year-old fetal position. "Is it me, Doctor, or is there something going on?" He extracted what looked like a bright-red, miniature bottle brush. I was certain it had been a brilliant, sanitary white a minute ago. "It's something new." "A brush?" I asked. "Well, we call it a broom. I'll give you a pad for the bleeding." "A womb broom?" And a pad for to wear with the yoga pants? Subtle. I got my flu shot and limped to the car.

Lazy Wife

My sister gave me an Amish cookbook. She had bought it for herself but hadn't found anything in it she thought would be good. I grabbed the ball and ran. I have found some killer recipes in it. They have great names like 'Hidden Eggs', 'Overnight French Toast','Vanishing Oatmeal Raisin Cakes' and 'Funny Pie'. I made several of these dishes for the family in Idaho. They were big hits. I keep the recipe book at home and pull it out on occasion. Today was one of those. I found a new one: 'Lazy Wife's Dinner'. It had meat, macaroni, potatoes, frozen veggies, cream of anything soup and the kitchen sink. Even though I am no longer a wife, I connected with this. It had my name written all over it. I made it for dinner. Add a little sour cream and some more cheese, and this thing's a keeper. Throw that baby in the oven, fire up the hot tub, and you've got my idea of a great evening.

Bill's Bills

I reread the will the other day. Hmm....the things I miss when I read something for the first time. In it, I saw I would have received $5,000 if I had taken Matt back and another $500 for Steve. I took Steve. I didn't remember the kids telling me I would have gotten $5,000 for Matt; I thought they had told me $1,000. Hmmmm....did they monkey with the numbers? I don't know. I honestly don't know. When I heard $1,000, I said no. I also read that I was his beneficiary. I hadn't remembered that either. Was it his intent to leave everything to me? No. I know better. That would be breaking his father's family tradition. His intent was to keep Laura's hands off his money because he believed she couldn't manage money. In a way he was right; she got herself in serious debt three years ago, and it haunts her still. It dogs her, the letters, the phone calls. I thought I had taught her better. Bill knew I was good with money. As Dave Ramsey would say, I was the nerd to his free spirit when it came to money. If opposites attract, this is one area where we were opposites. With my first husband, we were both savers. We had no credit card debt, a very low mortgage, and a very high savings account. When I paid off the loan on Bill's car, I was told the pink slip would be sent to the address on it. Oops! I hadn't put in a change of address at the post office. Another hoop to jump. Now I get his mail, and it is abundantly clear that the free spirit was living fast and easy with money. There are daily bills: the motorcycle, the cable TV, the cell phone, the former attorney (the one who had to quit his practice because he was old already and got rear-ended on the freeway), auto registration (delinquent, no less), the credit cards, the IRS. The IRS??? Yes, he wasn't going to give away any money until it was demanded of him. And to add insult to injury, the lender on the motorcycle sent a nasty letter as if they had repossessed the bike and were now going to sell it because 'a promise had not been kept'. I called to politely give them a piece of my mind. They were closed for the weekend. The internet, cable TV, and cell phone providers will all erase outstanding balances past September 2 if I send them copies of the death certificate. The former attorney's letter had said he was planning to sue for the unpaid balance. After a phone call, he agreed to accept 50 cents on the dollar. I smogged the car and took it to AAA, but I can't do anything with it until tomorrow because title can't be transferred until he has been dead for forty-one days. Forty one days is tomorrow. Tomorrow is Saturday. Laura has already gotten a citation for driving a car with delinquent registration. I am now driving it and keeping the paperwork in the front seat. I will do the deed on my way out to the desert tomorrow morning. When I called the IRS, I spent over an hour on hold only to find out there was a form I needed to fill out. Gee, I'd already done that one.