What it's like

You never know when it might be the last time you see someone. Right?  Honestly.  

It's just a little more apparent when the person you're seeing is on hospice.

And barely responds to anything anymore.

And sometimes barely even opens their eyes when you visit them.

It often makes you wish that the nice people doing their job at the skilled nursing facility where the person is residing would just quit going through the motions of getting the person out of bed and into the Broda chair (we used to call them geri chairs back when I was a CNA) just to transport them to the table where other nice people -- or sometimes the same nice people -- mindlessly shovel pureed food into their mouths, or transport them down to the shower room to give them a shower that will wipe them out for the rest of the day, or transport them to sit with the other people in front of a TV.  It doesn't even really matter where you transport them to because they will just "sleep" anyway.  You don't even know if it's sleeping or unconsciousness anymore, but you suspect it's the latter.  Anyway, you wish they wouldn't bother doing that, because what's the point? They're not enjoying it. Any of it. 

What's the point in parading him around as if he's actually doing things? As if he's "getting up" in the morning and participating in activities?  As if he has a daily schedule?  As if any of it makes a G-D difference to him anymore??  

It pisses me off.  My Dad has no quality of life. He hasn't for a long time. I know this.  I know that his current "schedule" is purely for the benefit and convenience of others.  That's what pisses me off.  I'm not exactly sure why.  I want to believe that, even though he's unaware most of the time, that keeping somewhat of a regular schedule is even a little beneficial for him.  And if he was going to recover from this, I would believe that.  But he's not going to recover from this and in my heart of hearts I don't believe that it's doing him any good at all.  Why can't he stay in bed all the time, if that's what he wants? Why can't he have his meals in bed?  Why can't he just rest in bed until the Good Lord sees fit to relive his earthly body from his suffering?!?

I hate seeing him moved around like a rag doll.  He can't say what he wants or doesn't want anymore.  Well, I take that back, because he can to some extent.  I help him eat and drink sometimes, and he makes it known when he is done with that nonsense.  But if he doesn't want to get out of bed, he can't say no.  If he wants to go back to bed, he has to wait until someone (two someones, actually, since he requires a Hoyer lift which requires the assistance of two people) is able to help him.  

I often think about how frequently I move when I'm sitting, or lying in bed.  I move a LOT. I get uncomfortable in one position quickly.  Then I imagine, what if i was at the mercy of someone else to reposition me?  What if I couldn't move myself?  I'd be mad all the time, too.  No wonder people who are bedridden are sore and mad.  But what do we do? Reposition them a MINIMUM (generally) of every 2 hours, and give them pain medication.  Ugh.  

Anyway.  My heart breaks a little more every time I see my Dad.  I frequently imagine him yelling at me, lol.  Going back a few years, as if he could see himself then as he is now, and telling me not to let any of this happen. "Take me out back and shoot me," he would say.  That would be him yelling at me.  I can hear him saying, I don't want to be helpless, sitting in a chair or laying in bed all the time, not being able to do anything for myself, having other people feed me and shower me and wipe my ass for me, and being stuck in a home somewhere.  Just shoot me.  

Of course, just shooting him is not legal. Nor is the sentiment behind it.  If he was a dog or a cat or a horse, it would be.  In fact, it would be acceptable and even considered the best thing to do.  But since he's human, nope.  But I won't get into that right now.

Every night I pray.  I ask God to let my Dad wake up in the morning and be completely cured, with his mind completely restored and working at it's peak again, his thinking clear and concise and without any confusion; his body strong and able and not damaged, so that he could literally get himself out of bed, get himself dressed, and walk out of that place, never to return.  

What? God is a miracle worker. He could do it. Every night I beg Him to do this.

And then I ask Him, if He's not going to do it My Way, will He please restore my Dad's health according to His will. Soon. What is the point of all of this suffering? Not just for my Dad, but for my Mom and for me?  

At the same time, I am terrified of what it will be like when that happens.

All that being said, every time I leave my Dad, I am acutely aware that it may very well be the last time I see him alive.  And it doesn't make me cry every time anymore.  I always hug him -- sometimes he "hugs" me back (which by now is him making eye contact with me and raising his arm up a little bit to touch mine when I lean down to hug hum) and then I tell him I love him. He hasn't told me that he loves me, too, in a few weeks. But I know he does.  

Well. Growing up isn't always as fun as I thought it would be when I was a kid.

I'm not always this moody in real life, either.  Lately more than usual.  But when I sit down to write, I generally let the moodiness out. Because if I let it take me over in real life, I would probably be on the psych ward or something.

And on that note, back to work!

TTYL.

After I share the song stuck in my head today: What It's Like by Everlast

What's meant to be will always find a way...

I'm going to have to show my little-known country side here and admit that, whenever I hear that saying, I get Trisha Yearwood's She's in Love with the Boy stuck in my head. 

Maybe you're not surprised that I have a country music side.  I'll be the first to jump up and say that it is most definitely NOT a "current" country music side.  I couldn't name a current country music song to save my life.  But classic country?  As in, from the 1960's and 1970's and 1980's and to a lesser but still more-than-you-would-think-if-you-knew-me-at-the-time extent, the 1990's.  

It's called, "growing up listening to the music your parents listened to". dontcha know. And growing up in my parents' house, it seemed to me that the stereo was always on.  My Dad loved music.  Listening to it and playing it.  He used to have a wall of 8-tracks next to the wall of CDs in their office -- the same office that today still houses the old console AM/FM stereo with the turntable (with the 45, 33-1/3, AND 78rpm speeds) and the 8-track player and the double cassette player that my Dad retrofitted into in the 80's.  The man was serious about his music.  But that's now what I wanted to write about.  Although it fits at this point because I was talking about how I have this little tiny vein of classic country music knowledge, and now you know.

But do you ever think about how things just happen and, in hindsight, it seems like they were just meant to be? Because I do.  These kinds of things fascinate me.  When I was a kid, and we'd be driving somewhere, I'd watch out the window and look at all the other cars with people in them (because, you know, we had to entertain ourselves that way since we didn't have phones and devices and such that we brought with us everywhere. The best we had was books, but I got incredibly car sick if I tried to read while driving, so I was "stuck" looking out the window or, for really long trips, listening to music.) and marvel at the fact that all of these other people were doing things that brought us all to that same exact place at that same exact time, even if just for a few seconds.  That's kind of but not really the same thing, I know, but it lead to me thinking about coincidence and why things happen the way they do, and how just a few seconds can completely change a situation.

But back to my topic for today -- things that were meant to be.  One example in my life that I like to give is, well, me and my hubby.  I'll try to keep this short, but, you may or may not already know that we've known each other since junior high school.  That's a stretch; we knew of each other in junior high school.  We knew of each other more in high school, but I wouldn't even say that we became friends until we started working at the same place together in 10th grade. 

One day in 9th or 10th grade, I don't remember which, we had a social studies or history class or something like that together.  The teacher was talking about the Treaty of Paris, which was signed on September 3, 1783.  I distinctly remember that after the teacher told us the date, my hubby said, "Hey, that's my birthday!" and that caught my attention because, of course, it is also my birthday.  Many years later, when sharing this story with him, my hubby would tell me that he knew years earlier that we shared the same birthday because he "actually paid attention during morning announcements" when they shared people's birthdays.  I honestly don't remember them doing that, and in any case, our birthdays were always at the very beginning of the school year and who pays attention to morning announcements at the beginning of the school year anyway!?! Weirdo.

I didn't think much of it, until we started dating a few years later.  Oh em gee, it was so cool, we were totally meant to be together, we were born on the exact same day and blah blah blah, it's a sign!!  I was way into "signs" then.  Who isn't, when they're 18 and about to graduate from high school and the world is their oyster and they have no idea what they want to do with their life and they're looking for any kind of direction about which way to go!?  Starry-eyed, madly-in-love me was sure that he was my soul mate and that was that. Not just because we were born on the same day.  But that was what God had needed to do to get my attention (yes, I did acknowledge even then, if only to myself, that it was a God "thing") and, knowing that, I was fully confident that I was Doing the Right Thing (for what felt like the first time in my young-adult-wannabe life).  I gave him my heart and soul and...

...he dumped me.  Oh my gosh, the drama!  I'll spare you.  It's amusing now, considering how it all turned out.  Even saying "he dumped me" makes me laugh now.  Everyone took everything so serious back then, but man, we were just kids.  Not to belittle the emotions because they were very real, but damn.  Again, with the benefit now of hindsight...and to the point of this story, you know what?  I always knew that we would end up together.  I just didn't know when.  I can't say how I knew it, because every single sign on Earth seemed to point firmly to the most opposite outcome.  Everything and everyone around me was like No, no, no, and no.  But there was one voice I heard that kept insisting: Yes, just wait and see.  

How long do I have to wait!? 

Can't tell you. Just wait.

God has always known that I'm not good at waiting. ;)

Anywho.  I can look back at this now and say that I most certainly believe it was the Holy Spirit telling me to wait and be patient.  At the time, I didn't know about the Holy Spirit the way I do now.  I believe that God brought us together, and at that time I was in the whole 'everything happens for a reason, even things that hurt and things that don't make sense and things that break your heart' so I was trying to figure out why that whole thing was happening, but, yeah.  I also like to think of this as proof that we really were meant to be together, because honestly, we tried to NOT be together but just ended up back together anyway.  Again, sparing you all the sordid details, ha ha ha.  

There are a few other stories I could tell.  I'll do the Cliff Notes versions here.  Do kids even use Cliff Notes anymore? Probably not.

When we decided to get married, of course we knew it'd have to be on September 3rd. We originally thought we'd wait until the next time it was on a Saturday, which was a few years away from when we got back together, but then decided we didn't want to wait and got married on our next birthdays.  September 3rd happened to fall on a Tuesday that year.  Didn't realize it at the time, but we were also born on a Tuesday.  Weird, right?

About 22 years later, in the middle of January, our son was born. On a Tuesday.  OK, so, he wasn't born in September, but his birth day date ends in a 3 and he was also born on a Tuesday.  Good enough for me!

I had another "meant to be" moment today, this morning at Bible Study.  So, at Saturday Bible Study, we basically go over the lessons (more or less) that will be in Sunday's service.  One of the readings, Ephesians 2:13-18, that we read today stood out to me.  Not in an "Oh my gosh, this is the most powerful and poignant thing I've ever read!" kind of way, but a much more subtle way that hard to describe.  We read it, and then I couldn't stop thinking about it.  The thing about group Bible study is that the discussion often takes off (and on Saturday it often makes some sharp turns and goes in completely different directions) right after a passage is read, which makes it difficult to go back and re-read something and really understand what it's saying, you know? Because you're trying to listen to what's going on and also focus on what you just read, which for me anyway is difficult to do.  So while the conversation was continuing, I just kept looking at the words, because something about them kept drawing me in.  Finally I grabbed my Bible and looked up the verse there, to see if there was something either before or after those verses that I needed to see, and you know what?  Sometime in the recent past, I had already marked that same verse in my own Bible.  My bookmarker ribbon thingy was even on that very page, and I had drawn an arrow (in black pen) to Ephesians 2:13.  

I found that oddly comforting, but it also brought out more questions.  When did I mark that in the past? Why did I mark that in the past?  Like I said, it didn't strike me as a particularly poignant passage, and I generally only mark super meaningful verses in my own Bible.  So at some point, I found that very verse super meaningful, but I couldn't remember when or why.  Not only that, but I put my page marker ribbon on that page, which means I really wanted to remember it.  So now I'm convinced that there's something in there I need to hear, read, comprehend, realize.  And you know what? I love it!  I don't care if I sound like a freak.  This message was sent to me directly from God, I know it, and I am sooooooo comforted by that.  Like, I know I don't have to question His intent or wonder if He has some hidden agenda or anything.  Because I'm tired of trying to figure people out.  People fascinate but confuse me, and that gets tiring.  His Word is what it is.  I'm understanding that more day by day.

The hubby has to work overnight tonight, boo, and even though we worked opposite shifts for years (I used to be the overnight worker, tho!), I can't fall asleep without him very well, so I'm sitting up writing instead.  I think I'll close up here soon and go read that verse for a while.  I don't even think about it all that much, I just kind of look at the words and relax and...it's so comforting.  

God is good...ALL. THE. TIME!!

Peace out, y'all.

P.S. in case you're wondering:

Ephesians 2:13-18 (NIV)

 13 But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near by the blood of Christ.

14 For he himself is our peace, who has made the two groups one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility, 15 by setting aside in his flesh the law with its commands and regulations. His purpose was to create in himself one new humanity out of the two, thus making peace, 16 and in one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility. 17 He came and preached peace to you who were far away and peace to those who were near. 18 For through him we both have access to the Father by one Spirit.

Random thoughts, version next.

What a difference a year can make, eh?

Last year at this time, my Dad was in the hospital.  He had just finished a stint (not to be confused with a "stent" which is something completely different) in the short-term rehab unit at the nursing home that I couldn't bring myself to call a nursing home at that time and had lasted a whole not-even-24-hours at home before he landed back in the hospital again due to general weakness (a/k/a he wouldn't/couldn't get out of his chair).  

Last year at this time, I had a dog. He was an awesome dog, but he was getting older and with that, was starting to have some issues.  He wasn't running and jumping and playing nearly as much as he used to.  He was sleeping more.  He was having more accidents of the urinary incontinental type (it should be a word, really, it should).  But he was still healthy and full of life and love and the thought of life without him brought instant tears to my eyes.

Last year at this time, I also had two horses.  One of them had just turned 30, and the other was 26.  The previous winter had been hard on both of them, especially the 30yo.  She had always been an easy keeper, which for you non-horse-people means that she could just stand downwind from a flake of hay and gain weight, but for the last few winters she hadn't been keeping weight on over the winter like she had when she was younger.  And that particular winter, she actually lost a bit of weight, so much that I was really worried about losing her for a while in the early spring.  But we got through it and she was starting to fill out again and was acting like her old self again and I was starting to breathe a little easier.  

It struck me at one point that it was super bad timing that my Dad, my dog, and horse were all aging and approaching the finish line at the same time.  It felt like they were all competing to see who could keep me the most worried.  As if one of them had to be creeping closer to the edge at all times just to keep me awake at night.  Damn them!  Damn them all to Hell!  But not really! I cried.  I obviously didn't plan it; that's just the way it worked out.

Well!

Here we are a year later.  

My Dad is on hospice at the nursing home that I now can call a nursing home without even a second thought.  He can barely talk some days.  He doesn't seem to understand anything anymore. He needs someone to feed him or he wouldn't eat.  He needs someone to help him drink or he wouldn't do that, either.  He needs someone to dress him, wash him up, put him in his Broda chair, push said chair to where they want him to be, put him in bed, cover him with blankets.  He can barely make his needs or wants known anymore.  He is at the mercy of everyone else.  I don't know if he even knows who I am. I believe he recognizes that I'm someone he knows, but I don't know if he knows who I am.  A few weeks ago, he looked at my son and basically asked him who he was.  I don't know if he even knows he is alive anymore.

We don't have a dog anymore.  Max died last November.  I wrote about it in here.  I still have nightmares about it.  I'm not used to being a no-dog household yet.

And now, we have one horse.  She's 27 years old.  She's a miniature horse, black and white tobiano, and her name is Shasta.  I don't know if she's broke to ride or drive, and come to think of it, I've never actually measured her to see how tall she really is, but she's much too small for anyone in my family to have ever ridden.  We've had her for about 18 years.  We got her as a companion for my other horse, Nicker, who died about a month ago at the age of 31.

====================================================

I started writing that yesterday, just to get a quick update started.  

I've had a horse die on me before -- we had a shetland pony named Wiggles for a short time, a rescue that I adopted who was a lot older than we were told she was and who unfortunately passed away her first winter with us.  That sucked, but I knew this was going to be different, because Nicker was my girl.  She was my first horse.  My heart horse.  I hate to say "I had her" because, like all of my pets, she was more like family than a pet, so I say that she was in our family for 22 years.  

Even though she was 31 years old and I knew this day was coming sooner rather than later, it was still rather unexpected.  She had been doing well for a 31yo horse lately, I thought.  Since last winter, I'd been giving her senior feed all year round instead of just in the winter to put/keep weight on her, as well as supplemental hay all year (back in the day she could be on fresh grass all summer and hay/feed in the winter and be just fine).  The day before she died, she was acting a little off. I couldn't quite figure it out; she was moving around just fine, drinking and acting normal, but she wouldn't eat much which was weird for her.  And she was standing with her left hind leg crooked.  I'd seen her rolling earlier (which was not unusual for her, either - she loved rolling in the mud) so I thought maybe she'd pulled a muscle while getting up or something, even though she wasn't lame.  She wasn't sweating.  She relaxed when I scratched her back and rubbed her muscles, so I worried but not more than usual.

The next morning, we planned to go fishing. We got up early and I went out to check on her.  She didn't answer when I called her.  She was standing in her stall, looking like she didn't feel good but not like she was close to death.  Otherwise I wouldn't have gone fishing.  I've replayed this almost every day since then.  She wasn't sweating. She hadn't eaten her food from the night before.  She was breathing a little faster than normal.  I kissed her and told her to be good and in my head I was thinking "...and don't die".  Then we went fishing.  And I worried about her the whole time.

Which I was right to do. 

The fishing was sub-par.  It was windy. I caught a small baby bass and a nice-sized crappie before the wind picked up and we decided to leave.  The hubby could tell I was distracted and asked if I was going to call the vet when we got home and I said Yeah, I probably would, if she wasn't any better.

So as soon as we got home, I went to her stall.  It was empty.  I called to her, and there was no answer.  I went to the gate and looked, and there she was, on her side, next to the barn.  Lifeless.  

I don't want to relive all that right now.  Long story short is that we (and by "we" I mean the hubby) ended up digging a hole in the pasture and burying her that day.  I cut the hair off her tail and mane to save, I'd like to make a bracelet or something out of it.  There's enough I could make something more, and I've found some cool things on Pinterest to make. But for now, it's in a bag on my "pet memorial" shelf.  

So!  That's what's been going on.  So many people have been like, "Oh my gosh, you've been through so much these past few months..." but it really doesn't feel like it. Maybe if Max and Nicker had been young and died suddenly and unexpectedly, but they both lived long, well-loved lives.  Don't get me wrong, I miss them both and their actual deaths were traumatic to me.  Max's especially.  Watching him deteriorate for months and then those last few hours, well, I don't want to talk about that right now either, but it was horrible.  I'm glad Nicker went pretty quickly.  I hate watching deterioration and suffering.

We haven't entertained the idea of getting another dog yet.  We work a lot.  I already felt bad for Max because we were gone so much at the end of his life.  There's no way I can do that to a puppy or even a new adult dog right now.  I'm not gonna lie, I do watch videos online of Boxer dogs (sometimes even my own) and reminisce about how goofy and fun they are, but I don't feel the pull to get one.  I wan to find someone who has one so I can pet it and smoosher it's face and hug it and love it, but I don't want to be responsible for it.  Ha ha ha.

I'm not going to get another horse.  I still have Shasta, for one thing.  But another riding horse?  No, I don't think so.  Maybe when we retire.