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
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