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.  

Last Week I Learned

...that if you have a person on hospice care in a skilled nursing facility, and if that person one morning is more difficult than usual to wake up, and has oxygen saturations in the 70's even when they're on 4LPM of supplemental oxygen, and that person is also having shortness of breath and decreased breath sounds in one of their lungs, the staff at the skilled nursing facility basically call you (and by "you" I mean the person's emergency contact person) and say, essentially -- Hey, you should get in here ASAFP.  Capice? 

Which, in many cases I'd imagine, leads to said contact person calling another person close to the person on hospice and relaying the same message, probably with a bit more emotion and a bit less technical information.  

And, that's how Wednesday started for me last week. A call from my Mom at about 7am, which in the history of forever has never brought good information, telling me that my Dad had low oxygen levels and wasn't waking up.  I was supposed to work from home that day, and when I first talked to her I strung some words together about that I'd go work from the office instead so I could be in town and then play it by ear from there, but a few minutes later after I actually woke up enough to get out of bed and get in the shower, and process what I'd just been told, I was like -- What on earth was I thinking?!  If my Dad is non-responsive and barely breathing, my ass is NOT going to work today.  Just thinking about it by that time brought me to tears and I was like, no, I can't work with this going on. So I finished my shower and texted my boss, and the doctor I was working with that day, and then my husband, and my son.  Maybe not in that order, I don't remember.  I probably texted the hubby and son first, then took a shower.  

Regardless of the technical details, most of which I don't feel like re-hashing right now, the long-story-short version is that that was a horrible day. But he woke up later.  He wasn't very talkative, but he did talk a bit.  His O2 sats went up to the upper 80's to low 90's again, on his usual 2-3L.  The hospice nurse did say that his left lung sounds were diminished and congested, and he didn't eat much that day, but ever since then he's been -- in their words -- "not declining".  Which, in hospice-speak, doesn't mean that he's getting better, it just means he's not rapidly declining like we all thought he was on Wednesday.  

We thought Wednesday was going to be It.  You know.  The Day.

No one can explain what happened.  His lungs are still not great, but they haven't been for years.  But they're back to what they were before Wednesday.  It does seem to have taken a lot out of him, unfortunately.  He's very tired now.  He still sleeps about 18 hours a day, but when I've seen him, even when he's awake, he looks exhausted. He continues to lose weight, despite eating 75-100% of his meals.  

He just looks sad all the time now.  Sadder than before.  

I gotta get back to work now.  TTYL

Facebook wants to know...

 A few random things that are on my mind:

It took two hours to drive to work this morning. It normally takes only one hour.  Why did it take so long? Because construction.  Long story short, there are basically two major thoroughfares from the state where I live into the state where I work in my part of the woods (because you have to cross a river) and this summer, there is going to be major construction on both routes, joy to the world.  Well, construction has already started on the southernmost route, which is not my primary route anymore (it used to be, before we moved a few years ago), so a lot of the traffic that would normally be on the southernmost route has decided to detour themselves to the northernmost route.  Construction hasn't even started on this route yet, and it's already backed up so that it takes me twice as long to get to work as usual. I have the feeling it's going to be a long summer at this rate.  I think my honest-to-God tolerance for a commute to work is about 65 minutes on a regular basis, 90 minutes intermittently.  120 minutes feels like it's scratching on every single last nerve I have.  Seriously!  I spent the second half of the "drive" to work this morning daydreaming about how nice it would be to work closer to home. 

The only good thing is that I got awesome gas mileage since we didn't go faster than about 50mph for the last hour.  But still...not worth it. I don't want to leave home at 0530 to get there at 0730.  I don't want to spend 4 hours or more A DAY commuting to work.  I'm going to have to either find some serious back roads to take to work, figure out a way to work from home a lot, or spend more time than I had originally planned staying at my parents' house this summer if this is how the drive is going to be.  Because I can't do it.  

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It's hard, isn't it? When you've been working so hard to be filled with the Holy Spirit and to show grace and mercy to those around you, even and especially those who have done you wrong, because you really feel in your heart that that is the right thing to do, because you've tried the alternative and you know there's nothing good about that.  Seriously, holding grudges isn't any good.  Hating other people isn't any good.  All those things about forgiving others because the only person you're hurting is yourself if you don't are so true.  I have plenty of good reasons to hate a few people in this world, but I'm choosing not to anymore, because why? It doesn't matter to them if I hate them or not.  It's just taking up space in my mind and in my heart, space and time that I should be using to focus on loving others anyway.  I've felt so much peace since I've given up hating other people and regretting doing things that I wish I hadn't done in the past.  Not that it's been easy to just turn the other cheek, so to speak, but once you start doing it, it starts becoming second nature.  

So you (I) know in your (my) heart there's nothing good about being mad at someone who doesn't even know you're mad at them, someone who won't even talk to you or anything, that it's just a moot point and you should just let it go instead of letting it bother you (me).  I know these things.  I know the best thing for me to do is, um, you know...Let Go and Let God.  I've given Him this particular trouble so many times in the past, but then I keep taking it back. Why do I keep taking it back? Because I think I can fix it somehow?  I can't.  It's not fixable.  Maybe in time...nope. Maybe just a little more time...nope.  Maybe in a different situation...nope.  And in case you don't speak Cryptic Tash, I'm talking about my sister here.  

I'm talking about the fact that I'm just not as mad as I want to be at the fact that she won't visit my parents, even though my Mom has asked her to many times.  The fact that she doesn't want to see my Dad "in his condition" and blames it on the fact that he called her by my name the last time she saw him, or at least that's what she's telling my Mom.  The fact that she doesn't even ask how he's doing, or how my Mom's doing, or offers to help at all in any way, shape, or form.  That's fine, because we don't need her help, anyway.  I want to be outraged by this.  But I'm not.  I'm not surprised by any of her actions, or lack thereof.  I'm not surprised that she hasn't had a change of heart and that we can't rely on her for anything and that she refuses to be reasonable and talk about this like an adult.  I want to just go off and totally blast her and rip her to shreds for hurting my parents like she has.  She doesn't even know.  She doesn't even care. THAT is what pisses me off the most.  

Not exactly sure where I was going to take this next. I guess I just needed to vent because it does still bother me, but not in a personal way anymore.  She can't hurt me anymore, maybe she realizes that, too, and that's why she's going after my parents now.  Whatever her reasoning is, all I will continue to do is pray that 1. she stops hurting my parents. They have done nothing wrong.  If they did, it wasn't intentional.  None of us are perfect parents.  We do the best with what we know at the time.  2. that she opens her heart to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  I mean REALLY opens her heart to the Triune God and accepts Jesus as her Lord and Savior one day. Not for my sake, not for my parents' sake, but for her own sake.  She is filled with so much hate. It saddens me that anyone at all would live like that.  

Love one another. That is all.

You think you're so smart, but I've seen you naked.

There's this one BNL song that has just some of the best lyrics ever, and it's just so perfect and so classic BNL because this song in particular (yes, I'll link it in a few moments) has this cool, laid-back jazzy piano feel that actually suits Steven Page's voice undeniably well, and then he nonchalantly croons one of my favorite lines in a song, ever:

You think you're so smart, but I've seen you naked; I'll probably see you naked again.

If that's not your style, how about this one? 

So you want to play mind games? Well that's fine, go ahead, la-la-la, I can't hear you!

Perhaps now you might see why I didn't really like BNL until I started paying attention to the lyrics.  Perhaps you didn't care in the first place why I like BNL.  Either way, that's my beginning topic for today and I'm sticking to it, courtesy of Blame It On Me by the Barenaked Ladies.

And so, life goes on.  One of the biggest changes in my life since I last wrote in here is that I've cut my hours back at my day job so that I can spend more time with my parents.  More specifically (so far) with my Mom, "just" helping her get things done.  I hesitate to label myself her caregiver because she is fully able to take care of her own physical needs; it's more like a combination emotional caregiver and chauffeur personal assistant.

I struggled with this decision for a good, long while.  I wish I would've thought of it when my Dad was still at home, but whatever.  Not sure that would've changed anything.  What I struggled with the most is that my Mom and I haven't historically gotten along the best.  And I hate using the word "gotten" if that tells you anything.  Especially not when I was a teenager, but even in my adulthood.  I don't want to pick it all apart here, because nobody's perfect, right? My Mom and I, despite being flesh and blood, seem to have two very different outlooks and perspectives on life.  Which, the older I get, makes more sense because we've lived very different lives.  Personality-wise, I take after my Dad.  

So I worried that I'd be setting myself up for disaster.  What if all we did was fight? There have been times on this journey with my Dad when we've butted heads. I don't want that to happen, but it was also becoming obvious that my Mom needed some additional support.  I knew what I needed to do, and that included putting all my fears and worries aside and just stepping up to the damn plate and doing it.  Because that's what we do, right?  Forget about the "what ifs", it's the big picture that matters.  

I was going to wait until after the VDC weekend (yes, the one back in March) to suggest this to her.  I was going to use that weekend to pray about it and ask God to let me know once and for all if it was the direction in which He wanted me to go.  Prior to that, I was spending a night a week or so at my parents' house after work, in the name of helping my Mom but not really having much time to do a whole lot because I'd spend the whole day at work and then get to their house and usually have time to eat and then watch some TV and let my Mom vent for a while before I went to bed because I'd have to get up and go to work the next morning again.  The thought was there but the time really wasn't.  But one night, I was talking with my hubby about it (and I have to add -- he is the greatest hubby ever. He has been in full support of this since day one.  He mentioned it as an option long before I even brought it up as a possibility. He's the best!) and I said I was thinking it was time to maybe do it, and he was like, OK, then do it.  Talk to your work about it and do it.  Bam, just like that, no hesitation whatsoever.  

I guess that was the sign I was waiting for because that night, when I called my Mom, I asked her if she would find it useful if I took a day off of work every week to spend with her, helping her run errands and do chores around the house and take care of other things and visit my Dad and such, and before I even finished the question she was like, YES, PLEASE!!  

That was back in March, and last week was the first week of my new schedule. So I'm taking one day "off" per week and for now, the plan is to spend either the night before or that night at my parents' house.  For scheduling reasons at work, it will be a different day every week, which was kind of a bummer at first but actually might work out better for my Mom as far as scheduling appointments and such.  So, last week my day "off" (which isn't really a day off, ha ha) was Monday.  I was worried that we'd just end up sitting around watching TV all day, but we actually did get out of the house and run a few errands, and started cleaning out the pantry, and made a longer-term To-Do list.  And most importantly, I felt more connected to her the more time I spent with her.  I was hoping that would happen.  That if I could be there when I wasn't tired, or pressed for time, that I could show more grace and be more present and helpful instead of . . . well, not.  

I know it's early, but I'm hopeful that this is going to work out.  I don't like being away from my hubby, spending the night in the city, and I really don't like sleeping in my parents' bedroom.  (My Mom sleeps in her recliner in the living room. She hasn't slept in their bedroom for a long time.  I think that started when my Dad couldn't walk up the stairs anymore, and now I think it continues because she misses him and doesn't want to sleep in the bedroom without him.  I also don't like sleeping in their bedroom because it reminds me of my Dad and how he's not there. But there isn't anywhere else for me to sleep except on the couch or in my Dad's recliner in the living room with my Mom, and I wouldn't get much sleep there because she has the TV on "for noise" most of the night. But I digress.)  But adulthood is full of doing things we don't like to do, right?!? 

So that's how THAT is going.  My Dad is doing alright, I guess. We had a care conference a couple of weeks ago.  I've been part of care conferences as a nurse, way back when I worked in the hospital.  Not very often, I think maybe only once or twice when the discharge planner wasn't available.  Anyway, I was able to meet the hospice nurse and social worker.  The whole care conference took about 10 minutes and could have been an email, lol.  Nah, it was all good.  My Dad still qualifies for hospice care because he is still losing weight, even though he is eating well.  His pain/discomfort seems to be well-controlled, he hasn't needed his PRN morphine for a long time, he sleeps a lot, and he needs to stay on supplemental oxygen.  He continues to slowly decline, although not as rapidly as he was when he was first put on hospice last November.  

He still knows who *I* am ;)  

It is still so difficult, though.  Watching this all happen.  Watching him "decline" (I hate that word now, too) before our eyes.  I wish I knew what he's thinking.  I wish he could tell me if he wants to keep going on like this or not.  I wouldn't think he would.  He has no quality of life.  He can't do anything for himself, he needs someone to do literally everything for him at this point.  He doesn't seem to enjoy anything.  Every time he doesn't feel well, I wonder if this is It.  A week or so ago when I went to see him, he was complaining that he felt like he was going to throw up, and he was a little pale and diaphoretic and clammy.  At first I was like, I get like that when I'm nauseated, too.  But then as I thought more about it, I was like, what if it's a heart thing? But he's on hospice, so, what is there to do, really? It resolved while I was there so I guess it wasn't a heart thing.  This week my Mom was complaining that he's been crabby, and today in the hospice nurse's notes I read that he's had some GI issues all weekend.  So now I'm like, what if this is Something?  You just never know.

None of us ever know, though. Anything could happen at any time.  

Alright, on that happy thought, I'm gonna go refill my water jug and then get back to work. These darn phone calls won't make themselves.  TTYL!

I have heard you calling in the night...

Has it really been two months since I last wrote in here?

Well, no, it has not. I wrote a couple of drafts, and then deleted them. Intentionally.  I don't even remember exactly why anymore.  They were either too dull or too spicy.  Because I'm totally extreme like that, ha ha ha ha.  Nah, more than likely they were too depressing.  Usually, before I write a new entry in here, I go back and read the previous entry -- not just to see what I had last written (you know, in case I was actually doing this more often, to "see where I left off"), but also to help switch myself and my writing style into blogging mode.  

Well, as you might be able to tell for yourself, the last entry I wrote before this one is super depressing.  In fact, I opened up this site today totally not intending to write anything depressing, but after reading that, I'm filled with sadness and can feel the tears welling up in my eyes again.  Not that I haven't thought of Max since then -- au contraire! He shows up in my dreams so often, it's like he's still around.  I just haven't thought of that day and those moments for a while.

So, let's change the topic now, shall we? Before I go down That Rabbit Hole and end up having to scrap a whole 'nother blog entry and start the second half of my workday as a blubbering mess.  I mean, at least I don't have to be on camera anymore today, so there's that, but I still have to accomplish things and talk to people.  

I don't remember if I wrote about my Via de Cristo weekend last year or not.  So hold on....and, I did not.  Durnit!

Well, if you Google it, you can find viadecristo.org, which will tell you that "The Via de Cristo Ministry includes a structured three-day weekend designed to strengthen and renew the faith of Christian people, bringing them to a new awareness of living in God's grace." and that is as good of a way to describe it as I could attempt to come up with on my own.  Anyway, last year I went through as a participant, and this year was my first year serving as a volunteer. It was completely and totally amazing this year! Last year, even after going through it, I still had some reservations. I might talk about those some other time, but then again, I might not because they don't matter anymore.  

It's just amazing. I know I already used that word, but I can't think of a better one right now. I feel so alive, so re-energized and rejuvenated, so filled with the Holy Spirit and re-focused on the world and my place in it.  And "all" I did all weekend was pray for other people.  And that's all I want to keep doing.  It's so hard to explain.  I want to share it here, and I've been trying to come up with the right words, but none of them are strong enough.  They just aren't.  I guess you just have to trust me on this one.

It's still a bit awkward for me, sometimes, though.  Being religious.  I wasn't raised this way.  I was baptised as a baby. I didn't go to Sunday School or Confirmation.  There was a Bible on the bookshelf in our house growing up that I opened once or twice, but I never saw anyone else touch it.  There was a plate on that bookshelf that had the Lord's Prayer on it, too, which is where I learned the prayer that Jesus taught us all to pray.  Oh yeah, there was also a plaque in the kitchen with the Serenity Prayer which I don't believe is actual Scripture, now that I'm older and wiser, ha ha.  We prayed before meals, but I had the words wrong for half my childhood.

But I've never claimed NOT to believe in God, either.  I've always believed in a higher power.  I've always believed in God. And by that, I guess I meant that I believed in Heaven and Hell, and I believed in prayer, and I believed that there was a set of God-given rules that I should follow to be a better person.  But I didn't know why, exactly.  I've always believed that God could and would help me out of any terrible situation I managed to find myself in (because He did, more times than I care to admit)!  

I guess, looking back on my life choices (mostly the not great ones) and trying to recall what my feelings were at the time, you could say that I had the very basic core beliefs (although where I found them, I still can't say for sure), I've just been fine-tuning the details over the last 5, 10, 25 years.  Especially the last 5-10 or so.  With ever-increasing interest as time goes by.  The more I learn, the more I want to learn.  

Anyhoo.  It's just nice to feel hopeful about everything again!  I know nothing externally has changed.  I wish I could make everyone feel as I do right now: uplifted, inspired, and helpful.  God is going to use me to do great things in the world, I can just feel it.  He already has.  I don't even need to know what those things are, I just know that I'm on the right path.  I wish I could get everyone I know to find their paths, too. If they haven't already.

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So, yeah. That's about all I have time for today, kids.  This is probably the ultimate #IYKYK.  And I hope you know.  Because it's awesome.  God's grace is amazing. You have no idea if you don't know.  And if you don't know, you should know.  

Happy New Year!

Well! We survived Christmas and ringing in the new year, and now winter decided to show up.  Usually when something shows up fashionably late, people like to throw around the ol' "better late than never!" adage, but I was one of those native Midwesterners who was quite liking the idea of a winter with minimal snow and daytime high temperatires that were hovering right around the actual freezing point.  

I was also one of those native Midwesterners who was waiting for the other shoe, or perhaps it was a fur-lined Sorel boot, to drop.

Because it just wouldn't be winter around here without temperatures below zero, and wind chills in the double digits below zero, and -- of course -- snow.  Whether it starts in late October or mid-January, we all know it's going to be here sooner or later.  I'm just thankful that, this winter, it decided to get here "later". It may have been awkward putting up Christmas decorations without snow on the ground, but I wasn't complaining.  

Anyway...

The other major event we have thus far survived is my baby boy's 26th birthday!  Yep.  In fact, 26 years ago on this very day, we brought our tiny bundle of joy home from the hospital for the very first time.  It was a cold, wintry, icy day, much like today. I don't think it was as cold as it is today, in fact I'm pretty sure it wasn't, but it was definitely wintry.  The night before he was born, the area we lived in had what I'm pretty sure was the only winter storm of that season.  And it wasn't even that snowy, but it was icy. At least, that's how I remember it.  It took us about 2 hours to get to the hospital for my scheduled induction, for what was normally a 45 minute drive.  I was half-worried that our baby was going to be born on the side of the road, except I wasn't even in labor yet.  (So why was I going to a scheduled induction?  My blood pressure had been elevated at my 39-week prenatal appt the day before.  Even after I laid (or is it lied?) down and rested for 15 minutes.)  

I read a meme a few years ago that said going home with a newborn baby is like being discharged from the hospital 2 days after a major car accident, and being told you have to take care of this tiny stranger who was also just in a major car accident.  Oh my gosh, how true is that?!  And how in the world did we ever survive before memes?!  But I digress.  Thankfully, the hospital where I'd had the boy was all about this new concept (at the time) called "rooming in" where you actually kept the baby in the room with you all.the.time instead of keeping him in the nursery, so the transition to taking him home didn't seem so bad.  I was already getting used to all the little noises he made all the time, and to getting up to feed him and change him and all that.  I honestly couldn't imagine what it would have been like if he'd been kept in the nursery and only brought to me when he needed to be fed.  

I honestly don't remember much of what happened while I was in the hospital after having the boy.  We lived in a different state at the time, and except for the fact that my mother-in-law, one of my sisters-in-law, our niece, and my husband's grandparents were visiting at the time, I wouldn't have had any visitors.  And they even postponed their departure by a few hours so they could meet him!  My hubby visited, of course, but he didn't take much time off of work.  Which might sound cruel, but he had just started a new position (the reason we lived in a different state) and worked stupid crazy long hours anyway, and also wanted to save his time off for when we were actually home.  So most of the time, it was just me and the boy in the hospital room, either sleeping or crying.  Both of us.  Just kidding, I don't remember crying.  Just sleeping.  Or trying to sleep. Either trying to nurse the baby or trying to sleep but then being interrupted by the nurse checking on me or the baby or the doctor checking on me or the baby, or one of the other endless interruptions because everyone knows you do NOT go to a hospital to get rest.  Even if you just delivered a nearly-nine-pound baby boy with no pain medication on board.  

But, I digress.  This year, so far, has been uneventful.  But it's only been just barely over two weeks, so, what can I say?!

Christmas with my parents was about how I expected it to be. That is, depressing.  We went and visited my Dad in the nursing home, where of course he had no idea that it was Christmas Day, and telling him that it was Christmas didn't seem to mean much of anything to him, anyway.  It seemed to be just another day.  We claimed a corner of one of the lesser-used "activity" rooms, plugged in a DVD (The Sound of Music), more for our distraction than his, and spent a few hours there making small talk.  

One of the first things my Dad asked when we got there, was where my sister was.  I told him, I don't know. Probably at her house.  She hasn't talked to me in years, I told him.  I've tried calling her and sending her messages and she never responds to me, I told him.  He just looked at me, quizzically. I always look my Dad in the eye when I'm talking to him.  It's getting harder and harder to read what's behind those eyes.  But since he even brought up the question of where my sister was -- and since he asked me in particular where she was -- it was pretty obvious that he didn't remember 'what's going on' and my carefully yet quickly-chosen answers weren't going to trigger any helpful recollection for him.  But before he could say anything more, my Mom jumped in with something like, "She's not going to be here today. Do you want to try calling her again sometime?" to which my Dad replied, "Yes, I would like that."  I don't know if he saw me roll my eyes at that.  I couldn't help it.  I'm pretty sure it still didn't trigger any helpful recollection for him.  

But that's a backstory I'll have to get into another time, because my time here is up! Suffice to say the reason I brought it up here is because it made me mad, not at my parents at all but at my sister for hurting my parents by ignoring them.  And I know I said I don't have time to get into the backstory, but the quick version is that the backstory, as far as I know it, doesn't even involve my parents! It involves me, and my sister, and that's it. So why she's ignoring them, too, is beyond me. But that will be a rant to explore another time. I could dedicate a whole entire blog just to my daily thoughts and musings on THAT topic...heh heh heh. 

Alright, gotta go. TTYL!

No witty title, I'm just sad today.

Well, if you don't actually read my FB posts, this will be news to you. Come to think of it, if you don't actually read my FB posts, the chances that you're reading this at all are probably pretty slim because I don't post this link anywhere else. Or not, because it is the internet so theoretically anyone with access to the internet could read this.  Whatever.  I'm sooooooo stalling for time.

In my last few blog posts I was talking about the five stages of grief and how they relate to dealing with someone who has dementia.  But now I'm going through the five stages of grief as someone who has lost a different beloved family member, friend, and loved one -- our pupper, Max.  

I don't remember how much I mentioned in here about how he'd been declining in the last few months, but he had been.  I think I was purposely not mentioning it much in real life because it seems like everyone was asking about my Dad/parents all the time and it just seemed like too much to point out -- oh yeah, by the way, my dog isn't doing very well, either. Mostly because I didn't want more pity.  And because I was afraid that people who don't understand pets would try to challenge me on that one, like how dare I put the pain of losing a pet on the same plane.  

Although, you know, no one in my life that I can recall has ever actually done that.  I think by this point in my life, everyone knows that my pets are like family, and/or they also know that losing one is a painful endeavor not to be taken lightly from their own personal experience.  So maybe I just didn't talk about Max not doing well because it hurt too much.  It was all I could do to talk about my parents without crying, I don't think I could've continued to explain the whole Max saga as well, in person.  I mean, I know I told a few people, but not a lot.

So, yeah. I don't know exactly what happened.  He was 11.5 years old, which is pretty darn good for a Boxer.  I still don't want to detail all of what I mean by his declining over the past few months, because I'm already weeping just writing this much.  I'll just say, he started showing his age and then had some kind of event in September (maybe a stroke or something?) where he collapsed and wouldn't/couldn't get up for most of the day, and was never really the same after that.  

Let's see how much of this I can share without becoming a blubbering mess. On Tuesday, November 21st, I came home from work to find him in the middle of the kitchen floor, twitching and unresponsive.  I don't know how else to say it.  That day in particular already sucked, because we had to leave him alone for about 13 hours -- hubby had a class after work, and I was going to visit my Dad after work, and we really tried not to leave him (or any of our dogs) alone that long ever but every once in a great while it just ended up that way.  And sure enough, this was one of those days.  

So I got home at about 7:30pm and it was obvious that he had been down for quite some time, and it was also pretty quickly obvious that he wasn't coming out of it.  Bear with me here and do not judge me because you were not there.  I was thankful that he was basically unconscious, but I still had to sit next to him and try to comfort him, knowing I was really trying to comfort me.  What he had been going through and what he was going through at that time was just awful.  It gave me nightmares for weeks.  But I also feel very, very strongly that I do not want my beloved pets to die alone, so I stayed right next to him.  The whole time.  For four hours as he continued to seize non-stop.  And yes, I considered taking him to the emergency vet -- not that he could be saved at that point, but to help stop his suffering.  But, remember that I said by hubby had a class that night? He wasn't supposed to be home for hours. The emergency vet is about an hour away. I would've had to basically drag my poor dog (who weighed about 80#) to the garage and get him into the Equinox somehow by myself, then drive him there while being a blubbering mess and extra upset because I couldn't be next to him during that time, worried that he would pass away during the drive and I wouldn't get to be with him when it happened.  I texted my son, but he has a thing he does on Tuesday nights as well so I didn't expect he'd be able to come over and help me.  Plus, I liked to think that on some level, Max still knew where he was, and that he'd be more comfortable just staying where he was and being made as comfortable as possible instead of being dragged somewhere else to die.  

And so, that happened at about 11:55pm.  I'd like to say it was peaceful, and I guess it kind of was, because he finally stopped seizing and panting for a few minutes first.  I was still right next to him, I'd put him on a blanket by then and cushioned his head and tried to cover him and make him look more comfortable, and had settled myself in to stay there all night if necessary.  I had my hand on his side. I could feel his breathing stop, his heart flutter and flutter and flutter and then stop.  And mine break into a million pieces at the same time.  

So, yeah. That's what's been going on here.  

It's weird, not having a dog.  This is the first time in like 25 years that we haven't had a dog.  All of my life, we've always had a dogs.  From the time I was born, until I moved out of my parents' house, and then for a few years I didn't because I lived in apartments, but then my hubby and I got our first dog before I even moved in with him, and except for a short dogless time for about five months when the boy was a baby, we've always had dogs.  So yeah. I miss Max.  He was a goofball.  I still think I hear him walking around at random times.  5pm doesn't go by without me feeling like I need to go feed him.  We might get another dog some day, but we both feel bad for working so much right now.  So maybe after we retire.  

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The weird thing is, I've had dreams with him in them almost every other night since he died.  Usually it's been a while before I have dreams with our dogs in them after they pass, but Max dreams started almost right away.  If I was a true believer in dreams having special meaning, I could totally read into that.  :)  Sometimes I like to think they do have special meaning.  Even it if just means that I've been thinking about dogs a lot, lol.  He hasn't been alone in these dreams, though; it's usually been Max and Luger, or Max and Luger and Magnum, or Max and Boscoe and Josie.  In other words, several of our previous dogs at once.  Well, whatever.  It's better than having nightmares about his last night, that's for sure.

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So right now, I think the trauma of that night is starting to wear off, because I was actually feeling more relieved than anything for a while.  Relieved that he wasn't suffering anymore, that we weren't having to scrub the floors 3-6 times per day anymore, or keep the washer and dryer running constantly to wash every towel we owned all the time, relieved that our house doesn't smell like dog urine anymore, relieved that we can sleep through the night again.  Is that horrible? I know it's not; I mean, I loved that dog more than I can ever put into words, and I don't want to sound petty, but, I like my clean house, too.  And we did everything we could possibly do to help him with that issue -- trust me on that one.  We were all miserable by the time he passed away.  

But now, like I said, now I'm really missing the old Max.  The fun Max.  The goofy, silly, loving Max.  Not the sick, grumpy, miserable Max.  

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And I'm also suddenly super sad again about the fact that my Dad is in a nursing home, and doesn't get to leave.  He won't be coming over for Christmas.  He doesn't even know it's Christmas.  He doesn't know what day it is, what month it is, what season it is.  He doesn't know what's going on in the world.  He sleeps 16-18 hours per day.  He doesn't get to make any of his own decisions anymore. He eats whatever pureed crap they give him, gets up when they have people available to get him up, watches whatever is on TV when someone feels like pushing him in the vicinity of the TV.  He has no effing quality of life. What would he have said 2, 3, 5 years ago if I've had told him what life would be like for him now? Would he have wanted this?  He rarely smiles.  I can get him to smile, but it's not that deep, prolonged smile he used to have when I'd visit him at home.  It's more like a quick flash of a smile that I wouldn't see if I wasn't looking at him.  And it breaks my heart because then he goes back to just sitting there, expressionless, and I wonder what is going on behind those eyes.  What is he thinking?  What does he want to do?  Does he want to get up and leave? Does he want to go to bed and not wake up?  

Ugh. I gotta go back to work. TTYL.

Denial ain't just a river!

In keeping with the theme of the five stages of grief, let's look at one of my most recent examples of Stage 1: Denial, shall we?

I'll refer back, not that far actually, to my blog post of Friday, October 20, 2023, "Speaking of loaded questions...".  Don't worry, you don't have to actually go back and re-read it, I'll bring the relevant parts here to refresh your memory.  

It's in about paragraph 4.  "Dad's doing alright, slowly regaining strength...[h]e doesn't seem to have suffered any great cognitive setbacks from having the 'vid and being bedbound for a couple of weeks..."  

You see, deep down inside, my biggest fear when I first heard he had COVID and was being sent to the hospital was that he wasn't going to leave the hospital.  Because I already knew that most patients with dementia don't die "of dementia" per se, but they succumb to secondary infections (like pneumonia, influenza, COVID) or other chronic conditions (like COPD, CHF, renal failure).  

Shortly after writing that post, I was at my Mom's parents' house, spending a WFH day there to keep my Mom company and help out with a few things when I'm finished working (as I have been doing on a regular basis) when she got a phone call.  I mean, she gets a fair amount of phone calls during the day now, at least when I'm there, and because I'm nosy and also because there's pretty much a straight shot from the kitchen to the living room, I could pretty easily overhear her side of the conversation (if I muted the TV and stopped typing so I could hear).  

The first thing that raised my suspicion was that she moved to the office, which is slightly out of the straight shot from the kitchen to the living room, and struck me as odd and like she was either (A) going there to take notes and/or (B) going there so I couldn't hear.  It made me listen even harder.  I couldn't hear every word she was saying but the overall tone changed and I heard her say "hospice".  Which made me forget everything else going on, instantly.  "Um, what?" I said out loud, to no one.  But I stayed in my seat.  Hospice??  I'm pretty sure that's when Anger started, ha, ha (but not like funny ha, ha).  Of course, you idiot, I yelled at myself.  You are such an idiot.  He's gone from a wheelchair to a Broda chair. A sit-to-stand to a Hoyer.  Mechanical soft to pureed.  You told yourself he was getting better but he's not. You knew better.  The signs were all there.  This one is totally on you.  You suck.

I remember once, a few years ago, when he was first in a long-term facility -- it was when my mom broke her hip and he was at the VA for a while, and I told the VA social worker that, as a nurse I had recognized he was showing signs of dementia but as a daughter I was having trouble "reporting" them to my Mom, know what I mean? And I remember the social worker assuring me that was a completely normal reaction, because I'm not his nurse, I'm his daughter.  It's not my job to assess him.  She assured me over and over again that I shouldn't feel bad about things like that.  But obviously, I still do.  I feel like, if I can't even take care of the people closest to me, what good am I as a medical professional?

Anyway, back to the story, because I've only got 20 minutes of my break left.  Usually after my mom finishes a phone call, especially one about my Dad, she'll come to the kitchen (my "office" when I'm WFH from her house) and update me, but this time she went back to the living room.  And usually I'll let her wait until she's ready to come update me, but this time I didn't. I marched my little "Now I'm In Mama Bear Mode" self into the living room, announcing, "I heard you say 'hospice' -- what is going on with THAT?!?" And she said, "Just give me a minute, and I'll update you."  

So I did. I went back to my "desk" (the kitchen table) and took a deep breath and went back to watching the Zoom meeting I was supposed to be watching.  

LONG STORY SHORT:  The attending provider and care team were recommending that my Dad undergo evaluation for admission (how many more words can I fit in here before I get to the ones I hate writing, ha ha) to the hospice program, because they felt that he "qualified" for it since he had declined "so much" since he had COVID.  They "sold it" as a good thing for him, because he would get extra care with an aide coming to see him at least once a week, and a nurse coming to see him at least once a week as well, and that he'd qualify for extra benefits through the VA and yadda yadda yadda.  

Now, I don't mean to sound so sarcastic with the words I put in quotes in the above paragraph.  As a so-called medical professional, you better believe that I strongly believe in the vision and importance of a good hospice program.  I whole-heartedly believe that is is so vitally important to focus on a person's comfort, happiness, and overall well-being, especially if they are in the end stages of their life on earth.  Take away the unnecessary medications, keep them comfortable, support them and their family in whatever their wishes are as they prepare to transition from this world to the next.

But it is a completely different story reaction when you hear that word in association with your own family. 

Even if you know it's going to happen at some point. Even if you know that point is going to be sooner rather than later.  Even if it's something you may have even wished for, in some ways, because you don't want your family member to suffer any longer. 

For the record, I felt the same way (to different degrees) recently when  I had to review/sign some documents for my parents' funeral pre-planning arrangements, and when I learned that my mom had officially made my dad DNR (if you don't know what that means, ask me another time because I don't want to explain it right now).  I agree, I just...seeing it in writing... it's becoming clearer now why Anger kicked in, is it not?

Anyway.  I think that happened on a Wednesday? And the evaluation was to take place on a Thursday and Friday.  I tell you what, I cried at least once every day after that.  On the Sunday after that, the hospice team asked to meet with my Mom to go over their suggestions, and I asked to be there, too.  Of course, their recommendation was to admit Dad to hospice.  I'll spare all the details for now because it was just a lot of explaining by the nurse and the social worker, and paper signing (none of which was really new to me, because I'd seen it all so many times from the other side and just kind of zoned out so I could be The Strong One for my Mom) and me asking my mom if she had any questions because I didn't want to have to explain it all to her once the social worker and the nurse left.  

The funny thing is, after the paperwork was signed and it was "official", I felt relieved.  I wasn't expecting that.  The overwhelming sadness and dread I had been feeling was still there but to a much lesser extent, and I just felt relieved. I'm still processing that one.  

So now, instead of the "My Dad's in a nursing home" thought popping into my head at random times, making me sad and angry and confused, the "My Dad is in hospice" thought pops into my head at frequent and random times, and usually makes me tear up and makes me sad and angry and confused.  I don't cry every single day anymore, but most days, I'd say.  And usually triggered by some specific random thought now, instead of any old random thought.  Like, at first I would have to force myself to think of other things or else my mind would just focus on that and I'd be a pool of sobbing sadness in a matter of seconds.  But now, it's kind of the opposite.  Most of the time, my thoughts aren't sad, but every now and then a thought or a memory will pop up for no apparent reason and I'll get teary-eyed.  It's all part of the process, I know.  The part One of the parts that sucks is that, for all of these times I'm going through all of these stages of grief, I know there is still going to be The Big One to go through. 

Oh my gosh, I could write so much more about this. There are more things I want to share! Like how sad my Dad looked the first time I visited him after the phone call mentioned above, how I was/am completely convinced that he knew/knows what was going on even though my Mom didn't tell him, and how that image of him still sticks with me and makes me cry and makes me feel like it's my fault.  Like he could read it on my face or something.  Or my sister...don't get me started on that right now.  But, I have to get back to work now. 

I'll have to update you on Max sometime, too, because he's not doing any better.  

So much I want to write about...so little time...