Grief: Adrift on a Sea That Has No Direction

Grief must be the most insular of all emotions. Adrift on a sea that has no direction. Each time we grieve, for each person we lose in our lives, it is entirely different. It depends on the relationship we had one with another. Losing a parent, a grandparent, a sibling, a lover, a spouse, a child, a pet, etc. each creates vastly different emotions. I expected to feel the pain born of losing a parent even though I was only Dad’s daughter-in-law. I got it full force.

I knew it was coming long before anyone else did. He and I talked long and often about his desire to go to Heaven. We read the Bible and prayed over it together. He reaffirmed his faith in the Father, the son and the Holy Ghost. In our own ways, we prepared one another for what was coming… that Dad was going… soon. Over the last couple of weeks of his life, I silently grieved as I watched him slipping further away.

I never could have imagined that I would feel two entirely different types of grief. It was impossible for me to prepare myself for the overwhelming sense that I have lost a child. No one ever mentioned that I might feel this way. When you are the caregiver of someone who suffers from the latter stages of Alzheimer’s, you are caring for a child in so many ways. This child is entirely dependent on you for everything. You are solely responsible for cleaning, changing, dressing, feeding, teaching, protecting and loving them.

When you suddenly lose that child that’s inside the parent, there is a void that is staggering. How different your life becomes. How different my life became. For the first time in 3 years, I can leave the house without making sitting arrangements. I can go to the grocery store and not buy the staples that were such a part of his daily diet. (I can’t bring myself to go down the ice cream aisle for fear of dissolving into tears at the sight of his favorite tubs of vanilla.) I no longer have to go to the pharmacy here (seriously, I use to go at least 4 times a week).

I can’t begin to tell you how much I miss hearing him say, “I want my mommy.” I even miss the times he acted out because at least he was here to do it. On the morning of him being gone a week, I awoke in tears. I was saddened by the thought that it was the longest I had been apart from him in 3 years. I was blown away by the thought that each day would irrevocably take us further apart.

Before I had time to adjust to these changes, God moved me hastily forward. Dad died on Tuesday. The following Thursday, Mama passed out and fell. She busted her knees (both knees with chronic problems) because she went straight down on both knees as she lost consciousness. The impact was hard enough to cause compression fractures in 3 vertebrae and she broke 3 toes. I was there that night. I couldn’t have dreamed I would stay a week and a half. I couldn’t have guessed at the number of questions that would be answered while I was home.

Life is already changing at lightning pace. Mama needs more help than she would ever admit. We have a lot of loose ends with our home, jobs, school, etc. We have finally come to the conclusion that we are going to approach life from a rather unorthodox angle. I am going to be home in Florida from Saturday night until Tuesday morning. It will allow me to work my regular Sunday and Monday nights at Peggy’s and take care of the many things that are requiring attention at home. It will enable me to have time with Richard, Jeremy, Jordyn, Melissa, the kids, etc. Then I will be in Gulfport from Tuesday afternoon until Saturday afternoon with Mama. It will give me a chance to have the best of both worlds.

I am home now. For the first time in 3 years, I am in our own home. As much as I miss Dad, I do NOT miss the daily reminders that this was his home and we were just guests here! It’s odd to realize I don’t know if I’ll ever be a fulltime resident here again or not.

For a long time, people have asked me what I was going to do when Dad died. I never had an answer because I didn’t know what life would have to offer me. Now I do know. At least for now, I will be dealing with cancer as well as the aftermath of dealing with dementia.

In These Final Hours

I have felt a presence these last few hours so strongly I have glanced around rooms…
A mere whisper of movement, a tiny breeze that touches my skin to leave a shiver in its wake…
So strongly I have felt it, I called out your name softly so as not to disturb… either of you.

I watch him sleeping and marvel at the sense of peace I feel wash over me…
At the peace I see erasing the lines time and life have chiseled into his face…
I feel comforted to know that you await him with open arms… anxious to be by his side once again.

Like you, I have loved him… and cared for him… I have devoted this part of my life to him…
My arms feel empty at the thought of him preparing to take wing and fly away from me…
My heart overflows as I feel you hovering nearby, eager to begin your next chapter… with him.

I bow my head and pray knowing that the time to depart his life here on earth draws ever nearer…
I am honored to be here with him, with them, privileged to have had them call me daughter…
I am humbled by the love they still share and blessed to have borne witness to its enduring power…

There will be dancing on the clouds of Heaven soon, while a host of angels sing and rejoice…
Before long this precious father-in-law of mine and his beloved bride will finally be reunited…
Never again to be separated by… time… space… life… or death… together for all eternity…
together they will forever soar free.

It's Sunday and Time Is Marching On...

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Around 3:45 this morning, I called hospice. Dad could no longer swallow and was choking. I knew it was time, but I needed them to tell me it was. The nurse assured me it was time to start administering atropine drops to reduce secretions and a combination of Roxanol and Xanax to keep him pain-free. Because he was in distress, I gave him the prescribed dosage. He settled into a deep and peaceful sleep. For now, he seems to only need the meds every 4-6 hours.

The grandchildren and great-grandchildren that live locally were here most of the day. The children don’t hesitate to run in and out of his bedroom. Little Tyler is only 4 years old and he goes and “checks on” his Pop every 10 minutes or so. I cannot help the smile that crosses my face every time I hear that little voice shout, “Hi, Pop!” when he enters the room. The dog periodically jumps up on the bed and slinks forward to lick Dad’s face. His only living daughter spent a great deal of the afternoon by his side. As these things occur, I am reminded that we are a family and this is life.

It reminds me of all the reasons I had my youngest daughter at home, rather than a hospital. There I was at peace, surrounded by those closest to me. Here he is at peace, surrounded by those closest to him. There a life was welcomed in a virtually pain-free environment. Here a life is waiting to enter the Kingdom of Heaven in a completely pain-free environment.

This is a celebration of life tinged with a hint of great sadness. To lose one you love is always heart-wrenchingly sad. But, there is great joy at the thought of him finally freed from the Alzheimer’s that was slowly destroying him. There is great joy at the thought of him finally being reunited with his beloved bride of nearly 70 years.

Without a shadow of a doubt, it’s going to be another very long night and I’m betting it’s going to end up being just me and him. Together, waiting, as time marches on…

It's Just the Two of Us Here

Yep, it’s official. Dad has a Urinary Tract Infection (UTI). It took until Tuesday to get a viable sample. Because it was almost closing time at the lab, it was Wednesday before we got the results. I am not a patient person by nature but this has been a ridiculously long drawn out process. A normal person would go to the ER and they would diagnose it quickly, hand you a prescription for an antibiotic then send you on your merry way. Dad is on hospice so things are no longer normal. I cannot take Dad to the hospital this time because they would admit him. I promised him that he would die at home. I will honor that promise.

By Tuesday night, he was aggressive and combative, obviously not in his right mind. Every time I got within arms-reach, he would grab my arms in a grip stronger than I could have ever dream he was capable of. He would squeeze them tighter and tighter until I could break free. He laughed and told me he wanted to break them. He would claw and pinch. When I fed him, he spit the food at me and was convinced I was trying to poison him. He tried to bite me multiple times.

On Wednesday the tests results came back that he had a raging UTI. For a variety of reasons, they had to grow a culture to determine which antibiotic to put him on, which meant waiting another 24 hours. While the nurse was here she got to see him trying to break my arm. She said it even scared her. He was getting worse and we both knew it. They started him on pain medication believing his combativeness was caused by pain he couldn’t communicate to us. Apparently they were right because the behaviors stopped as soon as he started taking it.

By noon on Thursday Dad had become less responsive, sleeping constantly. Barely rousing to eat, drink and take meds. Steadfastly, he refused to open his eyes. That afternoon, the culture results came back…contaminated. Once again, we needed a urine sample. It was getting harder and harder to get one.

Friday dawned and I was shocked to see the further rate of deterioration. He is beginning to look gaunt. He doesn’t respond to anything but pain (ie. If I move him to change his diaper he moans). His oxygen saturation level has dropped to a consistent 89. I started him on 2 liters of oxygen and called hospice. We quickly agreed it would be best to get a nurse out here to get a sample using a catheter since it was obvious there was no other way to get one. It was also obvious we were running out of time.

A new nurse came out and she seemed to understand my frustration at the whole situation. Once we had the sample, she got the doctor on the phone. She requested that she be allowed to call in a prescription for a standard antibiotic, Cipro to buy us time to get the lab results. He started it as soon as I could pick it up, but I have to wonder if it’s already too late. This is the point where I have to have faith in medical science and BELIEVE that it might work.

This morning Dad was aware of me when I gave him his meds, crushed up and swimming in water. My heart swelled to nearly bursting when he croaked out a labored, “I love you”. I still can’t get him to open his eyes. But he did squeeze my hand weakly in response to my squeezing his, which is more than I’ve gotten since Wednesday. The threat of aspiration hangs over us as I continue to try to get water, Ensure and medications down his throat. I know I am fighting a losing battle. Still, I must continue to try.

Dad is 90 years old. He’ll reach 91 if he sees Nov. 11th. His medical history is unbelievable. His list of current diseases and conditions is quite lengthy. The number of pills he takes daily is staggering, even now. He lost his bride two and a half years ago. All of his old friends are gone now. He has buried two of his daughters. He has zero quality of life and has had for quite a while now. He has given up and is ready to go.

His body is slowly shutting down as I sit here listening to him breathe, the sound separate from the steady rise and fall of the oxygen machine. This afternoon, Richard helped me get him cleaned up and get his bedding changed. He roused as we finally got him resettled and actually opened his eyes. Dad focused his eyes briefly on his son and whispered, “I love you”. He tried to talk more but the effort was simply too much. He managed to keep his eyes open through almost half an Ensure and a bit of water. His eyes trying to focus as he followed my movements. Eventually, his eyelids softly closed, his eyelashes fanning out against his sunken skin.

He has been sleeping ever since. It is just the two of us here. I hold his wrinkled hand tightly. My voice rings loudly in my ears as I talk to him while coaxing him to swallow “one more dropperful of water”. Each time I succeed my heart rejoices. Each time he chokes, my heart plummets. Every once in a while, he tries to clear his throat then all settles back to the rhythms of man and machine. And time marches on…

Squamous Cell Carcinoma is One of the Dirtiest Things I Know

Well, here we are. Dad’s mental state is deteriorating noticeably. He has this annoying new habit of laughing to himself when he disagrees with anything that is said to him. I never knew a laugh could sound so painful… so hateful. He is becoming more paranoid and delusional daily. He frequently has no idea where he is and asks why we “brought him here to visit”. He is transported back in time to Louisiana and believes he still lives there. It isn’t uncommon for him to ask me to “take him back to his bride”.

Physically he is doing amazingly well. Ask anybody that knows him and they will tell you he looks better than he has in years. If you were to ask his doctors, they would tell you that he is in remarkable shape for someone with his list of physical conditions, diseases and age. He is frequently referred to as a medical miracle. It’s as if his physical state is improving as his mental state declines.
Tomorrow, we will go in for yet another surgery. Dad has squamous cell carcinoma on his right ear, again. They will do Moh’s surgery and it will be gone… until the next time.

This past week we found out my mother has squamous cell carcinoma. It’s not on her, it is inside her. She has lung cancer. It wasn’t there in April when she had a CT scan because of pneumonia but it is there now in August. I wish to God there was a treatment like Moh’s that could fix her as easily. Hers is inoperable. We are so in need of a medical miracle here. What a difference it makes to have something like this inside your body rather than outside it! I hate that I am here and not there. I hate that I constantly end up feeling like I am letting down someone in my life, someone that I love. It is all part of the curse/blessing of being a caregiver.

For those who may not know it, my mother spent the last seven years of my grandmother’s life as her caregiver. She devoted herself to her mother. She gave up her home, her time, her everything to be there and care for her mother. We lost Grandmama 5 months ago. Needless to say, Mama has been killing herself trying to settle her estate, deal with all the little things that have to be done, all while dealing with her grief. As she has physically deteriorated, we all assumed it was just a part of the insane stress she has been under. We never guessed there was a time bomb ticking inside her.

Caregiver stress weakens the immune system. A weakened immune system allows things like cancer to grow. I can’t help wondering if there isn’t a direct correlation between the amount of stress and the rapidity of the growth of her disease. I am so frustrated and angry at something so far beyond our control. But I do know that those feelings, too, will eventually pass. Isn't it odd how much of everything in our lives depends on the passage of time?

My mother is one of my heroines. She is one of my best and dearest friends. She raised me and my little sister as a single mom in an era where we were the minority. Very few of my friends growing up lived in a one parent household. If they did, it was usually because a parent had died, not divorced. Mama worked for a pittance and struggled to provide for the three of us. She held her head high and did the best she could (with much help from her beloved parents). She taught me that I can do anything I put my mind to as long as I believe in MYSELF. Most importantly, she loved us.

Over the last five months, I have thought to myself countless times that Mama finally has an opportunity to LIVE. She can finally live her life for herself… she can do the things she has never been free to do… she can live a life where she doesn’t have to answer to another living soul. I’m a bit pissed off that a stupid disease is invading her and trying to knock her down. It is a strong reminder that life is too short. It’s a shame it takes reality biting us in the butt to remind us that life is ALWAYS too short!

I have often said that I come from a long line of Steel Magnolias. It is strong, female, southern stock that always seems to rise like a phoenix amidst the ashes of circumstance. Yes, I know I am somehow mixing metaphors but I also know that the people who read this will completely get my meaning. I also know that there is always a chance my mom will beat this thing simply because she is who she is and she is a Steel Magnolia.

If you know my mother, you know what a great person she is. If you don’t know her, I sincerely wish you did because your life would be enriched by the acquaintance. But whether you know her or not, I ask that you lift her up in prayer, kind thought and wishes. Every little bit helps. And we all need a little help sometimes.

Goodnight, Sweetheart

Tonight after dinner, Dad announced he was going to watch some T.V., something he normally does. I came downstairs to take a bath after letting him know I’d be back in a little while. While I was in the tub, I would have sworn I heard Dad talking to someone. Unable to imagine who it might be, I hurried to finish and go check on him.

As I went upstair

s I clearly heard him say, “Did you see that, Sweetheart? All you ever see on The Weather Channel are people trying to sell you stuff and tornadoes.” I popped my head over the balustrade to see him sitting in his easy chair. From my perspective, I couldn’t see anyone else in the room (it is a HUGE open-air room). As I quickly scanned the room, he turned his head toward the chair closest to him and said, “I’ve really missed watching T.V. with you. I really miss talking to you at night.”

Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked in the direction he was looking. There in the chair Mom always sat in was a framed portrait of her. I ducked back and sat on the stairs for a moment to catch my breath, tears rolling silently down my cheeks, as I heard him say, “Hell, Sweetheart, I just plain miss you.”
Taking a deep breath, I crept down several stairs and made a show of stomping up them. Dad looked at me sheepishly. “I’m not crazy,” he announced quickly, shaking his head. “I just miss her so much. I miss talking to her and watching T.V. with her and seeing her beautiful face.”
Choked up, I could only nod. He struggled to rise from the chair, grabbed his walker and excused himself to go to the bathroom. The instant he was out of the room, I had my phone in my hand and was snapping pictures. I put the portrait back in its normal place and sat down wondering what I would say to him when he returned.
I shouldn’t have worried because he didn’t return. After about 15 minutes, I tiptoed down the hall to find him in bed snoring softly. As I turned away, he made a little snorting noise and called out, “Goodnight, Sweetheart.” He almost always hears me (or senses me) no matter how quiet I am.
With tears in my eyes and a smile on my face I replied, “Goodnight, Dad. Call me if you need me.”
“I will. You call me if you need me. Goodnight, Sweetheart.”

Kidneys, Tears and Fears

May 24, 2010


The last few days have been intense to say the least. Friday afternoon (May 21st), we went to see Dad’s Kidney Specialist for his quarterly check up. I found out at the last one in Feb., that Dad’s kidneys are severely damaged. His latest test results indicate that his kidneys are only functioning at about 35%. Reality check… there is nothing that can be done to stop it but there are a few things we can try that might slow the deterioration down. The first of which is several medication changes starting with his high blood pressure meds. He has been on one med that could be the reason for the declination in his kidney function. Ironically, it’s one of the ones his primary doctor had cut in half a few days before. We won’t know if it’s working until the end of July when he goes in for lab tests again.

On Saturday afternoon, Dad was watching TV and Jordyn was walking through to get something from the kitchen. Dad told him to “come here”. When Jordyn approached his chair, Dad struggled to his feet and wrapped Jordyn in a big hug. “If I am not here this summer, and I might not be. You never know…” Dad told him. “I want you to know I love you and I’m proud of you. You are going to set the world on fire if you will just stay on track.”
Jordyn was blown away and immediately came to find me. His eyes filled with tears, he relayed what had happened. “Nonni, was Pop trying to tell me he is going to die?” his voice quivered. “I mean, I know he’s old and stuff but he was acting really weird. Is he going to die… like soon?”
I turned to face him and tried to be as honest as I could, “Honey, he IS old and nobody has a clue when he, or anybody else for that matter, is going to die. He’s just missing Munner very, very much right now.”
Before I could say another word, he threw himself down on the couch and pulled a pillow over his head as gut-wrenching sobs wracked his body. I ran to him, “Honey, what is it?”
His reply was muffled so I wrestled the pillow from his grasp. Between sobs he cried in such a lost voice, choking on his tears, “She really isn’t ever coming back is she? Munner is really dead and I am never going to see her on earth again. I just realized… And Pop… It’s not fair! It’s just not fair!”
I knew it would eventually hit him I just never thought it would take so long or hit so hard. I pulled him into my arms and let him bawl it out.
He eventually wore himself out crying and hiccuped as he gulped in air. “Nonni,” he asked in a subdued voice still full of tears, “I didn’t get it before. I don’t want Pop to want to die.”
I squeezed him tightly, “I don’t either, Jordyn. But, it’s like Pop’s said through all of this… Whatever happens, we just have to believe it is God’s Will. And we have to love him even more now that Munner is gone. We have to keep making him want to hang on for as long as we possibly can.”
He nodded solemnly and went to his room. He was quiet the rest of the night but there was a deep sadness that hadn’t been there before, every time he looked at his Pop.


On Sunday, Damien (the only one of our grandchildren that lives out of state) arrived to stay with us for a few days. His other grandparents, GiGi and Grandaddy, who he lives with, brought him. As soon as they left, Dad wanted to know why he hadn’t been introduced to them. I pointed out that he met them when they were here in Dec. He walked around grumbling that people are always telling him things that are “bullshit”. 20 minutes later, he again asked who those people were that had been here. I explained that they were our ex-son-in-laws parents, that their son had been married to our oldest daughter. He doesn’t remember Allen at all and informed me he isn’t even sure who my children are. I went through it with him again (we do this quite frequently).
Dad has been very confused by this new child in the house. I keep Melissa’s 3 children Mon., - Wed. and having an extra kid around really messed with Dad. I can’t begin to count how many times I answered the “Who do these children belong to again?” question on today.
Also of notable mention, Dad was off balance after dinner tonight. I waited until he headed to bed before coming downstairs, to be on the safe side. About 15 minutes later, I heard a small thud and then I heard Cameryn say, “Pop, did you fall down again?”
I raced upstairs and there he was lying on the floor between the sofa and his desk. “Dad!”
He assured me he was fine, just dizzy. As soon as I had determined that he wasn’t bleeding from anywhere, he tried to get up. He couldn’t do it. I had to get behind him and physically pick him up (he was complete dead weight in my arms) and get him seated on his walker. “I didn’t know you were so strong,” he said.
Then he leaned forward and grabbed something from the seat of his desk chair and handed it to me. It was a folder we had spent a great deal of time this evening looking for, a folder that he had insisted somebody had gone into his desk and stolen. I insisted no one had stolen it, he had simply misplaced or moved it himself.
“On the bright side, I found this on the floor under my desk. I might not have found it if I hadn’t fallen. Guess nobody stole it after all.”
With a shake of my head, I put it where it belongs and helped him back to bed. Admonishing him again to use the walker if he got up during the night at all.

Dreams

May 13, 2010

My dreams were filled with her last night. They were random dreams that seemed to go on forever. They seemed so real I could feel her touch, see her smile, hear her voice. And as I dreamed, I experienced an exorbitant sense of longing, a prevailing sadness tied me to the realization that she is gone.

We were in an unbelievably beautiful garden. She came to me and beckoned me to sit down beside her on a stone bench. When we were seated, she took my hand in hers. We stared into one another’s eyes until I had to turn my head and break the gaze that I felt could see into my soul.
“He loves you very much, you know.”
My mind instantly registered the strength of her voice. There was no struggle to breathe now. I turned back to face her.
“It’s up to you to take care of him. He’s got to find something to DO. He doesn’t go fishing anymore…Get Jeremy to take him. He doesn’t read anymore. He used to love to read. All he does is watch TV without the sound or sit around and try to remember me.
“Mom,” I wondered how many times I had said these words to her when she was alive. “Dad quit fishing because he was terrified to leave you at the house alone. Now, he is afraid that something will happen to him and he will be too far from help if he needs it..
He quit reading because the Alzheimer’s made him forget what he was reading as soon as he read it. What can I do to help him?” I implored her.
She touched my cheek lovingly. “Keep loving him. Keep bringing the babies around. Breathe life into him. Keep finding things for him to do. Make him help you around the house more. Make him live!
He is frustrated because he can only hold on to certain memories and most of those are old memories. You have to help him remember… and help him forget.”
I shook my head in confusion. “Help him forget what?” I cried out to her.
“The bad parts. Help him forget the pain of watching me die. Remind him I am no longer in pain!
Help him forget that pain he feels because I am no longer by his side. Remind him I am always with him, a part of him.
I know it’s a lot to ask but he loves you and he will listen to you.”

I heard a bird singing in the distance somewhere. The smell of the flowers assaulted me… Jasmine, Gardenias, Roses, Sweet Olive, Magnolia, Honeysuckle, Lavender, Hibiscus, Lilies, Lilac, Wisteria, Daisies, Camellias, Azaleas, Dogwood…
As I looked around me, I became aware of a humming. I focused on the tune. “I come to the garden alone… while the dew is still on the roses…”
Instantly, I realized the garden we sat in was HER garden. I was astonished by what she had accomplished in such a short period of time.
She reached for my hand again and gave it a small squeeze. “I am with you, too. Always…”

The scene spun away and suddenly, I was in the living room watching the muted TV with Dad. As I glanced at him, I saw her standing behind his recliner. She had her hand on his shoulder and she smiled.


The scene spun away and suddenly, we were around the dinner table. Everyone was talking and laughing as they ate. Everyone, that is, but Dad. She appeared again, standing behind him, her hand upon his shoulder. As I watched, she gently placed a kiss on his temple. He immediately reached a hand up to brush at the spot.
I marveled that he felt her touch.

The scene spun away and suddenly, I was in the kitchen. She was standing at the sinking looking out the window at the lake. Without turning toward me she said softly, “We need more birdseed.”

The scene spun away and suddenly, we were back in the garden. This time we stood by a peacefully gurgling fountain. We stood there for a moment, holding hands before she said, “I am always with you all. He has to understand… When it is time, which it is not yet, I will be right here waiting for him!”

Mother's Day Without Mom

Today is Mother’s Day. It has been a rather odd day around our house. Everyone has been on the quiet side. Don’t get me wrong though, it has been a lovely day. But the absence of Mom has been felt pretty hard by every one of us, Dad most especially.
He went to bed tonight as usual. Less than an hour later, he was back up. He went into the Jordyn’s room and yelled at him and Cameryn. He told them it was disrespectful to watch TV and have a good time celebrating when his wife had just died 2 weeks ago. He told them to turn off the TV and went back to his room.
I went upstairs to get something to drink and Dad shuffled into the room. I apologized if I had woken him up. He informed me that he hadn’t been to sleep because he was lying in bed thinking about his wife. He then proceeded to tell me what had happened with the boys. I told him I was sorry and assured him they were headed to bed.
As I went to tell the boys lights out, Jeremy and Susan came into the kitchen from outside. I heard them laugh. Dad bristled and shuffled in their direction. He promptly gave them the same speech he had the boys. That it was disrespectful to celebrate and have a good time when his wife had only died 2 weeks ago. He said he couldn’t understand what had gotten into everyone. His face, as he left the room, showed his utter disgust. I let him go but followed him most of the way to his room, watching for signs of unbalance.

I went downstairs once everyone was settled. 20 minutes or so later, Richard was outside and I was just inside the door when we heard a couple of crashes from the kitchen. He ran through the house and up the stairs while I ran up the outside stairs. We reached the kitchen at the same time to discover Jordyn & Cameryn with their hands practically in the cookie jar. They each had a different version of what had happened. Basically it comes down to this there was a glass knocked over and the lid to the cookie jar was askance.
Dad came in to see what the ruckus was all about as I was getting onto Jordyn. He jumped to the children’s defense. “It’s ok. No harm done. I quit using that cookie jar because the lid makes too much noise.” He wink at the boys, “Kids will be kids. Don’t be too hard on them. I’m sure they weren’t trying to misbehave.”
I sent Jordyn to his room and settled Cameryn on the couch in the living room. As I was covering him up, Dad reached over and ruffled his hair. “He’s a good one. A real prize! They all are to be honest. But this one is special.” He bent down and kissed Cameryn on the cheek and allowed me to help him to his bedroom.
“Dad, where is your walker?” I asked.
“In the bedroom,” he answered sheepishly. “I keep looking at it and thinking it’s a good idea to use it but then I forget.”
“Well, we need to think of a way for you to remember. Dad, it’s just like the way you use to hound Mom about using her wheelchair. You did it because you loved her. I do it because I love you.” I squeezed his arm, “I don’t want anything to happen to you just yet.”
As we entered the bedroom he looked toward Mom’s jewelry box where her ashes were once again resting. “I’m just not ready to bury her. I know it’s not the same but she is here. We’ve been married so long I don’t think I can give her up.”
“Dad, nobody says you have to give her up.”
“I might want to bury her someday or I might not ever want to bury her. Right now I don’t.”
I stopped and put my arms out to him, “Dad, I kind of like knowing she’s here with you. Maybe now it’s her turn to keep an eye on you. But, no matter you do what you want to and I will stand behind you. I love you.”
His arms came around me and he hugged me tight as he whispered in my ear, “I love you, too, Sweetheart. Thank you. Thank you for all you do for me.”
I tucked him in and moved the walker so it would completely block his path if he got up again. I set the brakes and looked at him. “Now, when you get up, you will have to use it to get out.”
He chuckled softly, pointing out, “I had it there twice already and I just moved it out of the way both times. But you’re welcome to give it a try.”
Shaking my head with a smile, I called, “I love you,” over my shoulder as I left the room. Halfway down the hall, I heard, “I love you, too…”