This morning as I swapped parent sitting with my sister, Dad was all gussied up with a hair net on, IV's hooked up, and warm blankets piled on top of him. He was in a good mood and eager to get a sausage biscuit from Hardee's. This procedure wasn't complicated, really, just stretching the esophagus --- something he'd had done several times before. Lately he'd gotten to where he couldn't swallow the smallest of pills and everything he was able to eat would come back up just minutes later. So it's time again to get his esophagus stretched so that the lumps of food can make it past the hiatal hernia and into his tummy. The procedure was uneventful. I saw in the waiting room trying to read a statistics book and wheeling his O2 container with me as I moved about.
When I was called back, the doctor was kind and told me that dad should have a liquid today and a soft diet "from now on." Hmmm, a soft diet from now on? Good luck getting Pop to comply but the "from now on" part hung in the air. Was it an euphemism for "until he expires"? I didn't ask. He went on to show me pictures of yeast infection spots in his throat. The beasts were likely a consequence of exposure to a long-term ventilator and feeding tube. Just a few pills ought to clear it up. I remembered thinking if Dad is in his good mind it will be funny to tease him about how he got a yeast infection in his throat. But those good mind fun days aren't very predictable. The nurse did volunteer that dad could have sausage gravy run through a blender and then strained to remove lumps if he absolutely had to have it. So this was my mission for the Hardee's drive through.
When we arrived, I began to order when this little frail man next to me in a hoarse voice shouted "sausage biscuit and ...." There was no stopping him. He got the 2 biscuits ordered and I took him home. Mom was there with her sitter as one would expect. Going about their daily hygiene routine. The physical reminders now of their predicament and how perilessly close to the edge they perch is almost too much for me to handle. The O2 condensor's rhythmic noise. The 2 walkers. The O2 cord snaking from one room to the next. The rosary beads. The potty chair.
Would someone just tell me about the good ole days. And would someone just freeze time for a minute so I can breathe. Sleep would be good too. And maybe some perspective.
It's hard to be kind and helpful when you are beat to a pulp. It's hard to be tender when the personality residing in the brain isn't the one that I like or know very well. I'm so sorry that life goes this route and that independence is lost. This death sentence so to speak isn't one bestowed upon the dying. Rather it's a sentence for all those caring for the dying as well. The relief valve is one that we look to for release yet we don't really want it to do that either. Maybe just a flare at the top to burn off the excess energy so that we can all settle back down... yes, a pole with a flare to burn off the ugly so that it could be pleasant again. That's my wish for today.
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