*me and my dad, taken sometime during the age of the dinosaurs…
April 14, 2010 Arrooooooooooooooo….
Arooooooo, Werewolves of London – the current song that is stuck in my head. Last night when I should’ve been sleeping, wanted to be sleeping, needed to sleep, it was Lady Gaga’s Paparazzi whoops it just changed to Poker Face. I have been using the Lady’s music as background to my a.m. sit-ups, push-ups and weight lifting routine. The genius and devil of pop music is that it is so damnably catchy…can’t read my, can’t read my, no he can’t read my poker-face… My father has decided to live – thank you very much universal power for that – and as of today he has used his oxygen (prescribed for 24/7 use in January) eight consecutive days as the doctor ordered it those long months ago. This is a relief. This is a gift. This is a good choice because he still has a lot to live for and many, many people who love him and want him to be here for a good long time. People like me. My niece and her fiancé were here this past weekend and, having just about graduated from Med School (May 16th the actual date but all rotations and testing done), they went to work on him, asking questions, and examining his meds. He loved the attention which was, to my mind, the best medicine of all for him right now. He lied like a dog about his oxygen use – or rather he said he had been using it right along 24/7 – yes, right along for the last 6 days only, you old coot! And last night he went to his favorite watering hole with the portable tank where he met one of his buds, and threw back a few beers. I did not ask him if he smoked because I don’t want to know; I assume he did not but again, I don’t want to know and whatever choices he makes now, as I have a limited time left with him, are just fabulous, perfect, ideal, and wonderful as far as I am concerned. I also found out this past weekend what the mother of the bride (my older sister) and the mother of the groom are wearing to the wedding in May: gray suits, one from Armani and one of Versace’s. The groom’s mamma is going sleeveless (so Michelle Obama chic) and my sister’s suit has three quarter sleeves. This means I can now look for suitable color contrast in a suit or separates and so important to get it right because how often, really, does one get to dress up? Not often enough! The bride, need I say it, will be wearing Vera Wang. How fun! I love a good party! And I need one, although in less than two weeks I will be retreating with my best pal from college at Kripalu, a yoga center in the Berks. Yeah! Life is good, much better than last week. Deep breath, deep gratitude, deep love for my pop.
April 14, 2010 One Day at a Time
Today was a long – endless – bad day. After seeming to be improving, my father took a turn for the worse and is now in the hospital. The congestion in his heart and lungs has dramatically worsened; his o2 level on oxygen was 84 which is very low. He has gained five pounds in just two days, all retained fluid, as his legs are painfully swollen. He struggled to breathe all day. He signed a DNR, hospice was called, and will join us in taking care of this wonderful man tomorrow. I am exhausted and so, so sad. He does not want to be transferred to a larger hospital in Kingston or Albany; he does not want heroic measures. He wants to go home – and will, tomorrow – where he wants to die with his family and the people who care about him around him. And his dog. His mind and spirit are entirely intact. The nurse (who was fantastic and exactly his type: smart, feisty and attractive) was placing the little thingummys for an EKG on his tummy and he said “can’t you go a little lower, har har har”. I love him so much. His GP, affirming that he wanted to go on home and into hospice care, said “So Mr. Miller, you’re giving up?” and while I get where she’s coming from I also wanted to kick the living shit out of her. But I did not. And so life goes on although, sooner than I can bear to admit, without my beloved father. Everyone says miracles happen all the time, well, yeah, miraculously I had this great, great man as my dad for almost fifty-one years. Lucky me, but as to him bouncing back from the edge of the precipice, I don’t know about that one. Help me to help him, help me.
You’re the end of the rainbow, my pot of gold, you’re daddy’s little girl, to have and to hold. You’re sugar, you’re spice, you’re everything nice, and you’re daddy’s little girl! ~ lyrics written by Burke & Gerlach ***but not their exact words, just the ones my ‘rents mashed together…
April 3, 2010 I Love You, Dad
A daddy’s girl is something I could never, would never, deny being. I adore my dad and while I absolutely know he does not and never did know everything about everything, deep down inside I still believe that he does, always has, and always will. Contradicting that ancient child belief of mine in his omnipotence is his current state, the result of a life time of smoking and his accompanying refusal to do what it will take to maintain even the gravely compromised state of health he has. He will not use his oxygen as he should; we are talking about a man who hasn’t worn short sleeves in decades because he doesn’t like the way his arms look, and you think he’ll cart an oxygen tank around? Not gonna happen. And he will not do the nebulizer four times a day preferring to wait until he “needs” it which is when he is hunched over, literally gasping for breath. This is very hard for this daddy’s girl to watch. And yet loving him as I do and so wanting him to do it his way, I have to (try to) respect his choices in this. He’s also not using the portable tank because he is and always has been truly, madly, and deeply cheap as fuck, so cheap it’s astounding. If he uses it, you see, then he’ll have to pay to get it refilled. His last bill for all of the oxygen equipment he now has (a lot) was around 45 bucks. He has many, many times that in his checking account and many more times that in his savings account. ARRRRGGGGG. He’s a Scotsman’s grandson alright, as well as a child of the depression. Ultimately, I cannot and will not force him to do anything, in large part because I haven’t got the will, the energy, or the desire to do so. This inertia, maybe we can call it that – inertia, is compounded by my certain knowledge that he is ambivalent about life, period, as in is it worth living for him right now, particularly as it narrows. He will be getting his lunch time meal delivered to his home; he has given up bowling and he will only get take out from his favorite breakfast haunt, because sitting there in public with his tank is not an option. And, he risks heart failure every time he leaves the house (to pick up his take-out coffee and bagel, to walk his dog) without it. Prayer helps. I trust the process of life, I trust the process of life, I trust the process of life. I surrender my dear, sweet, funny and profoundly cheap father to you, mother father God. He is such a good egg and such a good person. I am ready to let him go if reluctant, devastated, grief-stricken, and blinded by tears at the thought of just how much of a loss his passing will be. This morning I stopped by his house on my way to work in beauteous Bovina (I wasn’t going to, but couldn’t not do so) and found him in a bit of a state, unable to use the nebulizer because he had misplaced a part of it. I could not find it, called Lincare and they should be there any minute. Oh yes and I have to remember to breathe through this as well. In…one two three four…out…one two three four five six seven eight. I love you dad.
April 6, 2010 Thoughts on Care-giving
Here are my thoughts on care giving: it sucks, it’s hard, it’s guilt and anger inducing, it fills one with tears and resentment, deep love and cold indifference (depending on the moment) and more than anything else, it’s exhausting… Sunday morning my father called me sounding as if he were breathing his last breath, which he was not, yet I burst into tears (it was 6:35 and I had just been deeply, blissfully asleep) and, after ascertaining what was going on (his dog needed walking and he was just too weak) I got myself up and out of bed, walked and fed my dogs, then drove the 3.5 miles to his house to walk his. I called Invisible Fence today because more than anything we want to keep my dad in his home (we being me, my dad, and my brother) and he loves that dog so much, any other alternative is untenable. So, I walked the dog for him throughout the day Sunday as well as several times yesterday, all the while asking around for paid or volunteer help on the doggie walking front, preferably young, female, buxom, and vivacious. My father is not well and although his G.P. is unwilling to make a definite prognosis for him, she was willing to tell me that while he can certainly prolong his life by being on oxygen 24/7 (something he has only been doing for 72 hours despite her having prescribed it three months ago) his lung function is not going to get better. This is a progressive disease; my father’s CO2 levels are going up indicating that his ability to process the oxygen he is getting is going down. This is not good (and since we aspire to educate, normal healthy blood CO2 levels are around 25, his are now at 67). How long it will take for his lungs and heart to shut down completely is any one’s guess. I am also concerned that he will stop the oxygen because he is feeling better, better being extremely relative as he was knee deep in the grave for most of the past week. We shall see and part of that is doing whatever I can to take care of the momentary needs he has as well as being vigilant about treating myself well so I can continue to do so – help him – with, mostly, a good and generous disposition. To that end I have scheduled a massage and a hair cut this week, and a weekend away at a yoga retreat toward the end of the month. Additionally, I have informed my father that he is paying for my booze during this time; he signed a blank check this morning made out to the local liquor store where I will, later today, purchase a case of wine and a bottle of tequila. The good news is that if signing and handing over to me a blank check didn’t kill him, he may have more life left in him than we know.
My dad is home and now instead of wanting to live, period, he wants to live “on his terms”, which statement I took to mean (since he removed his oxygen the moment after my sister, the nurse, left his house) that he wants to live unencumbered and free of both oxygen and a need to give up smoking. Whatever. I am exhausted and feeling blue because this is the beginning of what could be the end of the release and relief I felt after my mom’s death: release from being the decision-maker and caregiver who filled out paperwork and went to the status meetings with the staff at the nursing home, relief because care-giving my parents was, as of her death in ’07, an already eight-year-long process.
The hardest part is negotiating boundaries. What will my father allow me to do for him and to require of him, if he expects me to do so much, as in get him to the doctors and the specialists and make sure his oxygen equipment is kept clean, although it was my nurse sister who called to give me those instructions, thank you very much. Every three days some part has to be thoroughly cleaned – don’t ask me which one – I was at work and quite frankly I wasn’t in the mood to take instructions from afar regarding my dad’s care from someone who has, for years now, had minimal contact with my parents. Don’t. Get. Me. Started. I love my dad and this will all be worked out I am sure but if he chooses to begin smoking again, I may just lose it. I won’t take care of someone who won’t do that one thing for himself. I know it’s not a small thing, but rather a g.d. addiction, but Jesus H. Christ come on. I have three siblings he can call for help and there are services he can make use of, services for people like himself who are functional but need some extra looking after. I am much too tired to be making decisions and even thinking about all of this, yet I am unable to think of much else. Tonight, I will take a long hot bath, watch Project Runway (ah, escapist TV, how I love ya!) and contemplate how best to do nothing at all except love my self. I did my work-out this a.m. which I skipped yesterday due to running around to get pop back home. Oh oh oh – it’s a gorgeous sunny day and all I can think of is how much I long to be asleep in my wee bed. Only 11 more hours of awake to go……
February 9, 2010 A Drama Queen
Yes. I am a drama queen, especially when tired and stressed, both of which I have been of late. Last night I slept well and long and as a result life looks much better this morning. I have had my long walk, started a fire in the wood stove and set-up a time for lunch with a good friend I have not seen in several months; all of which are life affirming actions. And, I have taken innumerable deep breaths in the process. I was also better able to sleep because I had a talk last night with my father about some of the issues I have with my being his primary caregiver, the one who does for him because I want to, but also because I can, and because it’s the right thing to do and I just want you to know, daddy, that sometimes doing the right thing SUCKS. And he acknowledged me and all that I’ve been doing and have done this morning (admittedly in his very understated way but still…), an acknowledgement that went a long way toward making it a lot better. And yesterday afternoon I wrote. I worked on a creative writing project I have had on my desk for about a year – a project I have neglected far too often. I had dropped it in the midst of the crisis, and as I had not sat down to write for two whole days it was eating at me, adding to my sense of anger at my poor old pop, who is certainly not responsible for my lack of discipline when it comes to my writing. Hard to write when I’m a wreck, and all I really want to do is watch mind-numbing TV, but it can be done. Another deep breath. I equate writing, especially on the bigger projects, with diving in, immersing myself in another, imagined world. It takes some time and space and a lot of commitment to go there. And writing is lonely. Suck it up, drama queen, and get down to it. I shall, once I am done here, promise. My dad keeps taking his O2 off and has a follow-up appointment with his doc next week. We’ll see how his blood oxygen levels are. Maybe, drama queen, he won’t need it for ever and ever, especially if he can stay away from cigarettes. Anyway, I am not responsible for his choices, but as I reminded him last eve I do tend to get most of the picking up of the pieces when both he and I pay for the bad ones he makes. Still and all, it’s all good. I slept. I dreamt I was in love with The Office actor Jon Krasinski and we were planning a fun day and night to celebrate his birthday. Hilarious. I also told my dad that I love him. Always a good thing to know and say, drama queen.
Sunny and fair, yet windy as all get out, as I found out on my bike ride into town (approximately 2.5 miles, felt like 5 with the wind in my face) to see my dad (he needed milk – not for himself, but for his dog). He is enjoying sitting in the sun, it lolls him off into sleep, but his noontime dog walker is worried about him getting a sunburn. He and I both found that amusing as among all his other issues a sunburn would be nothing. Yesterday he did something he has not done before, he handed me a letter to read without even attempting it himself. In fact, I was on my way out the door after picking up his mail (also a new development) and he halted me with a “Hey! You there, read this” or it’s near equivalent. He struggles so with small print that seeing him last week with his face pressed into a magnifying glass, hands trembling, made me burst into tears. I am spending too much time with him, and not enough. I am hovering, micro-waving his lunch, delivered by a senior meals program, and cleaning his counters needlessly. I am afraid to leave him alone, but I must. I look forward to work, but when I am at work, I am preoccupied and exhausted, drained. And, he does not need me hovering although he hasn’t complained, yet! Is he weakening every day or is that just my melodramatic fear? Do I have six more months with him or six years or, dreadful to even think it, six weeks? On such a beautiful day death can’t be an option for this still funny as hell, sharp as a tack guy. Odd to think it was easier with my mother due to her dementia, because at the time, the last year she was at home and the first year she was in the nursing home, nothing was easy. And yet, it was easier because I still feel so much his child, wanting always to defer to his judgment, tip-toeing around the hard questions and decisions that must now be asked, looked at, discussed. I did make my brother come to the house this past weekend for a minor discussion of the hard stuff. It was pretty low key, yet useful. Oh dear, I am realizing too that this hits me where I live as well because when one’s parents are entirely gone, one’s own mortality is more real – closer, up front and center – ugly thing that it is. Ugly? Why? Who knows, and I am not in a mood to work it out. My dad and I agree that heaven and hell are here, right now, on this earth, not in some murky fantastical afterlife. Let him pass from it and from me with grace and dignity – but not yet, not yet.
April 10, 2010 Overwhelm
Yesterday I had a nice meltdown – not too long but long enough for me to cry buckets of tears and feel as though my innards were melting away. This was brought on by exhaustion and the pettiness (to my mind) of others. I knew I loved my long slow morning ritual – a pot of tea and bowl of banana and steel cut oats, journaling and a walk or run up gorgeous Dry Brook Rd. but now I know I not only love it, I need it, and, for the moment, it is gone, baby, gone. I am now getting up to walk and feed my dogs, ordering my dad’s breakfast, then driving into town to get it, and then I walk his dog. Then I go home, shower, make my lunch or plan dinner for us both, and get to work or to the school to do whatever I need for Carousel. My day (and stress level) was complicated yesterday by a call from the Principal of the school regarding the show: point one, kid A has an academic honors banquet an hour away two nights before showtime, and some possible inappropriate language that Kid B has to say in the show. Kid A, with his parent’s consent – he is playing the male lead in the show – has chosen not to attend the banquet. Teaching kids to make choices and deal with the consequences is part of what we’re supposed to be doing, right? His choice to skip the banquet for the show is a good choice as far as I am concerned (selfishly, I know) and the one I hoped he would make, but it was up to him and I told him so. The principal doesn’t understand why I can’t move the dress rehearsal (45 people involved) to another night or time. It’s not that I can’t (although it would be hugely inconvenient), practically impossible, but I won’t, not for any single kid no matter how large a role, or for any reason. And knowing he had his parents support for the choice he made, why would I? The other issue is that Kid B, a regular F-bomb dropper whose parents are divorced and whose dad (a man who left a wife and family in Ohio and then left kid Bs mom and his three siblings to marry a co-worker he’d been schtupping) has gone fundamentalist, Christian Fundamentalist (of course!), and now, Mr. F-bomb dropper does not want to use the word “slut” in describing another character. Okay I sympathize, let’s change it; I wish he had spoken to me about it first rather than having his (asshole) dad call the principal but there y’go. The fundamentalists run a school in Margaretville, a school that I suspect Kid B would be attending if he didn’t love sports so much, given he has played baseball, soccer and basketball in this his senior year. Since they can’t get him into their school, they will try to do whatever they can to influence him, and his (asshole) father in whatever way they can, including his experience in this sweet, wonderful show, my favorite of the Rogers and Hammerstein canon. The principal asked me to meet with her and the superintendent of the school to review the entire script (written in 1945), which I invitation I declined, saying instead that I would make a copy of the script for them both to review on their own time. I think they are making a mistake to, as I see it, give in to the pressure of this (asshole) person, his (asshole) church, and his fear-mongering ways which are being prompted by a very ambitious (asshole) pastor who is, in fact. doing everything he can to undermine our tiny rural public school. But that’s just my opinion (the fucking assholes). The good news is my dad is feeling better after doing nothing but resting for four days. Leaving his house Monday to see his GP exhausted him. In other good news, yay, one of my students will bring him his breakfast and walk his dog this Sunday so I can get some rest and enjoy a long slow morning. Simple pleasures are the best, and thank goodness for adolescents in need of pocket money!!
*TURKEY SOUP… below, the continuing saga of my caregiving days from the archive, because instead of writing yesterday, I made turkey soup and turkey salad, and dang they’re good…
March 30, 2010 Flat Tires and Other Irritants
Yes, it happened again, I got a flat. I have these swanky German tires and rims (is that what they’re called??) and a general ignorance of things car (I should be checking my tire pressure regularly – as if!!!) and so yes, once again I rode on a flat until even I had to acknowledge there was something wrong. As I was on my way to my FWB’s house this was not a tragic occurrence; he loves performing manly tasks and set to almost immediately. Was it wrong to have chortled, to myself, of course, when he was unable to get the danged tire off the car? Not at all……but when a nearby friend with a t-bar and breaker bar (previously unknown technical terms I picked up last night) came by and was also unable to get the tire off you could say I was hoist with my own chortle. Sigh. Finally we surrendered and AAA was called. They sent a very nice gentleman from Hancock, N.Y., who arrived at approx. 11:30p.m. not surprising as Hancock is at least 50 miles away, and who was able to put the spare on and make me ready for my day today. Phew! I stood by looking decorative throughout, drinking my wine and mulling over my general good fortune and the ability to spare myself any hard work that might, horror of horrors, break one of my flashily painted nails. I’m going through a spring girlie-girl phase, and am enjoying it very much, thank you for asking. But darn it because of this I had to spend the morning, and a good chunk of cold hard cash, at a local tire service, a place chock full of manly men I honestly enjoy chatting up even in less than stellar circumstances. But, yeah, right, my a.m. routine got blown: writing, a long-ish slow breakfast, weights, walking or running a minimum of 35 minutes, and missing all that makes me a wee bit grouchy. And tomorrow in the early morning, take off time 8a.m., I must get my papa back to Albany Med where he will undergo more tests – stress and echo-cardiogram (did you know they can do stress tests with chemicals? I didn’t. Am I alone in being a bit creeped out by this?) – and so I think I will try to get out of bed by 5:30 and get my exercise and journal writing in so as to avoid more grouchiness. And my pot of tea, so necessary. My father seems to be making the necessary adjustments to using his oxygen. I’d like to credit myself for scaring the crap out of him by saying, “If you are not going to use the O2 and your nebulizer as instructed, we should get your affairs in order,” but I think being seriously short of breath on more than one occasion this week may have done the trick. We can only hope so. I’m feeling grouchy. Pout, pout, pout. And I’m hungry, waaaaaaaaa. Nothing edible is available in the rural hamlet I work in as the local librarian on Tuesdays, and unless I raid the larder in a local home or call and beg for grub from a very well-placed and generous feeling patron, which I just can’t do (it simply isn’t done!), I’m stuck. Arg. Flat tires stink. My next car is going to have the most boring tires and rims ever known to man!
March 31, 2010 Oy Vey!
Hello again. Life is good, although I am still running an energy deficit from Monday into Tuesday’s tire debacle. I did, however, just notice that there is no school this Friday and that means no rehearsal for the play I am directing, which blessedly means no teenagers from 7:30 p.m. Thursday until 5:00p.m. Monday night: there is a God!! When I am running an energy deficit I find adolescents very trying. They are like blood sucking vampires and, regards anything but themselves and their high octane lives (and accompanying drama-rama), rather indifferent to the rest of the planet including their long-suffering director. Gosh, talking about a drama-rama and drama queens, I definitely sound like one…..when I am running a deficit of energy I tend toward the over-dramatic. At such times I also find it hard to deal with my sisters, especially when the sister in question is being hostile. This morning I drove my papa to Niskyuna (a ‘burb of Schenectady, N.Y.), my younger sister’s home, as he is having a stress test and echo-cardiogram this afternoon at Albany Med. He insisted on not taking his oxygen along and added that he was not to have any nebulizer treatments until after the testing. Okay, fine, it’s your life although yes, tbh, I did have some concerns about him corpsing up in the car on the way there…several times nudging him to make sure he was breathing, period, only to find he was merely sleeping…. Upon arrival I was met at the door by my most excellent younger sister who is a nurse and mother of four (or should I rather have said that she is a wife and mother of four who happens also to be a nurse…you decide…) There was a frisson of tension in the air (what TF did I do, I just fucking got here!?) and after making sure my dad was in the house I got ready to make my goodbyes, “You didn’t insist on his bringing his oxygen?!”, “No, I did not; I am not in the business of holding a gun to his head.” I could have added, and did when describing the scene to my brother, “Call me if he dies and I need to pick up the corpse but please don’t let it get cold or I won’t be able to get him in my car…”. I’m a sentimental fool, aren’t I? I love my dad and yes, my sister was right when she said his going without oxygen is not just an issue for him when he is in her company all day but, and, however as the child who has been taking care of my mother (now 2 years deceased) and father for the last decade, I find it hard to sympathize. She can, in other words, deal with it and as a trained professional, who better should a crisis arise – and I doubt it will. My father made a joke about how he had to give us something to worry about and sister said “I have plenty to worry about, thank you” to him and “just go” to me and so I did, I just went. I think one or more of her children might be giving her a cause to worry as children seem to do that. I wouldn’t know for sure, not having any for which I alternately give the deepest, most heartfelt thanks and otherwise, on very rare occasions, weep with a some regret. But still I felt guilty until I got almost out of Schoharie County on my way back home. Thank goodness for my bro who, champ that he is, said – when I told him dad refused to take his O2 and Peg was angry “How is that your problem?” Exactly. I love my brother. I love my sisters too, only – they require more work.
*A continuation of my dairies from the last months of my dad’s life, when I was doing all of the caregiving, as well as trying to love him, take care of myself – and let go. Thanks for reading.
February 9, 2010 Small Steps
OMG I feel like a million buckeroos….. why? Well…..because. Because for the past month I have been making incremental progress in the areas I really, really, really need to make progress in, such as writing, and exercising hard every day, and blogging and being present and, and, and. And because I made soup Sunday and have been nurturing myself in all the ways I most need, one side effect of which is that the cold (yesterday it was windy as heck and freezing ’round here) hasn’t been affecting me as it can and usually does, making me tighten up, which in turn makes me feel crappy and colder (vicious circle type thing) and makes exercising and writing and happy-ing impossible. Not happening this year. Yippee. And my dad returned to bowling last night and … better yet, he bowled a 221. We had agreed he would call afterwards to let me know how he was as it was his first night back out on the town post-illness, and the glee in his voice over the high score, and his feeling well enough not only to do it, but to do it well, made me very, very happy. I did something brilliant today as well, simple and brilliant. My darling brother, the pharmacist, ordered and received a thingummy which measures the oxygen levels in the blood for my dad. When I went into the store to pick-up my paper he said to me ‘oh this is in, are you seeing dad today?’ Usually, almost always, I would have said oh yes of course and, most likely making myself late for work, I’d have dropped everything to stop in with said thingummy to see my dad. But today (for no specific reason, but for which I thank you mother-father God) I simply said, not going there, won’t see him today. My brother made no fuss and will drop it off later; he lives the equivalent of one city block away from my pop so it’s not a hardship but oh! How do you spell relief? Delegation. Brilliant and yes, I know, it’s so not a big deal, but yes, yes, yes, it is for me, for me, for me. When in the midst of my NYC actor days I had a date book in which I kept a list of things to accomplish every day: exercise, mail to 5 casting directors, drop a picture here, go to this or that audition, call or write so and so – etc., etc. I loved that because it kept me on task and I have resurrected the habit and hello!!! I love it again. I’ve also been thinking more about that former student of mine, a boy who cried on my couch the other night, telling me he is gay, coming out, preparing for telling his parental units. Of course, he knows I adore him, always will, but still, what courage he showed in opening up to me and how inspiring to me when I can be such a massive weeny about opening up when it really matters. Opening up almost always matters, but. Thrice bitten, five times as shy or something like that. Asking for what I want and need has always been excruciatingly hard. My student is, like me, a third child and we both saw enough of whatever from our older siblings to want so much to avoid all the pitfalls. In family systems psychology, they say the first child understands and lives out the explicit rules the second child understands the implicit rules and lives them out and the 3rd child sees the multiple triangulations he or she is born into and, seeing both the implicit and explicit rules, attempts another way – hah!! Often, we are stuck, knowing all the potential complications, we choose – nothing. Food for thought. Still, life is good!!!
March 28, 2010 Smokey Treats
Here’s the deal: I used to smoke, occasionally, and I know (we all know, right) that they are very, very addictive, an addiction I somehow skipped even while I enjoyed bumming a smokey treat once and a while. But. Watching my father struggle for every breath is just about killing me and any fun or glamour that ciggies ever had for me. I’m angry at my father, which I will have to work to let go of as I don’t know how much time, given the state of his health, I have left with him. I am angry because he tried and tried, and failed and failed more often, to quit smoking despite the very real and very obviously negative side effects. I am angry because I do not want to worry about him being unable to breathe and succumbing to heart failure every single waking moment and yet here I am doing just that. I love my dad and it is uncomfortable being angry with him, but there y’go. To breathe is to live and not to be able to – is simply unthinkable. The doctor, the new one, a pulmonologist, recommends he do O2 24/7 and he won’t; the doctor also recommended he use his nebulizer 4x per day and he wants to use it only when he is struggling for breath, maybe once or twice a day. ARRRRRRGGGHHH. As I said to him yesterday, it is now up to you whether you live or die and what is true is he is not sure what, if anything, he has to live for right now, as being in pain and struggling to breathe is not much in the way of quality of life. Except – he lives his dog. Still, my dad feels useless, the man who was always useful: doing, working, making – that man feels useless, a burden, and – he is alone. No one to care for, to do for, no one who needs him more than anyone else, other than his pup – who he can’t walk very far with, anymore. He is struggling with all of this, and this too is a kind of disease. I must trust him to do what is best for himself; I must trust the process of life as a whole. I must let go of my anger at him and I must let go of him, period, and continue to live my life, which is rich and good. I hate cigarettes.
