The transitions can be extra tough, for everyone. That comma, it spoke volumes when I read the message earlier this evening in a text.
For a bit over a week my dad has been struggling mightily with back pain, in addition to his progressive dementia, lack of appetite, and recovery from a broken hip. Last weekend when he and I talked, he could articulate his pain, acknowledge that it was getting him down emotionally.
Sweetly, he also listened to my excitement about the San Diego Padres making it to the playoffs and let some of the joy rub off on him.
Tonight, wow, he was confused and angry. My stepmom tried to help him with the phone and he got a combination of frustrated and pissed. Yelled at Mary and didn't want to talk to me anymore.
I tried to ease Mary's mind, let her know that I understood his pain, that we didn't need to force him to talk with me. Soon after I clicked off, I found myself texting a trusted friend. It's like I could hear the pain in his voice, I wrote. I don't want either one of them to have to go through this for very long.
Gratefully, since my last post, Mary has seen the value in having a 24-hour caregiver in the house, and last weekend she agreed to hospice care. To the extent possible, my dad's pain is being managed by the care of a nurse.
The transitions can be extra tough, for everyone. The point of that comma was me. My friend was gently letting me know that with all the time and effort I've put into figuring out how to be helpful, how to respect my parents' wishes, how to honor that my dad's illness is also happening to Mary, it is now time that I understand this transition is happening to me, too.
The crazy thing is, I know that intellectually, it's just that I don't always let myself feel it spiritually.
About five weeks ago on a routine drive to work I suddenly knew I wanted a tattoo. I can't remember exactly what I was thinking just before the unbidden thought, but I am certain it wasn't about tattoos in general, the ink of anyone I know, or even artistic expression.
 |
| My first tattoo, completed just yesterday. |
My next thought that I don't know what kind of tattoo I would want or where on my body was cut off when with absolute certainty I knew it would be a sunflower on the inside right forearm. It was the favorite flower of Chris Harms, a friend since junior high school, who died when we were 28, two weeks after our 10-year high school reunion.
For reasons I still cannot explain, but that I stopped resisting decades ago, Chris is with me every day. He watches over me, often with a palpable presence just over my left shoulder, he reassures me things will be ok, he reminds me I have the strength to endure the expected, and tragically sudden, checkpoints and transitions of life.
On that drive on a September morning, Chris was telling me I needed him even closer. For this transition I needed to be able to touch him, and touch the part of myself that knows exactly how extra tough this is going to be.
Comments
Post a Comment