December 18, 2012 · 7:26 am

The Circle Closes

Silent movies used to use a particular edit to denote finality: a circle that grew smaller and smaller until everything went to black. When Looney Tunes lampooned the technique, Porky Pig suddenly squeezed through the shrinking circle, to stutter “That’s all folks,” before popping back into Toon Town, the window closing behind him.

I’ve often thought of the end of life in those terms. The past few weeks,the circle has been closing.

With an underlying diagnosis of congestive heart failure, and the instinctive discipline of my Dad, it’s been hard to predict how the final years of his life might go. My Mom’s terminal lung cancer had a pretty known trajectory; although she was given weeks to live, she lived nearly four months, but either way – we knew it wouldn’t be long, and it wasn’t long.

Every day now gets a little tougher. Dad is growing weaker. He sleeps more, and sometimes is not strong enough to stand and walk. He is very short of breath even at rest, and eating and drinking is becoming more difficult. His heart rate is lower and becoming irregular, and his blood pressure is up. He is working hard just to breathe and talk.

So I wonder, perhaps for the first time: are we now in the final period? I won’t call it the home stretch because there’s nothing homey or relieving about it. I have been with two people when they died, and it was hard work for them, leaving this world, even with great comfort care.

A week ago, my brothers were worrying about Dad’s dignity as he left the ER with a catheter. One of them said it was “one more blow.”

Funny, as Dad has needed more personal care this week, dignity hasn’t felt like a big issue. Words from Tuesdays with Morrie came floating in to my head, so much so that I dug the book out this morning:

“Mitch, it’s funny,” he said. “I’m an independent person, so my inclination was to fight all of this — being helped from the car, having someone else dress me. I felt a little ashamed, because our culture tells us we should be ashamed if we can’t wipe our own behind. But then I figured, Forget what the culture says…. I am not going to be ashamed. What’s the big deal?“

“And you know what? The strangest thing.”…

“I began to enjoy my dependency. Now I enjoy when they turn me over on my side and rub cream on my behind so I don’t get sores. Or when they wipe my brow, or they massage my legs. I revel in it. I close my eyes and soak it up. And it seems very familiar to me.

It’s like going back to being a child again. Someone to bathe you. Someone to lift you. Someone to wipe you. We all know how to be a child. It’s inside all of us. For me, it’s just remembering how to enjoy it.”

Hundreds of times, my Dad has said to me, “Everyone needs a mother.” Everyone does.

I am hoping that I can do what mothers do in these final stages: make the boo boos feel better, and chase the nightmares away.

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December 15, 2012 · 10:01 am

Love and Buckwheat Pancakes

Buckwheat pancake on the griddle

My brothers and I all have our ways of demonstrating love for Dad. And right now Dad can use all the TLC he can get.

My brother, Dean, whipped up a batch of one of Dad’s favorite confections this morning: buckwheat pancakes.

My kitchen smells like stale beer the morning after a fraternity party. These grainy pancakes, tasting of yeast and looking like dirt, are an obsession that escapes me. “It’s an acquired taste,” Dean says. I guess.

I may dislike the smell and hate the taste, but I love these little rituals that my brothers bring with them when he visit. Dad eats it up. Literally.

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November 29, 2012 · 3:25 pm

Summoning Angels

Perhaps the worst losses are the ones that we don’t expect: the children who die before their parents, the young mothers or fathers whose lives laid ahead of them, the mothers we expected to be in our lives for so much longer.

With these premature deaths, we wail with no less intensity than the mourners of ancient Rome, albeit through all the ways that we communicate now. Whether poured out in text messages, or emails, on Facebook or by telephone, it is awful to behold, and worse to feel.

With the loss of my “other mother” in October, I find myself compelled to unpack some Christmas decorations that I haven’t displayed in years: my mother’s angels. Back in the 50s and 60s, my mother collected small angel figurines that she displayed on a bed of “angel hair” (spun fiberglass) that glowed from the string of tiny white lights beneath. Each was lovely, but one in particular stood out: a small girl angel, clad in pink, rosy cheeked, curly haired, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer.

Angels weren’t just a symbol of Christ’s birth to my mother; she had her own little angel in heaven. Before I was born, my sister, Midge, died of leukemia at the age of four. I don’t remember seeing obvious signs of grief in my mother or father during my childhood. But much later, after my mother died in 1999, Dad poured out his heart to me. He repeatedly slapped his palm against his forehead as he described her calling out to him from her oxygen tent in the hospital, “Daddy, help me.” “I couldn’t do anything,” he said, “I went out of the room and pounded on the wall. I couldn’t do anything.”

In the past few weeks, I have borne witness to and experienced that stabbing kind of pain that comes with unexpected loss: the continuing fallout from the death of a young mother to alcoholism, the sudden loss of a joyous and loving young father, and my “other mother,” Miss Ann.

My other mother’s family gathered to make her favorite foods and set the table just as she would have, harvest colored candles arrayed on her heavy brass serving tray. My friend who lost her childhood buddy to addiction wrote a eulogy filled with beautiful stories of her wit and strength. My friend who lost her brother, the young father, raises beers to him to re-enact the fun times when they met at the Whole Foods Bier Garten. These moments were nothing like scenes from a TV drama in which survivors look beautiful while they delicately weep in their time of grief; they were – and are – red-eyed, snot-riddled affairs where people try to do something, anything, to make a terrible reality less terrible.

In reliving traditions – even privately – we summon the people we have lost, the people we feel we should not have lost. Are we hoping that their ghosts will be with us as we go through our rituals? Do we imagine that they will be near as angels, hovering over our lives? I think my mother imagined Midge as an angel, captured in the likeness of the little pink-clad figurine.

Caroline Kennedy, who knows a few things about grief, devoted a chapter to death and grief in her lovely collection of poetry, She Walks in Beauty (Hyperion, 2011). Among the poems was this excerpt from “To W.P.,” by George Santayana:

With you a part of me hath passed away;

For in the peopled forest of my mind

A tree made leafless by this wintry wind

Shall never don again its green array.

Chapel and fireside, country road and bay,

Have something of their friendliness resigned;

Another, if I would, I could not find,

And I am grown much older in a day.

But yet I treasure in my memory

Your gift of charity, and young heart’s ease,

And the dear honor of your amity;

For these once mine, my life is rich with these.

And I scarce know which part may greater be —

What I keep of you, or you rob from me.

Those who lose someone too soon know what it means to grow older in a day, and to feel robbed by the loss of someone who died before we were ready. As I pull out my mother’s angels, one by one, I call her: “Mom – whether you are angel or ghost – be with me.”

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November 21, 2012 · 11:56 am

Taking Mom for Granted

Although my mother died in 1999, she lives on in my mind. In not a few of my mental pictures, she is busy in the kitchen in her quilted satin pink bathrobe — the one Dad bought her on one of his last minute Christmas Eve shopping expeditions. She’s sweating slightly and occasionally barking orders like the domestic commander that she was.

My brother and I huddle around a giant stainless steel bowl “picking the bread,” a chore that involved plucking slightly stale sandwich bread into suitably-sized increments for the sage and onion stuffing. We cooperated but were none too happy about it. I am sure I had been told – repeatedly – to get out of my luxurious four poster bed in the dark corner basement room where I would easily sleep until noon, given half the chance. But I wasn’t given the chance as (alas) Mom needs help.

The bread picked, my chores continue, or I should say, “chore.” The only other standing task I remember on holidays was setting the table. Holidays, of course, called for the household’s finest: Grandmother’s heavy silver place settings, Mom’s “Golden Wreath” china, Waterford “Lismore” crystal and lots of silver serving dishes that invariably needed polishing. I’m sure I emitted my share of heavy sighs while getting everything up to Mom’s standards, which is to say the standards of a Marine Corps officer’s wife.

In the meantime, my Mom finished the stuffing, got it in the bird, “jounced” the turkey up and down with Dad’s help to maximize room for the stuffing, stitched up the gaping maw of the turkey’s innards, and started the long, slow process of babysitting and basting the turkey to its golden, roasted peak. Somewhere along the line she prepared the side dishes, although turkey, mashed potatoes and stuffing were all anyone ever cared about.

When it came time to gather ’round the table for grace, a toast, and the ceremonial carving of the bird, we thanked Mom. Or at least I think we did. To be honest, I’m not sure.

I took our delicious holiday meals for granted. I took our lovely home and table setting for granted. I took my mother for granted.

And, as strange as it sounds, I am grateful that I could be so oblivious in my security. One of my mother’s greatest gifts was that she was utterly reliable and predictable in her role as mother. I never had to question whether she loved me, or how she would respond if I did something she approved of, or disapproved of. She was the same, day in and day out. An immutable force of nature.

As I look forward to the holiday tomorrow, I expect that I will be taken for granted. I hope those who I love don’t have to think about who I am, what to expect of me, and how I feel about them.

So, go ahead. Take me for granted. It’s one of the nicest compliments you could pay me as a legacy from my mother.

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November 7, 2012 · 6:31 pm

Saying goodbye

While my “other mother” was lying in her hospital bed at St. Joseph’s Medical Center 10 days ago, in between periods of stark awareness, my mind kept rewinding and fast forwarding. I rewound to a night thirteen years ago when my mother was in a different bed in St. Joseph’s, fading in and out of lucidity following procedures that first discovered her late stage lung cancer and then sought to repair a hole in her lung so that she could go home with hospice. But I was also fast forwarding, imagining the day that I will hold my father’s hand while he struggles to leave this earth. I think that’s how it is for many people: when we lose someone we love, we also think about the others we have lost, and those who we cherish and are losing.

I almost published this journal entry from February 16, 1999 just before I headed up to Washington state. When I returned Monday night, it was the first thing I saw on my desk:

Last night, I spent the night with Mom at St. Joseph’s Medical Center. Two-and-a-half weeks into her stay, following her diagnosis of lung cancer, she was for the first time completely lucid.

At about 9:45 p.m., Mom was looking at the ceiling. I asked her if she was thinking or looking at something. She replied that she was thinking.

Over the next hour, in quiet and measured tones, she said goodbye to me. She began by saying, ‘You’ve been a wonderful daughter.’ After a few minutes, she added, ‘You’re a very competent woman.’

I realized that she was beginning to say goodbye. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me but the words seemed so inadequate. I told her she was a wonderful mother — strong, loving and nurturing. I remember once, when I was quite old, that she had responded to my sadness by pulling me on to her lap in my Nana’s rocking chair.

I hugged her and apologized for crying. She said, ‘Why not?’ Then she said, ‘You are a beautiful daughter; now get some Kleenex and blow your nose.’

After a few minutes she said, ‘We’ve had a wonderful life together. Sons are special but there is something very important about a daughter.’  She tried to express her thoughts about what makes daughters different and struggled a bit with the right words. She said, ‘Daughters are more emotional.’ It seem to me that what she meant was that daughters are close to one’s heart in a different way.

I said to her that my brothers had been wonderful throughout her stay. I told her they had comforted her and been loving and compassionate. I told her that we had not left her in the entire 2 1/2 weeks. This seemed to surprise her. I added, ‘We didn’t think you would want to be left alone.’ She said, ‘You were right,’ and smiled softly.

She said that her grandmother was in her late 90s when she died and that she couldn’t remember how old her mother was when she died. Implicit in her remark was her consideration of the age she would be when she died.

‘It’s one of the hardest things you ever do to say goodbye to people you love,’ she said, ‘but it’s important.’

I asked her if she was worried. She said, ‘Not exactly.’ I said we loved her and would be with her every step of the way and that God was with her.

She asked, ‘How is your Dad handling all of this,’ glancing at her hospital bed and surroundings. I said that he was sad because she is so precious but that he was okay and taking care of himself. I said I would take good care of Dad.

She said, ‘I’m going to outlive your Dad,’ and then she added, ‘at least I think so.’ Then she reflected for a while.

I commented on her strength and said that we were raising another strong woman in Maddie. She agreed and added, ‘And Tommy is wonderful, too.’ I reminded her what she had said emphatically to Maddie that morning: ‘You know what? I like you.’

Finally I asked if there was anything I could do to make this easier. She said, ‘Well, one thing you can do is continue to be the marvelous woman that you are — competent, with a high level of activity, a very high level of activity. The world needs you.’

She drifted off to sleep. Not long after this was written, she did make it home with hospice. She passed away the day after Mother’s Day, on May 10, 1999. I miss her.

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November 4, 2012 · 5:02 pm

Saints behind me, saints before me

I’ve just come off one of the more emotional weeks in recent years, a trifecta of challenges. A big part of it, as I wrote last week, was being in my hometown during the sudden decline and passing of my “other mother,” dear Ann Palmer of Tacoma, WA.

As sad as I am about her death, I feel inspired by how she lived, and so very grateful that she was a part of my life. Today was All Saints’ Sunday, and I attended services at my home church, St. Andrew’s Episcopal, which Ann and her family began attending in 1964 and my family began attending after we moved to Tacoma in 1969.

Fr. Martin Yabroff invited the small (but energetic) congregation to imagine that we are all runners rounding the track in an Olympic sized stadium filled with cheering saints. In the Episcopal tradition, these saints aren’t just the martyrs and miracle workers we hear about; rather, they are the people in our lives who inspire us and cheer us on. “We are not alone,” Fr. Martin said. Our stadiums are filled with people who have inspired us.

I know my Mom is in that stand, and someday, perhaps not so long from now, my Dad will be there, too. Ann and her husband, Terry, who passed away in 1998, is also there. “Others have been through terrible times,” Fr. Martin continued. “God wipes away tears. We shall persevere just as they did before.”

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October 28, 2012 · 8:07 pm

Singing Mama Home

In the initial weeks after my mother was diagnosed with cancer in 1999, I wanted to comfort her as she drifted in and out of lucidity. I remember sitting quietly by her bedside at the hospital, holding her hand. My first instinct was to try to sing to her since, all through my early childhood years, so many of my memories were accompanied by her singing. But confronting her impending death, I couldn’t sing. Each time I tried, I choked up.

Music was, and is, inextricably linked to my attachment to my mother. When I was a little girl, my mother would tuck me in and sing me our family lullaby, “Jesus Tender Shepherd.” She would turn out the lights, and leave the door ajar. Through the crack in the door, I heard the murmur of our settling household. But instead of sleeping, I often lay awake. After a half hour or so, I’d get up and tell Mom. Again she would sing,”Jesus Tender Shepherd,” turn off the lights, and leave the door ajar. Sometimes, there was a third or even fourth cycle before she became completely exasperated.

In my mother’s twilight moments, I wanted to bring that comfort to her. For several weeks, I continued to try to sing to her. And one day, I found I could do it. As agonized as I felt while watching her slow departure, I finally had the control to sing. I sang that childhood lullaby then, and later when we celebrated her life.

This past weekend, my ‘other mother’ completed her journey on this earth. The family, and those of us who are extended family, didn’t see it coming. But her medical setbacks turned from a trickle into a cascade, and finally into a flood that she could not overcome. And yesterday, I found myself by her hospital bed with my best friend and her sisters and brother, trying to find a way to comfort my ‘other mother’ as she did the hard work of letting go.

That afternoon, we had attended a vocal choir concert by the Adelphians of the University of Puget Sound, which they ended with their traditional finale, Stephen Paulus’ “The Road Home.” I started crying as I listened to the lyrics:

Tell me where is the road I can call my own, that I left, that I lost, so long ago?

All these years I have wandered, oh when will I know, there’s a way, there’s a road that will lead me home?

Rise up, follow me, come away is the call

With love in your heart as the only song

There is no such beauty as where you belong

Rise up, follow me, I will lead you home

After wind, after rain, when the dark is done, as I wake from a dream in the gold of day

Through the air there’s a calling from far away, there’s a voice I can hear that will lead me home.

Rise up, follow me, come away is the call

With love in your heart as the only song

There is no such beauty as where you belong

Rise up, follow me, I will lead you home

Hours later, reflected in the hospital’s dark oval window, we gathered around an unquestionably beautiful woman who had loved us, chastised us, teased us, cheered us, cried for us, and stood up for us. My best friend, her daughter and I sang “The Road Home.”

As I remember it, just as we finished, my friend’s sister noticed that something had changed. Mama’s hand felt different. Then she didn’t take that next breath. She was gone.

Our quiet vigil was interrupted by a rush of awareness, then panic and confusion. Filling the void came the impulse to sing. And what came to mind was the lullaby that my mother sang so often to me. This time, I could sing it, joined by my best friend. We sang Mama home.

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October 10, 2012 · 4:39 pm

What’s on your list of 5 self care things you do?

My friends and I seem to have entered a new phase. Once upon a time, our calendars overflowed with weddings. Then it was baby showers, and until recently, children’s graduations. Now our email and text exchanges are more likely to pertain to a parent’s health crisis. Usually coupled with news of challenges facing our young adult children.

We’re savvy enough to know that we need to take care of ourselves as we care for others, but busy and stressed enough that it’s really hard to actually do it.

My friend just texted me to say she was leaving town tomorrow to look in on her Mom, who’s had a setback in her recovery from surgery. True to form, she asked me how I was doing, and I replied that things are a bit better on several fronts.

She then asked, “So what are you doing for you?”

To which I replied, “What are YOU doing for you?”

I wasn’t trying to play the “gotcha” game (this isn’t politics, after all), but that’s kind of how it turned out:

“Crap. I knew you would turn that one back on me! You know I’m the worst at putting myself in the top 10, or 20, on any list!!! At best, I’m trying to learn to be a bit more compassionate for my own frailties. It’s a start.”

I’ve actually been thinking about this self care thing since my guardian angel, Jim, instructed me to list 5 things I would do for self care. That it’s taken me three weeks to think of five things tells you something.

My five are below. I’d love to hear what YOU do to take care of yourself as you care for others. We can all learn from each other — and maybe encourage one another to actually follow through on these things.

1.  Work out with others.

I often say that I live with the future. When you’re around a 95-year-old you realize the importance of strength and balance. I walked but I knew that wasn’t enough. I admitted that I couldn’t motivate myself to do things like – ugh – sit-ups or pushups.  I also thought it was unlikely I’d get my butt out the door to a gym class given my caregiving responsibilities. So, my big plan was to work out 4-6 times with a trainer and then miraculously carry on alone, having formed a virtuous habit. During my first workout, I was shocked at how poor my balance was – that and the fact I couldn’t do 10 sit-ups without holding on to my thighs to heft my upper body from its prone position.

That was four years ago. After a year or so, my neighbors who walked together twice a week for years expressed interest in trying it on for size. Now my driveway is a boot camp at least twice a week. Scheduling that time, and keeping it, is absolutely at the top of the list in terms of things I do for myself.

I figured my trainer, the amazing Kylee Neff, was an absolute liar when she told me I’d have more energy from working out. For about three months, I wanted to go to sleep early on the days we trained. But she’s right. Now if I can’t work out for a week, my energy and outlook isn’t as good. It’s as important to me as – gasp! – coffee once was. (Strangely, I also feel almost no need for caffeine.)

Working out with one or more friends also makes it hard to slack. After all, they show up in my driveway. But the group banter has the extra advantage of taking my mind off the momentary pain of whatever circuit Kylee has dreamed up for that day.

2.  Comfort read.

You’ve heard of comfort eating? I comfort read. My literary diet changes completely when I’m under stress. When my mother was dying of cancer, I was soothed by re-reading The Wind and the Willows. I’m a big fan of Mr. Toad, with or without the Disney attraction. Though I still read heavier fare (for example, The Looming Towers), I am drawn to cheesy and breezy. I read things like Deborah Harkness’ Discovery of Witches series (all two of them), J.R.R. Martin’s Song of Ice and Fire series (a.k.a. Game of Thrones), and the utterly ridiculous Sookie Stackhouse series by Charlaine Harris. Apparently I find fairies, witches and vampires comforting.

3.  Spend time with girlfriends.

My friends save me, over and over. Just knowing they are there is a huge source of support. Nothing against guys, and my husband is the Rock of Gibraltar, but there’s something about deep conversation with trusted female friends. It’s better than wine and chocolate. Recently, a friend and I agreed to set up a weekly time to meet. Her husband has Alzheimer’s and both of us have to coordinate social activities around caregiving tasks. It just works better to put something standing on the calendar. And, yes, it involves wine. Duh.

4.  Stay connected with Facebook.

I actually surprised myself with this one. So much is written about Facebook as a time suck, or about how Facebook is no substitute for deeper, face-to-face connections. But caregiving is isolating, and Facebook helps me to feel there’s still a world out there.

I love the pictures of kids and the quick posts about the sweet or funny things kids say. I travel vicariously through some of my friends whose jobs or travel budgets seem to take them everywhere. I salivate over my foodie friends’ posts about the amazing seasonal recipes they’ve dreamed up. I read the links to articles that appeal to my interests and appreciate the fact they were shared. I catch up on a friend’s recovery from a brutal cycling accident. I feel for the people (and animals) in Eastern Washington when my friend in E-burg posts update on the terrible fires there. It may seem a little strange but I even love the beefcake pictures posted by my gay friends; it makes me happy to know someone’s romantic life is more exciting than mine! Pictures of weddings, funny bits from George Takei, updates from nonprofits I care about… I enjoy almost everything in my news feed. And of course, I can always block the political posts that get a bit annoying this time of year.

5.  Find quiet time.

I’m not a true extrovert, although most people would assume I am. It’s hard for me to find an hour when I can be alone in the house, or at least alone before anyone else is awake. I crave and need moments when NO ONE WANTS OR NEEDS ANYTHING FROM ME. You may have figured out that I blog during these rare quiet moments. And when I say quiet, I mean just that. I feel so over stimulated that I need moments without music or TV. Silence is a balm.

So I’ll ask it again: what do YOU do to take care of yourself? This inquiring mind wants to know.

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September 25, 2012 · 4:13 pm

Too much love?

Can you imagine this image as an older parent? It’s not how we think about our role as caregivers, is it? (courtesy Teach Through Love)

Our first instinct as parents is to surround our children in a cocoon of love that cushions them against hurts both physical and emotional. But eventually, we find out that we do our children no favors if we never let them struggle.

I am learning that being a caregiver for an aging parent is not that different.

Since I moved my father to California in 2006, he’s spent the majority of the time at my house. He has his own bedroom with a cushy La-Z-Boy, television and bathroom. After giving up the family house where he lived from 1969 to 2003, I wanted him to feel this was home. At the same time, I wanted to know I could leave town and trust that he would be secure, with all of the support services he needs. So he’s had a one bedroom apartment in a nice assisted living community.

The back-and-forth worked just fine until July, when his health became unstable. Although he is now almost fully recovered, his emotional health continues to suffer.

My mother, during the final stages of lung cancer, expressed fear of dying, despite the deep faith that sustained her for so many years. My father wondered why, if there is a God, would he abandon my mother in her hour of need? Now it is my father who fears dying – and, in particular, dying alone.

Ten days ago, he asked me, “Can I come live with you?” He continued, “Living alone is no way to live. I’m afraid to die alone.”

Using my strategic planning skills, it seemed to me that we had to revisit Dad’s living situation. My objective, and that of my brothers, is to ensure that Dad lives with as little physical and emotional distress as possible. To that I had to add an objective about meeting the needs of my own family — oh, and taking care of myself, too.

It seemed to me that there were three possible solutions: 1) Dad would come to live with me full-time; 2) we continue to muddle through with more companion services at his apartment on the days that I am not available; or 3) we limit the number of nights that Dad stays at my house because of his increased distress when he has to return to his apartment.

I sought input from a social worker, a mentor, our home church pastor, his doctor, and a psychologist. Along the way I also had Dad evaluated for hospice and found out that he’s not close to qualifying for that type of end-of-life care. I had to start thinking about what would be best for a period of gradual decline that could last for several years – something I never imagined given that Dad has had three heart attacks, three strokes and three open heart bypass surgeries.

I also had to “listen” to myself. I realized I felt overwhelmed by the possibility of Dad moving in full-time. I really want that to happen, but now isn’t the right time. My Dad isn’t the only one who needs me right now.  I had to admit to myself that I felt exhausted.

The social worker shared a little tough love with me. She said, “He is distressed about the prospect of going back to his apartment because it isn’t ‘home.’ And it isn’t home because you won’t let it be home. He spends enough time at your house that the transition is difficult. He doesn’t remember exactly what happens there and it feels unsafe to him to return.” She went on, “As family members, you’re responsible for providing the caring, but not necessarily the care.”

My beloved mentor Jim offered this advice:

This is very hard to do: separate what is in his best interest and his care needs from your heart duty as a loving daughter.  Like most elders in his situation, he is becoming more child like — likes what he likes and won’t budge; wants his mommy really to take care of him although he would not recognize that is what he is doing to you.  If he does move in and a caregiver is part of the team, you will have to force him to agree to let that caregiver do his/her thing.  You almost have to write out a ‘contract’ that he has to agree to.  Obviously it is not a legal thing, but you use it to force him to focus on reality when he just wants it all to be different and for you to be there constantly.

My church home pastor suggested that I facilitate a casual visit with a priest. “Throw him a lifeline,” he suggested. “He may choose not to talk about his concerns about death, but he may be ready to talk.” And my psychologist friend suggested having Dad evaluated for anti-depressants. His doctor agrees that may be worth trying.

So what was decided? I had a conference call with my brothers last Wednesday night and we decided to try out an arrangement where Dad is limited to three nights a week at my house. I’ve visited him at his apartment every day and joined him for lunch to reinforce the message that the staff knows him and is paying attention.

He doesn’t love it, but he is responding to the message that there are some things I need to do right now to take care of my family and myself. He asks how he can help, and I say, “Just be patient, Dad, and be supportive when I can’t be here.”

Week one went well, but the big test will come this weekend when I leave town for three days… Stay tuned.

 

 

 

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September 17, 2012 · 4:38 pm

Ghosts in the rocking chair?

The spat that I described in my last post ended with the receipt of a sincere apology from my brother after a three-day marathon of back-and-forth emails. He also asked to “start over” with not just me, but my other brothers.

After time for reflection, I learned a lot, albeit painfully, from the whole kerfuffle. In keeping with the Buddhist proverb, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear,” I stumbled across some teaching from an unlikely source: a child advocacy and parent-teacher education resource called Teach Through Love. Teach Through Love shared an article link on its Facebook page, and highlighted this quote:

“Similarly, our kids push our buttons precisely because they are our children. Psychologists call this phenomenon ‘ghosts in the nursery,’ by which they mean that our children stimulate the intense feelings of our own childhoods, and we often respond by unconsciously re-enacting the past that’s etched like forgotten hieroglyphics deep in our psyches. The fears and rage of childhood are powerful and can overwhelm us even as adults. It can be enormously challenging to lay these ghosts to rest.”

My brother said that his temper flares when he feels overlooked, ignored, or otherwise “disrespected” and he attributed this sensitivity to some disappointments in his life. When we met for dinner last week, I asked him if he thought it might be related to a longing of his for respect from my father, and perhaps the respect of his siblings for him based on birth order.

He scratched his arm repeatedly as he described his experiences with Dad growing up, beginning with Dad’s return from WWII. Dad later asked him to be “the man of the house” when Dad was sent on a solo tour out to Japan just after my sister’s death from leukemia. And when Dad was disabled due to a massive heart attack in 1962, he was called upon again. He was the same age then that my son is now. Instead of focusing on college, he was trying to help the family pull through the crisis of my Dad’s near-death and the aftermath of my father’s forced retirement from the Marine Corps. (In those days, a heart attack meant automatic and full retirement because, with limited treatment options, military command didn’t believe that a soldier would recover sufficiently to fulfill his duties.)

My mother and father often said that they raised their two eldest children, but they let the two youngest raise themselves. We had the same parents, but grew up in different worlds. My younger brother and I mostly grew up in a civilian world — a world, I might add, that Dad found quite deflating. I admired my Dad, but I didn’t think he was perfect. And I told him off – royally – when I was 21. I was tired of feeling afraid of my father, who retained command presence long after leaving the Marines.

When my brother sent his angry email, he felt disrespected by my younger sibling and me. The email that triggered the original firestorm pushed a flashing red button in his brain. But that button was installed long before.

 

 

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