Tag Archives: seniors

How to Renew Your Faith in Mankind: Read About Team Henry

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[Updated Jan. 16, 2012, after Dad’s passing.]

As a caregiver, you always carry the feeling that you are dodging disaster on a daily basis. And then, something actually does happen and you find yourself careening from one thing to the next. That’s how the past month has gone for Dad: first, unusual and extreme shortness of breath; then, a muscle pull that had him almost non-ambulatory; and, this week, a sudden inability to urinate at all, which sent Dad to the ER to have his bladder drained twice in one week.

It’s a panicky time for caregivers. Although I pride myself on trying to handle things, I know I can’t fix all the problems, or keep Dad safe, or keep myself well without asking for help. Sometimes the “ask” is as small as asking a neighbor to make a Target run for a fresh pair of sweat pants. Other times, the ask is pretty big. In December, I initially reflected on my incredible fortune in having built a “Team Henry” to shore both of us up. Today, four days after his passing, I wanted to update it to make sure I would never forget all of the wonderful people who helped Dad and me along the way.

1. Dr. Michael Flaningam, Sutter Internal Medicine – Dr. F agreed to see Dad even before he lived here, when he came for long visits. And since Dad moved here in 2006, he has proven to make savvy adjustments in Dad’s medications (balancing stroke and cardiac conditions), carefully considering the risk-vs-reward of treatments in keeping with Dad’s wishes. I also appreciate his caring interest in Dad; his inquiry about Dad’s WWII experience on the anniversary of D-Day led to my first post on The Henry ChroniclesHe’s called me back when I needed him to, and been a real Trojan at responding to my emails. I’d be embarrassed to admit how many emails I’ve sent him through Sutter’s secure email system (like the rather desperate message ending, I am frantic about the idea of doing this watch for 5 more days. I’m a rock, but not THAT much of a rock. He religiously responded, and was always helpful. Monday evening, as I shared my last dinner with my brothers before they went their separate ways, he called to offer his condolences, as well as compliments for the care we have provided to Dad.

2. Angela, Dr. Flaningam’s medical assistant – You can’t leave messages on Sutter Internal Medicine’s voice mail anymore, but while you could, Angela was Dr. F’s stalwart ears. She always tracked him down and called back.

3. Amber Kwiatkowsky, Dad’s nurse with Sutter’s AIM program – In June, my Dad was referred to Sutter’s Advanced Illness Management (AIM). It took me a while to understand how it worked, but eventually I got it. And Amber, the nurse that oversees Dad’s care telephonically, is why. Amber was my “go to” person for problems I didn’t know how to solve, and she always had great practical ideas, as did her colleagues – the nurses who visit in the home when Amber recommends it. Their goal was my goal: let’s keep Dad out of the hospital and as comfortable as possible. As long as I’m confessing, let me admit that I placed 10 calls to Amber during the difficult week prior to Dad’s hospice admission. I didn’t call the pediatrician that much when my daughter Maddie was a newborn.

4. Pamela, Debra, Dee, Maria, Jo  Jo, Mai, Hayat, Lina and all of Dad’s caregivers at his assisted living community. As Dad has become more emotionally dependent, a host of people have stepped up when Dad is at his apartment. I don’t know their names but I am especially fond of the staff in the dining room; as soon as they see Dad seated, they immediately say, “I’ll get your glass of milk.” That more than anything else reassures Dad that these people know him and are looking out for him. One of the team even brought Dad a lemon tart she’d made at home. (Future hint: Dad’s a chocolate guy but I’m sure he appreciated the thought!)

5. Adam Batten, “Dad walker” – Dad’s quality of life hinged largely on his ability to take a daily walk outside. When I was out of town, Adam came by for 45 minutes before Dad’s lunch to help him exercise safely. Adam teaches an exercise class at an independent living community, and he’s 6’5″, so I figured he could handle my 200 lb. Dad!

6. Chi, Dad’s pedicure champion at Eastern Nails – It’s toenails like Dad’s that led to the expression, “tougher than toenails.” Not only is Chi up to the task but she provides service with tender care.

7. Abigail Kane-Berghash of American River Therapeutic Massage – Dad’s back was extremely sore following a muscle pull. Abigail brought her portable massage table and gently eased his very tight muscles. After Dad was admitted into hospice, we made massage a weekly date. Dad loved it when Abigail massaged not only his back, but his hands and feet. Massage is about more than mechanics, and Abigail knows it. It’s about healing, and honoring the person. Afterwards, he looked not only more relaxed, but happy.

8. My brothers, Scott, Bruce and Dean – I am not an unsupported daughter-caregiver. When I needed my brothers for respite, vacation coverage or just personal support, they came. They also called to say, “How are you holding up?”

9. My husband, Todd, daughter Maddie and son Thom – My immediate family really tops the list of Team Henry but I’m not going to re-order this list! I wrote about Todd “the unsung hero” and our “opposites attract” 30-year marriage in August. Maddie was living at home until October and always went out of her way to converse with Dad, which isn’t easy given his 90%+ hearing loss. One night, when I was especially tired, she told me to go take a break and rest while she watched Dad. (And she went right to work tidying up the kitchen!) It was Maddie’s brainstorm to read Dad’s favorite Shakespeare passages to him just hours before he died, which gave me the idea to read Sonnet 130 as he took his last breaths. And Thom holds “Papa” in a special place in his heart, and vice versa. Something as simple as asking Dad, “How are you, Papa?” — and really meaning it — went a long way. Thom’s medium is music, and he composed one of my favorite pieces of his, “96 Years.” I just wish my Dad’s hearing was good enough to understand it.

10.  Cousin Louise Ulbricht and her daughter, Mary, the only relatives from Dad’s side of the family that keep in touch, always responded when I told them Dad was lonely and asked them to send him an email via his “Presto” automated email printer. Their loving notes and sweet thoughts were so welcomed.

11.  My girlfriends – These are the friends that kept me sane by calling, texting, sending funny cards – and in the case of Collette Johnson Schulke, standing by for a weekly “caregivers’ social club” over wine at my house. Lisa Steele, Tracy Campbell, “Berrendo Babes” (fellow exercisers Kylee Wosnuk, Doreen Mahoney, Erin Celli, Rhonda Heath, Sarah Clutter and Jenny Bittner), Ellen Palmer Carleson and her siblings, Nancy Moffett, Cheryl Tyler Clark, Debbie Hoppe, Tamalon Littlefield and Wendi Taylor Nations… you rock my world. Nancy Moffett, from afar in Tacoma, WA, was a constant source of humor and support.

12. My in-laws – You hear people complain about them? I don’t. My mother and father-in-law Ray and Mary Lou Stone are wonderfully caring, always sympathetic, always trying to make my Dad feel at home despite his hearing challenges. Same goes for my sister-in-law Mary Wemer and her husband, Ken, and my brother-in-law Mike and his wife M’lisse.

13. Dave Delehant, estate attorney – I know Dave didn’t charge the full freight when he helped rework Dad’s will to conform to California laws. Sure, he did the work and did it well, but I especially appreciated his patience with Dad as he explained things over and over. Giving freely of his time was a little thing, but it helped.

14. Sutter Home Health – After being referred by the AIM program for Sutter Care at Home, we had a whole flurry of incredibly helpful visitors. Home nurses included the stylish and delightful Sondra (who knows a thing or two about accessorizing on top of nursing), Angie and smart and in-charge Marie Boyer, the nurse who specializes in the acute stage of advanced illnesses. Rhonda, the physical therapist, came up with a host of ideas about how to minimize strain on Dad’s back. Simple stuff but I hadn’t thought of it, like using the electric lift in his chair all the time, use the wheelchair instead of a kitchen chair at the table because it has arms, etc. And “Jan the Bath Lady.” It doesn’t get any more personal than bathing someone, and it takes a very special soul to make it feel like a day at the spa rather than an intrusion. I’m telling you, this woman made a huge difference to Dad and to me.

15. Karen Rhodes, my lovely housekeeper  – I’ve been fortunate to have Karen’s services for seven or eight years. She has always greeted my Dad cheerily, and she makes him feel special. When I was facing a gap in my caregivers’ schedule, Karen stepped up and changed her schedule to be here to help me, and visited with Dad one evening so that I could take a break with my husband, Todd. When Dad died, Karen cried along with the rest of us.

16. Jim Jennings, my go-to spiritual and emotional counselor – Jim, where do I even begin about Jim? I met Jim when he was the co-director of the US health care practice of Hill & Knowlton where he was liberally consulted for guidance. During my mother’s terminal illness, it was Jim I wrote in the middle of the night when I was tired or in emotional pain. He was alway there for me, returning my written vomitus with a human and helpful response, Since retiring moving to Hawaii with his partner, Dudley, he has become a volunteer and now chaplain with Kauai’s hospice program. He is the guardian angel who encouraged me to identify the five top things I would do to take care of myself as caretaker, which I wrote about in this post. He’s also the “beloved mentor” I turned to when trying to figure out whether I could or should move Dad to my house – which I also wrote about in a post. In the last weeks, he was a constant source of support and advice about the final stage in Dad’s long life journey.

17. Visiting Angels – My caregivers were an integral part of Team Henry. Erin Fraker found a great caregiver, Keyanna Hicks, to watch Dad through the night on six hours’ notice when I realized that Dad’s catheter bag would need to be changed during the night. As Dad’s needs rapidly changed, she constantly adjusted the team, eventually providing support for 17.5 hours a day given the rapid decline in Dad’s leg strength. Keyanna Hicks was a lifesaver and Natalie Posey did a wonderful job on night duty during Dad’s difficult last few days. Though not with Erin’s organization, Tonia Johnson certainly deserves the moniker of “angel”; she was referred by a family friend and joined us Dad’s final week. The coq au vin that she lovingly made on Wednesday turned out to be Dad’s last real meal – and he ate and enjoyed every bite.

18.  Sutter VNA & Hospice – A few lifetimes ago (or so it feels) I became aware of the value of hospice when, as a newbie marketer, I worked for Sutter Memorial and had a chance to be introduced to the concept just as it was gaining ground in the United States. Michael Tscheu, a social worker, explained how this coordinated style of care could provide better quality of care and quality of life for those that didn’t have life stretching ahead of them. Then in 1999, I came to know hospice much more personally as a member of my mother’s hospice caregiver team, after she was diagnosed with late stage lung cancer in Tacoma, WA. Hospice was not as accepted among the medical brethren as it is now; the physician directing her care in the hospital in Tacoma tried to tell me that “it would be kinder for all parties concerned if she just winked out in the hospital.” Convenient for whom? Him? She did come home with hospice and lived a surprising 3 months. And now it’s Dad’s turn. We weren’t sure he would qualify — which I worried about in this post — but I sure knew we needed it. And yesterday we were approved for hospice. Since then, I have met Vina, who does “intake,” Mary the nurse, who evaluates patients for their appropriateness, GC Low, RN, who responded to my telephone inquiry about morphine dosing by visiting. GC spent an hour trying to help me get Dad’s shortness of breath under control. It was GC who responded to our urgent call on Saturday morning, Jan. 12, when she confirmed that Dad was actively dying; she then gave us a very specific dosing regimen for comfort medications to help ease Dad’s passing (which we, overwhelmed, had to have her repeat three times). Over Dad’s 22 days on service, we also received visits from nurses Tony and Barbara, and lots of helpful phone advice from Tracy, a supervisor in the office. In December, Tracy spent a half hour explaining to me how best to transfer Dad after he stopped being able to stand. Dennis Armstrong, the social worker with an amiable, wise soul, visited in the first 24 hours after we were admitted into the hospice program, followed later by Brooke Zakar. We also are grateful for Diana Skinner, RN, our care coordinator, and delightful Rebecca, Dad’s bathing assistant. In Dad’s last week, we also took advantage of the services of Dale Swan, hospice chaplain. Although my Dad teased Dale and said he wasn’t sure he trusted “a church man” (maybe teasing, maybe not), Dale was an important resource to me in what turned out to be Dad’s last two days.

19.  The “Hair Care” Ladies – For at least five years, Dad has gotten his hair cut (along with other extraneous hairs) at a little quick cut place at 5150 Fair Oaks Blvd. They have always been sweet to Dad and supportive of me. So much so that one of them, Hang, one of the ladies, even came to the house to tidy Dad up. Helping him keep his own standards was a small way of demonstrating love for him, one made easier with nice people like Hang and the other women who work there.

20.  James Coyle, DDS, and all of the wonderful people who work there – I was sad when I called to let them know Dad wouldn’t be returning for his six month checkup. They’ve not only kept him healthy, but been part of the broad network of people who have praised his longevity, and well, just his essential “Henry-ness.”

21.  My cousin, Lynn Whiting and her husband, Henry — My cousin, who lives in Bliss, ID, has built a life out of art, poetry and prayer. It just flows out of her spirit naturally, and she shared it with me as things became more difficult for Dad. I referred to her as “the angel on my shoulder” in this post. And I’m about to post the beautiful email and photo she shared with me on the day of Dad’s death.

22. Jennifer Johnson, all-around friend and helper — It seems like every industry has a word for someone who is versatile and helpful. Baseball calls someone like this “a utility player”; in medieval times, someone who was competent with many skills was called a “jack of all trades” (the “master of none” came later and certainly doesn’t apply to Jen!). Jennifer, my friend Collette’s granddaughter, would house sit, walk with my Dad, visit with him, or, when I was out of town, take him Sunday meals at his assisted living community. She didn’t just do it – she got a kick out of my Dad. She’d relay stories to me, such as the time they were walking on the American River Parkway and he’d have little commentaries about the people passing by: “Nice hat. Too bad she must have sat on it.” By letting me know that Dad was okay, she helped me to care for him and keep him comfortable.

23.  Kylee Neff, personal trainer  – In October, I wrote about my list of the top five things I pledged to do to take care of myself as a caregiver. Featured first was working out with my neighbors under the encouraging tutelage of Kylee Neff. I have often said that I lived with future; I saw how important balance was to overall health and wellbeing when you get as old as my Dad was. I started working out with Kylee not long after I turned 50. Training with Kylee was good for every part of me, but above all, she has been a friend. Kylee had a terrible series of things happen to her in November and December but she still managed to be a source of support and inspiration for me. Her little boy, Will, couldn’t have a better mother.

Team Henry, I am so very, very grateful for your part in this story.

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I’m Not Alone

morning candles

It’s been almost seven years since I moved my Dad to California, knowing that his cardiac disease was catching up with him. We’ve had quite a few scares since then: a small stroke that temporarily interfered with his ability to speak, a strange seizure, numerous falls and illnesses. During one of those scares, my husband was in Mexico, unreachable, and I was alone at the hospital with Dad, afraid.

I hate being alone when Dad’s life is at risk. I can handle the decisions that need to be made. I can handle the physical challenge of the long hours. I can be strong for Dad so that he is not afraid.

But I want to be able to cry and have someone to hold and comfort me when am afraid. I just don’t want to be alone.

Yesterday my first morning thought was of all the people who are, as one friend puts it, “holding me in the light.”

In recent days, I have heard from a college friend with whom I have been out of touch in recent years. My spiritual and artistic cousin, Lynn, has become the angel who perches on my shoulder with frequent, loving messages, like this one:

Whenever I read your ardent posts as I did just now.. and look at your exquisitely poignant and palpably tender photographs.. I am reminded again and again of the Rumi stanza..  that I am sure you are familiar with but I can’t help writing:“Let the beauty of what you love be what you do.” –Rumi    

 Mostly, I want you to know this New Year’s eve that even though it may seem I am in the background I am a part of that large net beneath the high wire you are walking– where by the way, you are dazzling in your diamond light.  I am not quite breathing with you, but almost…

My dear friend, Lisa, who spent the day on the 18th hanging out with me and cooking for me, is in Italy with her family where she is lighting a candle in every church she encounters. When traveling, Lisa normally devotes her laser-like focus to something food-related, like tasting lentil soup in Turkey, but on this trip, she says she is thinking of Dad and me. She wrote:

It is making me feel slightly better — but marginally so — wish I could be with you to help you through this important time. Your dad is a great man, and you are the best daughter and friend anyone could hope for. Miss you.

Yesterday I wrote my oldest friend, Ellen, about how she had rescued me when we met as lonely adolescents. She wrote back:

I have loved walking this current path with you. I have felt your sadness and pain. I have cried with you. I have wondered, and asked, and railed with you. I have grown with you. I have deepened and broadened who I am with you. I want to be there with you, but also know that you would be caring for me, and worrying about me, while at the same time you are caring and worrying about everyone else in your life. It’s your nature.

This is a hard path. But it’s far harder on Dad as he struggles. The love and support of family and friends makes all the difference. It holds me up so I can hold him up.

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Planning Care for the “Biologically Tenacious”

Henry S Campbell

As Dad has weakened the past few weeks, I’ve been preparing myself for his final days. That means coming to terms with what his dying may entail (ugh) and what his loss will mean to me and my family. A tall order.

Enter my husband who reminds me that, “Hey, don’t forget. This is your Dad.” Sure, Hospice thinks weeks to months, and it looks like he may have weeks to months based on all indications. But still. We’re talking about the guy who has survived war, heart attacks, strokes and high risk cardiac surgeries.

This phrase struck me in Sidney Callahan’s post about her mother’s long, long illness with Alzheimer’s in the Over 65 Blog published by The Hastings Center: “biologically tenacious.”

My husband’s grandmother was biologically tenacious. Like Sidney’s Mom, she still enjoyed eating and was comfortable, even though she hadn’t spoken or seemed to recognize people in years. And Gigi always said that she had “a bad heart,” something that amused us as the pages turned on the calendar, long past her 100th birthday.

I also have to be prepared – or at least set up for – Dad’s body persevering even if his mind and heart would prefer to move on. He is still a Marine, and some inner core of him doesn’t know the meaning of “quit.”

In practical terms, I have to have a reliable team of caregivers to help me care for Dad safely here, which means being able to transfer him safely until such time as he is confined to bed. I have a great partner in Visiting Angels, and an independent caregiver who was suggested by a family friend, but I’m not in a reliable groove yet.

This is a practical challenge when someone is facing the end-of-life: scheduling. If my husband wants me to join him with his folks to see Les Miserables, I have to have a caregiver who is capable of transferring Dad alone. On a weekend, if my son wants to run with Todd, leaving me alone in the house with Dad, I will need them to stay close to home in case I need help. The toughest transfers are on and off the john, which really takes two people. And unfortunately, there is no pattern as to when Dad’s urge might strike.

I want to be able to be a daughter and support my Dad every step of the way, but I know I must also make time for my mental and physical health. I don’t feel any resentment at the commitment I’ve made to move him to my house and have him spend his last days here, but I know, if enough time goes by, I might feel that way.

Semper Fidelis, Dad. I will find a way to make this work for both of us.

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Taking Stock of My Journey with Dad

Henry Campbell Dec. 23 2012

I’m one of those people who likes to take stock and tidy up as the new year approaches. But instead of cleaning my office as I have in years past, my attentions are here on this blog. Looking at the “About” description, I realized how its content has changed as Dad has aged and weakened. It started as a celebration with a few funny bits and occasional bits of advice thrown in. I wrote from the head, thinking, how can I capture useful insights from this experience for me to remember and for others to benefit from?

Last summer, as Dad’s health began to fail, I started writing from the gut. I wrote about my experience, about feeling vigilant, not just about Dad but about everyone in my life. I wrote about not sleeping. I felt a little like a mother hen trying to keep the chicks safe in the nest.

In the process of seeing Dad start to slip, I became more aware of and grateful for family and friends, especially my amazing husband of 30 years. My post on our anniversary, “30 Years of Opposites: Happily Ever After,” became my most-read post of the year, with over 300 views.

In October and November, The Henry Chronicles took on a more somber tone with the loss of my “other mother.” In the last month, my posts have expressed my desperation to turn things around and my anger at God when I could not. Without planning to do so, I find myself writing almost daily in the quiet hour after the night caregiver leaves and my Dad calls out that he is awake and ready to get up. One morning I thought about all of the people who have been supporting Dad or me, and I said thank you to “Team Henry.”

I’m no longer trying to be smart or useful. I’m just trying to get through this time with as much strength for Dad as I can. I keen online because I can’t help it. By releasing the terrible pain and fear that comes with caring for someone in the last months of life, I feel better. Maybe it’s self-therapy, online.

I do draw great comfort from the small company of friends and followers who read my little posts and share their own experiences, or offer a supportive word. I’m kind of amazed that, in this frenetic holiday period, people are willing to read something that isn’t about the fun of the holidays.

I may be hanging on by my fingernails, but I am hanging on.

The “About” page now ends with: These days, this blog is about coming to grips with the impending end of his life, a search for faith and understanding, and a longing for strength so that I might offer him the same unconditional love that he has always given me.

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My Back and Forth Faith

pendulum

Last Sunday, I shared how generally pissed off I was with God. If I learned anything from marriage counseling a dozen or so years ago, it’s that arguing isn’t a bad thing. In fact it’s healthy. It’s how you argue that matters. Do you argue to hurt, or to be heard? Do you listen as well as assert?

On Christmas, Maureen Dowd published a column about losing her friend Robin and Father Kevin O’Neil’s meditation on dying.

I underlined two of Father Kevin’s phrases in particular:

“A life of faith is often lived ‘back and forth’ by believers and those who minister to them.” and…

What I do know is that an unconditionally loving presence soothes broken hearts, binds up wounds, and renews us in life. This is a gift we can all give, particularly to the suffering.”

Back and forth, that’s me. At times in my life, I have felt the presence of God directly. I have asked him for what I want and need, although perhaps he heard the longing of my soul even more than my words. And He answered. At other times, we have been estranged. And recently, we’ve been fighting.

Although it appears Dad is not going to rally – as he has time and time again – he is comfortable, and I am settling in to his new reality and mine.

As friend Jim says, “So glad you are ‘turning it over’.  Remember, the descent (which I prefer to call the path to ascent) is like going down steps of a stairs.  Sometimes one by one, and sometimes several.  Nothing you can do about this but be present and loving.  It is nature and his human body with his spirit trying to discard it so it can move forward.”

A prayer, then:

Help me, God, to be fully present

Help me to feel calm so that I can calm my Dad

Help me to radiate so much love that it warms him to his toes

Help me to support the others who love him on this awful journey

Help me to understand

Help me to love

Help me

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Ceding Control

Henry Campbell, Christmas morning 2012

My dear “Caregivers’ Social Club” buddy called yesterday after taking her husband to the hospital. Acutely aware of his advancing Alzheimer’s, she had felt something was wrong and then noticed a sudden downturn in strength. She learned that he has had a slow bleed in his brain for some time.

She was filled with recriminations for herself: How could she have missed it? How could she not have listened to her growing feeling that he was “off?” What if she had figured it out sooner?

We are the careful caregivers. The careful caregivers are observant, especially when it comes to the primary focus of our attentions. We aren’t doctors but we could play one on TV. We rack up successes: bladder infections we caught early, raspy noises that turned out to be pneumonia, disabilities we were able to reverse by advocating for physical therapy. We dance in front of disaster.

Then one day, we can’t dance fast enough.

It isn’t that we don’t want to, or haven’t tried, or aren’t good at it. We’re champions at it.

We butt up against the irrefutable reality of a chronic illness that ultimately goes only one direction: down.

Crossing the threshold of hospice represented a change in care for Dad, but it also signified a change for me. Though still vigilant, I stopped fighting and accepted where Dad’s journey is going. I am putting supportive care in place so that I can focus on loving him and listening to him rather than trying to fix everything.

I am not giving up, and I am not giving in. I am giving it over. With four visits from a hospice nurse in six days, I have a clinical partnership to help address symptoms as they arise. I am coming to terms with God’s role in all of this – though I still don’t understand how this difficult process of dying is a great plan. I am beginning to recognize that I am not in control of the speed or shape of this final journey. I am no longer fighting but I am not beaten.

Today I am praying for my dear friend as she faces a difficult decision about whether to approve surgery or not. She’s a careful (and loving) caregiver, and she wants to make it right.

To C: I am with you, my friend. There is no “right decision” here and it may not even be possible to discern the best decision. I wish I could say, “You’ll know what’s best.” But that’s one of those things people say that isn’t always true. Surgery or not, the future is a bitch. You will pick the least worst of the choices ahead of you. You will keep in mind what is kind, and ethical, and what your husband would want. This is an awful decision to face, one you never anticipated and one you could not have prevented, even as careful as you are. I love you. Call me if I can help.

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Dear God, You and I Need to Talk

Dennis Armstrong, the Sutter Hospice social worker who comes by after you’re 24 hours “in service,” asked me, “Does your father have a faith or belief system?”


godtalkstoyou.com

It’s complicated. You see, Dad says conflicting things. On the one hand, he says that he wishes he could believe in God but he doesn’t. On the other, he has talked about seeing Mom after he dies. And about how God let Mom down when she was dying. “I’m afraid,” she said at one point in her illness. If there is a God, Dad wondered, how could he abandon her in her moment of need? I’m sure he was also flashing back to losing my sister, Midge, to leukemia at four years old. He used to talk a lot about the pain of losing Midge. It’s even harder to understand God’s hand in that one.

My beef with God is different. I understand that it’s really hard work getting born into this world; I have the mental scars from back labor to prove it (thanks, Maddie). I don’t think it’s fair to work so hard to get out of it. Why do people have to become feeble and go through pain and discomfort before they make their exit? Did God figure that people would just hang around too long if it was pleasant at the end, and end up overpopulating the world?

I realize my own relationship with God is a little iffy right now. I usually talk to God when I go to bed. I thank Him for the amazing people and things in my life, and I ask him for what I want and need. Releasing Dad has long been a prayer of mine.

But I’m a little bit pissed off this morning knowing how tough things are for Dad right now. I’m working on it, God, but I really don’t understand how this is such a great plan.

An old family friend, Bruce Wheeler, shared a favorite Bible quotation of his: Rom 8:31 “If God is with me who can be against me?”

Are you with us God?

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