42

 

With Adam and Jennie coming three times a week, and the speech therapist planning to see him twice a week, Dad’s schedule will be full. I’m hopeful their visits will give me more time to do something I’ve been negligent about, and that’s calling, writing, and emailing friends.

I’ve managed to get birthday cards off to friends, and I even mailed off almost a hundred Christmas cards in mid-December. I didn’t have time to write personal notes in each, as I normally do, but at least friends and family knew David and I were thinking about them. I let everyone know, via an enclosed picture of David, Dad, Nick, and me, that Dad is living with us. Marcy took the photo of us in front of the Christmas tree, and it represented us pretty darn well—a happy family that includes a big black dog who looked extra handsome with a red bow around his neck.

Those who received it would think all is well, and that Dad is well. We’d propped him up between us by putting our arms around his waist. He leaned slightly forward to support his weight on his walker. Nick sat in front of Dad, hiding his legs. Maybe it was a false picture of reality, but I wanted Dad to be represented in the best light. The forest green sweater and pleasant smile he wore contributed to the illusion of wellness.

I click on that picture in my photos file and study it. It was taken a little more than a month ago, but I can see a marked difference in Dad from then to now. True, the picture was taken on one of his “good days,” in between his post-Thanksgiving drowsiness and before his out-for-the-count sleepiness on Christmas Day. His color was much better and his eyes wider and brighter.

I look at the spreadsheet David prepared to analyze Dad’s medication intake. It revealed Dad was indeed taking fewer pills in the last two months. When we studied it and realized we were allowing him to skip Exelon and Namenda, two very important drugs for his dementia, we felt we had contributed to his declining cognitive function. That was also the period in which Dad had days of heavy sleeping. But we assuage our guilt by acknowledging that he’s getting the proper dosage now with the patches Dr. Carter prescribed.

We’d also started the other log we talked about—what and how much Dad ate. We didn’t have the historical information on that and relied only on our memories in deciding that, in simplest terms, Dad used to clean his plate, but now he doesn’t.

I thought it might be the fatigue and boredom in the effort of eating, which was now taking an hour or more. David pointed out that the slower Dad ate, the more likely he was to feel fuller, faster, and so he just quit eating because he’d had enough.

But really, who could say? Dad still hasn’t regained the weight he lost in the hospital, but at least he isn’t losing more.

David and I accept that everything we will ever do in the future, every effort we make, will not cause Dad to become better or stronger. Even the physical therapy and speech therapy won’t accomplish that. The best we can hope is to keep further deterioration and decline at bay for as long as possible.

It’s an insight steeped in sorrow.

Looking at the Christmas picture once more, then forming a mental picture of Dad as he looked this morning after he was dressed and put into his chair to wait for Jennie, I concede his life energy has waned. He has had no illnesses, no cold or flu, yet his eyes are red-rimmed and his Parkinson’s mask is more pronounced than ever.

The speech therapist is coming back for a second evaluation this afternoon. Two therapies in a day might be physically exhausting for Dad, but difficulties with staggered scheduling have made it necessary to double up. I don’t have to worry about his getting a good nap after his PT session with Jennie and before the speech therapist comes at four o’clock, because he naps every day after lunch. He’s not as interested in being upstairs with us as he was, and more often than not says he wants to nap in his own bed.

Nick always keeps him company. I think it’s because they enjoy that peaceful time together, without the hubbub of the household noise. I put on his big band music at a low volume now, instead of the TV, and as he drifts off, I wonder if he envisions himself and Mother dancing to the music.

I decide to send Cindy an email and tell her these things. She hasn’t been able to speak with Dad the last two times she’s called because he’s been deep in sleep and doesn’t want, or isn’t able, to come out of it.

Once she asked that I put the phone to his ear and just let her talk to him. Dad’s eyes were closed, but from the small smile that appeared on his face during the one-way conversation, I believed he heard the loving words from his daughter.

Kathy calls also, although it’s been a while now. Last time she called, Dad was asleep. She insisted I wake him up, so I tried, but it was useless. She started grilling me about why he was sleeping every time she called, what was going on with his health, and what I was doing about it.

It’s so easy for a child who isn’t involved in any aspect of a parent’s care to fire off questions, demand answers, make judgments, and proffer unwanted and unhelpful suggestions.

It’s not so easy, however, for me to keep my temper with her. “Tell you what, Kathy,” I’d said. “You come and pick him up and take him home with you for a while. Then you’ll be able to instruct me how to take better care of him.”

“That’s just like you,” she’d snapped. “Trying to make excuses and pawn him off on someone else.”

I’d just hung up on her after that comment.

Pawn him off? Pawn him off? How did she view Dad, I had to wonder, to have said something like that? Then I remembered she had accused me of pawning him off when I first moved him into the beautiful assisted living facility in Florida. When I’d asked her if she’d rather he live with her, she’d retorted that I was his Power of Attorney and Health Care Surrogate, and if anyone should take him in, it was me.

Hanging up on her was not my finest moment, but I didn’t have the patience or energy to continue a conversation that could only widen the chasm that already exists between us. We haven’t talked since that phone call. When I see her number come up on Caller ID, I let it go to voicemail or ask David to field the call and put Dad on the phone. I must say it’s a relief to not have to defend and justify every decision I make regarding Dad.

So while I’m more than happy to let Cindy know the details of what is happening with Dad, I will keep Kathy out of the loop because I don’t want any of the negative feedback she’ll inevitably offer.

Cindy has mailed Dad sweet cards, called him on a regular basis, and been there to listen when I needed to vent. She has sent me cute ecards, some that make me laugh and some that offer encouragement, and she never judges me. In fact, in every communication, whether verbal or written, she thanks me for honoring our father by taking such good care of him. She always lifts my spirits.

“Hello, hello, Rachel, are you here?” It’s Jennie calling out from downstairs. I look at the clock and see she’s fifteen minutes early. That’s unusual.

“Coming, Jennie.”

She’s at the bottom of the stairs, with her smiling face turned up in greeting, and she looks absolutely radiant.

I have a flash of what that might be about, but I don’t say anything. She’s bursting with news she wants to share.

“What is it, Jennie? What’s going on?” My voice carries a current of excitement.

“Oh, Rachel, we just got a call from the adoption agency! They have a baby boy for us!”

I let out a whoop and fly the rest of the way down the stairs and embrace her. We squeal and hold each other tightly.

“Oh, Jennie, I’m thrilled for you and Adam!”

She nods and whispers, in a voice filled with wonder, “God has answered our prayers.”

“Never did anyone’s prayers so deserve to be answered. Come, sit down, and tell me everything.” I motion her over to the sofa.

“I want to, Rachel, but can we bring Joe up now? I want to tell him, too.”

“Of course! I’ll have Marcy bring him up.”

“No, let me go get him. I need to give him a big hug right now.”

Sharing the joy; with family, of family. “He’ll like that.”

I watch Jennie as she does arm rotation and leg exercises with Dad. She tells us about the unwed seventeen-year-old girl in Louisiana who is eight months pregnant and will deliver mid-February.

She has decided to give up her son for adoption to a loving Christian couple. She’s a very good student who has a scholarship to Louisiana State University and wants to pursue her degree. Her family offered to help raise him, but it would be hard going, considering their low wages from manual labor jobs that come and go. That’s not the kind of upbringing she wants for her son.

“We have to leave the day after tomorrow to fly down there and meet her and her family. They know all about us from the agency and have chosen us to adopt him (and here she lets out a little squeal). I’m really nervous about it.”

“I bet you are, but you shouldn’t be. They’ll be bowled over by you and Adam. They’ll love you just like everyone who knows you loves you.”

“Thank you, Rachel. That means so much to me.” Jennie tells me Adam is rescheduling their appointments and making travel arrangements. They won’t be able to see Dad for the rest of the week, and maybe even the following week, depending on how things go. “But we know another therapist, Sherri Stark, who’s just great. Would it be okay if she fills in for us until we get back?”

“That’s fine, Jennie. Thank you for thinking of it.”

Dad has been listening, and now he joins the conversation. “What you going name him?” His voice is low, and his words choppy, but he’s interested and engaged, which is great.

“We want to name him Lucas,” she effuses. “What do you think, Joe?”

“Good name. Strong name.”

Jennie beams. “It was Adam’s grandfather’s name.”

Dad gives a single approving nod. “Even better.”

“Lucas Anthony Reynolds.” She’s loving the sound of the full name.

“That’s a beautiful name, Jennie.”

“Beautiful name,” Dad mumbles in agreement.

“Thank you, Rachel. Thank you, Joe.” She kisses Dad on the top of his head, prompting a smile from him.

Jennie’s hand is on Dad’s right arm, and he shakily reaches over and puts his left hand over hers. She looks into his face, knowing he wants to say something to her.

“He’s a lucky baby boy,” Dad says, slowly and carefully, enunciating each word.

Jennie throws her arms around Dad and puts her head on his shoulder. Her petite body is shaking with tearful happiness. Dad’s arms come up and encircle her, and I slip off the sofa and join them in a hug of overjoyed celebration.