3

 

Our previous landscaper’s wife, a lovely young woman named Carmen who speaks little English but has a big enough heart to understand what is needed, is our go-to gal in helping with Dad. I’ve done the math, and after paying for his prescription co-pays, medical supplies, diapers and toiletries, we can afford to pay her forty dollars a day for four hours’ work, six days a week. She’s agreed to come every morning except Sundays. Thank God she needs the money because I need the help.

Carmen is very pretty, with her high cheekbones and almond-shaped brown eyes, and Dad takes to her and cooperates as she and I work together on this, her first day, to establish his morning routine. The goal is to get her comfortable with handling his toileting, bathing and breakfast, then changing his sheets and freshening his kitchen and bathroom. With her here, all I need to worry about in the mornings are his pills and insulin—well, besides doing loads of laundry and putting together a wholesome lunch.

She’s not as quick and efficient as I’d envisioned. Her pace in all she does is unhurried, almost leisurely, and I wonder how she keeps up with her two young children. Oh, well, she may be slow, but Dad likes her. She’s also strong and not put off by the toileting requirements. Good enough.

The four hours fly by, and when she leaves I find myself facing the next twenty hours of just David and me caring for Dad; and you know, it’s downright daunting.

After last night’s welcome-home dinner of baked chicken—David’s doing, thankfully—we brought Dad down to his apartment and completed all the chores necessary to prepare him for bed. After getting him settled for the night, we’d wearily climbed the stairs and stopped at the top to look at each other in what I would describe as bemused panic. Writ large.

We’d burst into laughter—a punchy side effect of our first big dose of reality.

Dad is propped up in bed, no doubt expecting lunch after taking his midday medications. And then the toilet will call. I hope David will be back in time to help me with that. It would be so much easier if Dad would just let go in an absorbent diaper, but he’s always been adamant about not doing that. So he must be hoisted, transferred and seated. Then the process is reversed. It’s a challenging chore to perform by myself.

Then there’s dinner, and his evening medications. Then more transferring and toileting and settling him in bed. I’m tired just thinking about the day’s demands. A wave of panic swells inside me. I won’t allow it. I won’t.

For certain, I’m no stranger to caregiving, having nursed my mother for six months before she passed away—first for three months in the hospital, where I camped out ten-to-twelve hours a day, and where an overworked staff welcomed me. Near the end of Mother’s life, in her and Dad’s Florida home, Hospice and a live-in aide had assisted me.

Even with that generous help, the days had been long and draining. I’d thought I had a handle on caregiving, but in this moment of looking at Dad, who’s totally under my keep, I recognize my limits and lack of experience as a full-time caregiver.

Now I’m having this insight?

I take a deep breath and watch the play of leafy sunlight dance on the wall opposite the window. It is peaceful and pretty in here, even cheery.

With my panic gone and confidence restored, I ask Dad what he would like for lunch. Although pot roast is the only thing on the menu, he will eat whatever I put in front of him, but I want him to think he has a say in the matter.

“What have you got?”

“I cooked a pot roast. Would you like some?”

“I didn’t know you cooked.” I can’t help but laugh at his bewildered expression. Even though we’d been over this yesterday, we’re starting over today.

Dad laughs along; he loves to laugh. He’s easygoing and charming and funny and sweet, and I think how lucky I am that he is such a congenial man, even with the advancing dementia. His good nature and positivity will make a difference in how we function as a family in the coming years. Knock wood.

It’s fortunate—if there’s anything fortunate about dementia—that both his Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s are of the slow-progressing nature. From the time he was diagnosed with dementia, I assembled a progressive group of physicians and therapists to oversee his care, first in Florida and now here in North Carolina. He’s not only still alive, but doing rather well, considering his maladies.

If he hadn’t broken his hip, he’d be more mobile. But the Parkinson’s pushed back against the rehabilitative therapy, despite Dad’s hard work.

Because of his dementia, he doesn’t grasp his physical limitations, and he believes he’ll walk on his own again. I’ll never be the one to dissuade him of that notion. I’d sure rather have an optimistic than a pessimistic dad.

Right now, he’s optimistic about lunch. “David likes my pot roast, and I bet you will, too.”

I hear a scrabbling noise behind me and turn to see Nick hovering in the doorway. He gives a low woof. It’s as if he’s heard and understands the words “pot roast” and is hoping for his own portion.

I’m ready to shoo Nick out when Dad cries, “Get that dog out of here!”

Poor Nick practically leaps out the door. He’s not used to harsh voices or wounded feelings. I want to leap out myself and comfort him, but Dad takes precedence. I hadn’t foreseen this chasm—far from it—that ups the ante of caregiving. Keeping Nick out of Dad’s way is going to be challenging. Nick has had the run of the house for years. But I’ve made Dad a promise, and I’ll keep it.

“He’s gone. I’m sorry he came in. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Dad plucks at his bed covers with tight fingers. “I don’t like that dog,” he grumbles.

I flinch at his tone and the gloom it inflicts. I’d hoped his anti-dog outburst yesterday was dementia-related and temporary. I’d believed Dad and Nick would become good buddies. I’d thought Nick could help fill a gap and lessen Dad’s loneliness if he missed the human companionship at Crestview.

Disappointed and a bit aggravated that he’d hurt Nick’s feelings, I’m in no mood to indulge his attitude. “You’ve made that clear, Dad. Let’s move on.”

“Let’s move on,” he repeats. Now he’s smiling. His sudden mood swings are not unusual, but they still catch me off guard.

I relinquish my irritation and smile. “Yes, let’s move on to lunch.”

“What are we having?”

This need for repetition is fairly recent. I shrug it off as another stone to step over. “I’m thinking pot roast. How does that sound?”

“Sounds fine.” His brow furrows. “Did you cook it?”

We could go round and round about this all day. “Yes. I followed a delicious recipe.”

Dad thinks about it. “Bet it’s tough as shoe leather.”

We laugh. He isn’t criticizing; he simply expects it to be as unsavory as anything else I’ve ever cooked.

“Tell you what. I’ll sprinkle shoe polish on it to give it more flavor.”

We share another laugh—a warm and easy moment between us.

“Okay then, I’ll get your pills, and we’ll do lunch.”

Dad sometimes refuses to take his pills, but if there’s one pill I hope he’ll get down, it’s Sinemet. It eases his difficulty in swallowing, which is an unpleasant symptom of Parkinson’s. Considering tough-as-leather pot roast is on the menu, we’ll need all the help we can get.

I learned from Crestview that a calm and quiet environment facilitates his pill-taking process. It takes ten long minutes of gentle coaxing before he has swallowed all of them. I breathe a sigh of relief as I get up to turn on the TV and tune in to Judge Judy to keep him company while I go upstairs to fix his plate.

The judge is administering one of her usual unvarnished verdicts. “She can be real tough,” Dad says. “She reminds me of your momma. That’s why I like her.”

He’s right. Judge Judy’s no-nonsense demeanor and admonishments are similar to Mother’s stern reprimands. She could be tough, but the good side of Mother was very good, and Dad loved her then and loves her still, just as I do.

Nick, looking sad and lonely, is on his bed in the garage. I love him up and soothe his hurt feelings with soft words. He follows me up to the kitchen where I give him a slice of packaged roast beef, thinking it’s the next best thing to pot roast.

He follows me back down the stairs but stops outside of Dad’s room. “I’ll be back,” I tell him as I push through the door. Dad is dozing, but I don’t hesitate to wake him. The pot roast and peas are hot, and dozing is something he can do anytime. I’ve cut the roast into small bites, but I don’t look forward to the long process of getting the meal into him. Whether he feeds himself or needs help, it’s a long and deliberate undertaking.

Dad surprises me when he picks up his fork with agility and makes a successful stab at a piece of roast. “That’s good,” he mumbles at the first bite. He raises his eyebrows. “Did you really make this?”

“Dad! Of course I made it. It’s not applied statistics. I put everything in a Crockpot. David’s sister gave me the recipe.”

“Well, it’s good.”

I’ve never attached any happiness or self-worth to being able to cook, but I’m pleased he likes it.

“Better than those fish sticks,” he adds.

“Those fish sticks!” I burst out laughing. Mother had been out of town, tending to her sick father, when I’d made my first attempt at cooking. Heating frozen fish sticks wasn’t exactly cooking, but as an uninitiated teenager, anything else was beyond me. I recall serving some doughy frozen hush puppies, too.

I’d forgotten about that until now. “What do you remember about those fish sticks?” I’m curious to see how much he’ll recall.

“They were half-cooked. Worst thing I ever ate.”

Now I recall something else. “And you let me know that, too. I remember you grumbled, ‘What crummy fish sticks these are.’ Do you remember what I said to you when you complained?”

He casts his eyes up to the left, searching for a memory that doesn’t come. He looks at me and shakes his head.

“I said, ‘Daddy! I made those for you and you’re going to eat them!’”

“That sounds like something you’d say. You and your momma.” He smiles and shakes his head. I wonder if he’s thinking about Mother. She wasn’t exactly a great cook, either.

“But seriously, that was the worst meal you ever had? Ever?”

“Outside of Army food, yeah, the worst.” He barks out a laugh. “I thought you’d never get a husband if you couldn’t cook any better than that.”

I bark out a laugh of my own. “You never told me that.”

“I was wrong. Good thing you’re smart and pretty.”

“Thanks, that’s sweet of you to say. I’ll tell you, I think it was your reaction to those fish sticks that helped me decide cooking wasn’t something I would bother to learn.”

“And you didn’t.” He eyes his plate. “Until now.”

For twenty minutes, I stay beside him, helping him eat. Despite my help, peas roll off his fork and down his bib. The eating process stalls as he reaches down with shaky fingers to pluck cold peas off his chest and laboriously bring them to his mouth. I want to tell him to never mind, but he’s intent on the process, and I’m not going anywhere anyway. Still, I chafe at the delay in getting him fed because my back is hurting. I’ll have to figure out a better arrangement than this. His bed offers him plenty of comfortable positions, but none for me. I bend over his lap tray from a side angle and shift around, but there is no relaxed angle.

Twice I rewarm the pot roast and peas in the microwave, gaining temporary back relief and sending peppery, meaty aromas out into the kitchenette. This would be easier if I transferred him to a chair at the dinette table in his apartment, but I’m not comfortable doing that alone. But I am okay with moving him into his wheelchair, and I can just push it up to the table. Duh.

Having solved that absurdly simple problem, I focus on helping Dad finish his lunch. Being near his sweet energy gives me pleasure, and I relinquish my dread at getting him fed while worrying about things that could go wrong. Why stack worry upon worry?

Still, I’m relieved when he eats every bite without incident. “Thanks, Sugar, that was nice.”

I tell him he’s welcome and kiss his forehead, then lift the tray from his lap. He tips his head back and closes his eyes to settle into a nap.

Dad is safe, comfortable and happy—everything I wanted for him when he moved in. I flick a wish out to the universe for many more days of the same.