Da Goddess

In my search for comfort and a sense of peace, I came across a link on Twitter leading to a lovely blog. I’ll include a link to the story that first hooked me later this weekend, but until then, please go visit lovely woman’s site.

Mom update: she’s resting at hospital, receiving antibiotics and breathing treatments to ease her respiratory effort. The plan is to keep her there a few days and see what happens at that point. If the doctors don’t feel there will be any hope for improvement over time, she’s planned on comfort measures and not much else according to my sister. Understandable, but still makes my heart fall deep in my belly. I’m really not prepared for this at the moment as I’m struggling to keep up with the grief over Dad. We shall see. It’s not in my hands. God will bless us with the right course as He sees fit. That’s pretty much all we need, isn’t it?

If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

The day before my birthday, Mom was admitted to the hospital with respiratory distress. She went home several days later. I didn’t call because talking made her cough, so we texted.

I just got a call from my younger sister to let me know Mom’s back in hospital again for the same problem. Instead of going to her regular hospital, she’s been admitted to the hospital where Dad died. What’s more, it seems she’s in the same room. (Update: Mom’s actually in the emergency department as of 16:30, so she’s not been admitted.)

J is headed over there now to see what’s going on and will update me. C is, of course, dealing with doctors and Mom.

I almost went down to San Diego yesterday. C and I discussed it and we decided to hold off until next week sometime.

I feel like I’m stuck in a fucking loop right now.

Mojo and I had spoken the other day as Mom was getting settled in at home. Mojo told me, “Grammy keeps saying she’ll take her medicine but she’s done.” My mom had uttered the same thing several times while Dad was dying and again on Mother’s Day. I told her to hold off because we can only deal with so much at once.

This also has had me thinking of us gathering around Dad not long after he’d passed. Mom gasped, put her hand on his chest and said, “oh! I can still feel his heart beating!” She was in shock. I gently told her he was gone and she was likely feeling her own pulse through her hand. I double checked to show her and she looked, momentarily, defeated. I told her she wasn’t the first person to be hopefully mistaken.

While Mom has been conflicted about my dad got a long time, the simple fact is that they’d known each other for over 60 years and had a very emotionally complex relationship, what with marriage, kids, divorce, grandkids, and the rest of the things life throws your way. Being sad, angry, hopeful, relieved, and even confused is understandable. But it also highlighted how fragile she’s become, not just over the years, but in the space of a few days. Emotional conflict can bring with it health issues no one expects. I’m not saying Mom’s health crisis at the moment is the direct result of her emotional health, but her emotions are not working FOR her right now.

Dear God, please help Mom get better. Please help all of us deal with this in helpful and loving ways. And, pretty please, don’t let May become the month my sisters and I become adult orphans. We’re still working through the last loss.

Can I get an Amen?

17:00 Update: CT scan looking for blood clots. X-rays were okay.
17:30 Update: nothing obvious, so that’s good news. Tests all seem to be clear.
19:00 Update: Mom being transferred to her regular hospital where all her records are available for anyone who tends to her. I’m relieved beyond belief.

It doesn’t matter if you physically gave birth, adopted, assumed guardianship, or just served as a guiding hand to a child, if you’ve given your heart to a little one, you’re deserving of a warm Happy Mother’s Day from me and the entire world!

To offer your love and attention, your patience and understanding, you’ve given another generation the kind of care they need and deserve to become citizens of our planet. We’re all in this together, whether we acknowledge it or not. By extending a hand, you help to build the bridge between each of us and make our community stronger.

Thank you for being you. Thank you for caring. Thank you for the stories, the soup, the endless brushing of hair, the bandaids, serving as judge and jury, vet, doctor, nurse, teacher, chef, chauffeur, and friend. Thank you!

Now go eat something you probably shouldn’t, take a much deserved nap, and let the dishes sit in the sink for a day. Celebrate YOU!

I took a break from posting about Dad’s death because I needed to. I have lots more to say, you can bet on it, but between being exhausted (physically and emotionally) and feeling like maybe this was becoming all Dad all the time, it’s a necessity.

I’ll be back to talk more about the grieving process I’m going through, how I see others coping, etc. I’m just going to keep a little of this to myself for now.

Thanks for all the kind words in comments, emails, and texts. You’ve warmed my heart and helped ease my soul.

I had a long night of thinking, of remembering. I dozed off a couple times, but really never slept. My stomach was not having it.

With inflammatory bowel disease you can never predict when your stomach is going to go rogue one you. And you can’t predict how long it’ll last. There are times when I’ll go months without a flare up and then have a bad day. Or maybe I’ll have a horrible couple of weeks followed by a day of relief, quickly followed by a month of horror. It’s really that crazy.

Were I insured or on Medicaid, I’d have tests to see if I’ve ramped up to ulcerative colitis. But I’m still waiting to find out if I’ve been approved.

Anyhow, stress can be a trigger for flare ups and I’d say death of a loved one counts as stress. It took a day or two to smack me upside the head, but it has most definitely done that now.

J cleaned Dad’s house yesterday before C even got there. I’d slept through the day and missed everything. Today, I guess we’re going over to sort through stuff? I’m not quite sure. I know C has been good about getting rid of Dad’s clothes over the past year as he’s worn out stuff or lost too much weight to wear it. We’ll have to get the rest of his clothes sorted and donated this week, I think. Better to do it now instead of waiting and letting grief smash into us again later.

Other notes:

I’m an idiot! I packed enough underwear for every day of an Everest expedition but failed to pack sleep pants.

I actually posted on Facebook yesterday after 7 months. I’d almost like to delete my account there, but a great portion of friends on there I don’t contact any other way. What to do, what to do…

I’d just awakened when I heard Mojo knock on my door. “We’re gonna go to dinner. Are you going to come, too?” she asked. “It’s *that* late already?!” I replied.

I haven’t slept that hard in a long time. The memories of my dreams are fleeting, but none were disturbing, so I’m grateful for that.

C took Mojo, LD, and I out for Mexican for dinner down by San Diego harbor. It was very good, but then I couldn’t tolerate another bite and my stomach screamed “none of this belongs here!” So, yummy food, bummy tummy.

Last night, no problem with the homemade beef barley soup and cornbread. Or the turkey sandwich from the comfort cart provided by the hospital. (I’m not kidding when I say Pomerado Hospital is one of the best hospitals on the planet!)

I guess eating whilst grieving is going to be an adventure of its own.

We’re back at C and D’s house. Mojo and I spent an hour going through photos on our phones, “oh! send me that!” and subsequently texting favorited images.

How did we ever manage to communicate before cell phones? The sheer ease of communication is astonishing! I texted my sister from bed this morning to save us all from yelling across the house. I do, however, draw the line at texting someone who’s sitting next to me. Unless it’s an urgent message and we’re in a “no-talk” situation. Or unless I’m sitting with a friend named Jacque in a bar in Vegas.

My mind is full of utter nonsense that keeps trying to push away sadness and important tasks relating to Dad. Thus, the existence of these ramblings. They have to go somewhere. Twitter is filling up quickly with them. This blog is, too. And I posted to Facebook for the first time in at least 18 months. Less about anything on Facebook, more just to let a couple people know, people who had known Dad.

I’m going to try to get to sleep early so I can be of actual use tomorrow. My sisters can’t keep carrying all the weight, nor should they have to. Fingers crossed I make it.

Dad, I am trying to get this right. I hope I’m at least coming close. I love you and will miss you forever.

I don’t know how any of us got through yesterday. Lots of love, laughter, and tears to be sure, but I honestly don’t know how we were able to keep going.

All of us had to have a lie-in at some point. (How pretentious of me to use lie-in as opposed to nap…it’s just that napping doesn’t quite seem appropriate in this context.) We had dinner. We talked. Mojo and I stayed up talking and watching stuff on YouTube.

After crawling into bed I realized I still hadn’t changed my clothes from Sunday, had forgotten to brush my teeth, and really needed to pee. It took me a full 90 minutes to get up to do anything about it.

Woke up at 0745 to the realization that my dad is really really really gone. I knew that yesterday, but it hit me afresh upon waking. I don’t know how to do this. I mean, I know, I just don’t KNOW.

I’m in total lockup today. Neck and back are not cooperating. I practically crawled to the bathroom. This is worse than normal as the sheer emotional momentum from yesterday has left my body. This definitely is NOT the day I anticipated having. I’m hoping I’ll fall asleep for a bit and wake up in better shape.

Sleep, though, I don’t know. So much keeps running through my head. I don’t remember how many times I prayed last night, but it was kind of all that kept me from crying. That and I didn’t have Fletch to cry to. That’s how I get through the bad moments at home.

Yesterday, while at the hospital, we had the chaplain come in to say a prayer with us. She was a pleasant little old lady with a slight lilt to her voice. All was going well (relatively well, I mean, we were heartbroken, crying, and generally in need of comfort) until she got to her third “Heavenly Father” in her prayer. At the next mention, I felt a giggle building. At the fifth mention, I kind of started to shake. By the sixth “Heavenly Father”, I was actively having to hold back laughter.

Her next parlor trick was telling us she was sure Dad was a lovely, wonderful, kind man. Mom guffawed openly. C and I laughed.

Cranky, grumpy, misanthropic, loud, rude…and, yes, a good man. Perfectly imperfect. That was my dad. I didn’t always understand him, but I always loved him. I was lucky to have almost 52 years with him. That’s a helluva lot more time than many people get with parents. I’m not feeling great about it, but I’m okay with it. I’m okay with it in that he’s not in pain any longer. I’m okay with him being free of the ravages of aging. Being free from illness, from losing autonomy, losing friends, losing the ability to do all the things he enjoyed. He’s at peace now and I have to learn to get there, too.

I’m extremely grateful for my sisters, brothers-in-law, my mom, the kids, my friends, and the staff at the hospital and hospice. Together we’ve made it this far and that’s something special in my book.

Each day, each moment will bring with it new challenges, but I’m a quick learner and I think I have a handle on getting through whatever comes up. No guarantees, just a sense that I can do this.

Going to attempt sleep again. Or maybe hobble out to the kitchen for a piece of toast. Then I’ll tackle whatever comes next.

C had just taken me to her house so I could shower when we got the call that Dad had passed.

Mojo had just landed.

J was bedside.

Now I’m sitting here with Dad and crying and remembering and trying to process it all.

Day is done, Dad. Time to climb in the old jalopy and go find another race.

I love you. Thank you for being my dad.

Vale.

Dad had a relatively quiet night. We were able to get him a warming blanket, which helped immensely against the chill of constant air conditioning. He mostly kept his nasal cannula in place, though I had to replace it enough to smile at his efforts.

C had come back to the hospital after her break, bringing me my requested piece of toast and some water. She was here until after 11pm. I made her go home because she’s been in the thick of this from the beginning. J has also been running herself ragged trying to keep up with Dad, her job, her other job, and everything else she has going. Thankfully, both sisters got a break from this.

The sleeping chair here was laughable, but it did the trick. I camped out bedside and was able to keep Dad company throughout the night. He slept fairly well and I slept much like I sleep these days — restless, uncomfortable, and in pain. That said, I felt better just being here. There won’t be many more days with my dad and I don’t want to miss a single one if I can help it.

His nurses and aides have been lovely, gentle, and professional. The only thing I’d change is, perhaps, quieter neighbors. But this is part and parcel of hospital life.

Currently watching the nurses do bedside shift change report. Despite it being a bit noisy, it’s good to hear what information they’re exchanging. I’m trying to NOT jump in with extraneous info, but it’s near impossible. They’re very kind about it.

Other than that, we’re waiting for Mojo to get here. Praying for just enough time to have us all here together to let him know it’s okay to let go. We want him to be at peace with himself and with us. We want him to know he’s very much loved. Mostly, we just want him to pass in comfort, surrounded by love and gentle support.

I’m off to cry a little bit by myself so I can come back and be strong for him and for the family.

This is my Dad. The photo is from 2009. I don’t have any recent pics with me, so this will do the job.

We — my sisters, brothers-in-law, LD, my mom, and I — are at the hospital with my Dad. Mojo will be here in the morning.

We’re saying our goodbyes.

Dad’s been in slow but steady decline for at least a year, with something new cropping up every month or so. It’s overwhelming for him and for my oldest sister. She’s the main caretaker and the one who has been in charge of all his legal and financial affairs.

It’s tough to see Dad so frail and so out of it. Yes, this was inevitable, but when are any of us ready for the death of a parent?

On Wednesday, big sis, C, took Dad to the doctor. Dad said he no longer wanted to deal with tests or another new diagnosis (weight loss on a noticeable scale) and he was ready for palliative care. They talked about hospice and covered all their bases.

I didn’t know this until yesterday. I mean, I knew he’d lost weight since Christmas, but there’s been ever more since. I knew he was in decline, but I was hoping he’d rally. Deep down, I think we’ve all hoped that.

It’s not to be.

My brother-in-law, D, found Dad on the floor, unresponsive this morning. I knew as soon as I saw my little sis’s number pop up on the phone that it wasn’t going to be good news. Then began the frantic scramble to get down here. KA has been out of town since Thursday, I’m without a car, I have Fletch. So, scramble scramble scramble. A friend was kind enough to drive 25 miles to get me, 90+ miles down, and another 90 miles back. I spent most of the trip talking about NOTHING… basically avoiding the topic of my dad dying.

The shock of seeing him as I walked in the room was something I don’t think I can adequately describe. Or maybe I don’t want to think about it that long. All I know is the man in the hospital bed was a mere shadow of my dad. He would occasionally open his eyes, but he wasn’t really there. His respiratory rate was high, heart rate low, and blood pressure low as well. He’d eaten nothing since Wednesday (and before that, Sunday), despite my sister’s best efforts. When I’d talked with C yesterday, I told her he was becoming dehydrated (the man does NOT do water) with his constant diarrhea and lack of liquid intake. That’s not good for anyone, but especially not someone with multiple critical diagnoses. Still, there’s no making horses or old men drink if they don’t want to drink.

I’ve been here several hours now. Dad’s settled into a regular room on the fourth floor. He’s getting 1mg of morphine per hour for comfort. We can increase the dose if necessary, but we’re trying to hold off on that until Mojo gets here in the morning. Morphine, great as it is for easing pain, also depresses the respiratory system. While Dad’s respiratory rate is high, he’s working awfully hard to get oxygen to the rest of his body. I’m hoping he’ll be less agitated now and his heart rate will come up, BP will come up, and his respirations slow and deepen. Better perfusion means a clearer mind.

Since none of that’s likely to have any affect on his overall prognosis, comfort is the best option. So, comfort it is.

The best thing about him getting the morphine is that he IS comfortable enough that he’s had lucid moments and I’ve been able to let him know I love him. He even smiled a bit when I told him Mojo’s on her way, that LD had been here, that we’re all here for him, that we all love him very much. Even Mom. (Had they stayed married, Memorial Day would have been their 60th anniversary! Instead, they’ve split the difference… married 30, divorced 30. Go figure. Parents. What’s a kid to do?)

C and D are home, getting a break from the “vigil”, grabbing a bite to eat. Little sis J is now at work, tending to (among other animals) a dog in hospice. Mom is back at her assisted living bachelorette pad. LD is at home, likely processing the shock of this. 21 and he’s not been witness to death like this. His great aunt died in January, but he only attended the wake. Seeing death as it slowly takes away a loved one is difficult, even when you know it’s coming.

Please pray for a sweet, gentle passage for my dad. Please pray Mojo gets here in time. And please pray that we all remember to tell those important to us how much we love them.

My little sister and her husband and dogs AND my attorney are in areas now in fire danger.

Prayers are welcome.

Update: everyone I know is safe. Still sad concerned about people who continue to be in harm’s way is the rest of SoCal.

While it may not be the world world, it’s getting quite a bit more of my world involved.

Southern California is, once again, ablaze. Some keep referring to the fires as *brushfires*. These are most decidedly NOT mere brushfires. These are deadly wildfires.

Raging out of control, aided by strong Santa Ana winds, which are expected to kick up to gusts up 90mph in some areas.

We are safely away from the fires. All I can do, all any of us can do, is to pray for the safety of those in harm’s way.

May all y’all be sheltered in a safe location as your neighborhood is evacuated. May the firefighters and police and pilots be safe as they fight the fires and help evacuate communities go up in flames.

Praying this all ends quickly and with minimal loss of life.

Happy birthday to my glorious first born!

Mojo, you have always been my little ray of sunshine. You were and are the best of me, the best of your biological father, and the best of our entire family.

I’m continually awed by the way you carry yourself and the way you show kindness and compassion toward others. I don’t think I know anyone else — other than your brother — who is quite as generous a spirit as you. And believe me when I say that he wouldn’t have come along if it hadn’t been for YOU! You opened my heart in ways I’ll never be able to explain.

Happy birthday, honey! I love you more than words allow!

My beautiful boy is 21 years old today.

He is a gift to all who know and love him.

What an amazing young man my Little Dude has grown up to be.

Happy birthday, kiddo! I love you so much!

You’ll thank me for title=”awesome cats”>this. You will.