When Elderly Parents Fade

(My family when we were young)

I've been blogging about child loss.  This week's focus will be on a different kind of loss.  A few years ago, my vibrant, hard-working father started to fade.  The doctor diagnosed him with senility.  He could no longer work as he had.  He couldn't drive as he always had.  He couldn't learn or remember.  As he walked away from his last job and mourned the loss of his license, he still tried to function and did a pretty good job.  But as the years passed, he became less and less eager to get out and about.  He'd go to movies then return to his bed, his TV, and his beloved little Pom-poo (Pomeranian poodle) we brought him and that he loved with all of his heart. 

(At the Bear Lake Beach, camping with Mom, Dad, our Pomeranian, and Dad's dog.)

A couple of years ago, we knew he was fading and took him and my mom to southern Utah, where they both wanted to go to see Zion's and Bryce.  We've taken him on a few little adventures over the years because we knew he had a traveling bone.  Over the last year, he's increasingly faded to the point that his only opportunity to see the light of day was periodic trips to the movies and walks with his dog.  On July Fourth, most of my full siblings and I got together with Mom and Dad for a barbecue.  My unstable-footed father rolled down the last two steps and broke his foot in two places.  He got out even less, mostly staying in bed. 

(Flying away for vacation)

All of his life, he longed to see Disneyland, but they never could afford it when he was young, and then through his first wife plus four kids, his brief second marriage, and his marriage with seven kids to my mom, he never could afford it.  So we, two of his daughters and our families and one of his sons and his family, took him to California.  We helped my elderly parents pay for Disneyland and their hotel.  We surrounded him with love as we celebrated his life and 78th birthday to come, doing just what he wanted to do. 

(Dad enjoying Disney with us.)

He only did California Adventure, Disneyland, a beach, and church while there, spending the rest of the time in bed.  He fell on the slick floors of the hotel a couple of times.  But he came back okay.  We got him home.  He and Mom drove up to my brother's house to pick up his beloved Pom-poo.  Mom went out for a few minutes, then she came back in to find him speaking incomprehensibly, in a way that seemed to indicate he'd just had a stroke. 

Over the last several days, he's been tested and prodded as all family that could rushed to visit, including three kids and some grandkids from his previous marriage.  We have started to pull together to support him.  It turns out it wasn't a stroke but possibly a seizure, though we're still not sure. 

(My Dad over the years)

All I know is the dad I've built a fairly close relationship over the years, the dad that went from a distant, angry tyrant, to a soft, sweet grandpa to my kids, the dad with whom I joked and played pinochle with, the dad that could be hard and sweet by turns, has become like a small child, frustrated in this shell, which is all that is left of his body.  He can't move much but still struggles to get around when the hospital staff won't let him because he could cause more damage.  He is used to being able to get out and do when he wants, even though he mostly doesn't want anymore. And now, no one can understand much of what he says.  He's stuck in a place where strange faces drift in and out of his consciousness, some of which he feels like he should remember.  He's become helpless, like a small baby, but with memories of being so much more.  It hurts to see him like this, but I'm thankful he's not gone entirely.  Not yet, but who knows what tomorrow or next month or next year will bring?  Meanwhile, my mother is left alone, trying to support him and deal with an empty house.  I'm thankful we could be there for them, but it's hard not to be able to do more. 

I miss him.  I miss my daddy and wish I'd hugged him a little more, talked to him a little more often, just given him more of myself.  I know when he leaves here, he'll go see my brother, who he loved fiercely and who died the month before Alli did.  I know his mother and several other family members are waiting to embrace his return.  But in the meantime, we'll do the best we can for him.  I just wish we could do more. 

Another Vacation without Her

It can be painful to go on a vacation, knowing at least one of your family members isn't there.  Now, I think she joins us when we go.  But it's just not the same thing when you can't hold that other family member, when you can't turn to them and point to something exciting.  I often wonder what she would be like, how she would respond.  I feel that hole in my family most keenly when I leave home. 

I miss her so much on these trips.  I'm looking forward to leaving for a while, to escape.  But I wish she could be nearby, taking it all in as well.  It just feels like all the colors are off without her.  Nothing feels right. 

Like I said, I can pray to invite her.  I truly think she will enjoy being with us when we go.  I just wish she could be visible.  One day. 

The Stork's Impending Visit (not to me)

My great niece is going to be born any day now.  On one hand, I celebrate inside because it means I get to hold a baby in pink and play with baby toes.  On the other hand, I will be praying inside, nervous the whole time leading to the birth, the time of birth, and even after baby is here.  Most people sigh with relief when a baby is here safely.  Having lost a babies in and out of the womb, I know babies are fragile in all their stages.  I'd be paralyzed with fear if it were my own baby.  Even watching my nephew and his wife, with whom I have been close for several years, bringing a baby to this earth scares me.

Babies are just scary to me for their sake.  They're scary for me for my sake, too, because I have lost too many times before.  I can't help it.  Babies equal loss to me.  I know most babies live.  This little princess will probably outlive me by many years. But just thinking about a baby makes me cry.  There was a time I envied women who called themselves "expecting" because they were pregnant.  It's been years since I've expected anything but loss, even when I was pregnant.  There was also a time I envied those with babies.  Now, I realize I don't envy any of it because babies mean fear to me.  I'm much more at peace letting other people deal with the stress.  I'll be grateful for my older kids and the chance to hold other people's babies. 

Ongoing Damage part 2

Over a year ago, my preteen girl was diagnosed with mono or a malady very like it.  It was almost impossible to wake her for school.  I had to dress her like a doll and still often couldn't wake her afterward.  Every day felt like the improv game of dead bodies where I had to manipulate a floppy person who was almost as tall as I am.  I finally just let the school know she was not coming or coming late every morning we couldn't wake her.  Summer couldn't come soon enough.  Over the summer, she got better but not all the way.  She showed every sign of chronic fatigue. 

Recently, I called the doctor's office to get some ideas of how to help my girl through these symptoms, which still haven't faded entirely.  I figured she still had the mono, which I had heard could become chronic.  When I talked to the nurse and told her my perception of the situation, she suggested good vitamins and getting her walking in the sun for vitamin D.  But the doctor said these symptoms are psychosomatic, that they have their root in psychology.  He recommended we get a therapist and/or have her work through a kids' therapy workbook. There's no pill to fix her.  There's no easy fix.  And it all started with the early trauma and tragedy of losing her sister on which the trauma of a bully, of a teacher that created an emotionally damaging environment, and other life events have only built to change her from an extreme extrovert who trusted the world to an extreme introvert drained by too much "peopling." 

On one level, she's done a lot of healing since her traumas.  She's gained a lot of confidence and self-assurance in her gifts and abilities.  On the other hand, it's hard to know how far she has to go and what being healed looks like.  All I can do is be there for her, give her those workbooks the doctor recommends since she has no interest in therapists, and help her turn toward God for the healing the atonement offers. 

Mixed Bag

                                              (A photo from Craters of the Moon last year.)

Last time, I wrote that we planned to go to a bed and breakfast to avoid being home and just feeling the pain of Alli's angelversary.  Last year, going to Craters of the Moon offered the perfect balance of get-out-of-the-house-with-the-family-and-stay-busy and time to mourn.  We ended the day looking through her baby book.  It was perfect. 

This year's trip to a lovely bed and breakfast was nice.  What with life happening, we didn't get there until late, and my acid reflux had me throwing up everything I tried to eat, my chest burning until I did.  But waking in an old farmhouse to crepes was lovely, especially when the turkey and ducks serenaded us, the cat and dog came for a visit, and the owner made us fabulous fruit crepes and orange juice.  I highly recommend the Woodland Farmhouse Inn in Kamas if someone is in that neck of the woods. 

Sadly, the experience of eating anything was marred by my acid reflux bout.  And we only made it one mile of the mile-and-a-half, steep Timpanogas hike before my acid reflux and my girl's budding heat stroke forced us to turn back.  We were so busy rushing there, rushing up the hill, and rushing to meet my nephews and niece for dessert, and taking care to eat non-greasy foods to even spare a thought for the meaning of the day, for mourning.  It was great to see family members I don't get to see often, however.  We collapsed in bed that night only to wake up to utter exhaustion and grief to double up and strike us hard the next day.  We got little done because we were still reeling from a less-than relaxing and fulfilling trip. 

I can't say I regret the trip.  But I can say I think we'll need to plan a bit better next year.  It's nice to escape, but one can't escape entirely from the grief monster.  If you hold it off, it will get you in the end.  Escape if you can, but plan time to mourn. 

Plans for Survival

(Craters of the Moon)

Last year, we knew that dreaded day in June was coming, Alli's angelversary, so, instead of just bracing for the inevitable pain and trying to survive it the best we could, we skipped town.  We went on a family adventure to Craters of the Moon.  It wasn't expensive because it's not a distant destination.  We just needed to get out and be busy and, above all, anywhere but home, wallowing. 

Like magic, our inexpensive voyage worked.  We kept so busy, I didn't have the whole day to feel the inevitable explosion of emotions creeping on.  I controlled it.  We still brought her baby book and brought it out at a key time to remember her.  We still invited her to join us in prayer.  But it wasn't about our emotions so much as our togetherness and celebration of family rather than a period of mourning.  I wouldn't doubt she was there for all of it, even if we couldn't see her. 

,

(hiking)

I've spent most of the month trying not to think of its ugly caboose, but my husband spent that time planning for another such day of celebration.  He booked a room in a bed and breakfast and tickets for a lovely hike to Timpanogas.  We won't idle by, waiting for the emotions to strike like a landmine under the surface.  We will celebrate her day with our togetherness and invite her along.  I wouldn't doubt my angel will be there this time, too. 

Dreaded June

[Allamandas, a flower whose name resembles my Alamanda's name.]

I always feel better when I haven't noticed it's June yet.  And when I haven't yet connected the beginning of June with its tail end.  I haven't connected the budding, green world of late spring as summer vacation begins with the last moments of June, the darkest day of the calendar year when we pull out the pictures of my baby that start with ultrasounds and end with images of caskets and headstones.  I never dreamed eight years ago that such a bright, happy time of the year could end so darkly.

My world as I knew it ended that beautiful, sunny day.  Everything since has been a process of scrambling to piece together the shards of a shattered, bloody heart.  Every June since has started with the sun shining and ended in the abyss where it feels light will never shine again. 

There was a time I loved June, looked forward to it, cherished it as a perfect time of the year, when the sun hasn't quite baked the color out of the world, and the baby animals are still finding their feet.  Now, it's a month reminiscent of dying flowers beside a tiny grave with dates too close together and shabby rainbows representing the younger babies I would carry but never hold. 

I miss a green, happy June like I miss my smile before catastrophic loss.  But, somehow, life goes on, anyway.  I will survive until July, when the sun can shine again.  I will keep that picture book that ends too abruptly in its place on the shelf until the end of the month, when we will remember her short life with tears and warm memories but also pain.  I know, one day, I will be able to hold her again.  I know families can be together forever.  But for now, June hurts.  And I can either accept that or pretend I can replace what is with what "should be."  Life will go on with the pain.  I've accepted that.  And that will have to do.