There are no words for...

Well, Day 11 is ending. It's been quite a ride. A slow, painful, frustrating, infuriating, numbing ride. When I arrived Dad was in the hospital hospice ward. He could get to/from the bathroom with a little assistance and was eating a few bites of solid hospital foods. He could speak, hoarsely, but words were there. Three days after my arrival, I brought him home. Nothing much changed the next day or so, but on the tail end of the second day going into day three, he started heading downhill fast. He suddenly couldn't get to the bathroom on his legs even with my assistance. His appetite, as little as it had been, bottomed out to nothing. He has become mostly unresponsive and taking his meds in liquid form as its the only way to get them in him.

Now, my mother, being one of those mothers that fixes all things with food, simply wasn't grasping the fact that food was no longer an option. But when she was made to understand this fact, it seemed to be the only way she was capable of "helping". She abdicated her mind and has been fuzzy on the business that needs to be taken care of...financial, as well as burial arrangements. This mother and father of mine, that had always been ultimately responsible and foresightful, failed to make plans for their eventual demise. Absolutely no plans had been made and they were clueless as to what they were to do. Now, as abdicated as she may be, she still has not relinqueshed the real "power". I my typical get-things-done manner, I have made phone calls, researched, and laid out the options...better yet, the best option. All that is needed is the say so to move forward. But that is not coming. As if I haven't done or said a word on any of the subjects, she will meander her conversations into "plans" that she thinks things should be. And they couldn't be any further from reality, much less a workable option.

In the meantime, neighbors, hospice and local pastors and chaplains have made a steady stream into our home daily since having a hospital bed brought in and simply keeping him "comfortable" is our job. As I watch the ravages that this insipid cancer does to this human body, I don't believe he's truly comfortable at all. But the medicines do keep him in another world. I guess that's something. Again I wonder...why don't we hear more about this out there in the world?

Where is that confidence?

Wow, who was it that said I had come to grips with this and had found a home in my purpose? Surely it wasn't me, because I don't feel anything like that today.

I've been with my parents for 5 days now. My dad has come home from the hospital and we are "managing" his pain. But he is in pain quite often. He still gets around some...very slowly, with a very nervous me standing at his elbow at all times ready with the catcher's mitt. He sleeps alot. In bed and in a chair. He has no voice and is hard to hear and understand a times. But his mind is still very much "on" with the occasional word that plagues us all on the tip of our tongues.

The greatest challenge I have found so far is my own selfishness. This is not "home", the place where I can relax. It's very uncomfortable here, in many, many ways. If I could know my own family and home were just across town or nearby, it would relieve some of the stress I feel. My poor son had to be on the receiving end of my first breakdown (yes, I said first because I highly suspect it was only the beginning) yesterday, via telephone. What started out as a "how was your day, dear?" conversation, turned into a full-blown blubbering mamma apologizing for doing so. It wasn't a pretty sight. Bless his heart, he's still talking to me today...he's a good kid.

I am quickly discovering that there is no relief or respite for the caregiver. At my father's advance stage, I am needed even when he is asleep for such duties as dispensing meds or going to the bathroom. And no one comes to visit. So all three of us are homebound. Day drags to night, night turns to day, day drags to night.....a perpetual swinging of a lone pendulum. Isolation. That's a good word to describe this, isolation. It feels like the whole world has stopped spinning but you can't find the way off the merry-go-round and everyone has gone home...deserted you.

I do know better. In the dead of the night, when I am needing to stay awake for the final medicine dispense, I am surfing my virtual community of friends that I used to chat with, laugh with during my days. Many of them leave me very encouraging words and wishes and let me know how proud they are of me and are praying for me. I wish they'd quit thinking grand things of me, though. I certainly don't see the same traits in myself that they seem to see in me. But I will take all their prayers! Maybe this will become easier and I will find some sort of footing. I really don't want to feel begrudging. My dad deserves the care and if that means some sacrifice or hardship on my part, then I am going to keep trying.

Ready, set....

I have come to grips with what is coming. I've had the time to find a "home" inside myself with my place and purpose. I know that there are still alot of unknowns, but I have found something inside me that says I can do this.

My father was placed in the hospital for pain management and they discovered a blot-clot in his leg. The meds used to dissolve and manage his pain finally kicked in and started giving him enough relief that he was resting better and sounded rested. There is a little voice to his hoarseness also. So, I'm hopeful that when I get there, he will be in better spirits and be ready to face the business of making arrangements and talking through everything that needs to be talked through.

My own husband and son have left me alone just the right amount and reassured me that things will happen as they should. I am reminded that even when things aren't done "right", they do get done and "well enough". I will miss some key days and activities with them, but I am also realizing that I can actually grow in many ways, and different ways, closer to them through my time away.

So, here I go.

Being stretched

I am entering into the hardest time of my life, so far. And I'm also realizing that as much as I work at not being a selfish person, that it's that same selfishness that is weighing the heaviest on my heart and causing myself the most pain. So here I am at 50 years old realizing that I'm basically throwing a temper tantrum inside myself. Lovely.

My father is at the end of his battle with cancer. He's a very proud and stubborn, self-sufficient man. Asking for help does not come easily, to say the very least. My mother is not able to live on her own and has not come to the point she can acknowledge that fact. I'm an only child that lives 1000 miles away with my own family. My only child, my son, is about to graduate from high school, march drum corp all summer and begin community college in the fall.

My parents' home is stuffy, stale, quiet, television-free, quiet, negativity you can choke on, stuffy, stale, television-free, negativity...did I say that already? Its just not "home", you know? And I've suddenly realized that not one thing about being there is about me! I mean, seriously, I'm an only child, remember? I'm going to be missing my own family, all of my child's "lasts" of high school and I'm not going to have anyone doing anything for me. No hugs for ME. No thoughts about ME. See? I told you I'm having a temper tantrum inside myself!

I find it ironic, yet very telling, that my epiphany is becoming clear on Easter Sunday. All the emotion of my worry and stress so far came to a head earlier today in tears....and tears....and tears. It was in those tears the thought came to me, how selfish I'm being. And that Jesus gave up His comfy little life here on earth on Friday for me. For you. For everyone. For His Father. Not for Himself. He actually prayed that what He was about to go through would pass over Him. He had a human moment. Probably one of many more that we don't stop to realize. He didn't want to die, to leave His family and friends, to go through the pain and unknown. He was one-up on the rest of us in knowing exactly what is on the other side. But all the rest, He was much like you and me. But He did it for me.

For me. For me. With every "for me", the point is driven home just a bit more in just how selfish I've been and that I have an opportunity to serve. And often service isn't completely comfortable. It's an exercise in stretching. Stretching my knowledge, stretching my patience, stretching my stamina, stretching my compassion, stretching my love, stretching past myself. I can do this with His gentle help. And the love and support of all my wonderful friends and my family is priceless.