Down, but not out

Back in Madison. Numb. I wish I could say, "I was so happy to get home!" But it's bittersweet because I left Dad. Truth be told, I have no emotions and feel like I'm in shock. Like I just survived a plane crash. Maybe a good night of sleep will bring me around. Transitions are tough. And it was one helluva week.

A few hours after I posted my last blog, the hospice doctor told my dad, "It won't be days, but it probably won't be months," and that was shocking. What does a man do when told he has weeks to live? He cries. Holds his loved ones. He worries about who will take care of them, even though they're all adults. Although I respect that doctor, I wish he wouldn't have been so specific. I mean, why try to put a number on someone's days? He can't know. It doesn't seem to be comforting. Dad knows he's dying of cancer. Isn't that enough? Linda and I hugged Dad and wept and wept. The spirituality guide from hospice shared some peaceful thoughts. What can you say?

To add to this soup of depression, yesterday hospice delivered a hospital bed to Dad's living room. He can't go up and down stairs anymore. A little over nine years ago, Dad, my sister and I nursed my Mom through to her death on a hospital bed in that same living room, in the same spot. I had to leave the house when the bed was delivered. When I stepped in the room and saw it set up just like it was nine years ago, I had an out-of-body experience. My heart physically hurt. Is this a cruel joke? Then of course what made it worse was leading Dad in that room when it was time for bed.

"What?" was all he could say. He's lost a lot of thinking capability, but he sure as hell remembers what happened the last time a hospital bed was in this room. We might as well have put him to bed in a coffin.

I'm sorry if I sound completely negative. I advise you to go watch the Olympics or some comedy if you haven't already given up on this entry! I thought about not writing but then decided to keep it real. Some days are harder than others. Some days you feel uplifted even in the worst of times. Some days, you just don't. And that's okay.

But even today I can muster up some good stuff. Like Linda. Linda lost her first husband to cancer about 11 years ago. Her husband Phil and my Dad were going to start a business together before he died. While at first it was difficult to see my Dad with another woman, Heather and I quickly got over it and fell in love with Linda. She's a school nurse and has a son, Lee, who's a real gem. My bro. On that dreadful day they delivered the bed, Linda took charge. She plows through emotion and gets the job done. I cower in the corner or escape to run errands. Linda makes the bed beautifully -- like it's at a B&B. She gathers things from around the house to decorate the room -- family pictures, a lighthouse she and Dad got on vacation, a TV so they can watch movies together. She stays upbeat. "Lisa, look at this great wheelchair to use around the house. It's so lightweight and it folds up!" She wakes Dad up by smiling and kissing his cheek and sweetly saying, "Good morning, sleepy head! Time to get up!" Linda loves my Dad. Period. This is what you do for people when you love them.

Another positive thought: What I was able to do last week was spend a lot of time talking with, or mostly to, Dad. I recalled how he taught me to ride a bike and I swerved right in a muddy ditch. Dad laughed. He remembered. I pointed to the side yard and said, "Remember all those grounders you threw me over there?" He nodded and said, "Yeah. You worked." Yes, I did, because Dad was yelling, "C'mon, bend those knees and get the glove on the ground! Thatta girl!" I brought out some picture albums and pointed to family vacations, relatives, picnics. "There's Mom, your wife Sue. Look at those goofy glasses and hair!" He smiled. He laughed again when I pointed to this hilarious shot of him laying on his stomach looking face-to-face with one of our pet cats. Bill: always hamming it up.

And to end this blog on a high note: When I walked in the door of our house in Madison, I picked up the kids and squeezed them. I achingly miss them when I'm away. They are my rays of sunshine. And MJ's first comment? "MOMMY! You look younger and your neck looks longer!" I'll take it.