It’s Sunday morning and My Dad’s live-in caregiver
has the day off. I will be leaving soon to spend part of the morning with him.
Pam is busy making homemade cinnamon buns, scrambled eggs and bacon for me to
take to him in hopes that I can get him to eat a decent breakfast. His appetite
hasn’t been great recently. Actually nothing about his condition has been great
lately. A recent fall has been a setback. Each week brings some new reversal of
fortune, but that’s how life works when you’re 89 I suppose.
I will leave him around 10 or so once he’s settled down
in his trusty recliner. Then for lunch Pam and I will return with Paula and Ron
for a St. Patrick’s Day lunch of Irish Soda bread, potato soup, corn beef and
cabbage. Since Dad eats anything put in front of him, he will make an attempt,
but probably finish only half of it. He will enjoy having us at the table, listening
to the conversation, but adding little to it. His voice has gotten weaker
lately. Conjuring up the words has become a labor. Everything is a labor.
After lunch, we will get him resettled into his chair
and spend some time trying to get the DVD player to work. He likes to watch old
episodes of the Beverly Hillbillies, Gomer Pyle, The Waltons and Andy Griffith,
great taste, my Dad. At some point he will doze off. We will leave around 3 or
so, then Christina will walk over to check on him, and a couple of hours later
Bill will arrive to see to it that the DVD player either gets fixed or
replaced. Bill will bring Dad’s supper, and stay with him until he’s down for
the night.
This is how we care for Dad. It has been 21 months
since Mom passed away. Dad has required increasingly specialized and more
intensive care. My incredible family has somehow figured out a way to provide
it. Whether it’s his sisters, Nancy and Emma spending a Saturday afternoon
talking about the old days, or Donnie calling him from Maryland every single
day, it has been all hands on deck. Orchestrating it all has been my sister
Linda, who with the tender mercies of a saint has organized it all.
We have not always agreed on how best to care for
Dad, largely because we’ve never done anything like this before. None of us
except Linda has any expertise. But we all agree that our Dad deserves our best
efforts. When God finally decides to allow him to be reunited with Mom, we don’t
want to have to deal with regrets.
So, Pam is downstairs whipping up cinnamon buns and
trying to figure out how to transport scrambled eggs properly in a container
that I can pop into the microwave to rejuvenate them when I get there. No way
in the world she would let me make bacon and eggs by myself on Dad’s stove. Bad
appetite or not, he doesn’t deserve my cooking.
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