Pages

Friday 29 June 2018

June Memories

Hey, my people. It's a long post today. Some of it is ground I've covered before, and some is new. Thank you to Terry, from Treey's Blog, for providing food for thought that led me to write more about my dad.

It's been three years since my father died. Those of you who have been reading for awhile will know that he had a stroke eight years before his death which resulted in paralysis in his left arm and leg. He left home to go to the hospital because he didn't feel well, and he never went home again. He did walk again, but just once: the day after his stroke his paralysis went away temporarily (possibly caused by movement of the blood clot in his brain), but then it came back, and he was in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.

Because June is the month of my father's birth, stroke, and death, as well as Father's Day, I was already thinking about him over the past few weeks, but a post by Terry, titled Being without legs, sent me even deeper into the memory vault. Terry is currently in much the same situation my dad was -- due to a stroke, he has lost the use of his legs and his right arm, and in addition he has lost the ability to talk to make himself understood. He knows first hand what it's like.

I know only second hand, or maybe sixth hand, or even less, but before my father's stroke I didn't know anything at all. I thought wheelchairs were reasonably comfortable. They're not, for the record. Even with a special cushion designed to relieve the pressure from hours of sitting in one position, Dad was often in pain and sometimes developed pressure sores.

I also never thought about how a person would get from the bed to a wheelchair and back, or from a toilet/bathtub/examining table/optometrist's chair to and from the wheelchair. The answer in some cases is to use a mechanical lift. In other cases, humans with strong backs must do the transfer. In still other cases, a person is simply and completely barred from doing things able-bodied people take for granted.

Dad spent the eight years following his stroke wishing desperately that he could walk, and trying to get out of that wheelchair. He was consumed with getting back on his own two feet. He asked, and then begged, for crutches. A walker. Two strong people to lean on. Physio to teach him how to walk again. Assistance in sitting upright on the side of the bed so he could try to stand. We couldn't oblige with any of those things because it would have put him and his care workers in physical peril. On a couple of occasions, when left alone, his attempts to get upright caused him to slide from the wheelchair or tip it over while still in it. Luckily he never broke any bones, or his head.

It was very hard for him to be trapped in that wheelchair. It was also hard to have to watch him suffer, because suffer he truly did. Along with the pain from constant pressure on his bottom, he had pre-existing back problems (degenerated discs) which got worse from sitting all the time. But I think that he found the mental and emotional pain from loss of mobility even worse than the physical pain. He had always been an active person and in a matter of hours he lost the ability to do all the things that made his life enjoyable to that point -- gardening, puttering around the yard, cooking, walking in the woods, driving to meet friends for coffee -- and instead was reduced to watching TV, listening to the radio, and playing bingo and other "kids' games," as he called them, in the nursing home.

That is what drove me to visit him as much as I could, which was almost every day. With an ill child at home, four cats (who could not be together due to personality problems), household duties, and part-time work, plus a half hour of travel time and an hour to visit, some days I didn't know how I could keep going. But every time I entered his room, and he gave me his cheery "Hel-lo, dear!" somehow the tiredness lifted and I left after our visit with our conversation and our "Love you's" echoing in my head.

I'm so grateful for that time together. We talked about everything -- family and family history, politics, what was in the news, his memories of his life, social problems, our views on just about everything. We laughed together, and, when his favourite younger brother died after a brief, unexpected illness, we cried together. I fiercely wish he hadn't had that stroke and lost such a huge part of his life, but the silver lining was that we became so close. I was able to support him through various other health challenges, as well as at the end of his life, which was something his lady friend found it difficult to do. If I hadn't been so involved with his daily care, I know I would have found it very hard to manage those times. Instead, I had learned what would help to make him more comfortable, what his medications and issues were so that I could explain them to new medical personnel, and how to talk to him naturally during scary and uncomfortable situations instead of wondering and fumbling over what to say.

Very near the end of his life, my father told me that he had gotten up and walked to the bathroom and back on his own. He was so happy about that. I was happy for him, too, even though I knew it was either a dream or a hallucination. It was wonderful to see him smile and relax, knowing that he had walked once more.

A few weeks after Dad died, I had a dream. I am not a religious or spiritual or mystical person; I like facts and base my life around them. I find it nearly impossible to entertain the idea of any kind of afterlife, but my dream gave me a great deal of comfort in spite of that, and made me hope that maybe, just maybe, there are things that exist in spite of my arrogant skepticism, things beyond facts. In my dream, I was standing at the open door of a community hall. Inside, I could see many of the people from our home village sitting around chatting and enjoying themselves. Then my father drove up on a motorcycle. I was so glad to see him -- because in my dream I was aware he had already died -- and I went to help him, to ask where his wheelchair was. Before I got the words out, he had hopped off and walked past me, as if he didn't see me standing there, and entered the hall. He was walking just fine. Then he started to walk faster, then run, and finally I saw who he was running toward. It was his mother. He ran into her welcoming arms and they hugged each other tightly while the people in the hall clapped and cheered.

I was so happy for him in my dream. Dad and his mother were very much alike, and very close. He missed her after she passed away. He had ten brothers and sisters, and was one of the "middle" children. His older siblings left home one by one but the little ones were still being born, so for a number of years he was the oldest child at home and he helped my grandmother with the kids and the housework. Knowing how much he loved her made me happy in my dream that they were finally reunited.

Who knows? Maybe they were. Or maybe it was just my subconscious creating a happy ending. All I know for sure is that the dream gave me a sense of peace I hadn't had until then.

I still miss having my dad in my life. And I think part of the heartache is because of the way in which he spent his last years.

But I'm thankful for the time we had together, the closeness we forged, and the lessons I learned.

Love you, Dad. Rest easy.


My father's preferred form of footwear.  (Photo: Pixabay)





*****   

Thanks for reading, my friends.

I'll be back on Monday with a poem about "people that we know."

Wishing you a weekend full of good memories and peace.


32 comments:

Red said...

A great tribute to your Dad and some deep thoughts about life. I'm sure many people can identify with your post.

Elephant's Child said...

This is a truly beautiful post. Tears here.
Yes, your father's life was impacted badly by his stroke. I wonder whether the closeness you two found/developed/grew served as some consolation? I suspect it did (while never diminishing the longing to return to an active life).
That dream would have had my sceptical self wondering too. And taking comfort.
Hugs.

LL Cool Joe said...

What a lovely tribute to your father. I can relate to a great deal of what you have written.

Sandi said...

I think your dream was real.

Marie Smith said...

Such a beautiful tribute to your Dad Jenny.

The stroke took a major part of your Dad’s life from him but gave him to you at the same time. Good memories of a hard time in your Dad’s life! Hold on to them! If not for the stroke, both of you would have missed so much too.

The dream gave you peace. A wonderful gift. June will always be special for you.

Peace Thyme said...

I think you said it all in your post, Jenny. The goodness that you felt and the closeness that you had with your father might not have happened but for the bad. That is something to hang onto forever.

Diane Henders said...

My heart aches for your Dad's pain; and for yours, too. But your happy-ending dream is wonderful! The night after my Dad died, I dreamed about him, too, seeing him young and strong and healthy. He didn't speak to me, just hugged me in the dream. Like you, I'm scientific and I suspect it was only my subconscious mind showing me what I desperately wanted to see; but the memory of that dream still gives me comfort.

jenny_o said...

You're right; a lot of people go through it.

jenny_o said...

He appreciated the help and always made sure I knew it, even in the midst of his struggles.

jenny_o said...

So many adult children have gone through something similar, if their parents live to a certain age, eh?

jenny_o said...

It was certainly a comfort to me.

jenny_o said...

You're right on all counts :)

jenny_o said...

And I do, Peace Thyme.

Thank you for visiting today.

jenny_o said...

Strange, isn't it, how much comfort it gives even though we are all about the science? I'm glad you had the comfort of a good dream as well.

John M said...

This month I'm using a wheelchair for balance problems, not a stroke thank God. I know how inconvenient a wheelchair can be.
I wish I had more faith in God. Now I only hope.
I'm glad you had some comfort with memories of your father.

only slightly confused said...

We are our daddy's girls aren't we? I hope your dream was reflective of the truth.....I hope so.....

Mr. Shife said...

Beautiful words, jenny_o. Thank you for sharing this. It was great. I was also skeptical of the afterlife but after my mom passed away I had similar experience like you that made me question it. It also put me at ease to know my mom was doing OK after she died. Take care and thanks again.

dinthebeast said...

I just closed the wrong tab and lost the comment I had just finished writing, so here goes again:
I slid out of my wheelchair also. They tied a "gate belt" around it and put a yellow "fall risk" wristband on me.
I also had a dream when I got home from the hospital that I was on a long set of outdoor stairs, and about halfway down I realized I had left my cane at the top. I thought about going back to get it, but as I was turning around I found myself off of the stairs walking through the grass without a cane. I tried to pay attention to how I was doing that, but the harder I concentrated, the faster I walked, until finally I was running full speed down a gravel culvert bouncing off of the sides of it when I woke up.
I was lucky. I lived through the stroke and I kept improving, bit by bit, within the bounds of neurology, and even now, a decade later, I still get little improvements from time to time by pushing against my limitations.
None of that could have been possible without the support I had, from Briana, mostly, but also my sister, and my housemates at the warehouse space where I lived at the time, who did things like get a treadmill for free off of Craigslist, and when that didn't work for me, an elliptical trainer that did.
My doctors all told me that the difference between patients who kept improving and got on with their lives and patients who went into a downward spiral was the support, or lack thereof, they had when they got home.
So let me say one more time how much I admire you for the support you gave to your father when he needed it, because I know from experience just how very important that is.
I talked to my friend Sara on the phone this morning. She was at her best friend's RV figuring out what to do with his belongings and waiting for the coroner to call to have her come identify the body. He had been in failing health for a long time, so it wasn't really a surprise, but still, everywhere she looked was something else that triggered new feelings of loss, and she just needed to talk with someone to sort of anchor her back in the land of the living. I did the best I could, but there's not that much to be done. Just comfort her a little and remind her that she was a very good friend to him and he was very lucky to have had her around while he was alive.
We usually do the things we have to do at the time, but sometimes we can use a little recognition, and I wanted to give you some.

-Doug in Oakland

jenny_o said...

Thank you, John. I've wondered how you are doing lately -- no posts from you in awhile. I'm glad to hear from you even though it seems your balance issues are still unresolved. Yes, you will know firsthand what a wheelchair is like. Hope things improve soon.

jenny_o said...

Me, too, Delores.

jenny_o said...

Makes a person really wonder, doesn't it? Thanks for the kind words and take care too.

jenny_o said...

In the midst of grief and sadness, it definitely helps to hear the kinds of things you told Sara, it really does. The overwhelming sadness kind of pushes that knowledge off to the side so it's good to be reminded by someone else. My sympathy to Sara.

Your comments help me, too. I still find it so sad how my dad had to live after his stroke. He had no improvement whatsoever, despite a rehab stay. I'm glad you are still making improvements ten years after the fact. That's a good argument for pushing the limits and it's also support for the idea of brain plasticity.

Martha said...

What a heartwarming and amazing tribute to your dad. I'm so glad I saved this post for this morning when I could take my time reading it. Your dream gave me the shivers. There is no need to overanalyze something so beautiful. A happy ending like that is the peace our heart desires for our loved ones. Thank you for sharing all this with us!

Starting Over, Accepting Changes - Maybe said...

Your father raised a wonderful daughter. I am reminded of that saying, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” So many people run and hide from what is difficult to see, but others run to it because of love. You were blessed to have each other.

I often have dreams of my parents and although my thoughts on eternity are similar to yours, I am comforted because I feel they are always with me in some way. I see my mom in my youngest daughter’s eyes and the dimple on my middle daughter’s face was inherited from my dad. These are precious gifts.

My life so far said...

This was my mother's worst nightmare, to be dependent, unable to walk on her own. We were pretty sure it would be a stroke that took her and it was a stroke, but a massive stroke that took our her brainstem.

Your dream reminded me of a dream I had about two weeks after she died. I was sitting with mum and someone else at Mcdonalds, waiting, mum still in her hospital gown. My dad walked in to pick her up. We were all sitting together and he quietly asked me why she looked so old, mum lived 13 years after dad died. I told him to be quiet and he left with mum. Made me feel good to know they were together again.

Thank you for sharing this.

dinthebeast said...

Oops, that should have read "gait belt" instead of "gate belt"... They are wide, cloth belts that they strap around your middle so the therapists have something to hold onto while showing you how to walk.
They strapped one around my wheelchair to keep me from sliding out of it, but mostly it just tripped me up when I forgot to unfasten it before trying to stand up, which once required me to be hoisted back into my chair with one of those wheeled lift devices.

-Doug in Oakland

jenny_o said...

I was surprised to have a dream like that. And now I'm surprised at all the people who have commented here about having similar dreams. Strange and wonderful, and as you put it so aptly, no need to analyze something so good :)

jenny_o said...

I just couldn't leave him to cope with it on his own. My parents were divorced by then, and his lady friend felt she had her own life to live. But I feel I was the one who was enriched in the end.

I teared up at your comment about seeing your parents in your children's features. That is wonderful.

jenny_o said...

If you've read the other comments, you'll know how many other people, in just this one small blog, had similar dreams -- it's kind of blowing my mind! And in your dream, to have the complexity of the age situation matching up with real life -- it's lovely to contemplate the possibilities, isn't it?

Thank you for visiting!

jenny_o said...

Ah, yes -- I've seen gait belts before. It's amazing, all the equipment they have in physio, isn't it? I can see that being a problem when you tried to stand, though.

The caregivers had to put a seat belt on Dad's chair. Then he just opened it, so they put a different one on that needed a special technique to open it. He cracked the code on that, too. Then they turned it backwards so the latch was behind the chair. Eventually his good hand got too crippled up to open it and they went back to the original belt. I'm sure it kept him from falling out a lot more than he already had.

Terry said...

I often think what your dad would’ve done and it’s an inspiration. I’d find it a harder job knowing that I was the first to go through it all.

jenny_o said...

Yes, and I think it's worth remembering no matter what situation we find ourselves in: we are not likely to be the first, and we won't be the last. It doesn't mean we don't suffer, but it does perhaps give a different perspective.