I Find Myself

I find myself ruminating over things that are not important. Events. Arguments. Discussions.  Picking over bits and pieces of things in the past. Things I wish I could reconstruct. Some I wish I could have avoided. Some I wish I could relive and relish. It's more the first two than the second. It's my go to space. When I'm anxious, nervous...scared, I take me inventory. I use my words and the words of others. Despite the insanity of it, it is a fight not to break out the whip and flog myself.  Maybe it's something I feel I can control in a life of little control.  Only once it kicks in, it's hard to jump off.

I wish my rational brain would make peace with my irrational brain and find a middle ground.

Guilty

I am frustrated and tired and overwhelmed and I feel guilty.

I feel guilty for complaining about how much he complains.

I feel guilty for being frustrated.

I feel guilty for not being a better person, that I am not as giving of grace as I should be.

I feel guilty.   And scared.  And sad.  Helpless. 

The Lacing of My Shoes

On Monday my running buddy and I start training for a half marathon in May.  To finish, is our answer to what our goal is.

But sometimes I wonder what my goals are anymore. They seem foggy. It used to be clear, the path I wanted to take. What I wanted to attempt. I'm not sure if pain or doubt or starting over has clouded it over. A dusting of snow on the road makes me leery of black ice.  Doubt in my head.   Acerbic words bouncing around my brain, marring the grey matter as they make the rounds.

The Hubs was asking about any triathlon plans I might have for this season. I told him that I'm taking this year off. I'm not strong enough. I haven't been in the pool enough. I haven't ridden my bike. It sits in my living room collecting dust. Is it the fear of knowing how hard starting was, how hard it will be, that keeps me looking at it shyly instead of pushing me to mount that sucker and ride away on it?

My expectations do not match my reality but my reality is far ahead of what the powers that be expected. I'm not sure how to rectify that in my mind. How to find the light at the end of what seems to be an endless tunnel. Yes, I am aware there are far worse ailments. There are unbeatable struggles in this world, and I have been given a second chance. A gift, of sorts, to use or waste. 

I'll start with a the first step and see where it takes me.

The lacing of my shoes.

Hahaha!

The Sprout was mesmerized by his eyes.  He basically asked, "WTF, MOM?!?"

And this made us all crack-up!  I have no idea if all of these are real and I'm not sure I care. Nope. I don't.

Broken Hearts

Part 2

I loaded my dad into the car. The ride was much different than the last to trips to the ER. He didn't moan or sigh, no excruciating pain, just some small talk. He talked about how excited he was that The Hubbs was bringing back some alligator meat and boudin from Florida and made an admission that it's been scary this past week with him not being able to breathe and not knowing what was going on. I asked him why he waited if he was scared. He didn't know.

They wheeled him back and hooked him up fairly quickly, me filling in the gaps of what he was telling them with my observations or things he had told me over the past week.  With the lines and beeps of the monitors dancing on the monitor, I assessed that he probably wasn't having a major cardiac event at that moment because there was no great commotion, no rushing around him. They were watching him from the desk and I relaxed a bit.

The sounds in the ER range from painful to hear to amusing. The crying babies always get me. You can tell that they are afraid and uncomfortable. And with the cloth barrier some people pretend are sound-proof walls, you hear humorous stories they might not share if they light blue chunky plaid curtain didn't make our presence fictional.  We've been blessed, these past few visits, with neighbors airing copious amounts of gas. We laugh and pretend it's because we're thinking about how funny The Sprout would find it if he were with us. Really we are 5 ourselves, and we're anxious...so we laugh. There are sounds of sadness and misery in the ER that seem to be broken by our, more so my, loud bursts of laughter as we talk about lighter things in between discussions of wanting to be baptized and power of attorney paperwork and where his ashes should be spread when the time comes. "If you can't make it work to get them where I want them, that's fine." "If you don't mind being stuck in the closet for a year or so, we'll make it work. Is there a rush?" We laugh. I wonder if others find it disrespectful. If our laughter implies that the illness that we are presenting that may be taking attention away from them is apocryphal.

The ER doctor who has seen my dad the last few times is a straight forward and who is not at all bad to look it.  He makes my dad feel comfortable, he explains things well and seems very down to earth and he tells us jokes. And we laugh. My dad would take him as his doctor full time if he could.

He tells us about my dad's murmur and has me listen to it. I hear it clearly. In the past few weeks it's gotten louder. At least, this is my assessment based on verbiage. Two weeks ago his murmur was just a note on his paperwork. "Did you know you have a slight murmur?" On Thursday it became an "impressive" murmur. 

The thought was congestive heart failure. Scans, blood work and x-rays were ordered. 

They came to take him for his X-ray and I asked the nurse how bad this really was. And as he tried to belay my concerns, I stopped laughing. I held my breath in an attempt to not lose my composure in front of him, how embarrassing that would be, and his voice got softer as he tried to offer me encouragement then he asked if I needed anything as he left me to have a moment.  I buried my face in my hands and silently sobbed, acutely aware of the thin walls that surrounded me.  The weight became too heavy in that moment and I needed to put it down for a minute. Just to rest.

I had gathered myself by the time my dad returned, tried to keep my face in my phone for a few minutes and talk to him as if nothing was bothering me. In my periphery, I could see him keep looking over at me. I'm sure he knew.

The scan came back negative for congestive heart failure and there were no blood clots. The valve was thought to be the culprit. The catch is, and remains to be, that my dad's liver disease complicates the treatment options. He was admitted and is under observation. I cried big, ugly, blinding tears on the drive home early Friday morning. I felt an overwhelming sense of guilt for being annoyed by his sounds of life. For being annoyed period. For not being very gracious. For wanting a break.

Today we heard that he has an enlarged heart and is not a good candidate for valve replacement, artificial valves would require the use of blood thinners for the rest of his life. We also learned that the CAT scan last month showed his liver tumor at less than 2 cm, the scan they took on Thursday showed it at 5cm. The oncologist told him the priority right now is his heart.

Hopefully they'll find a band-aid that will fit.

Switching Seats

My dad has been sick since last Friday. He had a procedure last Thursday where they went in endoscopically (real word?) and put clamps on the varicose veins in his esophagus.  The bleeding is what lead him to the cancer diagnosis. It was the second time that he landed in the hospital for bleeding out of places you don't want to bleed out of, that they decided to investigate further. An ultrasound to check his cirrhosis, performed by a sharp-eyed tech, found a suspicious spot. They ordered a biopsy and the week long wait over Thanksgiving break felt like forever, even though we'd all come to some sort of terms with what the probable diagnosis was. Not so short story later, the bleeding may be a by-product of his sick liver, so they are putting clamps on the veins. They tell him it won't hurt but it does...and it trickles down. That's how life is really. We rub off on each other, good times and bad.

Last Friday he started complaining about shortness of breath.

Thanks to, what I consider, a flawed vision of function, most of the houses in this town are some sort of split level. I hate them. I live in one. I hate it. There are 8 stairs to climb from my dad's room to our living room, followed by another 6 to make it to our kitchen.

He has to stop at the living room to catch his breath then rest at the kitchen table before he completes the rest of the journey, the maybe 10 feet, to the fridge to get ice. It is accompanied by lots of sighs and moans. And I can do nothing.

I have been asking him since last Friday to call his doctor. "Let's go in, dad. Why are we waiting?" But I cannot make him.

On Monday he felt a little better. He hung out more, laughed a little bit, shared his company with us. On Tuesday he was sick again. "Just call the doctor, dad. Let him know what's going on." Despite the recent unexpected surgery and his realization that none of us can "do" anything for him re: his care if he is unable, he has not made it so that myself, or my brothers, has the ability. I suppose it escaped his mind. He's been distracted.

He went to the doctor who performed the procedure yesterday and told his nurse that he was having problems, that he needed to see the doctor. It is obvious that my father is laboring.  I can't imagine that he pretends not to be struggling when he finally musters up the strength and quiets the stubborn, to go. She went back to talk to the doctor and returned to ask if he could "hang on" until Friday morning when he has a scheduled appointment.

"WHY DID YOU LEAVE? Why didn't you tell them, no I can't. I can't breathe."

"I don't know."

I cannot decide for him. 

Yesterday, I prompted him several times. My prodding was swiped away. "I'll be fine." "It's fine when I'm laying down."

I stayed up late last night. I couldn't sleep. Keeping my hands busier than my mind, making bread and freezer meals. Arguing with demons in my head. Reminding myself I am not responsible for a sane man's choices. Were he senile, were he incapacitated it would be...different.

He came up and sat for about 10 minutes, talking to me while I chopped and diced. His heart was now racing. The breathing still an issue. And I tell him, "Let's just go, dad." He waivers so I push, and I can see that he's thinking about it but then he says "I'll see how I am tomorrow." And I say, "Tomorrow, we're going if you are still like this."

*****Here's an Alanis Morissette-like ironic turn to this story...in the midst of typing up this gem my brother called. I went upstairs to talk to him. While I was up there I heard my dad rummaging through the pantry so I walked part way down the stairs, phone still to my ear.

"How you feeling, dad?"
"Not so great. I just can't breathe."
"Are you ready to go to the hospital now?"
Laughing, "I don't know. I just hate those places."
I walked over to the table and sat down, closing my open laptop...not that it would really matter if he read anything I had written.
"Why aren't we going?"
"I don't know. I can't walk 10 feet without having to stop and catch my breath and the pain, it's right here," pointing to the left side of his chest.
"You're having chest pain and we're still not going?!?"
Noticing my phone.
"Oh, you're on the phone! Sorry."
"No, it's fine it's B."
At which point my brother, B, pipes in, "Tell dad that I think it's time for him to go, too."
I repeat this to my dad and he laughs, "Jesus! You two aren't going to give it up are you?"
B adds, "Tell him we want him to be around. He needs to go."
I relay the message.
"You're not going to let it go until I go, are you?"
"Nope. You raised us."
"Fine. I'll go." he says with all the petulance he can muster and still sheepishly grin at the same time.
I think he's relieved to be going.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Testing, Testing 1...2...FU!

It's a giant test of patience when you are annoyed by the noises people make and are blessed with an addition who emphatically sighs, grunts, belches, moans, chews wetly....I need stronger medication.  I shouldn't be so pissy about the sounds of existence.