Fell asleep hard on the sofa. I can usually go right back to sleep when I crawl into the bed. Not tonight. I was doing my version of counting sheep - in my mind I was making new flower beds. Digging. Mulching. Replanting my amaryllis bulbs. Where to replant the daisies? Leave the hydrangeas right where they are...
Dad crept into my thoughts. Now I am wide awake. Dad will be 92 years old next week. May 15. He has surprised himself by living to his birthday. Ever since a hospital visit in late January that ran into February Hospice has been in place to help care for him. He has around the clock sitters. He doesn't get out of bed by himself. He has a very hard time feeding himself as his hands no longer have strength. Going to the bathroom is getting to be more and more of a challenge. Breathing is getting more challenging, too.
I have nine siblings. My Mom is alive and will be 92 in September. We all have our own relationship with Dad and we all have different perceptions of his situation. We all have our own opinions about his care.
These last 3 1/2 months have been a roller coaster for Dad. Some good days. Some really bad days. Bad days are starting to win. I think that some of my siblings, and even my mother, want to pretend that Dad's good days are pain free. Not true. Just ask the right questions.
Dad is tired. His heart is weak. His body is weak and wracked with pain. His breathing is becoming more difficult. I know these things because I ask Dad how he is feeling. How did you sleep last night? Why were you up and down last night? Where does it hurt? How is your breathing? Where is your oxygen?
Dad's memory is slipping. Slowly. In the last few weeks he has used these phrases more and more, "Whatever", "What will be will be". As if he is letting go of the concerns of this world. And that is okay.
I know that he is not going to get better or recuperate. I ask Dad how he feels because I want to allow him the opportunity to not be so stoic. He doesn't always have to feel good. It is okay. He doesn't have to be strong or any certain way. He doesn't have to pretend for me. He is old. He is weak. Some days he is miserable. That is okay. My gift to him is to acknowledge his pain. Not pretend it isn't there. Not pretend he will get well.
My Dad is sweet. My Dad is gentle. My Dad is kind. My Dad used to be strong and clear thinking. He isn't any longer. That is okay. I want him to be comfortable. I understand the price. Even before January Dad would fall asleep anywhere. Anytime. There is more medicine involved now and that equals even more sleep. It is the price of being comfortable. That is okay.
I place no expectations on my Dad. I don't expect him to feel well. I don't expect him to leave the house. I don't expect him to feel better. And if he does. Then I am happy and surprised. And glad. But if he doesn't. It is alright. If you ask you will realize even on his good days his body hurts and he just doesn't feel good.
I think there is a grace in dying. For the one that is actually dying. For the ones who get to witness it. I do not want to pretend this is not happening because I will miss a blessed opportunity to be fully present to Dad's gift of dying. His gift to me is to let me be a witness to his life. My gift to him is to acknowledge all the good in him and let him know just how much I love him. My role has changed from being his child to being his comforter.
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