To quote my father from a phone conversation I had with him early Saturday morning, “things have come to a pretty underpass.” It seems the my mom has less and less of a grip on reality, or at least her grip is some what fluid. During the night Friday she was up for several hours and wandered through the entire house looking for my dad. Even the basement which is hard to believe given her current diminished physical state. On a previous occasion she forced herself to stay up all night because she was afraid that my father was going to kill her in the night, when actually what he was going to do was administer pain medicine on a schedule, rather than wait for the morning.
Frequently she asks when are they going home, or how long are they going to stay at this place. She always possessed a dry sense of humor and so it is hard at times for my father to tell when she is kidding about “does this floor have Pepsi” and when she is not. I sense in him a growing despair as he is confronted again and again with the personality changes this disease is inflicting on his wife.
She has reacted to large amounts of some pain medicine in the past with hallucinations and nonsensical behavior. With this in mind they have been careful about increasing her dosages, however these latest episodes have come at a time when she wasn’t using as much pain killer. The visiting nurse has told my dad that her breaks with reality are an indication of the disease spreading.
Hospice gave my father a list of services he could call, and he did contact a night nurse who has spent the last two nights in the house with them. On Sunday he told me that it worked out far better than he ever hoped it would. Not only was he able to sleep more soundly, my mom was able to get some food in the night and had company while she was awake. When I talked to him Sunday his mood was greatly improved and he sounded far less tired. While the night nurse is hugely expensive (and not covered by insurance) I think it will be good for both of them.
Rating: Maybe Bruce Willis’ best movie
It seems with all the fuss over The da Vinci Code there are a slew of grail related books in the stores. The Last Templar is yet another take on the possible meaning of the grail, or at least the foundations of modern Christian theism. Not as polished as Labyrinth, and no where near as good as Dan Brown’s epic, but still and enjoyable read.
Rating: Don’t expect to see this in the theaters any time soon
Rating: Still one of my favorites
Predator II isn’t nearly as good as the original. The acting is a bit forced, and the whole “LA as a war zone” was way overdone.
Rating: Skip this one and go straight to AVP
Two of the television shows that both Michele and I loved to watch were Survivor and Amazing Race. I watched the spring season of both shows this year, and while it was bittersweet at times, I’m glad I let myself have this enjoyment.
On Amazing Race this year the team I rooted for right from the beginning was BJ and Tyler, or “The Hippies” as the other teams called them. What made them my favorites was their sheer love of life. The approached everything with wide-eyed enthusiasm and joy, even when they were last twice and had to start the next leg of the race with no money and only the clothes on their back (leaving BJ bare foot) they were excited to still be in the race.
In short, they were the type of team that Michele would have rooted for and been thrilled to see win. She had a hard time watching these types of shows sometimes, especially when teams that were cruder or nastier were winning. This season had its share of reversals and twists, but ultimately the team that was the nicest, and most deserving, won.
This one was for you Sweetie-pie.
Over the course of the last week or so, I’ve managed to largely avoid thinking about my mom. Part of me feels guilty for turning away from her in the final stages of her dying, but another part of me has needed the time to regain my strength for what lies ahead. By not calling Decatur as much it is easy to pretend that everything there is okay, by not calling Decatur I can focus on the chaos of my own life without adding the chaos of my mom’s impending death or my dad’s increasing sorrow.
In the past few days I have felt the focus of my emotions shift from my mother towards my father. I am painfully aware that his morale, energy, and general well-being has taken a large hit recently. As my mother descends through the layers of depression and paranoia that plague the terminally ill, the acts of love and kindness he performs for her subject him to an unbelievable difficult roller coaster of emotions.
Coming so soon after Michele’s death, accepting my mother’s death is more than I can take in all at once. Living six hours drive away has been a blessing in that I can’t always be there; I’ve been forced to spend time away from the situation, which has allowed me to take it in at a rate that won’t overwhelm me. I wish there was a way for my father to get the same kind of break, but I suspect that even if it were offered, he’d stay and stick it out.
Being here most of the time, and there only a few days at a time has allowed me to maintain a state of denial about this, when it is helpful to be in denial. I have been able to function (more or less) normally only by setting aside what I know to be the truth through denial. The truth always comes back, however, and those moments are difficult. When I realize that I haven’t been focused on my mom or my dad and I feel like I’ve done something wrong. Thankfully I can still hear Michele’s voice in my head telling me that I have to take care of me first before I can help anyone else.
Staying here this weekend is a part of this denial. I’m gambling that she’ll survive for another week, allowing me to see her again over the Memorial Day holiday. Staying here this week is vital to my mental and emotional health. Staying here this weekend is denying that my father needs companionship to lean on, and that I might not see my mom alive again.
This morning was my first full kendo workout, and basically the first workout I’ve had in months. Last November I took a run at restarting karate only to falter and stop after just two workouts. While the pain in my knees and back from not having been physical for so long certainly played a part in my stopping, realizing the distance I’d fallen in eight years of inactivity was harder to take.
Certainly kendo isn’t going to be a pain free workout. This afternoon, after roughly two and half hours of workout, I am stiff and sore from the soles of my feet to my upper shoulders and elbows. Not having a personal history with kendo will be the difference I think. My expectations aren’t set so high that I’ll beat myself every time I perform any technique.
The workout began with several hundred practice cuts with the bokken. The finishing technique (whose name escapes me now) was very aerobic. Next we worked with partners on men (head) and kote (wrist) strikes. Finally while those students with their own armor (bogu) working on sparring techniques, the beginners working on stances, striking, and footwork. It was all good, and I am very excited about starting a new journey in the martial arts.
The real test will come tomorrow (or Monday) morning when I go to get up and discover just how much I taxed my computer-chair potato muscles.
I first became aware of kendo when I was still in high school. My best friend knew of it and wanted to study it. The closest we could come was a sixteen-week course in fencing at the local YMCA. When I was twenty-nine I started karate-do and ultimately achieved a nidan, or second degree black belt. Throughout my karate studies I was interesting in other arts, trying at various times tai-chi, jujitsu, and aikido.
Moving around the country for my job made it impossible to really settle into a dojo, and my focus was really on my marriage and relationship with Michele. In the vacuum left by her death I have once again started thinking about the martial arts as an outlet. Last fall I attended two classes at a very good karate dojo, but it just wasn’t clicking for me. I think my memories of the level I had once performed at were in conflict with the reality of where I was.
A good friend has started taking kendo in the Chicago area and his enthusiasm for the experience has motivated me to seek out kendo instruction here in Kansas City. I was fortunate enough to discover a group practicing in a park quite close to where I live. On Wednesday evening I ventured out and watched an entire class and I liked what I saw. The sensei is focused on you as an individual, and what you can achieve. To many schools lose sight of the individual and I am no longer interested in being just another dues paying customer.
Tomorrow I will attend my first workout and I am very excited about this new adventure. I already have a bokken (wooden sword) and there are extra shinais (split bamboo sword used for full contact training) available to use. I’ve ordered my own shinai, which should be here mid-week next week. I think that because I have no history with kendo I’ll be able to accept my level of performance without difficulty. At the very least I’ll be out and doing something physical two days a week.
Talking to my dad last night made me more aware than ever of the mounting pressure on him, the rest of my family, and myself. Knowing what is coming and being helpless to change it is difficult. Doubly so for my father as he is on the front line of this battle, and, even though the outcome is already known, he continues to stay and fight. I cannot find words to express how impressed I am with his strength and courage.
One aspect of my mother’s dying that is proving to be extremely difficult to deal with are the personality changes she is going through. It seems that terminally ill people progress through a variety of states, some easier to face than others. Based on information from my dad I know that much of the time now my mom is uncommunicative; even direct questions don’t elicit a response. I saw some of this two weeks ago when I was there last. I don’t think it is deliberate or meant to be harmful in any way. Rather I think it is the result of the utter hopelessness she must be feeling. As someone struggling with grief myself I know I often feel cut off and isolated from the people around me because they aren’t in my shoes. The isolation and utter loneliness my mom must be feeling as she is dying must be truly profound.
The other personality alteration my dad is seeing and struggling with is paranoia. The hospice nurse assures him that this is common in terminally ill patients, but that doesn’t lessen the impact of its effect when she accuses my father of wanting to kill her in emails to her sister. The woman he knows and loves is buried inside a swirling mass of conflicting statements, emotions, and moods. He doesn’t know from one minute to the next which person he’ll be greeted with, or have to face down.
I offer him a place to talk, a place to spend a few minutes that isn’t embroiled in the horror of a terminal illness. He talks to me some, but being of the depression generation he prefers to stoically soldier on, carry a huge burden all by himself. In his quiet desperation I see the seeds of what must contribute to one partner dying soon after the first dies. The amount of energy, physical, mental, and emotional, that must be expended just to face a new day is enormous. Prolonged exposure to what has become a toxic situation will damage and wear down even the staunchest person.
Unspoken in my mind is the hope that my mother dies sooner rather than later, especially if later comes with prolonged pain and suffering. To that I am now adding the thought that my father’s life will be better in some small way for no longer having to endure the increasing daily burden of being exposed to her suffering, anguish, and increasing madness as the cancer destroys her.