Archive | September 2017

The Entrepreneurs

In dealing with my father’s things, I’ve found that he has 2 left of value.  First is his power recliner, which can get its occupant to a standing position with the touch of a button.  The second is his electric scooter.  That item was particularly expensive and not hassle-free; when my dad broke his hip in October and spent nearly 2 months away from home, its batteries discharged.  Figuring out that was the issue, procuring new batteries and then recycling the old ones was one of those caregivers tasks that (a) doesn’t seem it should take a lot of time, but does, (b) doesn’t feel like caregiving but has to be done anyway and (c) is out of my comfort zone because I am not mechanically inclined.  I have a decent sense for when to sell Apple stock, but not that.

I originally had tried to sell these items.  It turns out to be harder that you would expect to sell working items in good condition to senior citizens.  Maybe this is because Medicare is the competition?  Anyway, I don’t really understand it.  So I had to shift my mindset and instead decided that I should give these away.  And once I decided on that, I hoped that I would find a good home.

I think I did.

The man who will be taking my father’s scooter and chair, the ones that brought him so much happiness, came to me via Jewish Family and Children’s Services.  I had listed these items for sale on my Temple’s email list, and that made its way to one of the geriatric care managers who had helped me before.  Karen is the one who guided me when my father was incontinent and too stubborn to admit it, which then meant he was about six inches from being evicted from his apartment community.   This was two years ago and I had wiped that unpleasant incident from my memory.  That’s a blessing in its own way.

His name is Eric (not actually, but let’s call him that).  Eric is much younger than my father and had a stroke about two years ago, which left him paralyzed on one side and with many physical and emotional challenges.  When people see him now, I’m sure this what they see.  It’s like when my father used to be admitted to the hospital and become elderly-male-who-fell-and-probably-has-dementia-and-so-many-other-problems; he was a whole person too and it took special caregivers to see it.

But Eric is a whole person.  His wife is amazing.  His family loves him.  And he is an entrepreneur like my father.  He started a business that he worked in for decades.  Even now he loves to get around his neighborhood despite the difficulties.  Once upon a time he enjoyed a cold beer on occasion.  My kind of guy.  He works tirelessly in PT and OT to regain and maintain whatever strengths and abilities he can.  He does not quit.  My father’s kind of guy.

So, I am happy that these items which gave my father so much joy and a perception of increased independence are making their way to a fellow entrepreneur.  He would have wanted another human being to have a chance to become more than the sum of his ailments.  My father had many flaws, heaven knows — but appreciating what this chair and the scooter did for him was not among them.  I suspect Eric, a fellow entrepreneur, is in the same boat.

 

 

The File Folders

I did more clean-out of my dad’s stuff today.  This afternoon was entitled “Make the Biro Garage Great Again”, otherwise known as reconfiguring where things were, starting to give some things away, and of course, starting to throw things out.  Otherwise our cars will never fit in the garage again.

Right now, I am deconstructing much of what my brother, my family and I spent many years pulling together.  Today: files easily thrown away.  I am leaving the harder stuff for “Future Peter” to deal with.  I’ll let him figure out what to do with the photo frames, stamp collections, postcards from friends long gone, old passports and plane tickets, and the presents my children constructed for him .  Back in 2013 when he moved here, they made a beautiful little mirror for him.  I sat with them that morning and picked the colors.  What should I do with that?

With his Bank of America statements and copies of bills marked “Paid”, thank goodness, it is much easier.  They go.

I remember the week that Rob and I spent in New Jersey in April of 2011 where I developed a system for him to get the bills paid.  Rob focused on clearing stuff out of my parents’ house and I took all things financial.  I sat with my father at what had been my mother’s desk.  I demonstrated logging into online bill pay, keeping track of statements versus invoices, assuring cash in the account would cover the bills, identifying bills versus statements versus solicitations.  I transferred everything onto credit cards that I could.  It was a frantic and awful week — and that system worked for years.

This afternoon, I discarded the bulk of the product of it working for years.

There is more of this that awaits me.  I also found a clock today that for the past 3 years sat on top of his bedside table.  To find that exact clock took me a few tries.  Then the one that I’d purchased broke after 6 months or so, but I didn’t realize for quite some time that the difficulty in setting the time and date was the clock, not me.  Somewhere in the boxes in my garage is the other clock that he wanted atop the refrigerator.   I remember sourcing that one too.

I wonder sometimes if I am cursed because the deconstruction reminds me of the construction.  It is the same as a sandwich generation father;  I remember the visits to Plaster Fun Time and the times Sophie and Lily worked all day to create artwork just for me.   It makes me happy to have experienced that kind of unconditional love, and haunts me a little at the same time.

Creating those folders was my own version of unconditional love.  I knew that I had to throw them out regardless.  It is just the nature of things.

 

 

 

The Robe

Before diving into this blog post, I wanted to step outside the blog, so to speak, and write about writing it.  Very meta, I know.

My dad passed away about 4 weeks ago.  Only now is it really starting to hit me.  This makes sense if I step back, which is hard to do when you don’t really feel the ground beneath your feet in the first place.  First of all, denial is one of the stages of grief, and true to the cliche, I have been in denial about my father passing away and the impact it’s going to have on me.   I’ve also been somewhat in denial about the impact of having been a caregiver, and especially the intensity of last couple of months.  There were days that the phone rang 20 times.  In a way, you sort of have to be.

Second, truth be told, there is a part of me that wants to stop writing.  Just be done grieving and processing and reach the end state, whatever that is going to be.  It has to be better than this.  As if declaring that I was done would make it so.  I am a check the box person and sometimes I like to check the box even if something isn’t 100% complete.  However, with processing trauma, it doesn’t work that way.  Plus, I still have a few stories left to tell.  If anything, they mean more now and I realize that I need to get them out.

Right now, I am in the phase of grieving called “dealing with the stuff”.  It is different than when my mom died more than 6 years ago.  Back then, my brother and I had to deal with both clearing out the clutter from her life and setting my father up to live his.  I don’t have that problem this time.  What I do have is all of my father’s things left in the world now in my garage.   There is no distance.  Every time the garage door opens, there is his scooter, his power lift chair, his desk, his walkers, his dining room table and chairs.  Even our outdoor fridge has some of the beer that I used to keep in his old apartment.

But what really grabbed me recently was his robe.  That stupid robe that he’s had since well before he moved to Massachusetts in 2013.  One of the first things of his that I unpacked was his ugly purple suitcase; my father only had cheap luggage that came courtesy of casinos who in the 1990s gave cheap Made-in-China gifts to him and my mother in their roles as perpetually unlucky medium rollers.  I had packed it for him when he checked into the rehab center.  I stuffed in multiple pairs of pajamas, pants, shirts, handkerchiefs, his slippers, iPad and case, hearing aids and batteries, his headphones, reading and distance glasses, power supplies, and the framed letter he had received from the Commander of the US Navy Pacific fleet (a whole other blog post).  And his robe.

So when I unpacked the robe, I flashed back instantly to how much it had said to me over the years.  As a caregiver, you learn to look for signals.  When he first arrived, he wore the robe constantly, even to his community’s dinners, which of course you are not supposed to do.  I had to save him from that, and insist that he would wear clothes.  Then he tried to wear the robe when I visited to prove his independence to me – so I would leave.  I think I felt guilty at first and eventually learned not to.  My father was a man with whom you had to set strict boundaries.

Over time, he stopped doing this.  I would arrive on Sunday afternoons and he would be dressed, and showered, and shaved, and drowning in cologne to cover the smell that he knew his incontinence would create.  After a while, I came to appreciate this gesture.  For him, putting on a button-down shirt was torture, but he did it anyway.  He would ask me if he looked all right.  Those were the good days.

Then there would be days when I would arrive and he’d be wearing the robe, and immediately I would know that he wasn’t feeling well.  I just knew.  If you have cared for an elderly parent before, you know the importance of non-verbal tells, and you know not to give them away.

There were the days that he would wear clothes, and the robe, because it was cold in his apartment.  So I’d quietly re-adjust the thermostat.

There were the days that because he wasn’t wearing the robe,  I could tell that he’d worn it most of the week by the smell it gave off.  My dad would have draped it over the chairs around the kitchen table because hanging it up was too difficult for him.  Then I would put it in the laundry when he wasn’t looking and hope he wouldn’t pull it back out.

There was the day in late June, somehow only two months, when I checked him into the hospital.  That was the day when everything changed, or at least where the change became obvious to me.  I arrived to his apartment to find him in his desk chair wearing that robe and pajamas, with two caregivers on either side of him.  They were at their wits’ end.  He had refused showers and bathing for days.  He had been wearing the same soiled briefs for 3 days.  My father was unrecognizable, unshaven, with a dazed look and a barely coherent understanding of where he was and what was happening.  His robe told that story too.

There were the final days in his assisted living apartment, which just never worked.  I would put him to bed in that robe at 10am because my 9am visits would be over by then – he was just too tired.  Then I would cover him with the new cover sheets that fit his new single hospital bed.  That never really worked either.

I extracted these memories from just pulling the robe out of that awful purple suitcase.  All of this flashed through my mind in about a half second.  Maybe less as time loses meaning when one in this state.  Like I said, I still have a lot of grieving and work to do.

Back to the meta — I also have a lot of stories left to write.  Mostly I am writing that for me.  Also I am continuing to write for the many people – which in my world, is like 20 – I’ve spoken to over the past month who have been caregivers, or are caregivers, or know they will be someday.  So as with the robe, I am going to keep writing about being a sandwich generation father and son for a while.  I hope there are still a few readers left who will follow along.