Life's Changes

by Kay Strayer, Life/Relationship Coach and most of all, Daughter

When my father retired, I was a little concerned about how he'd manage, having been so active all his life. When he wasn't working, he was doing things around the house, fishing in his trout pond, deer hunting or working on his motor home to get it ready for the next trip. Not long after Dad retired, he had to have triple-bypass surgery. Even though I was forewarned about how my father might look when I visited him in ICU, nothing prepared me for seeing my Dad that way. Little did I know that I had much to learn from my father in terms of illness and eventual death.

Dad survived the triple bypass and later learned he was diabetic and needed to go on insulin and watch his diet. His rebelliousness showed by his regulating his insulin so he could eat what he wanted and becoming a couch-potato.

Several years later, when Mom and Dad came from Pennsylvania to visit me here in North Carolina, Dad mentioned that he had an in-grown toenail that was bothering him. When I asked to see it, I couldn't believe my eyes. His whole toe was black, and the rest of his foot was beginning to turn red. I told him he had to have it checked, and he said he'd pay close attention to it. By the next morning, it was obvious that his foot was becoming very infected. They immediately returned home. After months of the doctors trying to get the infection under control and several trips to the hospital, it was determined that Dad's leg would have to be amputated. I'll never forget hearing those words. I was there when Dad woke from surgery and, although he was always a real trooper and kept a positive mind, I could see that this had taken a toll on him. Mom managed to take care of him for almost a year after that, while Dad used his wheelchair to get around. He had a ramp put up to the main door of the house, inside doors were taken off the hinges to allow for the wheelchair to pass through, and a handicap stool along with bars to hold onto were installed in the bathroom. The house began to change just as life had begun to change.

I would fly home from North Carolina every chance I got. I was becoming increasingly sad and depressed, as Dad was no longer at the airport with Mom to greet me when I'd arrive. She said he was waiting for me at home. Then Mom got so worn out by the extra work required to take care of him, she no longer showed up at the airport either and I began taking a cab. Each time I went home, I spent more and more time cleaning for Mom, as she was too exhausted to do it. I'll never forget that first Thanksgiving Day, over a decade after my dad's decline began, when I went out and bought our holiday dinner at a local restaurant. I cried the whole way back to my parents' house. Neither of them felt well enough to eat, and most of it went into the refrigerator. Mom had let her hair get longer than ever from sheer neglect and was really getting gray. She had lost a lot of weight and looked so weary. The trips back and forth became more urgent. Mom would call every couple of days saying she didn't know how much more she could take. It seemed that Dad was on antibiotics now from his remaining leg getting infected. He was messing his pants and refusing to wear diapers, trying to run over Mom with his wheelchair, threatening her, and threatening suicide.

Having five brothers didn't seem to help much. Except for one brother, my other brothers lived, like me, hundreds of miles away. We began taking turns spending weeks and sometimes months on end away from our own homes. Dad's leg became worse, and the family started talking about the inevitability of needing to put both of them into a rest home. Just talking about it among us was so sad. Talking to them was much harder.

Things had changed so much already. I didn't know if I could handle any more change. I wanted everything to go back to the way it was: my parents healthy, family together with Mom cooking holiday dinners, and Dad playing with the grandkids at the pond. I didn't want to think of visiting them on separate floors in a rest home, having to stay in a motel with no more "home" to go to. I knew I was going through a roller coaster of emotions and could only imagine how it must have been for Mom and Dad.

While visiting in July of 1999, I asked Mom and Dad if they would tell their life story on video for an hour if I helped coach them. I promised them I'd make copies and send them out at Christmas time to my five brothers. Surprisingly, they both agreed. I think it was the best thing I could have done in terms of keeping their legacies alive. Just a few months later, Dad was told he'd have to have his remaining leg removed. We knew there wasn't any way Mom could physically take care of Dad and they agreed to leave their home in September. I'll never forget their last night in the house. Mom called me into her bedroom, asking me to help her decide what to take and what to leave behind. She would open her closet, pull some things out, ask what I thought, walk over to the dresser, pick up jewelry and other things, and then just lay them back down, saying she didn't think she'd have room for much of anything at the rest home. I held back the tears until I didn't think I could any longer. Since Dad had been sleeping in his recliner in the living room, I slept in his bed right next to Mom. We both lay there, hearts breaking, silently crying. Finally, I reached for her hand and we cried together for hours. Dad was pretty incoherent from all his medications and had an appointment at the hospital the next morning. While my brother took my Mom to the rest home, I took my Dad to the hospital. My brother came later to escort Dad to the rest home. I'm not sure Dad ever realized where he was as he kept asking when he could go home.

In one sense my brothers and I felt a little more at ease, knowing that their needs were being taken care of. A month later, my little brother, his wife, and I met back in Pennsylvania to start clearing out the house. The attic hadn't been touched in over 30 years. We went through all of Mom and Dad's personal belongings, getting things ready for auction. Mom told me to make sure to take what I wanted before the auction. The one thing I wanted was the hanging cowbell that she kept wrapped around the doorknob on the back door. Even though I didn't particularly like it, the sound always signified that I was "back home." It now hangs on the door to my condo. Another thing I wanted was my Dad's old torn-up robe that he used to wear. I had it repaired and it now hangs on the back of my bedroom door. Then there were the wind chimes and the electric candles that Mom always kept in the windows year-round and the big yellow ceramic duck in which she kept snacks, which I'd quietly search out in the middle of the night when I couldn't sleep. Funny how the little things held so much significance to me.

On the day of the auction it was drizzling rain outside, and there was a damp chill in the air. People began showing up early, chairs were lined on the lawn, and one by one things that meant so much to my parents were auctioned away for a dollar here and a dollar there. The sadness was like a knife in my heart. I spent that night there, lying on a mattress in the cold, stark room where my father used to greet the sun and watch the Canadian geese on the pond. I walked around the naked house, going from one room to another, remembering.knowing my life and those of my family had changed forever. The next morning I walked around the pond trying to spot the "huge trout" that Dad and I tried to catch so many times, trying to make sense of it all.

My Dad had his leg amputated before I left for home. He had been put on dialysis and was very despondent. When Mom assured me that she'd be ok and kissed me on the cheek, I said goodbye, assuring her I'd be back real soon. I did go back the week before Christmas and found my father much worse than when I left. Mom seemed to be doing ok and had even made new friends. When I sat with Dad that week, he held his arm over his face the whole time and wouldn't look at me, only occasionally mumbling a word or two. Here was the man who, to me, was the epitome of strength.a tall, strapping man, now shriveled up in a little tiny ball. I told him how very sorry I was that he was going through it all, and I asked him if there was anything I could do. He answered, "Well, Sis, it seems a little too late for that." One morning I was scheduled to ride in the clinic van with him when he went for his dialysis. It was freezing cold-to-the-bone and, when I got to the rest home at 6:30 in the morning, the nurses had him in his wheelchair- coat, gloves and a muffler on to keep him warm-saying he had a temperature all night. I could see that he was very sick and asked him if he wanted to go. He managed to find the strength to say no, at which time I told the nurses to get him undressed and put him back into bed. That afternoon I took my flight back to North Carolina, knowing I'd probably never see my Dad again.

Later that week I got a phone call that Dad didn't have long to live. Even though I thought I was prepared for the call saying he had passed on, it really hit me hard. I had sent out videotapes of their life stories, and they were waiting for my brothers when they returned back to their homes after Dad's funeral on New Year's Day. When I got back to North Carolina, I learned something about "relationships being eternal." During the first year after Dad died, I felt his presence with me more than when he was alive. My dreams of him were so vivid and so comforting that I now realize that death is truly just another beginning.

Mom left the rest home right after the funeral and moved to Texas to live with my little brother and his wife. I visit her every few months, and she'll turn 88 in January. She's still fairly healthy, missing Dad a lot, and I know that she, too, will be leaving me one day. I no longer have the illusion that I will be prepared for that day, but I do know that God will give me the strength to get through the heartache and for that I am grateful.

Kay Strayer has been serving as a Life/Relationship Coach, Licensed Massage Therapist, Reiki Master, Rebirther, and Certified Hypnotherapist in private practice for the past 15 years. She is also a workshop and seminar facilitator and is available for speaking engagements. Visit www.kaystrayer.com. For an appointment or questions, call 704-521-2755 or email strayer@bellsouth.net.