Today, I did the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my entire life.
Today I signed the paperwork to make my father a long-term resident of the Jewish Home for the Aged.
I have read many accounts of what people have gone through, logically and emotionally, when going through this process. I commiserated, but never for a moment ever considered the possibility that I might have to do the same.
After his stroke in January, he recovered very well. So well, in fact, that he was doing better than he was prior to the stroke. Then, in July, he had another one. This one was much worse.
Now, he has almost no control of either his right arm or leg. His strength on the left side is much less than it was before. He cannot even assist, in any meaningful way, in transfering from his wheelchair to his bed.
This means he pretty much needs 24-hour care, which I am unable to provide. Even with my flexible work schedule, I simply cannot do it.
I visit nearly every day, but it's simply not the same. I do my best to be cheerful while I'm there, relating the latest idiocies spotted on the road, or sharing the funnier of jokes I get via e-mail. Still, everytime I leave my face is twisted into a confusing mass of pain and frustration.
The thought of my dad living in a nursing home is almost too much to bear. He was always -- and still is -- a fiercely independant man. He belongs at home, living an active life, not sitting around with a bunch of old people listening to accordian players and playing bingo.
It's times like this that I really wish there was a god. Someone I could blame, someone I could scream at, someone I could beat the living crap out of. I would love to be able to point my finger at someone, or something and say, this is the asshole responsible.
Unfortunately, I strongly doubt that such a being exists, so much so that I cannot find comfort in the thought that maybe, just maybe, there is a god, and that someday I'll get to beat the holy bejeezus out of him. I can, however, see why people would want, desperately, to believe. I wish I could.
Well, philosophical issues aside, my next step is to A) get a better computer so I can work more easily from the Jewish Home, and B) get practical transportation for taking dad out and about in his wheelchair.
The former is in motion; Rachel and I have gotten a home equity line of credit, part of which will be applied towards the purchase of a new laptop. The latter is a little more difficult.
A wheelchair accessible minivan would be ideal; unfortunately, they are a fair bit out of our price range. A series Land Rover would work fine, but Indy needs a little more work than I'd like to become a practical daily driver in a short space of time.
The Land Rover 88" I bought that Rita never paid me for (and is currently trying to sell) would work fine, assuming she has not destroyed it past the point of usability. (Rita's method of automobile maintenance is to drive a vehicle until it breaks, then put on a short skirt and take it to a male mechanic.)
I don't know if I'll be able to get it back from her, however. So, that leaves an ordinary minivan with some home-made modifications. A VW microbus would also work, and might not be too expensive. Basically, I need to see what I can come up with.
My older brother, however, should be happy. He told me over and over again, that if I put dad in a home, he would come and visit and take dad out all the time. Of course, that hasn't happened -- he hasn't been by even once in the two months that Dad has been there, let alone take him out. But, I've known all along that Paul was completely full of shit.
There, of course, is my replacement for a non-existant god. My siblings, while not responsible for what has happened, do make good targets for releasing my anger and frustration. I do frequently imaging smashing their faces in, or kicking them in the balls, or what-have-you.
I would never do it in real life, of course, ('tis far better to just be more successful and happy than them,) but it is rather soothing to think about. Keeps my mind off of how much it hurts to have to leave Dad there.
There is the theory, espoused by the staff, no doubt to help ease the pain, that by him living there, they can handle the medical and physical issues, leaving Dad, Rachel, and I free to enjoy a social life together. It's logical, of course, and entirely correct, to a point, but sometimes logic just doesn't apply.
Personally, I enjoyed having Dad at home, and doing stuff for him. I was never crazy about changing sheets or doing laundry, but that's true even for myself. Mostly, I liked being able to do something for someone who did so much for me.
There was a time... A friend and I had gone roller skating on a Friday night. We had taken the bus to San Mateo, fully expecting to get home the same way. Instead, however, we met up with a couple of girls and wound up missing the last bus. So, we called my dad to come get us. We called from a pay phone, and told him we were at point A. Unfortunately, we were actually at point B, a considerable distance from point A.
To make a long story short, we had to get from point B to point A asap before my dad arrived at point B. Alas, my friend and one of the girls began stopping every three feet for a bit of kissy-face, and Dad got there first. Nonetheless, he didn't say anything until after we had dropped off the girls and my friend, at which point he simply observed that the girls seemed a little worldly.
Another time... Dad was picking me up from the Opera House, after a rehearsal with the SF Boys Chorus. A bunch of the guys were going over to the Opera House McDonald's for something to eat, and I was invited. I asked Dad if I could go, and not only did he say yes, he even gave me some money to buy something.
Money was extremely tight at that point, so a few dollars for McDonald's food was a big deal. That was, in fact, the first time I remember ever going off on my own and being able to buy my own food, as part of a group, without my parents with me. It was definitely an important event for me, and my Dad recognized that enough to facilitate it.
Mind you, life was not all honey and roses -- there was the time that Dad kept talking during Xanadu -- but overall, it was plenty good.
Rachel, too, would have liked to see Dad home. I know she doesn't have quite the same connection as I do, but she liked having him around.
My friends miss him too. I have to say how proud I am of the people I hang out with because every last one, from the Atari user group, to the classic computer collectors, from the Sierra Clubbers to the Roverfolk, accepted my Dad as one of their own. They treated him as an equal, without ever talking down to him or excluding him in the least.
My dad's plan was to work until he was 70, then cut back to part time. He didn't make it. His other plan (quite tongue-in-cheek, of course) was that he wanted die by being shot by a jealous husband while jumping out of a second story bedroom window. Not the sort of man who belongs in a nursing home.
Not a whole lot I can do about it, of course, except make the best of it. That, and do as the doctors and nurses recommend and concentrate on living life as much as possible while they worry about the logistical side of things.