In the Twilight

Book Lover's Paradise, Cleaner's Nightmare; at least there's a beautiful view.

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My Dad seems to be in conflict about his decision to refuse measures that would prolong his life. He wants to hang onto some of them while rejecting others.

He takes about 200 pills daily. On Tuesday, he started throwing up the after-lunch ones as soon as he’d swallowed them, meaning my Mom had to clean up the mess. Four days went by before he agreed to call a halt.

When I dropped in for my usual after-work visit on Wednesday, Dad was in bed, reclining more comfortably than he has in weeks. He’s got open bedsores and a nurse had brought a special mattress on Tuesday evening. As I kissed Dad goodbye, he clung to my hand as if he’d never let go. “It’s good to see you, as always,” he said.

Just as I was going out the door, he summoned Mom and told her he thought he was going into renal failure and didn’t want an ambulance called as he wouldn’t consider entering the hospital. Mom looked pale and disoriented as she relayed the message and I have to admit I was panic-stricken.

Disturbing images and thick, chest-constricting emotions flooded through me. Although I didn’t know it, Piglet was in renal failure when I took him to the Third People’s Hospital in Guangzhou. Once the kidneys (or, in my Dad’s case, kidney) no longer process body fluids, the lungs fill with liquid, ultimately causing congestive heart failure. Which is neither a pretty picture nor a gentle death.

I had no idea how to handle this alone with Mom.

Needless to say, I took off my coat and abandoned departure plans. Mom, however, said I might as well go. She’d call me if she needed me. Since staying meant Mom would feel obliged to make an elaborate dinner – which even with my help would be exhausting – I went, but ate risotto at a nearby restaurant and phoned her when I’d finished.

Fortunately, it turned out to be a false alarm.

Yesterday there was supposed to be a meeting of caregivers, starting at 1:00. I showed up at 11:30, thinking I’d make lunch before the onslaught. To my dismay, cars littered the driveway. As I walked through the door, Mom handed me the phone. “Someone wants to talk to you.”

“Hello?” I said, bemused.

It was the woman from the Health Region, cancelling the meeting because her first grandchild had just been born ahead of schedule. Obviously, I had to forgive her. The meeting will now take place Monday afternoon.

After nearly – accidentally – knocking over the cleaning lady on my way to hang up the phone, I discovered a Hospice Nurse in the kitchen. She had a binder full of information and was trying not to overwhelm Mom with details.

I decided to cut to the chase.

“One of the most likely things we’ll face,” I said, “Is renal failure, which I gather is not pleasant.”

“No,” she replied, “It’s not. But hospice teams are available night and day to come out and alleviate the symptoms. They can be quite extreme. The good news is that they’re rarely painful.”

Something that has crouched coiled and hidden inside me for nearly six years relaxed, like an unclenching of muscles I hadn’t realized were taut. I felt almost light-headed with relief. I’ve never quite forgiven myself for not being present when Piglet died and I’ve imagined him alone and in pain, surrounded by people who didn’t speak English. To learn there probably wasn’t a lot of pain – and knowing the hospital staff, despite their failure to diagnose and treat him correctly, certainly alleviated his symptoms – brought me some ‘closure’, as the jargon has it. It also explains why Piglet looked peaceful afterwards. (Reading about rigor mortis taught me a person’s face retains the expression it wore when death occurred.)

I made a green onion frittata for lunch and Dad managed to get to the table. He’s got an appointment for a blood transfusion on Sunday and, right after complimenting my cooking, said, “When we go to the ‘horsp,’ we should be able to manage the trip ourselves, don’t you agree, Bean?”

My Mom murmured non-committally.

“The seats in the car are really low, Dad,” I said, horrified. “You’ll have trouble sitting down. Not to mention having to swivel your legs around after you sit.”

“We have a cushion the nurse brought,” Mom piped in. “We can easily put it in the car and arrange to have a wheelchair waiting for us at Emergency.”

Great! I thought. Nightmare on Elm Street move over! One crisis has just been averted. Make way for the next.

Once the dishes were cleared and stowed, Dad suddenly realized he was out of one of the few medications that don’t make him vomit. He wanted me to proceed directly to the pharmacy and bring him the pills. I’d planned on spending the rest of the afternoon with Creature and Finn. If I delayed any longer, I’d hit rush hour and there’d be no point going. I said I’d pick up the prescription on my way back and drop it off just after dinner.

I drove out to the Fir-Draped Cabin creating dialogues in my mind.

“You know, Dad, it really isn’t fair to ask Mom and me to...”

No – the suggestion of injustice might make him angry.

“It’s a lot to ask of yourself, Dad, getting in and out of the car twice with only me and Mom to help.”

No – that will just bring out his Scotch stubbornness and he’ll be more determined than ever to go through with it. After all, it’s partly his Scotch thrift – his desire to avoid the ambulance bill – that made him come up with this idea in the first place.

“No, Dad, it’s a bad plan.”

Short, to the point, but could I count on Mom backing me up?

For two blissful hours I was able to forget my worries as I sat holding Finn. I fed him – Creature has had to temporarily give up nursing due to severe mastitis and the antibiotics she’s taking to cure it – burped him and cuddled him. He is so tiny and defenseless, so beautiful with his long fingers and black feathery hair. He makes sweet little gurgles and coos and gazes up at me with big dark eyes full of absolute trust. At two weeks old, he’s becoming more alert and I’ve seen him often enough that I think he recognizes me. He knows I’m not Mom or Dad, but I’m a trusted presence in his emerging universe.

Holding him nestled in his soft blankets, in all his fragile vulnerability, made me incredibly grateful he was born in Canada. I’ve seen the condition of children in China, in Cambodia, in Laos and in Jordan and it’s broken my heart. What ‘fearful hand or eye,’ what unearned bounty, decreed that I and my children and my children’s children would be born here, where we can live amidst peace and plenty while so many of the world’s children suffer. It is a mystery and, truly, there but for the grace of God goes Finn.

Moments after I reluctantly handed him back to his mother, the phone rang; my mother letting me know the pharmacy had delivered the prescription. That spared me a two-hour adventure but meant I couldn’t tackle my Dad face to face bout his insane “I can do it” plan.

On the drive home from Sooke I decided I’d simply phone Mom and tell her we couldn’t begin to consider trying to manoeuvre Dad through a road trip. Just say no and all that.

Before I’d said more than, “Hi, it’s me,” Mom said, “Well, I’ve organized the Medi-Van people. The transfusion’s at 3:30 so they’ll get here at 2:30, leaving lots of time for them to carry Dad out if they have to.”

“What??”

“The Medi-Van. You know, the same outfit that brought him home. Maybe we’ll get the boy with the hilarious hair again.”

“And Dad agreed to this?”

“I didn’t ask him,” Mom said airily.

“Won’t he be upset? I mean, he wanted to go in the car.”

“What makes you think that?”

“He said so at lunch.”

“Did he really? I don’t remember anything like that being discussed.”

Maybe Mom’s way is best. Don’t register what you don’t want to hear and then arrange, turmoil-free, what you think is fitting.

Meanwhile, my apartment’s a pigsty. Housework isn’t my favourite occupation at the best of times and, given everything that’s going on, I have to choose between blogging and cleaning. Blogging wins, hands down.

I do feel a bit sorry for my bright yellow vacuum cleaner, though. A birthday gift from my dear friend, Kathleen, it sits forlornly in the living room awaiting installation of a seat and steering wheel.