Slightly Settled

(Tuesday, August 30/11)

What a difference a night's sleep makes! The night before, I didn't get to sleep till after 1.30 am, was woken by a nightmare a couple of hours later (one of those nightmares where you can't talk, can't move), and then by construction noise at 6.30 in the morning! I got up feeling pretty wrecked, and then went through the whole thing with dad, as described yesterday.


Today, I feel rested, and have had a chance to think. Dad says he's feeling panicked about the move, as am I. There's still so much to do, plus there's a big holiday Monday coming up that pushes things back a bit. I think the best compromise is to move the date back by one week. I can't risk leaving dad on his own any longer... I would hate for him to have a major fall that he might not return home from, and then we'd never get to move. As it is, I'm sitting on pins and needles, and will be until we're in the air!

(Later on in the day...)

Lives changed forever at 2.50pm when I booked our one way tickets to Sydney. Yes. Booked. All that thought, analyzing, planning... sorted in one short phone call to Air Canada. An aisle seat and a middle seat, not too far from the loo, handicap accessibility requested for planing and deplaning. We're all set!

I got off the phone and promptly started bawling. What is wrong with me? I guess all that emotion has to go somewhere.

Of course I still wasn't settled after making the decision and confirming it. Oh no. Now I was guessing myself for the millionth time. Finally, I said to myself... it's the right decision. It's done. At the end of the day, you want dad in a care home where he can sit and listen to the birdsong in the trees, and feel warmth. (He certainly isn't getting that here.) Then I remembered him coming and asking for help to button up his shirt this afternoon, and know that it's time. It's time for more care than I can now give him.

And the tears flow again.

It's been like this all afternoon. Even thoughts of saying good bye to friends. Or hello to more friends. It sets me off again; standing at the kitchen sink, bawling.

In the words of my brother when I told him what was going on - "Yer weird." (Nothing like a little brotherly love to set you straight again!)

Going Around in Circles

Was feeling pretty dejected yesterday. Talked to dad about moving in the afternoon, and he seemed warmed up to the idea. Went over there to go over the tickets with him.

No.

Oh, not this again!

No tickets. Too soon. Feeling panicked. And on it went.

Again, it's so hard to put head down and focus and trust that I've made the right decision, when he's there asking the same questions I asked myself months ago, and settled.
Dad, it's time. We've been waiting on doctors for so long. We have a window of opportunity to move, get you set up in care, and move on to the next level of medical attention that you need.

Hrumpf.

Now, dad has asked me to look out for his best interests. We have legal paperwork and all. However, when it comes to family, you always resort back to your original role. Father. Daughter. Provider. Recipient. How do you reverse that role? With great difficulty, if not impossible. Dad always made the decisions for our family. Now that he's in the position of recipient of the decision, he's making it entirely impossible. Everything is questioned, every decision is fought against. It feels like twice the battle. I always feel like I'm getting my own way - which was always the battle cry when I was younger. 'Donna is getting her own way again.' as my friend pointed out... I'm getting done what needs to be done. If I wanted my own way, I'd be on a little South Pacific tour on his dime. (Sounds good to me. It's still an option...)

I should be sensitive to his needs and concerns, and that he'll be soon saying a lot of goodbyes. I'm just dealing with my own concerns; leaving all that I know behind for the promise of the unknown. Seems a bit ridiculous. My brain has fired off into 50 different directions ... him adding worries at the last minute is overload. Then again, I'm just remembering, that's what men do!! (Ah - the beauty of writing - revelation!) Women think things out ahead of time .... ie camping. Lists are written, shopping done, items packed. Man comes along at last minute... oh duh, the oil needs changing... I'll do that right now. Woman comes out of house, bags packed, everything ready to go... only to find the car ripped apart, mid-repair. Here she'd envisioned an early start, stopping for a relaxing coffee along the way. Now it's another hour or two wait while he gets it together. Ah.

So I've got this all organized in my head, on pieces of paper, movers, auctions all lined up to take care of everything. Dad comes in at the end and decides that maybe he should get involved. But I was organized! I had it taken care of. Now you've got me second guessing myself. This is benefitting no one.

Friday, August 26

I thought this was going to be a story of me taking my dad home... now I don't know what kind of story it is.

2.30 pm - I brought up the move to Sydney conversation again; as in, this time, let's get serious if we're going to do this. Serious as in, time to book tickets. We've talked about it in the past. Continuously, actually. Have been through the pros and cons, left, right and center! On one trip back from the doctor, I said to dad that if the results came back clear, that I would start organizing the necessary things to do, and we could move. He would be able to see his sisters and brother again, as well as numerous nieces, nephews, great nieces and nephews, old friends. He could sit outside and listen to the birds sing; one of his simple pleasures. I asked him how that sounded and he said it sounded good.

I thought we were on the same wavelength. As my mom used to say, "You know what thought did..."

Well! When I brought up the subject of purchasing tickets, he didn't go over very well. In fact, it went over like a lead shot! HRUMPF!

'Dad, I'm going to book tickets to Australia on Monday.'
'No. '
'Sorry?'
'No.'
'Do you want to sit here in the rain for the next 6 months?'
'It's too hot in Australia.'

The conversation fell apart from there. Finally, I said, 'I'm going to Australia at the end of September. You can come or you can stay. I'm happy to help you move if you want. Otherwise I'm putting you into the care of the ministry here and you can pay $170/hr power of attorney fees.'
'Sounds like that's an ultimatum.'
'Yep. I guess it is. You have the weekend to think about it. I'm booking tickets on Monday.'
'Hrumpf.' (I just knew he was thinking, Donna is getting her own way again.)

6.30 pm - More thinking on my part.... maybe this is a stupid plan. Who drags a 70 year old man, battling Parkinson's dieease 10,000 km across the Pacific Ocean; away from his medical support team, a roof over his head, and all that he's known for the past 32 years. Am I stark, raving mad. Another part of me has to talk myself down, AGAIN! Donna! You have been over this and over this until you've worn a hole right through! This is the best option. Dad has to go into care; do you want it to be here or Australia? You need a new job; do you want to do that here or Australia? You need a new car; do you want one here or Australia? You need a new place to live; do you want to do that here or in Australia? Do you wan to live out the next ten months here in the rain, or do you want to enjoy the sunshine in Australia? Do you want to continue to battle it alone; or do you want to be close to friends and family in Australia? I thought so. Stick to the plan, it's a good plan. It IS overwhelming, but take it one step at a time. You will get there.

8 pm - Time to call dad for his 8pm pill. Ask him what his fears are about moving back to Australia, since that's what he's wanted to do for a long time. He's worried that he's going to be stranded. Ok, that's a valid fear. That's (one of) my fear(s) as well! I also fear being stuck here in a rut. I reassure him that I've thought this through, front back and sideways. (Front back and sideways, front back and sideways and repeat!) I reassure him that I've not left him stranded yet, and I'm not about to start now. We leave it for the day; tomorrow is a new day.

Evening Pill Routine

(A sample of pretty much every evening.)

Since dad's Sinemet pill times are 8am, 12pm, 4pm and 8pm... I call him at 8am for those pills, then the nurses are there over the 12pm and 4pm pill times, then I call at 8pm for that pill and to say good night. The nurses bring the 8pm pill down, and place it beside the clock radio in the kitchen, next to the sink. I tuck the 8am pills in the corner of the bottom shelf of the overhead cupboard, so that when I call him in the am, he'll take those pills. One would think that the pills in their places would register in his mind as a routine. One would think.

The past few nights have gone something like this:

8pm ring ring

"Hello?"
"Hi dad, it's time for your 8pm pill."
"Is it?"
"Yes. Where are you?"
"I'm in bed. I guess I'll have to go get it then."
Sounds of him walking to the kitchen for the pill.
"Dad... the pill is in the purple container next to the clock radio, do you see it?"
"I don't see it."
"Purple container, glass dish, next to clock radio?"
"Oh..."
Sounds of the phone being set down. THEN... sounds of a glass bowl being dragged across a cabinet. The 8 AM pills!!
"DAD!"
No answer
"DAAAD!"
Still no answer.
"DAAAAAAD DAAAAAAAAAAAAAD DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD!!!" I'm screaming into the phone so he'll pick up.
"What?"
"Which pills do you have?"
"It's a white container with two pills in it."
"Did you take it from the cabinet?"
"Yes."
"Those are your pills for tomorrow. Were you not listening to me? The purple container on the counter is the pill for now.. the one that says 8 pm? The one you take every night?"
"Oh." Silence.
"Please put those pills away. Those are your pills for tomorrow morning. Please take the pill on the counter."
Silence.
I'm panicking again! "What are you doing dad?"
"Putting the 8am pills away."
Sound of water running.
"Do you have the pill in the purple container?"
More silence, then, "Well, that's down the hatch. I guess that's it then."
"I guess. Ok. Good night, have a good sleep."
"Same to you." Click.

8.11pm - phone call ends.

Nurse Next Door

COMING SOON!

Medical System Cont'd

Part 2 of 2

December 3, 2009 - Dad was still having hallucinations, pain, etc. I spoke wtih a nurse at Fraser Health about this as she asked about his fall, etc. when they called for a follow up. She told me she was going to speak with another nurse, and had the nurse call me. The nurse told me that I would have to take dad back to emergency, that something was not right and they would have to run more tests. I was fully prepared for them to come back and say that he had a stroke, or that he had dementia, or something mad like that.

When we were finally admitted into a bed in the emergency room, they had patients lining the hallways. A heart patient from St. Paul's arrived, and they didn't have a bed for her, and couldn't get her hooked up to the heart machine as soon as possible as it was already in use. When they brought her in, the toe of her guerney was lined up with the foot of with dad's bed - no privacy in the hospital - and she started to throw up. Dad was about to lose it, so I quickly jumped up and pulled the curtain.

I spent that afternoon/evening at the hospital with dad. They kept him in overnight, and were going to do a CT scan in the morning. By noon the next day, I hadn't heard from them, and started to worry that the length of time it's taking means it's bad news. Then again, it is the hospital, and everything happens in slow mottion. They finally called, said they were backlogged, and were going to monitor dad's situation.

I went in in the afternoon to see him, and he had been moved to a bed in the emergency room hallway. Again, there was no privacy. Another older gentleman was in an "isolation room" about seven feet away from dad. Nurses were suiting up in full disposable scrubs and face masks to deal with the man, not creating a whole lot of confidence in us.

The doctor came a while later to assess dad to see if he could go home. Asking dad some questions, I noticed that dad was very confused. In turn, I was confused as he seemed to be progressively getting worse after being admitted to the hospital rather than improving. A little research at the nurses station revealed that they had been giving him Tylenol 3 for his pain, despite my instruction to the contrary. With Parkinson's medication, we have found that he cannot take anything stronger than regular Tylenol or iburphen to manage the pain. Antibiotics are out, as are most other medications that interfere and cause confusion and hallucinations. I informed them of this, and asked them to please stop giving him the Tylenol 3. I also had to be on top of them about administering the Sinemet for the Parkinson's, as that has also been missed. Poor dad, he wasn't getting his Parkinson's medication on time, as well as being administered Tylenol 3 which was causing him confusion.

The doctor wanted him to stay in one more night for observation. I left him there on the bed in the hallway that night with a heavy heart. Overnight, I became very frustrated with the whole situation; the mix up of pills, dad sleeping in a brightly lit corridor in a narrow bed that he couldn't turn around in due to his physical limiations. I went marching into that emergency room the following morning, determined to have him released into my care. As I entered the sliding ER doors, I realized dad's bed had been facing the action all night long. There he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, forlorn. Fortuneately, he was dressed and ready to be released... so I didn't have to put up a fight. I got him out of there as soon as I could.

As I was whisking him out the door, the Elder Health doctor on duty caught up with me. Discussing the pill mix up, confusion, etc. she commented that with young children and the elderly, it's a tough balance to get the medication balance correct. To avoid all prescription meds, if possible. To which I wholeheartedly agreed. I was learning something in all of this!

Prologue... We managed dad's pain with doses every four hours of regular Tylenol. It built up a "cushion" for him, and got him through the next few weeks of recovering from a cracked L1 vertebra.

It was around about this time that I retained the services of the Nurse Next Door...

To be continued...

Medical System

Part 1 of 2

The outgoing president of the Canadian Medical Association, Dr. Jeffrey Turnbull, voiced his concern this week over the Canadian health system.

A few items from the article from the Vancouver Sun, Tuesday August 23, stood out to me...

Turnbull, 60, said that, in his hospital alone, 580 operations were cancelled last year and that patients wait in emergency rooms for days for a bed, "or even just a chance to receive care in a hallway."

Turnbull said the system is failing to put the needs of patients first, especially the most vulnerable, including the young, the elderly, the homeless, the addicted, aboriginal peoples . . . "and, most fundamentally, the poor."

Earlier doctors spoke of front-line frustrations, of long delays for care and referrals, of having to chase down paper and charts and being blamed for problems that are systemwide.

It was reassuring to me to read this from a top doctor, as these have been my observations in dealing with the health care system over the past 2 1/2 years.

Take for example, our dealings with the hospital in November 2009. On a cold, wet Sunday afternoon (November 15), I had driven up to the front door of dad's apartment building to drop him off. For some asinine reason, there is no handicap accessibilty at the front door of the apartment building (built in 2004), just a high curb. There was little space for dad to manouver between the car door and the curb. He got twisted up in his feet and over he went. One minute he was there, the next he disappeared. I panicked... but at least my brain was still working! I remembered to turn off the car, and pull on the e-brake. As the car was parked on an incline, the last thing I wanted was a dad-pancake. A man overboard was bad enough.

Rushing around to the other side of the car, I found dad on his side in the gutter. He had landed on his elbow, and scratched it up. I did the number one no-no of first aid, and moved him up to his apartment. In my defence, it was November and he was lying in a dirty gutter. I did check to see if he could move his limbs.

I called the ambulance to take him to the hospital. The paramedics came to check him out, and didn't think anything was broken. Recommended he sit tight for a couple of days, and go to the doctor if he was still in pain. At that point in time, the H1N1 virus was of great concern. They didn't want him to risk coming into contact with it at the hospital if he didn't need to.

A couple of days later, dad was still in pain. I wasn't able to take him to the doctor at the walk in clinic until Thursday. Dad was prescribed pain medication, and ibuprophen. I told the doctor he reacts to some medications, so she gave us a 4 pill sample of the pain medication to see how it would go. We then went to the hospital in order for his lower back and hip to be x-rayed, as that is where he was having the pain.

Dad was meant to take the pain medication 1 every 24 hours. I saw him on the Friday following the fall and he seemed ok. I talked to him on the Saturday and he seemed confused about when he was meant to be taking the pills. I stopped in to see him at 5 pm, and realized he hadn't taken his 4pm Parkinson’s medication. It’s so important that he take it right on time. Dad told me that it didn't make sense, he couldn't figure it out. He seemed confused, so I knew something was really wrong with him.

I called the nurse phone line then and they told me to take him to emergency to have him checked out. We waited for an hour (Fortunately it was only that long, the sign did say there was a 2-4 hour wait.), and then went in to a bed, where he was checked out. I told the doctor about finding the pain medication, and that a pill was missing. He should have taken 2 and there should be 2 left. There was only one pill left. Dad had taken another pain pill within the 24 hours, but I couldn’t confirm when. The doctor took a look at the bottle... Tramadol. He told us he hates Tramadol. It’s a narcotic. That he's seen the confusion etc. before in patients with underlying neurological issues.

The doctor also had a chance there to review the x-rays from Thursday night. He confirmed that dad had cracked his L1 vertebrae when he fell. There’s nothing they can do for it, other than to let it heal. His was compressed it by about ¼ of an inch. (Apparently in the US, they can inject a sort of cement into the area to aid in the healing and compression... but it’s not available in Canada.) He gave us a prescription for a nasal spray for the pain. I asked about dad staying in overnight for observation. He said that with conditions like dad’s, they don’t get much sleep in hospital, and it can be detrimental to their getting well. As well as it being an unfamiliar location.

I took dad home... by then it was 8pm. I gave him some food, water, pills and sent him to bed.

Cont'd...

Exhale!

That always happens... working at home, leave some phone messages, then go out to do some errands. (I guess I should have given them my cell number!) Come home to messages. One of them being the specialist's receptionist whom I called earlier in the week for the results from the pathology report. As she introduced herself on the machine, I started to panic that I wouldn't find out the results until tomorrow as the office was now closed. As she continued, though, she said that she "wanted to let me know that everything looked great, and we don't want you to worry." Oh the relief! There is no cancer, nothing major to worry about. I grinned and grinned in relief. Whew.... I can now exhale!

Which means I now have to get busy! No more excuses or procrastinating as I am wont to do!! There are tickets to be booked, a container to be organized, furniture to be moved, paperwork to be organized, bags and boxes to be packed. Am I really doing this!? WOW!

Lest You Think I Am Some Kind of Saint

Let me assure you I am not. There have been many words 'shared' ... One night we came thisclose to blows in anger, frustration and desperation over the situation. I curled up into a ball in the corner and cried and cried. Poor dad didn't know what to do with me. (Men don't know what to do with a crying woman at the best of times, let alone being impaired by a disease.) I made the decision then that I'd have to hire more care for dad so that I could get on with getting him ready to move. Looking back it seems clear, but at the time the feeling was destitute. I guess I have come a ways since then .. That should bolster me to move forward.

The Waiting Game

My advice to you is not to plan a move at the end of summer. Everyone is on holidays and things are delayed. The specialist was on holidays, and now he's backlogged with work. I won't get an answer from him for a few more days. I am waiting on the auction house to tell me when they'll have two guys back on staff to come move the furniture out of dad's apartment, as they're on holidays. The building manager in dad's building is away, and he's the one who manages move in and move outs. (He has to put up the blankets in the elevator whenever furniture gets moved in and out. Oh yes, the complex layers this move is taking on, I ought to write a book!) Come on people! I have a life to get on with. I can't sit around, waiting for you to take your annual holidays!

Right now I am averaging three emails/texts/Facebook messages/inquiries a day as to what our plans are. I don't know! I suppose it's my fault for saying anything in the first place. When you get asked the question, "When are you moving your dad into a home?" I started responding, "We're researching the option of moving to Australia," to put them off. That, however, has launched a whole other series of questions. Not more than once, I've thought of retaining the services of a PR firm. Someone to field all the questions and comments!!

Waiting, waiting, waiting...

Morning Pill Routine

(A sample of pretty much every morning...)

8.00am - Time for dad's pills. Ugh... I don't feel like calling him yet.
8.10am - Wonder if dad has taken his 8am pills yet. Am I ready to call him yet? I'll live in ignorant bliss a while longer...
8.20am -OK... better call him..
Ring, ring, ring, ring (Is he going to answer or do I have to call back? And then it goes straight to voicemail because he picked up too late. Then I have to count to 20 in my head and hope that he hung up in the meantime so that I can get through.)

"Hello?"
"Good morning. How are you?"
"Fine thanks."
"Have you taken your 8am pills yet?"
"Which ones are those?"
"The 8am pills on the bottom shelf that you've been taking for the past seven and a half years."
"Oh, those ones. Well, I'd better have taken them, shouldn't I?"
"Uh, yes dad."
(Phone goes down on the counter, sound of water running, so clattering around. Noises of phone being picked up...)
"Well, cross those off your list," he says when he comes back to the phone.
"You swallowed them?"
"Yep, down the hatch."
"Have you had breakfast yet?"
"Was thinking about that when you called."
"Well, you'd better go have something to eat. Can I go now?"
"If you want."
"Ok... have a good day. Remember, the nurse will be there at noon."

No News is Good News?

A call to the specialist's office this morning (his first day back from work post-holiday) reveals that the doctor is in surgery for the next three days. So still no word on the results of the biopsy. I have to wait till the end of the week for more information. I certainly hope dad isn't dying!

Good Samaritans

For all that Princess Diana did to sit among the sick, and talk to them like as nothing was wrong... our society still takes a wide step around the sick and lame. I know I did (do!). But having an ill father makes you stare at the disease in the face. Yes, he may be sick, but he's still human. He still enjoys the company of others, he still enjoys a good joke. He may not be able to follow a conversation, or remember what he was trying to say. But he remembers a lot of things. He remembers names in photos from 50 years ago... not sure I can remember names in photos from 10 years ago! He doesn't always speak clearly. I find though... if you have a little patience, and sit down and ask him a question he'll have an answer for you. But talk normally! Parkinson's may have given him a facial mask, but that's not to say he can't read facial queues! Oh no! He's always been gifted at reading people and if it's one thing he does pick up on, it's people being condescending to him. I hear about it afterwards and it actually makes me smile. His disease hasn't affected every ounce of his being!

Dad always had a keen sense of humor. Even now, he'll drop a line... but because he's hard to understand, or because I know him so well, other people don't understand ... yet I'm doubled over. Like someone recalling a story about him downsizing and him saying, 'Yeah, hard to fix it all into 6'.' they thought it the size of his container for Oz, but I knew immediately he was referencing the length of a coffin. Morbid sense of humor .... runs in the family!

How to treat someone who is ill? We'll all come across it sometime in life - if we're fortunate enough to avoid it ourselves. (There are so many things they can go wrong ... the human body is amazing in that it does function so perfectly.) Treat them normally, without condescension. Chat about the weather, news, family and friends. If you're still uncomfortable... gifts go a long way to helping someone feel cared for... a box of chocolates, a batch of cookies, a homemade meal, some flowers. A note attached saying you're thinking about them. Maybe a funny anecdote or quote you've read. Even gifts of service would be helpful... running errands, picking up milk, pick up some books from the library. The point is, it needn't be more than 5 or 10 minutes out of your day. Just think about someone else. I know I didn't give this much thought before dad got sick... but now I would like to think I've gained something from the experience. Don't just sit there, do something. We're humans.. we need to show a little humanity.

Goodbyes

Have definitely said too many goodbyes recently. (Some Hellos would be nice!) Said goodbye today to a dear close friend who is moving back to Australia after many years abroad. Slightly envious that she has all the stress of moving and rollercoaster of emotions behind her now. She's on a plane flying away from it all on to an exciting new adventure. Fingers crossed that that will soon be me. Finally found out this coming Monday the results of dad's biopsy and go from there. 2 more sleeps...

Uprooting Trees

I've thought a few times over the past days that moving dad is not unlike uprooting a 70 year old tree. All the cliches about setting in, putting down roots, are true. Over time property and other assets are acquired. As well, when you're retired, you collect pensions from the government. Trying to get this things closed up/transferred/settled for tax purposes feels almost impossible... like uprooting an old tree. (Impossible, but doable, if it takes every last ounce of oomph out of me.) I could feel the cartoon bubbles of "Doh" over my head as I listened to the accountant explain profit/loss statements required for this tax season, and further profit and loss statements required by Revenue Canada on all assets for the day that you leave Canada. Really? All I want to be doing is shopping for shoes. (Which may be why I find myself in this situation anyway.... you can only stick your head in the sand for so long before you need to come up for air and face reality!)

Not more than once I've considered leaving dad here and going to Australia on my own, the thought of moving him being too overwhemling. That thought is too depressing. I don't want him sitting in a care home here, with all his family there. I certainly don't want to stay here with him in a care home. It will be just me visiting him, and holidays will just be the two of us. I can't think of anything more depressing. No... I want to get him over there if it takes every ounce of my being. He'll be close to his family again, and he can sit outside in the sunshine, listening to the sound of the Australian birds singing... something he loves very much.

Moving myself would be so simple... throw some stuff in a suitcase, bin some crusty, old furniture (oh yes, vintage Ikea, it's not pretty in it's old age), shipping some cookbooks and photo albums (ok, maybe 50 boxes of albums!) and we're good to go. Get to Australia and get some work... I've dual Canadian/Australian citizenship with a tax file number... so can get to work right away. However, I must settle dad in over there first. I've not touched in that yet, as there's a mound of work to do here. The list just keeps getting longer and longer. I definitely feel like Santa Claus... making a list and checking it twice. I vow to prove that 70 year old trees can be uprooted, and transplated, and most of all... thrive!

Do the Math

Mom and dad... both 66, and me at half their age, 33!!

DRAFT

Being the worrier I was (am).... I didn't accept change very well. I had to change schools after grade 10 and started to worry... about everything. I started doing the math in my head... my parents were 32 and 33 when they had me, so by the time I was their age, they'd be 66 and 65. That was retirement age! I started to think about the fact that I would one day lose my parents. I'd have this worried expression on my face and would go to my mom. She'd take one look at my face and say, 'Go find your dad.'

Dad always listened to my fears and reassured me. He listened to my fears in elementary school, when I started to worry about my own mortality. He listened when I freaked out about the world coming to an end, as the kids at school were talking about it after a show aired on tv about the end of days. I told you I was a worrier. Dad was always there for the big, worrying stuff for me. I wonder why mom sent men to him. She was more than capable of handling it herself. Indeed, she handled my worries no problem when I was older. Maybe she figured that she'd done enough for us kids every day, and dad could handle the big stuff!

The Secret would tell you that I worried about the future so much that I worried it into existence. I'd like to give The Secret a swift kick up the... well, you get the picture. Truth is, life happens. People get sick, people die. I read somewhere recently that you live the good with the bad. Living with a father with Parkinson's, while celebrating friends having children, I understand that. What I'm not yet fully able to deal with is the roller coaster of emotions that it brings.

My mom was one of a kind in her generation. Now it's common for women to have children in their 30s, but not so common in the 70s. She was always the oldest at the schoolyard by 5-10 years. My youngest brother was born when she was 39, and starting to go grey. Nothing irked her more than being mistaken for his grandma!
Having children in yours 30s and 40s puts that many more years between you and you child. I hear of celebrities having kids at mid to late 40s, and all I hope is that they have a retirement plan. I suppose they have lots of money, so maybe it's different for them. However, they'll be nearing their 60s and they're children will just be reaching their 20s. Are they reedy to cope with the stress of an aging parent?

As it is, dad is 32 years older than me. He was also relatively young when diagnosed with Parkinson's. So when I take him to dr visits, I'm the youngest person in there by about 25 years. Certainly the only one entertaining myself on my iPhone, or reading fashion and home magazines!

TO BE COMPLETED...

When Age Takes its Toll

My mom was a big fan of Ann Landers; she often cut out articles she knew I would appreciate. When I was going through all my parents paperwork, I came across this clipping. I smiled, thinking of how mom probably had cut it out of the paper for her benefit; but since, it's been helpful for me. (Click on photo to read it.)

Stumbling

Found out from the nurse today that dad had some kind of fall/stumble. Whatever he did, he took the railing off the bathroom wall and knocked his toe to make it black and blue. He never told me about it, and when I asked him about it, he said that he didn't know he had to tell me that stuff?! Huh?! I asked him how I was supposed to provide him with the correct care if he isn't honest with me.

His nurse told me that he's been having falls - that his balance has been off lately. Falls, plural? Apparently he fell in his walk in closet a couple of months back. I knew he'd been having problems with his elbow bleeding, but when I asked him how it happened, he told me he'd bumped it on the railing on his bed or something.

This hiding of accidents is nothing new. When mom was alive - they hid a fall at work from me. He'd stumbled and messed up his face. I found out by walking into his living room to see his messed up face. Thanks for the notice.

Not sure what all the secrecy is about. My generation is all about telling all. So don't really have the time or patience for secrecy. Especially when it comes to someone's health and well being.

You Can't Make Me

DRAFT

Apparently it doesn't just apply to 3 year olds.

Entering uncharted waters. How to get a parent to move when they don't want to, but when it's in their best interest?! ESP when it's a father/daughter combo - and they don't take well to direction. Oh yes - I'm in for the fight of my life.

The Power of Negative Thinking

The Power of Negative Thinking
by J. R. Nyquist
Weekly Column Published: 07.31.2009

The magic word is “no.” Despite what you may have heard, the power of the word “no” outstrips the power of “yes.” The word “no” has greater utility, avoids unsuspecting troubles and protects against severe injury and death. When a toddler is about to stick a fork in a light socket, the word “no” saves the child from electrocution. When that famous daredevil says he can jump the Grand Canyon on a motorcycle the appropriate reaction is, “No, you mustn’t.” The power of negative thinking is in keeping with sobriety and respectable conduct. If you want to be a drug addict, “Just say no.” If you don’t want higher taxes, vote “no” on nearly every proposition. And if you don’t want socialism then your watchword is, “No we can’t!”

I ought to write a book on the power of negative thinking. Chapter 1 should be titled “The Awful Damaging Consequences of Yes.” Ask yourself a simple question: Is a “yes”-man noble? Do you want to live without discretion or judgment? Is it right to accommodate everyone? Our permissive society is all about “yes,” so that yes has become sinister. Opening the flood-gates of yes has deformed our society. In the delicate balance of yes and no, we have tipped too far in the direction of yes and are becoming a nation of neurotics and weirdoes. Man is limited and fragile. He is not all-knowing or all-powerful. In fact, we all need to be reminded of our limitations. Think of the damage caused when we say “yes” to our appetites, our whims, our momentary urges. If you are 500 pounds, you’ve been saying “yes” when you should be saying “no.” If your credit cards are maxed, it is because you live in a world of “yes” when your world should be about “no.”

Chapter 2 should be titled, “Shut Up and Sit Still.” Every fool has an opinion without knowledge, an impulse without a plan, a readiness to plunge headlong into God-knows-what. The first lesson of discipline is to be quiet and think; to show self-restraint. Impulsiveness is the essence of the self-destructive life based on “yes.” Follow every impulse and you won’t get far. Stop yourself and you just might save yourself. And who on earth can possibly stop you? The fact is: You’re the only one who has the power of self-stopping. So shut up and sit still.

Chapter 3 should be titled “The Virtue of Guilt.” If you haven’t done anything bad in recent weeks or months, consider what you presently have in mind. You are wicked by nature, so you are guilty by nature. Therefore, it is appropriate to feel guilty. Don’t let yourself off the hook. Don’t be slipshod and weak. Suck in your gut and make a new start. Guilt is the stick across your back sent to make you better. Is guilt unpleasant? It’s supposed to be, and it better be. Feel guilty often, and have plenty of regrets. People who have no regrets are dangerous. They will suck you in and suck you down.

Chapter 4 should be titled “You’re Not So Special.” For two generations we’ve been telling children that they are special. Now we have an emerging generation of depressed adults who need constant affirmation. The demanding, impertinent and entitled individual is a weak and emotionally unstable neurotic who clings to false optimism because truth and reality are too frightening and difficult. One ought to ask: What makes all these “special” people so special? There’s nothing special about a narcissistic crybaby, and nobody likes self-pity, blubbering or whining.

Chapter 5 should be titled “How Fear and Worry Can Save You.” That’s right. Fear is good, because there are bad people and scary countries with leaders who want to anthrax you. Fear is basic to survival. Those who fear nothing are not long for this world. As for worrying, the worrier displays a caring attitude. If you really care, then you cannot help worrying. It is those who do not care about anything that never worry. For they have nothing to worry about, being detached and emotionally separated from the concerns of the whole human race. If someone tells you to stop worrying and live in the present, remind him that living in the present is for children and animals. It is not for adults.

Chapter 6 should be titled “Why Suffering is Good.” The answer is simple: Comfort is enervating while suffering hardens and strengthens. As a famous fitness guru once said, “No pain, no gain.” Those who are always feeling good never learn or grow. The best education comes in the wake of failure. If a man lives entirely without failure he cannot be called “fortunate”; for he has not learned life’s real lesson, which is loss. The more we live, the more we lose. As time advances we lose our youth, our health and eventually our lives. The cult of “winning” and “avoidance of suffering” is unnatural and guarantees a maladjusted attitude.

Chapter 7 should be “Realize What an Idiot You Really Are.” The ancient dictum “Know thyself” is the distilled essence of philosophy. And to know yourself is to know that idiocy has no bottom. It is fathomless and without limit. There is no stupidity that cannot ensnare you, no folly that cannot suck you in. As Dirty Harry famously said, “A man’s gotta know his limitations.” The more clever you seem to yourself, the more likely you are nearing some hard object about to strike you upside the head.

This is my advice to everyone: The power of negative thinking is real power. And remember, the magic word is “no.”

Copyright © 2009 Jeffrey R. Nyquist

Negative vs. Positive

I have a bone to pick with the power of positive thinking, but maybe that's because I'm a glass half empty kind of girl. I returned The Secret and got my money back, as I thought it was hokey. The whole 'imagine your new fabulous life and it will happen.' Huh? Life happens. Sorrow and joy are interwoven.. that's life. No matter of positive thinking is going to stop the bad stuff from happening.

I read a phrase that was a little more realistic than 'think positive'. It was: to approach a situation with a positive attitude rather than 'thinking positive'. I personally think that thinking positive will only set you up for failure.

The following article expresses my thoughts better than I can right now, as my brain continues to struggle to keep up! I especially like Chapter Five "How Fear and Worry can save you." If you really care, then you cannot help worrying. Then I must really, really care, as I am the world's biggest worrier!!

Free!

I've been throwing stuff out since January 2009, and I'm surprised how much stuff is still left. I've lost count of the number of signs I've written 'Free' on, takcked onto bookcases/chairs/stuff, and put out at the roadside. Same as I've lost count of garbage bag donations - 40 or 50 is my best estimate. Not counting the items sold on Craigslist.


How do we accumulate so much? Working on an overseas move, and a move of dad into a care home... I'm finding I have to consider every single thing. There will no longer be a family home to store things at. I'll probably be homeless for a long time, which isn't condusive to storage space. Which means everything will have to go into a storage locker. So I'll have to whittle everything down to the bare minimum. Such as my mom's china. I've debated back and forth on what to do with it. In the end, I've decided to get the movers to pack it properly and I'll deal with it later. I may want it, and would regret selling it. I can decide later. As for the rest, it will have to go. Pots and pans are too cumbersome to transport and are easily replaced. Even though I have memories if mom using them, sadly they'll have to go. At least I'll have the china.

After selling so many items in Craigslist - I realize how cheap Ikea furniture is. I sold some of dad's wood furniture on there, and it went like hotcakes. Ikea stuff didn't create any buzz. Its made me realize that going forward from here, if I really want to watch to watch my carbon foot, I need to buy quality items. Items that will last, items that will have a resale value so you can pass them on. Not items that will last for 10 years and then end up in landfill.

Well, I must dash, I have boxes to pack!

Living in Limbo

Aug 4/11

Weird waiting around for the doctor's result. It gives me too much time to think. I was at dads tonight, measuring up some things for Craigslist. He just sat in the chair and watched me. I get to thinking... am I insane, attempting to drag us halfway around the world? Moving a sick man out of his medical net, and away from his friends. Giving up everything I've established here? Granted it's a rental suite and a car on it's last wheels. But it's more than I have there.

Making such a large decision for two people on your own has so much pressure and burden. You want to make sure you get it right, have looked at it from every angle. There's no one there to ask.. am I insane? No one there to tell you... you're not insane. You just need to be quiet, and go to sleep because you've had enough for one day. You've analyzed it front, back and sideways. You've set the ball in motion. Trust in yourself. And get some sleep!