"Watch your thoughts; they become words. Watch your words; they become actions. Watch your actions; they become habits. Watch your habits; they become character. Watch your character; it becomes your destiny." -- unknown

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results - Albert Einstein

Dead man walking.
October 29, 2007 - 6:01 pm

Her sister came to visit and she's something of a photobug.

Perhaps I didn't want to see the happy faces of my brother's family. Perhaps I didn't want to sit and think about how everyone in my family is there and I am here -- and why I'm here.

Perhaps it was something like that.

Though as I scanned through the images, I thought "None of dad. I guess shouldn't be too surprised at that."

Then.. I took a closer look, the full images, not just the 2x2 ones in the email.

There's one.. of mom and the nieces, the girls hugging her. In the background, just behind them is dad. Looks like the are in the waiting room of some restaurant. He's sitting in profile, leaning forward a bit on the metal four legged walker. His eyes are closed, as if lost in thought.

I can read his mind. I know what he's thinking. Even if it isn't his conscience thought, it's what's there... what's underneath.

I know.. because I recall the last time he was in the hospital. Years ago now, though it seems much more recent than that. The second heart attack, the one with the 'mini stroke'. I'd driven down from Erie. We (mom, dad and me) sat in the hospital for a bit. I'll skip the details of this...

After a while mom said to me, I'm going to go get something from the the machine downstairs, why don't you come down when you're ready?

It's something we hadn't spoken about on the way over to the hospital, but her intent was clear... she was saying, "Why don't you and dad talk? This could be one of the last times you ever do."

She left.. we sat in silence for a few. I'd thought about this moment on the way down. I had some things prepared to say. I did. Nothing fancy or anything like, just a few simple words.

Nothing came to mind. We sat. Well, I sat, he laid in bed.

He said something soft, but not too soft. He said, "It's not fair is it?"

I wasn't sure what to say. I'm not sure what I said in reply. I can't recall. Shortly after that I left.

What you need to understand, what you can't possibly understand without having met him, is that... my mom was right. Though years have passed since, that was the last time I ever spoke to my dad.. and I didn't say a single thing worth recalling.

I don't mean to say we've not conversed since, we have. Many times. But the man I talk to now.. isn't my father. My father died in that hospital. I don't know exactly which day... but the day the stroke hit, the day he decided not only wasn't it fair or right.. but the day he decided he was done.

Perhaps that's not fair. Perhaps it's a choice the stroke or the heart attacks made for him (though his actions up to then certainly created the health issues he has now). Perhaps it's all simply too much for him to handle.

He doesn't talk now. Not like he used to. He was a man who could (and did) talk to anyone about anything at great length.

He doesn't do anything.. but sleep and watch tv. Literally. He skips meds all the time. He refuses to take part in any activity that might help him regain some strength. I suppose the only thing he refuses to give up is his 'right' to drive. His reactions are slow.. his vision not as good as it used to be. He's the stereotypical old man who drives into a farmers' market.

I've talked with mom about her taking that away from him, the right to drive her and the girls around. She can't stand to do.. can't handle the thought.

This is a man who's job lead him to drive, literally, from Maine to Florida.. who could list off directions on how to get from any major east coast city to another without a map. And now.. he should be told he's not fit to drive.

Last time I was down, a few months ago, we nearly got into two accidents with him... There's no doubt in my mind that one day soon my brother will call to say dad wrecked the car. The only question is.. who will get hurt and how bad will it be.

A few weeks ago, mom told me he fell down in outside the apartment.. she can't help him up. He can't get up himself. A neighbor had to come help. I'm reminded of when a year or two ago when he fell in the garage back home (where I'll always refer to as home, not where they live now). We don't know how long he laid there yelling for help. It was lucky for him the garage door was open.. and a neighbor heard or he'd have been there until mom got home.

Think of her guilt if she'd have stopped to pick up something silly or run an errand and come home an hour later than normal.. to find the man she married some 40-ish years ago helpless on the floor. For no good reason she'd berate herself for not coming back to check on him first.

What if he had fallen not in the garage, but down the steps to the garage?

When the moved to the apartment, that was one thing mom insisted on -- no steps.

Imagine being dad, sitting in the room.. listening to her talk to apartment folks on the phone and hearing her explain to each one the same things.. the list of things like no steps that she needs because of her husband.

Yes, I know what he's thinking in the picture. I can't imagine all the thoughts inside his head. I can't. But yes, I know that eyes closed look.. the expressionless expression on his face. I understand it -- as best I can.

He's there enough, more than enough, to know he's simply a shell of the person he used to be -- a pretender.

He knows.. mom sold the house -- the house they built -- because she didn't trust him home alone there. Imagine that.. the house you built.. you're not fit enough to be alone inside.

He knows the pick the places they eat, but how far it is to the front door... and again how far it is to the tables.

He knows all the places, like cruises, they used to take before he got 'sick' and that she wants still go.. but won't.

In the car on the way home from the hospital, I thought of a million things to say, that I should have said. Carefully and perfected worded things. From time to time these words come to mind now, but it's too late. That moment is past. Long gone. The man I'd say them too isn't there to hear anymore.

Everyday I expect a call.. be it from my brother that dad's crashed the car... or that he fell again... or whatever the reason, the reason doesn't matter.

How bad or a person does this make me:

Everyday I expect the call, for ages now.. long overdue. I expect the call to say what I've known for years, the official verdict that he's died again -- only this time, there won't be any impostor left.

I sit here helpless.. waiting to be notified. Perhaps they will wait a few days like with his first heart attack.. where I didn't get a call until after the surgery.. until after he was home from the hospital.

I think about how sad mom will be, how broken she will be.

I think about how.. her life, not right away of course, but over time, will improve -- the quality of it. How she will again be able to do what she wants to do.. and not be held back by him.

Yes, for the first time probably just about ever (considering she came from a huge family), she'll live alone. A huge adjustment to make... but she's healthy. She's active. She lets his apathy stop her from going out and doing things. I understand why, but it's wrong.

I'm sorry, but it is.

She should get to live her life... not sit at home watch him sleep in a chair... and wait for him to die.

She knows what's coming. She ran nursing homes for years and years. She knows.

Knowing won't matter. Perhaps it makes it worse...

Perhaps she knows one time when she's gone shopping for milk, she'll come home to find it's all over.

My hope, my two-fold hope, is that she doesn't feel guilt over it.. and he follows in the footsteps, so to speak, of his father...

Anyway.

I supposed to go there over thanksgiving. I'm supposed to take Loca with me.

I don't know.. I really don't.

I don't like seeing a dead man shuffling.