Homeward bound

Today marks two weeks here in frigid western Massachusetts. How things have changed. How they have stayed the same!

The biggest change is in my dad's condition. Two weeks ago he was barely clinging to life, slept most of the day in a drug-addled haze, and spent his few waking hours taking more meds or coughing until he puked up blood. Today, like many of his recent days, he is up and about, dressed, restless, looking for things to do. He celebrated his 74th birthday on Monday with a huge takeout steak-and-shrimp double entree from Appleby's, played with his great grandson, complained about his meds, and visited with his various progeny who stopped by for a visit or called to wish him a happy birthday. My hospice role has been reduced from "head nurse" to filling in now and then for my mom, the regime having dropped from something every couple of hours to once every six to eight hours, allowing him - and us - much more rest and paying off in much happier dispositions overall.

I look back on the past two weeks and can't help but feel that we all dodged a bullet. I am relieved that he did not continue his painful slide and overjoyed that his condition is so much improved, that we have been able to spend a lot of good quality time together, rebonding and getting to know each other in a completely new way. He and my mom raised me, took care of me, taught me things, and provided for me for two decades, then stood behind me, a silent but ever-assuring backstop, insurance against financial or emotional distress, promoter, instiller of confidence, reminder of his faith in me, renewer of my own faith in myself. Suddenly I became his caretaker, keeping vigil on him and feeding him his meds, letting him know that he was not alone, meanwhile giving my mom a break and letting her know that she was not alone, that she had help at her beck and call; more than that, she had someone willing and able to step in, take on this burden for her while she renewed her energy and shared the emotional burden when we were both awake and wanted to talk. It provided emotional relief to my siblings, too, who had been worried not only about Dad's condition, but also Mom's, and about how her weakened, frazzled state would affect her decisions about Dad's care, and her ability to carry out what was needed. Was she overmedicating him? Was she able to see clearly what Dad's issues really were and communicate those clearly to the hospice nurse, and understand if and when the care regime should change? It didn't take long for me to determine that the meds were a big part of the problem. I didn't know what the answer was, but I did what I do best: I asked questions, raised issues, explored alternatives. The hospice nurse figured out what turned out to be the actual solution just three days after my arrival. Everything since then has been a matter of standing by and hoping it was not all just Dad rising to the occasion of greeting the gazillions of visitors who converged to say goodbye, coincidentally, at the time of his recovery.

So, unbeknownst to me, it turns out there were three reasons for me to come visit: one, for my sake, to see my Dad again before he left us; two, to provide relief to Mom in Dad's hospice care; and three, to help rescue him from a treatment plan that was designed to keep him sedated until he got sick of it and died. I arrived on a Tuesday and had unwittingly achieved all three by the first weekend. My dad's energy attests to his recovery; twice in that first weekend he beat the lot of us at cards, giving rise to the joke that perhaps we should put him back on heavy sedation. On my mom's part, her return to normalcy, such as it is, is evidenced by her nonstop knitting; she discovered ribbon scarves and has produced one for just about every person who has walked in her door, some of them perfect strangers when they first crossed her threshold. (I opted out; I have a terrible history of losing scarves, and anyway, I don't like anything around my neck.)

In its outward manifestation, my relationship with my family has changed, but not in its fundamental character. I doubt that anyone envisioned me as a hospice care-giver. I am a man, after all, and while there is no reason for it, our culture persists in casting women in such roles. Women abound in my family; my parents have six daughters and two daughters-in-law, many of whom are local (even, in once case, living literally on the other side of the wall in the duplex). I also am the explorer, the wanderer, the prodigal son who escaped to a new life on the west coast, 3000 miles from day-to-day family life. But I had the opportunity, I had the ability, and I had the desire to step in, and so I did. Yet it should not be such a surprise. This role speaks to both my character and to my role in the family. I am the one least tied down, perhaps the most independent thinker (although none of them are slouches), and also the solid, rational, dependable one. I am, in a way, the family's utility player. Put me in, coach. I'm ready to play.

But home beckons now. I have been home only two days in the past three weeks. Friends are caring for my dog, work has been put on hold, other relationships have, if not taken a back seat, at least stepped out of the limelight. People have been wonderful to me -- supportive, understanding, helpful -- and I have been able to give little back other than gratitude. My work here is done for now; I have some catching up to do. Time to go home.

And so I shall. Thursday afternoon I land again in Portland's airport. After I restock my larder with food for me and my wonderful puppy, toss some laundry into the washer and delete a few hundred emails, I want to see my friends and community again. And wait for word that I am needed here again.