It has been a difficult couple of weeks...but difficult is our new normal.
Dad, stubbornly clinging to his sense of duty and independence, his sense of what his role in the world is, insists on doing things that are now outside the realm of safety. Simple things have become dangerous things - like taking the trash to the curb.
For most people, this would not be a daunting task. For my parents, however, where the curb is so far removed from the house, dragging an automated bin across the lawn and up the bank to the pick-up spot is a project; more so when Dad insists on doing it himself rather than letting Henry do it ("I'm not dead yet!" is an all too common refrain). Of course, in the doing of it, he fell. Thankfully, Henry was at his side still trying to get Dad to let him pull the bin, and he wasn't hurt other than his pride and dignity. But this was the first of a number of falls, enough to cause us concern.
A few mornings in a row Henry found him on the floor beside the bed, awake but unable to raise himself up. When asked why he didn't call out, Dad tells us he doesn't want to bother Henry. What he tries to pass off as a desire to be no trouble, we think is more likely an effort to save face. One afternoon, a sudden desire to take a walk around the yard leads to a face-down tumble in the grass. My brother calls him, I visit to assess his stability and mobility. It's a near thing but I decide on Thursday afternoon that he doesn't need to go to the emergency clinic but will go for a urinalysis in the morning to see if there is a UTI causing the problem.
In the interim, Henry and I work together to put some safety protocols in place. The edge of the mattress that Dad sits on before he gets up in the morning is soft and tends to collapse. Is that causing him to slide down to the floor, conscious or not? Is he rolling off the edge in his sleep? We roll a quilt into a makeshift bumper and install it under the fitted sheet on the side of the bed where he gets out. Henry has already rearranged the room so the other side of the bed is against the wall. Dad and I have a serious chat about drinking enough water and standing up slowly, walking carefully and letting Henry help him. He tries to divert the conversation, uncomfortable with this blatant exposure of his increasing frailty and decreasing independence. He makes jokes and when those don't work, tears leak from his eyes. My heart breaks as I tell him we aren't trying to bully him - we just want him to be safe.
Because his blood and urine tests are inconclusive, his primary schedules him for a brain MRI to ensure that he isn't experiencing TIAs (mini strokes).
I pick him up this morning for that test. Before we leave, I gather up magazines that have come in the mail for Mom, and sort all the new mail. Driving to the imaging center, I field multiple iterations of the question "Where are we going and why?". The answer is always the same, but the fact that he asks repeatedly tells me it's preying on his mind. "They want to see if my head is on straight?" "No, just want to see if there's a reason you fell so much last week. We have to be careful of little strokes since you had a bigger one before. It won't take long, you've had MRIs before. We'll go out to get a bite to eat for lunch after and go to the credit union together. Do you need some cash in your wallet?"
This distracts him a bit while he counts his money. I don't want him to feel powerless and dependent. We agree that he could use a bit more money in case his sister comes to take him out to lunch.
The technicians at the imaging center are kind to him, and to me. They notice my hovering, invite me back to the interview and changing area, let me guide him through the process and help him answer their questions. Every step, from car to door to changing room is slow, deliberate and more than slightly unsteady. He's hunched and frail and it's all I can do to keep smiling at him and keep the conversation light. In my head, he is still straight and strong and I remember how he never stopped moving until he dropped from exhaustion. He was scything brush and plowing gardens; he taught me to follow the plow picking up earthworms for spring fishing. He was walking the woods for hours, stalking deer, dragging the kill to the truck to feed us when times were lean; my brother remembers "how he walked my legs off, up and down hills, and I was little and my legs would ache at night after a day of hunting and he just never stopped and I never didn't want to go."
When the test is done, the technicians treat him like a favored pet, telling him he did well and laughing at his little jokes. When he's ready, I ask him where he'd like to go for lunch, and he can't decide. I take him to the one I know is his favorite, and we walk in, my arm around his waist, his arm around my shoulders. I'm not obviously supporting him, just ensuring his stability. He says, "People will think we're in Loooovvee." and then we both giggle. As we eat our lunch, we watch the people and talk about things that aren't serious. Any talk of Mom leads to tears, so we avoid that.
We take the long way home after lunch - I know he misses the car rides and he confirms this by asking me if there are any other stops I need to make, any stores I need to go to. I hesitate a moment - but the thought of his painful and unsteady steps give me pause, and I tell him no. I feel guilty for weighing his pleasure against his safety.
As I leave his house, I kiss him on the cheek, and I thank him for spending the day with me. I know there will come a time when I will wish for just one more.
