by Kathy Brasby | Oct 31, 2014 | Seasons
Darlene realized things had changed when she was called into the lab room to see her father at 88 sitting on the examining table clad only in his underwear.
Merle was the most modest man she had ever known. She turned away from him to face the doctor, hoping he’d find his clothes while she heard the report.
“Your father has hardening of the arteries in his legs,” the doctor said. “That affects his walking, of course.”
They discussed the treatment plan and then Darlene checked on her dad out of the corner of her eye. He hadn’t moved.
“Uh, Dad, why don’t you get your pants on?”
He stared at the wall.
Darlene scanned the room and located his pile of clothes on a chair. She edged to the chair, still keeping her back on her father.
“Here, Dad.” She held out the jeans and shirt and, when he didn’t take them, laid them on the table behind him. “How about you put on your clothes? I can wait outside.”
“I can’t do it.”
Darlene felt her throat tighten. She had dressed her children just short of 10 million times when they were young. But never her father.
“You’ll have to help me.” He spoke softly, his voice hoarse.
So Darlene threaded his thin arms into the sleeves of his shirt and buttoned it. Then she pulled his jeans to his knees and helped him stand.
He gripped her shoulders while she finished with his pants.
“Thank you,” he said.
There might have been a tear in his eye. She couldn’t tell for sure.
But, for a reason she didn’t understand, she wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Dad, you’re welcome.”
Merle had never been much of a hugger but he didn’t shrug off her arms. He patted her shoulder.
“Let’s go home,” Darlene said. But winds of change had already come.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 24, 2014 | Seasons
We talked about our planned trip to Europe this morning. My husband and I have saved and dreamed of a special anniversary adventure: three weeks somewhere in Europe.
“But what about your mother?” he asked.
And it struck me: I’m in a narrow place in life where concerns for parents, children and grandchildren all press against my plans. Could we be gone so long and so far away with loved ones in some sort of crisis?
It’s been two years since my mother’s stroke. Here’s some of what I wrote shortly after the stroke:
Chaos wrapped its stubborn tendrils around my ankles and brought me stumbling to my knees last week.
My mother, vibrant and energetic at 83, crashed to the floor with a stroke and now we wait. We sit beside her hospital bed, counting her breaths, charting every twitch of her toes.
Hopeful. Fearful. Will she survive this attack on her brain and her body? How well can her body heal?
And what have we lost?
Chaos swirls like a dripping fog, drenching us with plans draining away.
Plans have drained away. But the chaos has sorted its way into a new routine. New life has replaced the pain and confusion. Mom is still with us.
I’ve grown. I’ve rearranged priorities. I’m more patient with the special needs of others.
I don’t know what that means about our anniversary trip but I do know that, in these narrow places, he and I adjust and we learn to love in fresh ways.
We’re richer for it.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 17, 2014 | Seasons
When Erwin started using his checkbook as a calendar, his son knew it was time for a change.
Erwin had paid the bills all of his life, carefully recording business expenses in a faded green ledger book.
But one day he had to pay a bill and refused to write the check. “Not today,” he said. “It messes things up.”
He pulled his checkbook out of his shirt pocket, where he stored it every morning when he dressed, and pointed to the page where he had already written in dates.
Jim studied the checkbook. “I don’t understand this.”
Erwin shook his head. “It’s clear as can be. Right here.” He pointed to an entry. “See the date? That’s what I’m doing.”
Jim had trusted his father’s financial judgment forever but this was something new. He glanced at his mother, who shrugged, and he turned back to his father.
“Well, we need to pay this bill today, Dad. What should we do?”
Erwin pushed the checkbook back into his pocket. “We can’t.”
Jim knew the teenager who had just mowed their grass waited outside for his payment. He considered options and pulled out his wallet to pay the young man.
But the bigger issue remained. “Dad, could I look at your ledger book?”
The look revealed pages of numbers carefully written in but scattered across columns like autumn leaves, with no pattern. How would his father get his taxes done? Pay his bills?
What was past-due?
And Jim knew it was time. “Dad, we need to talk about your checkbook.”
Erwin’s eyebrows lifted. “Sure, if you want.”
As Jim asked questions, Erwin became more and more vague to answer. Finally, he pushed the checkbook to Jim.
“You take it. I can’t do it anymore.”
Jim ran his own business, interacted with his own family including young grandchildren, and tried to find time for an occasional golf game.
But he knew this had to be folded into his life.
It was that season for Jim.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 10, 2014 | Seasons
Harvey’s eyes lit up when his wife walked through the front door of the nursing home and made her way to where he waited.
“Good morning, Honey,” she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead before settling into a chair beside him.
“I’ve got great news,” he said. Her eyebrows lifted. “I walked last night.”
“You did?” She glanced down at his wheelchair and his limp legs.
“I’ve been practicing,” he said. “I can show you.”
“Uh, well—“
Harvey leaned forward, gripping the armrests on his wheelchair. “I just need you to help me get up.”
She glanced around the lobby. “I don’t think I can help—“
“Oh, you under-estimate yourself. We can do this.” Harvey settled back in his wheelchair. “I practice every night.”
His wife sighed. ‘I think we should wait for a little help. I can’t do this alone.”
She knew that he hadn’t walked in over a year, not since he had fallen.
“All right. We can wait, I guess.”
Dreams, more vivid than the orange sunset, captivated Harvey’s days. Many of his nights included walks to friends’ houses, to the basement, and to the park.
She patted his arm and gave him a hug. “How are you feeling today?”
“Good. Did I tell you that Jerry visited me last night? I don’t know why he came but we had a good talk.”
Harvey’s wife smiled. Their oldest son lived 2000 miles away and only came on special occasions. She was pretty sure he hadn’t slipped in during the night for a visit.
“And did you enjoy talking with him?”
“Of course. He’s planning to move here soon so he can live with me.”
“That’s great. I’ll bet that made you feel good. He loves you a lot, doesn’t he?”
Harvey nodded. “I guess so.”
Every day, Harvey’s wife came to kiss his forehead and hear his dreams. She loved him a lot, too.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Oct 3, 2014 | Seasons
Freida’s fade into Alzheimer’s -unlike others, perhaps – seemed to take her to warm and cherished places.
Freida lost memory of her husband of 50-plus years and her 11 children. When she also lost memory of the stove burner left on high and glowing red-hot, her family moved her to the local nursing home.
“I want to go home,” became her mantra until her family gave in and made arrangements to allow her to live at home.
“I want to go home” was still her cry even as she sat on her own living room.
Home, I think, was a place deep in her memory.
Her favorite story, one she repeated countless times, involved an incident at her childhood church.
“It was Christmas Eve and the choir was sitting together with the Christmas tree right beside them. “
Her eyes were bright with the memory.
“All the candles on the tree were lit and suddenly the tree caught on fire.”
I calculated that this event happened somewhere around 1915.
Freida chuckled. “The usher ran to the door and grabbed the bucket of drinking water.”
“There was a bucket for drinking water?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said as though I had forgotten to pick up the milk from the store. “With the ladle hanging in the side.”
“Oh, sure” I agreed. Her memory was vivid.
“Well, that usher grabbed the bucket and ran to the front of the church. He threw the water toward the fire.” She chuckled again. “But he missed the tree and soaked the choir instead. Ladle and all!”
Freida shook her head and chuckled again. “Got the whole choir.”
I waited. She was smiling, her eyes bright with the moment.
“Uh, what happened to the fire?” I said.
She seemed to have forgotten me but she shifted her weight as she caught my eye. “Oh, the men carried the tree outside and threw it in a snowdrift.”
Although Freida’s family grieved as her memory faded, she accepted each day with an old story told with a laugh.
And I still miss her.
Like this:
Like Loading...
by Kathy Brasby | Sep 26, 2014 | Seasons
Freida was always ready to go along with the family.
When some visiting grandchildren clamored for a visit to a quaint museum in a nearby town, Frieda agreed to go. It was better than trying to take on the Zipper at the amusement park.
Arriving at the museum with a veneer of shake shingles and newly-painted clapboard, the group tumbled into the main room.
A costumed host greeted the family, answering questions as a turn-of-the-century resident would have done.
The living room boasted kerosene lamps, chairs of solid maple, and cameo paintings on the walls.
Freida followed the family into the tiny bedroom and then to the kitchen where many old utensils were grouped on the wooden table.
“Isn’t this great, Grandma?” asked Kim, one of the grandchildren.
Freida’s head pivoted as she studied the kitchen layout. “Sure,” she said. “But I don’t understand why you’re so excited. I have all this stuff in my kitchen.”
Like this:
Like Loading...
