Drinking in Grace

When we used to meet for breakfast at a diner in Frankford (Philadelphia), he'd turn his head and offer me his cheek to kiss in greeting, with the excuse that he had a cold. It didn't take me long to realize it wasn't germs he was trying to protect me from, but the odor of scotch on his breath. Once the silver-plated flask appeared from under the Formica table-top, the secret was out. But who was I to judge? There was a time in my life when I preferred a swig of chilled Stoly before I got out of bed.

I didn't catch his cold twenty years ago at the Red Robin as we made small talk over the eggs over light and home fried potatoes, but I think his memory loss has been contagious. A good example why came tonight. After I had dressed him in flannel PJ's and tucked him into his rented hospital bed, he reached for me, and planted a kiss on my lips that came from the depths of his soul. As I searched my data base trying to recall a similar incident, I came up blank--and then he gave an encore! The gesture on his part--so rarely initiated by him, has burned a tatoo-like image in my mind-- immune to my mid-life inability to recall names, dates, or where I left my driver's license.

When Peter came to live with us 7 years ago, I was in turmoil over what to do with him. The shock took its toll, and my reaction to the newness of the arrangement left me numb. As luck would have it, friends like Shirley and Sue rescued me with simple solutions to problems learned in their years of nursing and working in patient care. My forehead was bruised from repeated self-inflicted whacks, as I punished myself for not having arrived at their "WELL, DUH!" answers to incidental issues like incontinence and risks for falling. The story, as I like to relay it, was that my father-in-law's move in with my family was expected to last six months. He was on a waiting list for an assisted living arrangement--not his idea, but a necessary shift for him. One day, he was asked about going into the nursing facility, and his response was--matter-of-fact--"What home? I have a home. I live here!" My husband Fran and I looked at each other, and knew his decision was made. And our lives were changed in ways we'd never imagined.

No one would have identified us as an ordinary household before he joined our family of eight home-educated kids (and another eight foreign exchange students--one at a time-- over the course of 17 years.) And to think-- I had just celebrated my graduation from diapers as my youngest ended a streak that included approximately 30,000 changes, and menopause was waiting in the wings. But, why complain? It's just part of life. Dziadzia ("Grandpop" in Polish) was here to stay. In 2003, I was convinced that his death was just around the corner, but his determination to live to be 100 has trumped my notions.

Anyone who has taken on the responsibility of caring for an elderly parent, ailing spouse, or disabled child knows that it tests our love in many ways, and challenges us to put aside our own needs and plans for the sake of someone who relies on us for more than we can muster on our own strength. Along this journey, we have had the benefit of supportive family, faith-filled friends, experienced professionals and strangers with hearts of gold. More than anything, we have weathered the stress of caregiving with a sense of humor, perseverance in prayer, and attention to the needs of each other for respite.

My dad died 21 years ago, just two months after the birth of my third child. His passing at age 59 changed my world forever, since we had developed a close relationship. Because we had moved 100 miles away from our parents, we didn't get to spend much time together as he concluded his battle with cancer. Having Peter with us now as he faces the approach of his century mark (March 25, 2011--if he makes it) is filling a gap that has lingered for two decades. As the twilight faded in the converted den this evening, Peter's face transformed into a resemblance of my father's. Before he succumbed to his three year battle which started with a tumor in the roof of his mouth, my dad appeared frail and elderly. So maybe what I saw was my mind playing tricks on me; more likely, it was the eyes of my heart which perceived the likeness of the two men.

With all the activity of my daily life, I don't get much one-on-one time with any member of my family. Each one of them has my love and devotion, but as my friends have learned, there's only so much of me to go around. I'm stretched pretty thin these days, and plans I make with anyone have a 50/50 chance of falling through. And solo time--like now as I write this--is at a premium. But there is an urgency now to treasure the remaining time Peter has with us.

Last week, a door was opened and prayers for help answered when Hospice of Central PA took us on as clients. For at least a year, I've had friends who work in the home health care and hospice field suggest the option of what hospice has to offer.
Peter's health and capabilities have declined to a point where he's losing his will to live. He can't stand without two people lifting him out of his chair or bed, his mobility has diminished, his appetite has declined, his speech is often incoherent, and there's less and less of him with each day. With the burdens lightened by the visits and calls from hospice staff, I'm still in the phone booth, changing into my lycra suit and cape, but I know I'll be flying over rooftops any minute now.

So, tonight, after I got Peter ready for bed, (instead of rushing off to do dishes, paperwork, laundry, artwork, Irish dance class, kayaking, walking the dog, and chipping away at the impossible to-do list) I sat by his side in the wheelchair, holding his hand, feeling his pulse, counting his breaths, watching his eyes fight to stay open, and simply being there with him. He cried for his mother, and I think my presence reminds him of her. He spoke to me about her, and his late brother Joe. He said that he hopes that there is a Heaven, and that if there is, he would see me again. I watched him fade in and out of dozing, and wiped his tears.

He expressed his gratitude for all I have done for him, and told me that I had no idea how much he loves me. (Of course, he was wrong.) He wished for me a long life with good health. He means well, but I'm not interested in living to be 100--he's done a pretty good job of illustrating why reaching a century mark isn't worth all the hype.

Before we shared a nightcap: a shot of Dewar's White Label with a chaser of water, he reached for me, and pulled me in close for a kiss on the lips, the kiss that was diverted to the sides of our faces at the diner long ago. I trust my readers won't misconstrue the expression of affection on his part. He mumbled something about "just two more days," but also said he knew his time was near. How profound to sit with this man--who is no more a saint than I am (and no less)--and learn from him the lesson of how humble we are in the face of death. I am so grateful for the opportunity to be living this drama with eyes and heart open wide. I pray I will be so lucky as to have someone hold my hand, and kiss me tenderly, as my daylight fades into eternity.

(The photo with this post was taken today on our front lawn after his nap. Peter snacked on summer sausage and crackers, and sipped a Coors Light while I did a crayon drawing of our neighbor's front yard.)

One benefit of having a herd of kids is their ability to keep each other company when Mom or Dad are busy with the demands of life. The majority of our children are comfortable in their own skin, and happily accept