I Lost My Dad

I lost my dad 23 years ago to a traumatic brain injury that left him mentally disabled and in the care of my mother.  For exactly half of their marriage, she cared for him in spite of his resistance, made all decisions, paid off all debts and made due living off his disability income while still saving money for gifts for her children and grandchildren and making regular charitable donations to her favorite organization: Operation Smile. 

My dad spent the first year or so after his accident in several assisted living facilities until the latest one lost government funding and private options were simply astronomical and impossible for our family to consider.  My mother was forced to give up her business shortly after that as he attempted to "help" with the tailoring while no longer having the ability to do so successfully.  

My dad wasn't expected to walk again, but he did.  He actually wasn't expected to come out of his medically induced coma.  My mom had been contacted by people interested in doing brain research on him in the event he didn't make it.  She refused, and after a month of coma, he came to.  Many various medications tried to stabilize his moods over the years.  Some were more successful than others.  Overall, he looked fine on the outside, but the part of his brain that was most affected by the impact during his accident left him with aphasia.  He could never make intelligible conversation again, though many people assumed he was speaking his native Polish (he wasn't).

My dad didn't understand what happened to him.  He would point to the scars and wounds and evidence of surgical procedures on his body and make gestures to indicate that he thought someone tried to kill him.  He would have wild mood swings that only got worse in the last few years.

It was heartbreaking to see him and not be able to have any meaningful conversation with him.  To listen attentively without understanding a word he was saying, and then watching as he got frustrated, sometimes angry, sometimes sad, over his inability to communicate.  

My mom managed to understand a lot more of what he wanted to say.  Though she did guess a lot.  She accommodated him as much as was humanly possible.  She administered all of his medication, even diabetes testing and insulin injections in the last few years.  She adjusted their diet to try to curb his diabetes, but he refused to be an obedient patient.  He snuck in soda and candy, and then when he didn't like what he saw on the scales, he would skip meals (never a good idea for a diabetic).  

He started falling and getting hurt.  So my mom sold their house and moved to a one-level in an active adult community.  She did everything she could to make him feel comfortable and be safe.  He had his own bedroom and his own TV room.  They had a pet chihuahua (two actually; after Chichi Senior died, they got another Chichi).  My dad overfed poor Chichi and could not be reasoned with regarding the damage that was being done to her due to her obesity.

Anyway, as his diabetes progressed, since he often would refuse medication and he didn't usually eat what he was supposed to in order to manage his diabetes correctly, he started to lose feeling in his legs and started getting wounds on his legs from scratching them up getting into and out of his recliner.  He never understood where they were coming from.  My mom taped up the metal parts of the recliner that would be exposed to help protect his skin.  

One time, he went walking barefoot on asphalt in 90 degree weather.  The complications from his diabetes made him unable to feel the heat.  He suffered burns on the soles of his feet that again my mom had to tend to.  She administered first aid, wrapped and rewrapped his feet twice daily, did all she could to try to keep him off his feet, which he usually didn't obey.  All in the face of unfriendly and condescending doctors who had nothing useful to add but insisted on seeing my dad basically to collect their payments.

She was full of such out-of-the-box ideas trying to anticipate what he would need before he needed it.  Sadly, he never appreciated it.

He felt stifled, I'm assuming, by the inability to make his own decisions, to drive, to speak clearly, to go unsupervised.  My mom fought an uphill battle for 23 years.  She demonstrated true agape love, the kind we learn about in Christianity - love as a decision, a commitment to the best interest of another.  Not romance, not lust, not infatuation, nothing feel-good about it, but my God, without her love, where would my father have been all these years?

Long ago I had to admit to myself that if I were in her shoes, I couldn't have been able to take on the weight of that responsibility.  Long ago, I started to worry about meeting the same fate as my mother.  

Last year, my dad had a mini stroke.  He had some trouble with his dominant hand.  He had trouble feeding himself and again, couldn't understand why exactly he was having problems seeing out of one eye.  Again, my mom massaged his hand, pre-cut his meat, brought him back to a reasonable state of operation.

Then earlier this year my mom disclosed to me that my dad has gotten violent.  He had gotten violently angry before over the years.  A couple of years ago, he had a psychotic episode due to extremely high blood sugar.  He was bouncing off the bed, trying to jump out the window, barking, all manner of crazy stuff, my mom tells me.  She called 911 and found out there wasn't much they would do without his "willingness".  It was an uphill battle getting people to understand that she had guardianship over him. 

We tried on several different occasions to find a way to place him in a nursing facility.  Last year we finally toured one with him.  Neither he nor we were impressed.  The cost was astronomical, even for a shared room, which wouldn't have worked for him.  And there really wasn't much guarantee that he wouldn't be allowed to escape and show up unannounced at my mom's.  Not to mention, we couldn't fathom what the protocol would be to actually physically move him in against his will?

I'm sorry to say that basically my mom bore the entire burden of his care for 23 years, and I sort of squinted in hopes that much wouldn't be expected of me.  He wouldn't listen to me, I would say as an excuse.  

Once in confession I had to admit that the thought had crossed my mind that it would be a mercy for God to finally take my dad, as not only would he be restored again, reunited with his beloved mom that he cried about so frequently, but it would also be a huge burden lifted from my mother's shoulders, who had embraced the role of martyr that was not only punishing her, but also making me feel like I was somehow to blame for not being able to do what needed to be done.  

I guess my mom just needed to vent and it came across as blame, but I had my own mental issues to content with, and I couldn't carry the burden for both myself and her, even though she carried the whole family for decades. The priest was very understanding, but I still felt guilty for thinking those thoughts.

We offered to have my parents both come live with us.  That way, my mom wouldn't be alone with him, she'd have breaks, she'd have witnesses to his craziness, but we would also have a resident expert on what he needed and wanted.  But she just couldn't let go of the little bit of her own joy that she had in maintaining her own home and arranging her own daily extracurricular activities at the club house in their community.  

And so, when I finally got my mom to pick up the phone 40 minutes after our scheduled call time, I barely heard her hand the phone to someone and say in English "my daughter".  A police officer (or was it an EMT?) came on to explain that my mom called 911 and they responded to a cardiac arrest situation.  

Long story short, my dad passed away from a heart attack.  While sitting in his favorite recliner, watching one of his favorite shows (The Maury Povich show, where inevitably someone finds out who is and who isn't the baby daddy) and eating a cookie in lieu of the lunch she had prepared.

Once during counseling, my therapist made an interesting observation - namely that after my father's accident, I sort of lost him to some degree, but on the other hand, he was still there to remind me of that loss.  It has been like a 23-year goodbye.  

Now, the final grieving period can finally begin.  My father is gone.  I trust that God has restored him to his prime, that God has counted his 23 years of disability as his Purgatory time, and likewise for my mom, and that my dad can now enjoy the Beatific Vision with those who have gone before him, awaiting the rest of us to join him in our due time.

I do not worry about my dad.  I'm grateful, sooo grateful for my Catholic upbringing and faith.  I can't imagine being taught that a) his faith wasn't the right kind to save him, and/or b) there is nothing else I can do for my dad.  My Catholic faith teaches me that God continues to save us throughout our lives, and that life is eternal, and therefore, God is not incapable of continuing His saving work after a person's demise.

What's more, I believe in the Church Militant and Church Triumphant to be intimately linked to the Church Suffering, where presumably my dad is or at least is just stopping through.  And I can offer my prayers for his benefit.  Perhaps I can be a better daughter to him now that he's on the other side, now that all that is expected of me is prayers on his behalf.

I have mixed emotions about the process for my mom.  On the one hand, she's been a caretaker her entire adult life.  She married at age 21, had her first child (me) at age 23, then had two more children who were about to enter adolescence when my father had his accident, and then she cared for him even as her children grew up, moved out, started their own families.  I worry that she will not know how to fill that void without someone to micromanage.

On the other hand, I've never met anyone more capable, more independent, more can-do-attitude than my mother.  If anyone can recreate herself, it's her.  She finally has the freedom to do as she pleases without apology, without having to finagle different angles to get things done.  With time, I pray that she will open herself up to God's presence that has carried her all along.  I pray that she will let go of any resentments she may be harboring over her difficult life, the injustice of innocent suffering in general and in her life and marriage in particular, and accept the loving embrace of her Heavenly Father.  I don't think she was ever going to be able to put her guard down so long as she was responsible for my father's wellbeing.  But now, it's a whole brave new world, and I have hope that God can and will do something great in this next phase of life for my mom.

Thank you, Lord, for being there for us always.  Even when we don't recognize Your presence.  Thank you for hearing our prayers, for helping my mom and dad, for giving us those 23 difficult years during which to recognize our own limitations and weaknesses and keeping us humble.  And now thank you for freeing my dad from the prison that was his injured brain, and allowing my mom the chance to grow close to You at last.  

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.  Blessed be the Lord.  Amen.