Fog
Driving from my home to my Father’s is about a 70 mile trip south-east. I am so familiar with this route that on most days I do it on auto-pilot. Today I’ll be making my weekly trip even though it’s technically only been five days since the last one. I have a feeling the visits will be more frequent. The weather is cold but brilliantly sunny so the drive should be easy and pleasant. I love the change in scenery on the winding Palisades Parkway. The trees go from bare to brilliant; the relatively short distance delivers a dramatic difference in foliage. While waiting for the kids to wake and prepare for a day at Grandpa’s, I can’t help but wonder about the last visit.
Five days ago the weather was rainy and windy. The kind of weather that requires you to pay a lot of attention to the road. I normally don’t drive when the weather is bad, but I needed to visit my dad. He would be alone for the entire day except for a visit from the Hospice nurse and chaplain. Bills would need to be paid, lunch would need to be made (if he’d eat), and someone would need to sign for the oxygen delivery that he had turned away several times prior. But mostly someone would need to make sure he didn’t over exert himself. My dad has terminal cancer and is extremely weak, but despite that he still insists on maintaining his home and even going grocery shopping. He is amazing and seems to be the only one who doesn’t acknowledge his limitations. His strength is both a blessing and a curse. I cherish the fact that he is facing the end of his life with such dignity but I worry about his well-being constantly.
Driving on a stormy day is stressful enough but doing it with the kids in the car is even more so. I am a timid driver on a good day. On this day the schools were closed which meant we were all making the trip. Plus, I like for them to see him as much as possible. The older one will have many fond memories of a grandpa who would go for long explorations to the creek and play catch or even run through the pasture flying a kite. But the little one will have memories of a fragile old man who has only the strength of will to do all those thing. Unfortunately his body wins 99% of the time. Even so, she will have memories of a grandpa who loves her. So we drove in the right lane at a snail’s pace to avoid hydro planning and braver motorists. The driving conditions went from bad to worse as we went further south but the foliage was a bright spot. The trees along the parkway are full of golden leaves. They did not go unnoticed even in the dense fog.
Photo of yellow maple leaves by Olivia Valentine
I hope my words can do justice to the sad beauty that was my journey along the parkway. I was already pensive and feeling lost. Such heaviness weighed on my mind and my heart. I bear the responsibility of being my father’s legal representative and emergency contact. So many decisions are mine to make and I fear I may make a mistake. So as I drove through the wet grayness of Hudson River fog it seemed my physical surroundings were matching my innermost feelings. The fog enveloped my car and all that was visible were the tail lights of the car in front of me and the yellow leaves of the maples lining the side of the road. I crept along not fully aware of the familiar hills and turns, but guided by the pop of color out my passenger window. The yellow was so vivid even in the blanket of fog. At least I knew where the side of the road was; a place I could stop to rest if need be.
I pulled into my father’s driveway in the nick of time. There, standing in the pouring rain was my father with a submersible pump in hand. He was concerned about flooding and didn’t want to wait for his brother’s help. Like I mentioned he is the only one who doesn’t recognize his limitations. Luckily, I’m my father’s daughter so I had no problem jumping in to help. Flood concerns averted we were able to go into the house and warm up. No sooner did we sit down Chaplain Rita arrived to discuss how my father has been feeling of late.
She always knows just what to ask him to get him to open up about what lies ahead. While they were busy talking about the past, present, and future the doorbell rang again. This time it was the oxygen delivery. We had been trying for months to get my dad to accept oxygen and every time it arrived he turned it away. Now he didn’t have a choice. The man, a respiratory therapist, was so kind and understanding. Speaking with him really helped ease my mind. Dad’s final and third visitor of the day was April, his visiting nurse. She’s fantastic and he’ll listen to her before he listens to me. She got him to sit and try the oxygen. Apparently his trips up and down the stairs took a toll on him. His breathing was labored and his heart rate was elevated. He admitted that the oxygen helped him feel better. With Dad breathing easy and resting comfortably in his recliner, April and I were able to share our concerns.
Four months ago Dad was told that there was nothing else that could be done for him. I brought him home from the hospital completely depleted and lost. The doctors told me to look into hospice. All I wanted to do was weep. But I gave them a call because I knew that even if every family member pitched in to help, Dad would still need more than what we could provide. Plus, having a team of people who have made caring for the elderly and terminally ill their life’s work is oddly comforting.
Dad lived by his own terms and intends on dying that way. He is fiercely proud and independent and plans on staying in his home, the home he built with my mother, until his last breath. Unfortunately, that means he is alone all day except for when he has visitors. Having an additional support team is making his end of life journey easier on all of us. I can’t be there for him every day and that hurts my heart but at least I’m comforted by the fact that he is being cared for in my absence. I’m also comforted when they hug me and ask how I’m doing even when I can only answer with a shake of my head.
It was during the long drive home that I realized that I really hadn’t a clue as to what lies before me, that it was okay to navigate my way blindly through this uncharted territory of my life. I only need to focus on what is directly in front of me in order to keep going. I can take a break and pull off to the side if I need to refocus and catch my breath. It’s a long journey and so far I’ve been keeping the course and if I feel uncertain I can just look beside me. Just like the golden leaves helped guide me during my drive in the fog, the caring people from hospice will assist me as I complete the final stage of this trip.
Photo by Gabriel Hohol from Pexels
