Three years ago today.

In early February Dr. Belt suggested that we consider a geriatric behavior facility called Allegiance in Kilgore. Daddy had gotten more and more difficult to handle; we had considered a nursing home but mother had promised him years ago she would not put him in a nursing home. Most days though he thought he was in an institution or prison. By the way, he thought I was the administrator of the institution and most days he wasn’t sure who mom was. He was often argumentative and verbally aggressive. He was paranoid and suspicious of everything. He was more bull headed and confused. He was trying to leave all the time and had gotten to the point where it not only took mother but all of us to be around because he would say he was leaving and he would take off across the yard without a walker or chair or anything. He wouldn’t allow mom to take his shoes off or even leave his side. She slept in the chair or on the floor leaning on him all the time. He would open the truck door going down the road. He would see ‘creatures’ and people that didn’t exist and refusing to take meds.

The program at Allegiance was supposed to adjust his medicines based on a very extensive personal evaluation over 14 days as an inpatient. We talked to him about it. He had moments of clarity and he talked about this program and HE decided he wanted to do it. In almost a childlike manner he promised mother that he would do his best and that when he got out they would take a trip. They finally got the go ahead to admit him on a Monday afternoon and we were ready to go. He knew mother was packing his pajamas and meds and wheelchair. She packed his bathroom stuff and his favorite hat.

When I got to Allegiance that night they were in a holding room area. He sat in a chair by the window. They offered him a snack and a drink. He drank from the straw mostly by himself; he usually drank from a coke bottle or a cup without a straw and managed to maneuver that well unassisted. I sat and played in his wheelchair while we waited for them to ready his room. He joked with nurses in his usual manner. He told Mother that he needed to go to the bathroom. She helped him stand and he walked holding her hands, around the bed and into a small bathroom. She stayed in there to help him and then they emerged holding hands again they walked back to the chair by the window. It was some time before we were able to escort him to the door of the secured unit. We were not allowed to enter the unit but had to tell him bye at the door. My sister cried. My mom was upset because she didn’t understand why she couldn’t just go in to see where he would be. It was at that moment that we realized that access and visitation was limited to only one or two hours a day. He told us to go on and not make him cry. He was very brave and solemn and determined; brave in a way I hadn’t seen since I was much younger when he and my grandpa wrestled an armed robber to the carpet in a trailer house behind a gas station.

We all went home crying. I had brought him roses but had to take them back home with me. I had also picked him up some orange slices (one of his favorite candies). We were scared to death but hopeful and emotionally a hot mess.

The next day, Tuesday, Terry went with Mother for the visiting hour. Daddy acted like he didn’t know who Terry was but responded to Mother in some ways. That was a crazy night for me. I got off work early because Angel was headed to the hospital in Longview with Karlee. She was about to have my 3rd grandbaby. Brian and Stacey were headed to Central Heights to watch Levi play a basketball playoff game. I stayed at Longview Regional long enough to see Baby Cash (5#12oz c-section) and make sure Karlee was ok then I headed to the ballgame. It was a great game, Fat Tuesday, baby born; seemed like I was spinning in all directions physically and emotionally.

The next day I took off early to go with mom to see Daddy. We had a two hour visit. They rolled him into the visiting room, loud with chatter, blaring TV and other noises. As they stopped the wheelchair, before we could lock the wheels even, he started standing up. He stood as tall as he could and wrapped his arms around my mom. Tall as a pine tree, strong as an oak, he held her as if he were trying to be her strength. That was the last time he stood. They had taken him off his regular meds on Tuesday and started him on zyprexia and vpa the same day. He spiraled and we watched. When we questioned we were told that we needed to allow them time to evaluate him and he was in an adjustment stage.

Over the next few days he went from the wheelchair to a geriatric recliner, not responding and not eating. He dehydrated and could hardly breathe. He couldn’t talk and responded to very little. They claimed he was combative.

On the following Wednesday we asked to speak with the doctor. We asked to have a meeting with him on the following Friday because that was a time I was available to go with Mother. She received a call on Thursday morning saying the doctor would see her at noon. I made arrangements to be there even though I felt as if they did not want me to be there. The doctor had been prepped on our concerns and was already defensive and unapproachable. After a long meeting and resolving nothing we were told that we could take him to his regular doctor to be admitted and reevaluated. We choose to do this. Mom went on home but I lingered in the lobby of the facility. Unsure why, but I just couldn’t leave. The director came and told me my options, taking him to UTHSC in Tyler where he could see Dr Belt or somewhere else. We had already decided on UTHSC. Shortly after that an ambulance came screaming into the parking lot. I was in the car calling Brian and Mother. I went back into the building to find that the EMTs didn’t want to take him to Tyler because he wasn’t stable. They recommended that we take him to Good Shepherd.

At GSMC he was treated so well. The doctors, nurses, aids, everyone was so genuine and caring. He was never once combative or aggressive with them. He tried to communicate with us and could at first. He would say things like ‘stop it’ or sometimes he would say his name in a military manner when he was asked. He was in much pain and just generally uncomfortable. He still had not eaten but they were going to do a swallow test and see if they could feed him. They tested for everything possible but nothing but showed decreased brain activity was determined. But without a baseline for brain activity that really meant nothing. All they could say was negative reaction to treatment/progression of Alzheimer Disease.

Because he had a Living Will that said he didn’t want anything else done, we declined the permanent feeding tube (he had already pulled the nose tube out before he benefited from it). We placed him on hospice and we watched him choke and gurgle and sleep but he wasn’t in pain. We watched and hoped it wouldn’t take long and then sometimes we prayed he wouldn’t go.

Then one morning, on the 21st of March, 2012, one month and one day after he arrived at Allegiance he struggled and struggled. Mom and I sat and watched. With his head turned to one side he vomited old blood into my hands and I hid it from Mother because I didn’t want her to remember that. We called Becky and Terry. We sat and prayed in the dark room. After we had decided that he was going to make it thru another day and the sun was coming up, mom and I tried to laid down and rest for a minute. After an hour or so, I left the room to call Brian; that is when he took the last breathe.

Only the day before I had said, I am glad that my relationship with my daddy isn’t based on my being here when he takes his last breathe. I guess he made me own those words. I was in the bathroom praying for peace and comfort when he passed. I ran back in the room and all I could say was, Is it over?

It’s hard, harder than I ever thought. I wish I knew what to tell my mom. I wish I knew what she told her mother with my grandfather died.

Every day, I remember things that only my daddy would appreciate.

Wow, am I exhausted!

I started to type ‘it has been an emotionally exhausting weekend’ but I stopped long enough to explain that statement to my internal editor only to realize how negative that presents. Still it is true. From the run across the rain drenched parking lot on Wednesday to a slow drive on eastbound I-20 to the velvet and satin antique quilt draped across this king sized bed. I have heard babies cry and teens laugh, words prayed and sang; moans and grunts and sighs and shivers. From the anticipation to exhaustion, it’s been a great weekend.

Time with family is always filled with emotions, or it should be, right? Who else would you tolerate all that crazy from? Morning sleepy eyes and late night games, dirty dishes that came from a table set for thirteen, and a jungle lunch of summer sausage and cheese off the tailgate of my daddy’s dodge pickup at the New Foundland Gap. Oh no, there’s that emotion again, in the form of a memory.

Emotions don’t scare me. I’m a mom, a super hero of the parental kind. I am the planner and organizer, the adaptable and the fill in, sometimes the referee and the nurse and the taxi driver and tourism coordinator; the go to for the “what if’s” and the “how comes”. I am the answer to “what now?” more often than not and even on the days when I haven’t got an ounce of strength left in me. Even on the days when I just want it to be about me.

Regardless, it’s okay because I know that I would give my last ounce of emotion, my last drop of energy, to make things great for my family. I would give yours too if I could access it. My family is worth the investment, the time, the smiles and giggles and tears and spilt Dr. Pepper and silly questions about Buzz Lightyear and a friendly competition to see whose turn it is to ask the blessing before we eat.

It’s always been worth it because little boys put their confidence in their mommy from the very beginning. When they are hanging over the toilet with a bad stomach virus, “MAMA!”; when they wreck the go-cart or the truck, trip trying to hurdle a picnic table and bust open their forehead; when they forget their homework or their lunch money, when they have their first girlfriend and need a homecoming mum or a valentine present; when they disappoint someone they love and they need to talk it through.

I am proudly exhausted and emotionally honored to lay my head down tonight to the sound of family in the next room playing games and the sound of silence while the prayers are being worded. I sure hope they are praying for me.