Nine Lives

nine_lives

I enter the room, not sure what I’ll find. It’s been almost two months since I last saw him. An oxygen tank hums behind the curtain where my father’s roommate lies sprawled on top of the covers snoring and moaning in his sleep. This man is far too young to be in a nursing home. The ravages of alcohol have taken away his life. And his toes.

I tiptoe past his bed and make my way through walkers and wheelchairs to plant myself in the one piece of furniture in this room that doesn’t roll.

My father is curled up on his side, the sheet pulled over his head. I wait for the nursing assistant to arrive with his breakfast knowing that he may not eat it, that I’m here to “practice” with my mother. We are not going to push him to eat which goes against every grain in our Italian roots.

Mangia.

We’re going to honor his process. We are going to discard generations of “Mangia” and watch this little wisp of a man fade away before our very eyes.

My beloved father.

The same man who celebrated every meal that passed his lips. Homemade pasta, steamy bowls of Grandma’s minestrone soup, the chocolate covered doughnuts he brought home for breakfast. ‘Jets’ doughnuts. The same man who turned grocery shopping into an art form: from butcher to bakery to the produce aisle where he always managed to find artichokes almost too big to eat. The same man who refused to take the diet pills his doctor prescribed for him because “the damn things curbed his appetite.”

I hear the roommate stirring and I move closer to my dad’s bed to give him the privacy he deserves upon waking. He begins calling for assistance. He sounds distraught. There has been a shift in this man’s demeanor; this is not the roommate I remember. I learn that he is recovering from a gall bladder surgery that left him weak and wobbly and unable to get out of bed to attend his meetings. His lifeline has been cut.

And so begins a cacophony of cries, animosity, and angst.

“I’m getting out of my bed now. Someone help me. Help me please,” he cries.

Alarm bells jar my already frazzled self. I walk over to his bed to try to comfort this man of despair. I assure him the staff will respond to his calls. And they do.

All day.

I learn that the staff members are doing everything in their power to console this man and attend to his needs but it isn’t enough. He is moaning and calling and falling out of his bed because he knows a fall will bring clipboard carrying attendants and he won’t have to BE.ALONE.

My dad slinks lower and lower into his bed, the sheet covering his whisper white face.

In comes a slender woman with a notebook. I know I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation. It’s private. Between the man of despair and his psychologist. But the curtain is so thin. And the room is so small. And I don’t want to hear that this man wants to harm himself. That he no longer has the will to live. I want to tell him that he will recover from this surgery and regain his strength and get back to his meetings but please, please stop the moaning and calling and falling out of his bed for our attention. There are only so many hands (and hearts) to go around this place.

I look at my dad and I think, it shouldn’t be this way. You deserve to have some level of peace in these, your final days. I pull the curtain on the man of despair and turn back to my father. Our time is too short.

I take out my little set of watercolor paints. I have been immersing myself in all things “Sam,” like somehow these moments at the canvas or in the kitchen will connect us in another space and time. That I can keep a piece of my father alive in me with every stroke and simmer.

“I’m taking a painting class, Dad,” I whisper. “Do you remember the spit drawings you used to make when you saw something you simply had to paint? You’d pull over to the side of the road and you’d grab the paints from the glove compartment and wet the brush with your saliva. First, I’d grimace. Saliva. Ewwwwww. Then I would fall into mesmerized silence as I watched you paint the sloping roof of the old train station, the faded façade of a barn in decay, a child chasing butterflies. You had an eye for extraordinary.”

I look for a glimmer of recognition, a slight twinkle in his eye when he sees the brush sweep across the rippled page in my watercolor notebook of hope.

Not this time. Tears splash into my paint and for once I am glad that my father can no longer interpret tears as he peaks out from under the sheet and looks at me quizzically with one open eye.

68 thoughts on “Nine Lives”

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      Rebecca, your words and your insights have been such a gift throughout this process. Much love and gratitude coming your way.

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    Goosebumps cover my body as I sit with you In that room. Remembering too well the sounds of despair and hopelessness. Your grief is raw and your wounds wide open. My wish is you find comfort in the memories you share of your Father with us. There is a connection between you and him, though not visible, never to be broken. Sending love your way Sue Ann.

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      There is so much comfort there, Haidee, yes. I know you know this place and I know we share such beautiful memories of (and with) our dads.

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      So good to see your smiling face here, Julia. We share these rooms through words, yes? I feel your presence here. Thank you.

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      I feel that very big warm hug from you so often, Laura. Thank you for holding my heart here and for so generously sharing this post.

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    Cheryl Erickson

    Sue Ann, I could not say the emotions I feel better than Haidee, but want to let you know we are all with you.

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    Beautiful brave writing. I felt like I was right there in the room and I could see the extraordinary side-of-the-road paintings and the hope of one quizzical eye. xo

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    My heart breaks for you as I read this Sue Ann. It also brings me back to this time with my dad (2 years ago today). I just thank God for all the happy memories. We are blessed to have those.

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      Cathy, those memories will live in us and through us for a lifetime, yes? Sending you my deepest heartfelt wishes for comfort as you ride the waves of your loss.

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    Ah, Sue Ann, how very tragic to watch your dad slip away. My heart is breaking for you, as I know how much you love him, and how difficult it has to be not to be able to see him every day. Love, Eileen

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      Thank you for reading and responding to this post, Eileen. I am grateful for the time we have together, though way too short. His presence is here with me every single day, even at this great distance.

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    Your gift of openness and willingness to share this so human experience that we all have gone through or will in some variation softens me a bit more as I remember the last years with my Mom and Dad. Your ability to share the room, its so human occupants with such extraordinary word pictures causes me to just stop and feel the Silence in me…………..and compassion wells up and extends to you, and our human family.
    Love,
    Annie

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      Annie, it’s in sharing this journey that I keep my dad alive in me and through me. Thank you for sharing your experience with me, particularly what this piece evokes in you. Compassion for our human family, yes.

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    A poignant reminder of just how fleeting life is and the importance of each moment.
    Thank you for sharing this very personal moment in such a beautiful way Sue Ann.

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      Thank you for reading and responding to this post, Angela, and for acknowledging the importance of fleeting moments. I know you understand this place.

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    That room… feels so removed from the life going on outside of those walls. And yet, dear lady, you have the courage and love to just be present with your dad. Just to be there with him. It is such a loving gift.

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      Yes, Marci, beautifully stated: removed. It’s that very distance that cracks my heart open. That WE can leave those rooms and those halls and go on with our lives yet so many of these residents are left alone. And lonely. Thank you for reading and responding to my post.

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    While crying through your whole text I want reach out my hands and my heart especially to you and to your Dad and to his roommate only wishing the two of you would have had the possibility of more privacy together.
    You write so beautifully about your love and grief for your father that I feel in awe that you share it with us.

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      Thank you for witnessing this piece and sharing my tears, Carina. It is in sharing this journey that I can allow it to release its grip on my heart. We ALL face loss in one form or another. My hope is that we can find ways to process that loss. For me, there is power in the pen. The final days of our visit were much more peaceful thanks to a responsive staff and the support of Hospice. Angels on earth.

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    Beautifully written and so painfully poignant Sue Ann. These past few weeks have been filled with illness, lives ended and grief. But that’s the circle of life. I can only offer you my tears, a virtual hug and the knowledge that your story has touched one more person.

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      Sending you so much love, Cori, as you navigate the loss in YOUR life. Know that you are loved and held.

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    I remember the thin curtain in the room. I remember the twinkle of recognition, there and gone. I remember the feeling of wanting to help, of not wanting to listen. I remember, my heart splitting open in a land where I had no control, no knowing, no idea. I too, learned to wait, be, roll, and walk in the mystery. It’s a time of great privilege and great heart ache. Please know, I am thinking of you, your Dad, your family, your world, and I’m sending you love. Lots and lots of love.

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      Thank you, Elizabeth. You know this place intimately and I so appreciate you sharing your experience here with me. For me, the land of no control is frightening, indeed. I love what you say about a time of great privilege and heartache. I love that we can hold both. I feel your heart and your love and I am so grateful that you are in my life.

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    Narelle Carter-Quinlan

    Real, raw, visceral, and blanket soft. Holding you dearly with Love and tenderness, Sue Ann.

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    It hurts to hear you go through this. You and your father are in my thoughts and prayers. Love to you.

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      Thank you for reading and responding to this post, Katie. I admire YOUR courage as you approach a similar journey in caring for aging parents while respecting both their desires and their dignity. This terrain can be tricky at times. Love to you, too.

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    I am touched by your words and identify with your pain as my own dad passed recently after a year of deterioration. Even though he was unresponsive during many of my visits, I observed how his labored breathing calmed when I rested a gentle hand on his forehead and gave him reassurances that there was nothing to fear. You are there for him as well as for yourself. Your love is helping to ease his passage. Hugs.

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      Holding you tenderly here, Lori. Thank you for sharing with me your experience of your dad during those last visits. I have come to trust both my heart and my intuition in these moments and then listen and watch for signs that I’m on the right path. Hugs to YOU, Lori, as you continue to integrate this loss.

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    Gosh Sue Ann, you brought me to tears reading your post. Your writing just grabbed at my heart. Your ability to express the pain you are feeling for your father was so real. My heart goes out to you and your family in this tough time.

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    Beautiful! I nursed my Mother in her own home and I was with Dad when he died at home as well. They were both lucky dying at home.

    Wonderful that you can share your water colours with your Dad. He knows you are there. Just keep on loving him and so great to hear you horn his needs, if he doesn’t want to eat he doesn’t want to eat. I have helped 2 people die and my cat. Not a lot of experience but more than most. I did the same. Whatever Mum wanted or did not want I gave her. I remember she had never been a fruit eater but she loved mashed mango in her last weeks. The Doctor said she had a natural detox in her last month. Her body knew what it wanted as it prepared for her spirit to leave her body. I am sending you much love at this very special time with your Dad.

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      Thank you for sharing your experience here, Deb. I love the image of the mashed mango. I, too, believe the body has a deeper intelligence when it comes to food. . . both in life and in death.

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    Thank you for sharing such a private moment with us. I could visualize the scene through your words. My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. I’m also glad that you have so many fond memories of your dad. Those will endure through time. Lots of love and hugs.

    Kathy

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      Thank you for responding to this post, Kathy. I am warmed by the memories I hold and so very lucky to hold them so close.

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    Beautifully written conveying all those feelings we go through during such times of transition and loss. The tears/spit imagery for the water colors serve as conductors for all creativity…My heart goes out to you!

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    I felt like I was there with you – beautiful and heartfelt snapshot into a day of the life of your father and you. I especially loved the connection to the watercolors and your dad’s influence on you.

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    You wrote heartfelt thoughts of your feelings of your dad. Your mom keeps me posted about his situation. There were 24 cousins on that side of the family. There are only 3 of us left. I did not socialize much with your dad (he is about 10 years older) but my older brothers did. I do remember when the families got together. It was good food, good wine, laughs and sometimes music…good times I’ll never forget.

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      Sam, whenever I see your name show up on my blog I smile. I know my father would be tickled to know you read my newsletters. He would have been so proud to see this new evolution of me. Twenty four cousins! I wish I had known more of you. I am learning more about my dad as I speak with people who knew him and loved him. He was, indeed, a very special man. Yesterday I spoke with one of his coworkers, a former colleague from Sylvania. He told me that they ate lunch together every day for 85¢ at a restaurant called the Eagle House, which is still there after all these years. He said my dad ordered pie every single day and before he took a bite, he would lift it up and check the bottom for mold. Oh my, that sounds just like him. Thank you for leaving a message here and for gifting me with your memories.

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    so very raw and beautiful, sue ann. your post stirred up so many emotions in me i hardly know where to begin. i am in the beginning stages of caring for my elderly (italian) father and it’s been such a mix of ups and downs. persuading him to eat more (“mangia”) and to remember to drink water, laughing at his still sarcastic wit, losing my patience and then feeling badly when he doesn’t remember what we’ve just discussed, knowing he is always on my side. thinking of you and your dad and sending my warm wishes.

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      Oh, April, I so understand where you are in this moment. It’s those Italian roots, yes? Mangia. Yes, he is always at your side even when he doesn’t remember and I am convinced we are ever the more fortified in this process as we call on those Italian roots to nourish OURSELVES in this process. Standing with you as you enter this stage of your life with your beloved father.

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    Thank you for being there for your father as well as his roommate Sue Ann. For being there for life. Engaging with it. Daring to live it so richly, even when it hurts.. Hearing in the presence of lots of changes. He is deepening and so are you. Thank you for scribing this time so wondrously. You have worked so hard to get to this point of refining your writing so it can express the nuances of your deep heart. This piece does just that. It serves us all. Thank you.

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      Thank YOU, Kathleen, for witnessing this process over the course of two years, two facilities, and so many ups and downs. I am learning to live in the mystery and to use writing as a tool for healing. I know you understand this process deeply and I feel you beside me every step of the way.

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    It’s hard to imagine that a heart such as yours could get any deeper; indeed you continue to show that love is boundless. You are a warrior. I love you.

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      Warrior. I like the image of warrior. For me that depicts courage and I that’s exactly what we need when we confront the unknown. Thank you so much, Laura.

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    Sue Ann, you are such a gentle, thoughtful Soul. You are your father’s daughter, and because of that, that you carry bits of him in your heart, thoughts, words and passions, he really will always be with you. His Spirit is with you now, though his body can’t reach you. Know that I am walking this path with you.

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      Thank you, Rebecca, and yes, I am my father’s daughter in so many ways. I feel your heart here and I know you are all too familiar with this place we find ourselves in regarding our beloved parents in the second half of life. Thank you for reading and responding to my blog.

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    Even in the pain, there is beauty here: the deep love you have for your father. I love your vivid descriptions…the spit paint, the supermarket as art form, the anguish of the roommate. Letting go of “mangia.” That alone says so much.
    You are in my heart.

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      Thank you for reading this post, Tracey, and for sharing so many facets of my nourishment journey. And yes, I know how intimately we connect over “mangia.”

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