I Miss You Daddy...Thoughts of Saturday Mornings, Warm Coffee and Pipe Tobacco

Before dementia began eroding my parents' lives, and even after it began, every single Saturday Morning I would run downstairs, my Mom would be in the kitchen trying to figure out how to put cereal in the bowl but not wanting any help, and I would pour two large mugs of coffee with just a tad of cream, place it on a pewter serving tray that a coal mining executive had given my dad decades earlier, and slip into my parents bedroom. It was usually about 10:30 or 11:00 am, and my dad would be sound asleep. I'd put the tray down, run over to his desk and fill his favorite pipe with the proper amount of tobacco (I learned this from an early age), grab his lighter and then gently scoot in beside him and say, "hey, are you going to sleep all day?". After a few seconds he'd wake up, slowly open his eyes and I'd be holding his mug of coffee. A smile would light up his face. "Well, look at this - room service!! I love you, honey!". We'd settle in and I'd prop him up in bed with several pillows, by now either Sailor or Cleo would be on the bed along with us, and I'd hand my dad his pipe which he would promptly light and another smile would break out as he took possession of his coffee. "Mmmmmmm...now this is good.".

This became our Saturday and Sunday Morning ritual. After dad was awake enough to draw on his pipe and sip his coffee, he'd begin regaling me with tales...stories I'd heard countless times but with his Jimmy Stewart-esque delivery, I never ever got tired of hearing them. He'd tell me about the time his family moved from Itmann to Keyrock, and how his brothers, Otis and Dick were in charge of walking with their cow, "Old Pet", through the mountains to their new residence and how, when the rest of the family had settled into their new house for the night, his Mom and Dad were getting visibly concerned because Dick and Otis hadn't arrived yet. FINALLY, they arrived just as darkness was falling and the family was reunited. Or maybe he'd tell me about the times he had to "sit up all night with dead", a practice that was common back in the 1930's - 1950's in southern WV. "What in the world would you do, Daddy?", I'd ask every single time. "Well, we ate a LOT of food and situated our chairs around the coffin that was usually in the living room or dining room. We'd tell stories and try not to nod off!". I'd ask him, "why did people do that? what were they expecting to happen?". He'd laugh and say, "I don't know honey, it was just something we did...out of respect.". But he added, "oh sometimes we'd get to telling stories and laugh and have a good time!". I would smile because I knew if my Dad was in the middle of it, it had to be an entertaining evening.

Sometimes he'd tell me stories about his time in the US Navy...lots of funny stories and a few that would break my heart no matter how many times I heard them. Then, as I often did, we'd bring it back to the 1960's and I'd pull out a diary from, say, 1966 and the first time we vacationed at Wrightsville Beach and the little cottage we rented facing the Sound. He'd always vividly describe my eyes when I first saw the ocean - how mesmerized I was - "You LOVED it! Right away! You never wanted to leave!" and then, we'd marvel at how we lived just a few short miles from that spot and how much history had passed between us.

I now look back at those Saturday Mornings and I swear I can almost smell his pipe and see the steam coming up from those special cups of coffee. He'd throw his arm around me and always, always we finished up with a hug and he'd look me straight in the eye and say, "thank you for taking such good care of your old Mom and Dad". I drop tears when I remember those golden moments, but I smile as well.

When you're in the middle of such moments, on some level you know they won't last forever, but you can't and must not dwell too much on that because it will take away from the present, from the magic of it all. I never really allowed myself to consider that this wouldn't go on forever, even though intellectually I knew that it could not.

On this day before Father's Day, I look around my bedroom and I have a large bookcase next to the secretary that my parents bought around the same time I arrived on the scene. In the bookcase is every single volume of my Dad's diaries; forty-seven years of our shared lives are in those handwritten books. I haven't read all of them - but I look over at them and I feel my Daddy right here with me. Every word he wrote was deliberate and a tangible legacy of the lives we were blessed to share together.

My Dad was simply the quintessential perfect father - the guy you would surreptitiously connive with to get Mom to agree to something she wouldn't normally acquiesce. The man you could confidently share your dreams and also your deepest fears with in complete safety and without any fear of being made to feel silly or ridiculous. He was the comforting hug as I went through a divorce, the stalwart cheerleader when I acknowledged that it was time for me to get sober, the champion who always figured out a solution to a situation that perplexed me and the guy who made me believe I was so much more courageous, stronger and smarter than I would often feel. He became that voice that challenged me to step up to the plate, no matter what it was, and congratulate me when I did - whether it was finally leaping off a diving board when I was ten years old, or the night before major surgery when I was 34 years old or right before an interview for a job I really wanted. In my eyes, he was as close to the "perfect father" I could ever imagine - a fount of love, encouragement, understanding, humor and delicious mischief!!

Daddy, this is my second Father's Day without you and even though I miss you as much as I did in the hours after you left this earth, I'm so GRATEFUL for the stock of memories you left me with. I feel your direction, hear your voice and honestly am aware of your presence every single day and what an amazing gift that is!! I miss our Saturday Morning coffee klatches but my gosh, weren't we incredibly blessed to have so many of them?? I know that's what YOU'D say because you always spun grief into gratitude - and I'm learning to do the very same thing. Thank you for being the most incredible father anyone could ever hope to have and for loving and providing for our family through everything. I personally hope you're sipping a cup of hot coffee, drawing on your pipe packed "just right" with your favorite tobacco and holding my Mom's hand because if you are doing those things, then I know you are happy and content.

I love you, I love you, I love you...always and forever.

Selling and Sailing...Charting a New Course

My 2016 has been a year unlike any I have ever in my life experienced. It's been the most stomach-churning roller coaster ride I've ever been aboard. In January my mother suffered a fall which set off a chain of events that would ultimately culminate in the loss of both of my parents within nine days of each other. I still find myself in shock by the events of January and I'm even more stunned that I survived them.

Needless to say I discovered that no matter how much we're hurting, how broken our hearts may feel and no matter how difficult it is to grapple with the raw reality of pivotal losses in one's life, time absurdly marches on; seasons change, flowers bloom, summer heats things up and fall still proffers all things pumpkin. Two days after my Dad died I walked out of Lower Cape Fear Hospice on that very chilly Monday night of January 11th which, coincidentally or not, happened to mark my 12th year of sobriety, and as I made my way to the car to head home to grab a few hours sleep, I glanced at the sky and saw a crescent moon. In fact, it stopped me in my tracks. I clearly remember staring at it and wondering how in the world the moon could still shine because my Dad was dead and my Mom was in a pretty precarious condition. I'd been so involved in unexpectedly losing my Dad, seeing my Mom transferred to inpatient hospice and reeling from people asked me foreign but essential questions such as, "who would you like to pick up your Dad's body?", "what cremation plan would you like?" that the sight of the moon dangling up there in an inky black winter sky seemed absolutely inchoate. I guess somewhere deeply embedded in my psyche was the notion that planetary orbits should cease until I made sense of the world again. Of course, that's not at all how things work, and it's testament to the continuous evolution of life that it does not happen that way.

One of the last conversations I had with my Mom happened a few minutes before I spotted the moon. She was visibly tired from her "rally day" and she took my hand and pulled me close to her face and asked, "Did we have a death in the family?". Yes, I answered a few seconds before tears began falling from my eyes. "Was it Barbe?". Again, I nodded and whispered yes. My Mom then brushed the tears off my cheeks and asked me why was I crying? I told her in a very broken voice "I miss him". Her beautiful blue eyes met mine and she began rubbing my hand...."Honey, that's part of life. He's in a better place. It's ok.". My Mom spent her last coherent moments offering me comfort and reminding me, even before the moon did, that life DOES go on and that it's OK. So typical of my Mom to be reiterating for me that just as we had celebrated the 2014 late summer and fall births of three beautiful granddaughters, painful, unimaginable "exits" are also a part of our lives as well. We come, we go and with the help, love and compassion of a great many people, we somehow learn to move forward. I've been supremely blessed in that department. 

There has been so much about this year that has shocked me out of my wits, comfort zone and basic reality and a lot of it has tested my mettle in extremis. By the same token, a lot of other things have occurred in my life that have vigorously reaffirmed my Faith, lifted me up and literally demanded that I understand that I am not as alone as I thought I would be. Friends I've known for decades, new friends I've made in the course of this year and folks far away from my home base have rallied around and supported me in ways I couldn't have predicted. I'm still in awe of the many people who have crossed my path, deliberately, so they could lend me a hand and literally keep me going. For as dark as it's felt at times, at other moments it's been blindingly bright. I have a heightened respect and adoration for the human race and particularly the many people who have reached out to me, saw a need, and chose to get involved. What incredible life lessons in a year that began with so much sorrow.

I'm now in the middle of letting something else go. After living in this house for a little over sixteen years, I've come to the inevitable conclusion that it's time for me to move on. There are several reasons for this, not the least of which are economical in nature, but also involve some emotional and physical self-preservation. The reality is that working 40 plus hours a week I don't have the time or interest in attempting to take care of a home much larger than I need, a yard that's way too much for one person, even if that person has a dog the size of a small pony, and a large pool that requires more work than I have time to give. For the first time in my entire life, I'm contemplating a new reality outside of the confines of this house that I've loved and enjoyed for many years, the setting for some of my best memories. But, for as much as I have enjoyed this place, I still have flashbacks. The last few years of taking care of my parents was when my mourning really began, as they lost their ability to do the things they'd so enjoyed. Sometimes I walk into the master bedroom and I'm met with a barrage of visions that are painful to relive. There are times I walk out onto the patio and instinctively look to my right expecting to see Mom and Dad sitting in the swing, holding hands and chatting away - that's a lovely memory but seeing the empty swing still forms a lump in my throat. 

I finally realized a change would do me good and hey, go big or go home, right? The house is on the market and it's bittersweet, scary and maybe even a little exciting. I'm at a point in my life where I can actually imagine living in a new place; smaller, more compact and the chance to continue processing and recover from this whale of a year. Yes, it's weird. Yes, I'm nervous. Yes, I'll be OK. Yes, it's time. Yes, I'll probably cry and Yes, that's OK. 

Yesterday, the first full day after my house was listed on the market, I accepted an invitation to go sailing on a beautiful boat with a good friend of mine. My mind immediately protested with a list of things I should be doing, but I just ignored it. The waves, the wind and the vastness of the ocean worked their inimitable magic. For a few hours my view was an endless horizon dotted by a few other sailboats. The sounds of waves slapping the hull and wind filling the sails was the perfect accompaniment for a stellar sunny fall day. 

On the way out, off Wrightsville Beach, with the confluence of currents and wind I suddenly began to feel a little dizzy. For me, it was the most wind I'd sailed in since 2007 and the sensation was a little disorienting. I asked my friend to take the wheel and sat in the middle of the cockpit for a few minutes. He kindly offered to turn the boat around and head back to shore but I thought about it and was surprised to hear myself say no, let's keep going. The momentary uneasiness passed and I was happy to take the wheel again so he could work the sheets. What a profound and durable lesson from this past year; don't retreat - press on. I was glad to discover there was some untapped steel in my spine. 

Months ago, my daughter Katie suggested that I sell this house. I wasn't ready to even think in those terms at that time...a few weeks ago another friend messaged me and asked if she could offer me some "unsolicited advice"? She didn't hold back and I'm so glad she didn't - "why don't you sell that house? You can't make a fresh start unless you do.". Thanks Katie for planting the seed and thank you Celia for not holding back. And thank you to everyone who has held me up these past ten months - I wouldn't be standing without the support, love, kindness and compassion. Even after such a tumultuous year, I am extremely blessed. 

I am grateful to all of you.

The Road Less Traveled Delivers Me To Charlotte...

I'm interrupting the timeline for a non-commercial break, and a huge personal break-through.

On Monday Evening of January 11th, 2016, after kissing my Mom goodnight for the evening at Lower Cape Fear Hospice & Life Care Center. I walked out of the building on that chilly January night at about 8:00 PM and I remember looking up in the sky and seeing a shiny crescent moon. I  recall my shock at seeing it dangling up in the sky. My sweet Daddy had died two days earlier in the same building I was exiting, and I had spent all day with Mom on what would be, unbeknownst to me at the time, her last lucid day. I had no idea I'd just had my last interactive conversation with my sweet mother. I'm grateful I didn't know.

I was exhausted, my head was foggy and my heart was broken. I honestly hadn't had time to process my Dad's death. It still seemed completely surreal to me that he could possibly be gone from this earth. When I looked up at the moon as I made my way to the car, I clearly remember wondering how in the world the moon could be shining? I'd lost the most amazing man I ever knew in my life and, frankly, it seemed inconceivable that the moon could rise and I know that sounds strange, but I literally stopped and stared at it for a moment or two wondering how the world could continue to spin without my Dad.

This would turn out to be one of my first lessons in grief. That night I realized that life was crazily determined to keep going on, even if everything in my life was completely turned upside down and my heart was aching from a place so deep I'd never felt anything like it before. Maybe it wasn't an ache as much as it was a heaviness, a deep, drawn out silent scream. But it was also a sign - a moonlit sign that no matter what deep shit we have to trudge through in this life, the world keeps turning and the moon still shines. The sun rises. We breathe. We learn to live again.

I've always had a bit of a panic problem. Driving in particular can sometimes make me a wreck (pun intended). I was diagnosed with panic disorder before there even was a "formal" diagnosis of panic disorder and scored my first panic attack when I was 13 years old, about a month before my sister died. As luck would have it, my first attack occurred on a spring break vacation with my parents and grandmother to Chicago to visit my aunt and uncle. Hyperventilating, palpitations, feeling of impending doom - I ran the full gamut and it scared my Mom to death. She didn't know what in the world was wrong with me but fortunately we had a very astute family doctor who listened and had, himself, a history of dealing with panic disorder and he assured her I wouldn't die from it. In 1994 Zoloft was approved for the treatment of panic disorder and a physician in El Paso, Texas prescribed it for me and it literally changed my life. I was able to do so many things that I'd never been able to do before. That's not to say that the symptoms completely disappeared, but they certainly became much more manageable and I've been on a small dose ever since. It's made things like driving, navigating crowds, flying and just living life much easier and most of the time enjoyable.

After my parents passed away, I was invited by my sweet friends, Jayne and Keith Cannon, to come visit them in Charlotte for a few days. Initially, I honestly couldn't imagine I would ever be at a point where I could see myself driving alone to any point more than an hour away, and the idea of driving to a huge city like Charlotte seemed completely impossible. They say that time heals all wounds and I take exception with that because I don't think time heals the void of losing loved ones. I don't think it's possible to completely "heal" from losing folks we love so much. I think what time does do, is afford us the chance to put one foot in front of the other, allow the searing ache of our losses to eventually recede and makes room for the flow of happy, comforting memories to move toward the front. Time gives us the opportunity to think about rejoining the human race and learn how to live again. After enough time, we can even find ourselves smiling and laughing again. 

When Jayne initially made the invitation, I had to decline because I was at a point where I truly didn't want to leave home. I felt shell-shocked, as if the very foundation of my life had been shaken because, well, it had. Life as I'd known it for the past three and half years was no more, and I had to find my bearings and figure out where and, to some extent, who I was. I'm still working on that part. 

Being a full-time caregiver for several years is a very cloistering experience. The world shrinks, particularly if you can't be away from your home for more than twenty minutes at a time. Even though I was busy taking care of a lot of things and multi-tasking, it was in a very confined space. The world outside of my home became much more distant and there were a few times when I'd go several days without starting my car; I'd find myself in the grocery store and feel as if I must be in another country.

However, time ticked on and when Jayne again invited me to visit, I found myself saying "yes". It wasn't like me to make such a quick decision, but I had spent several weeks searching for jobs, going on interviews, completely cleaning out my garage (huge!!) and my confidence was slowly beginning to resurface. I'd also started dipping into my Dad's diaries, reading entries about how he and my Mom had felt when my Mom's Dad died which was, coincidentally, on January 9th, 1962, fifty-four years to the day before I lost my own Dad. I had no idea until I read that entry. My Dad wrote so poignantly of the pain of that loss, the memories it evoked for him and gave a glowing account of the man my Grandpa Sturgill was, but he also noted that as hard as it is to lose loved ones, the best thing we can do to honor them is to pick up our lives and move forward. Reading those entries, I could hear my Dad's distinctive voice, the cadence of his writing was almost the same as if he was speaking to me. In fact, I know he was.

Another huge sign that this trip was a "go" came courtesy of my amazing neighbors AKA as Cleo and Sailors Godmothers, who were available to sit with my furkids. In fact, they enthusiastically encouraged me to go for it. Cleo and Sailor LOVE Pat and Ginger so that was a huge relief. I've loved my dogs since the day I adopted them from the shelter, but I must confess that I would not have been able to get through the silence of these past six months without these two irascible creatures. Just as they kept me sane during my 3 1/2 years of care-giving, they've been with me every step of the way as I've grappled with the grief. I am devoted to both of them and I know they're devoted to me. Their unconditional brand of love have made these past few months bearable, silly and sometimes funny. They demand I go outside, throw the slobbery tennis ball and take in the air and sunshine. What gifts they are. 

When I set out for Charlotte, after the steering-wheel-gripping fear of crossing the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge which, in my twisted mind, was three times the length of the Golden Gate Bridge and ten times as high, my grip began to relax a little. I had my iTunes cranked up and I began looking around. It had been years since I'd been on any kind of road trip and I began to notice vaguely familiar sights and, along with it, lots of sweet memories. I wore the necklace I have with my parents wedding bands, and I grasped it several times. I had them with me.

When I got to Whiteville, I stopped at a produce stand. My mom would have LOVED that. I stopped and looked around and wound up with peaches, blue

berries, a watermelon and fresh corn to take to Jayne and Keith. I got back on the road and realized I was actually feeling a little more relaxed and comfortable behind the wheel. It wasn't one startling moment, it was gradual. But it happened. Each mile became a little easier. I realized I was heading toward friends who understood very well what this little trip represented for me. I was breaking the ice and through a combination of iced tea, James Taylor songs filling up the silence, every single mile registered on the car odometer was a silent but strong affirmation that life DOES go on. That's a wonderful gift of a realization.

I thought back to that January night and the moon...crazy as it seemed, the moon did rise and I could drive to visit friends. Initially both of those things seemed impossible, but they weren't. It just takes time. Precious, not-to-be-rushed, time.

Learning to fly...

This is me, opening the door just a smidgen. It's been a heck of a strange, bewildering, surreal five months. Here it is May 2016 and there are still so many moments when I feel as if I've been wrongly cast for a supporting role in a play I didn't audition for and how I got here is still, after all this time, a profound mystery to me. 

If you would have told me on January 6th, 2016 everything that was about to unfold in the next twelve days, I would never have believed a word of it and then, just on the slim chance you knew what you were talking about, I would have run like hell. Fast. I would have sprinted, in fact. Which of course isn't true at all because this was always going to be part of our story. It just wasn't the part that I was looking forward to, but as painful as it was, I honestly wouldn't have traded places with anyone. 

One of my favorite episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" is one called "Opie the Birdman". While playing with his new slingshot, Opie accidentally slings a stone at a mother bird who has three babies in her nest. The mother bird is struck dead and Opie is devastated. Later that evening at the dinner table, Andy mentions to Aunt Bee that as he was picking up the newspaper from the walk he noticed the dead bird and assumed that a neighbors cat was the culprit. Opie abruptly asks to be excused from the table and Andy puts two and two together. He goes up for one of "those talks" with Opie and confirms his suspicions that Opie killed the bird and reminds him that those three baby birds are waiting for their mother who's never going to come back and take care of them due to his carelessness. (insert tears). The next morning Opie regroups and rescues the baby birds and, after accepting responsibility for his huge mistake, sets about feeding and raising the birds. A few days later, with the birds thriving and fluttering around their now very small cage, he is finding it very hard to imagine not having the birds as pets and doesn't want to relinquish his caregiving role. Once again ole Andy steps in and, while respecting Opie's attachment to his adopted flock, he reminds his son that there's one important lesson left that the mother bird would have taught her fledglings. When the time was ready, she would teach them to fly, even though it meant leaving the nest. (cue more tears and maybe grow a lump in your throat). Opie struggles but realizes his dad is right and screws up his courage and does the hardest part of all - helping the young birds transition from the cage to the wild. I love the last lines of this episode...

Opie: "Cage sure looks awful empty don't it, Paw?"

Andy: Yes, son, it sure does. But don't the trees seem nice and full?"

After my parents died and I walked into this house for the first time, knowing both of them were gone, those last lines from "Opie the Birdman" came to me...slightly edited.

Me: "Wow the house sure is quiet and empty.
Me: "Yes, but heaven must be brighter today and I imagine everyone is gathered around, listening to my Dad tell the masses how he proposed to my Mom on the third date and how it took her until the fifth date to accept".
Side note: I hope heaven has a pipe smoking section and rocking chairs. 

Of course being around for the "end game" wasn't something I thought about often and when I did, I dreaded  the notion more than a mouthful of root canals, but it turns out that a gentle transition is also an important part of care-giving, no matter how much it tears your heart out. And it does tear your heart out. 

It's painfully hard and somehow profoundly beautiful, Such a paradox. Such is life.

Down deep inside, I knew that someday I would be present and engaged for this part, too. But until January 6th, I chose not to think about it and really it wasn't until January 7th, after my dad collapsed in the bathroom in the middle of the night, that I began to understand Mom and Dad were beginning their own transition. There was no "pause" button - God I swear I searched for it - but just like the transition part of labor that signals the birth of a baby is imminent, my Mom and Dad's transition suggested delivery into a new realm was closing in fast. Inside I was silently screaming, "Whoa...no, wait, slow down please. What's happening here? I'm REALLY not ready for this." but the reality is that when everything is set in motion, there's absolutely nothing left to do but hold on and simply do the best you can. 

No matter how hard and exhausting the days of taking care of my parents were becoming, both for me and for them, I just couldn't begin to imagine what life might look like without them in it. They were tired and had very limited mobility. My dad could no longer navigate much on his computer and his world was shrinking exponentially from not being able to hear or walk outside unassisted and there had even been a few days when he had completely forgotten to smoke his pipe. My mom was becoming listless and even with substantial pain medication on board she still suffered every time she tried to move from the chair to the bed or the bathroom. They began sleeping more and more, waking up later and going to sleep before dark. While they maintained a sunny disposition right up until the end, they're conversations with each other and with me were becoming shorter. Looking back on it, I believe they were preparing for their next adventure and, as it turned out, they intended to begin it as they had done everything in the past 69 plus years of marriage - they were going to set off together...well, nine days apart, but that's basically together. It always took Mom a little longer than Dad to get ready for a trip. 

Even though I knew deep inside we were on our last legs, I still couldn't fathom or begin to imagine "the end" was looming right before us. I refused to consider how it might happen and determinedly focused my thoughts on micromanaging our dwindling savings and wondering how I could pinch more pennies and just praying over and over that I could keep them at home before our funds ran out. Or, for a change of pace, I would consider what their fate would be if something happened to me, if I got injured or seriously ill and was no longer able to care for them? What would we do? What would happen to them? To consider their deaths...well, I had plenty to distract me from truly focusing on the the end. My days were regimented and packed with meals, meds, hospice nurse/cna/social work visits to juggle, groceries to grab while they were being showered, light distractions to implement and for gosh sakes, I had to DVR "The Lawrence Welk Show" so I could play it for them several times a week!! If something were to happen to me, who would make their ice cream sundaes and play a loop of Lawrence Welk???? To imagine them actually dying? No, I had plenty of other concerns. 

I became the Queen of Denial. I also read a LOT of books and focused on my favorite genre - survival at sea. I've always loved reading about people who beat the odds in the most daunting and challenging of situations, particularly after their sailboat has been knocked down in a storm or rammed by a pod of whales or any other horrible disaster that could put you in survival mode offshore and in the middle of a really powerful, mercurial ocean. Aside from the adventure, books like this are rich with great advice on how to confront dire and horrifying situations; they are chalk full of coping mechanisms and believe it or not, they're life-affirming. They're terrifying but inspiring. 

I have reviewed my Facebook postings in the weeks leading up to January 6th and it's crystal clear I was aware of a gathering storm. If our house had been equipped with an "event" barometer, I think ours would have registered in the "batten down the hatches" range. I knew something was about to happen, but I had no remote clue that the "gathering storm" was going to be a dual Category 5 hurricane. Come to think of it, I'm grateful I didn't know. If I'd known what was about to happen, I couldn't have handled it. As it turned out, I actually did handle it and frankly no one was more surprised than me that during the following twelve days I didn't fall completely apart. Rather than a testament to my strength and fortitude the simple truth is that so many things were happening at such warp speed, there was absolutely no time during those days to squeeze in time to fall to pieces. I mean, there just wasn't an opening. It was a luxury I couldn't afford...thank God. 

I know the facts; on the morning of January 6th my mother fell getting out of bed to go to the bathroom. This wasn't new - she'd fallen several times in the past few months and I practically had the paramedics on speed dial - but she always seemed to land well...i.e. no broken bones, maybe a few minor bruises and sore muscles for a day or two but she'd never fractured anything. Yes, she was becoming more feeble and wobbly and watching her walk often made my stomach tense up but I just didn't see this mishap coming. Again with the denial - massive helpings please.

I was sitting at the kitchen table chatting with my Lower Cape Fear Hospice Social Worker, Kim, and my son had dropped in and was sitting on the sofa in the living room. He heard the "thud" and quickly alerted us that Mom had fallen. Kim and I ran to their bedroom and there was Mom on the floor and on the surface it looked just like every other fall except this time...she winced a little. I quickly called our hospice nurse Olga as Justin, Kim and I helped Mom up to the seat on her rollator. Mom denied any sharp pain and simply said her leg "hurt a little" but that she was OK. Olga arrived in short order, along with our CNA Patty who was on a routine visit because Wednesday was "shower day". Olga carefully examined Mom and concluded that although she didn't think anything was broken, she couldn't be sure and felt it would be prudent this time to call the EMT's and take her to the ER at New Hanover Regional Medical Center for x-rays. 

Now I was in a quandary. I couldn't leave Dad alone while I went with Mom to the hospital so Patty told me to call our caregiver sitter and see if she could make a quick run to the house. Fortunately she was free and made it to the house in fifteen minutes. In the meantime, I made the 911 call and the paramedics arrived for the 2nd time that week. My dad was actually asleep through all this. He hadn't woken up for the "morning" yet, even though by now it was noon. 

Shortly before the paramedics arrived, he sat up in bed to find the bedroom filled with people and groggily he realized something was wrong with Mom. I quickly brought him a cup of coffee and explained (loudly because he was almost completely deaf) that Mom had fallen and I needed to go with her to the hospital but that Kathy was going to stay with him and we would be back home soon. He was still sleepy but when the paramedics came in with the stretcher and loaded Mom on it, he snapped to attention. He was scared and confused but everything was happening so fast. Kathy took her position right beside him, held his hand and told him they would get to spend some good time together and she brilliantly diverted his attention to old photos, navy stories and did her best to keep him distracted. Kathy Pope is an angel and was my parents' favorite sitter, hands down. 

Justin was using my car that day so CNA Patty gave me a ride to the hospital. We followed the ambulance and she dropped me off at the entrance to the ER. It was a chilly, gray day, typical early January weather, and I imagined we would spend three or four uneventful hours in the ER, the x-ray would possibly show a deep bruise and we would be on our way back home by dinner time. 

I couldn't have been more wrong on all counts.

More to come...

The Measure of Our Days - Contributions of a Social Worker

I have an extremely tight, close-knit circle of precious family and friends who intimately know and understand what my life at home consists of these days. There's so much of what happens in the day-to-day minutiae that I've never written about, but there are a few folks in my life who are well aware of many of the things that don't make it to my blog entries.

Some of the scenes from this experience are not anything you'd find in a commercial for "A Place For Mom", the local Hallmark Store or a warm and fuzzy Lifetime feature movie. Actually, it's more along the lines of "The Twilight Zone" with a smattering of "Gilligan's Island".

If that analogy sounds completely bizarre and off the charts, it's because I've been on this island a really long time. We're in an inevitably emotional and surreal period these days. Respite care was a wonderful treat for me but it was almost too sweet and, I must be honest, way too brief. It was difficult to imagine living in my home five days without my daily and nightly care-giving duties and, to be perfectly frank, it was difficult to pick up the key chain I wear around my neck and resume the duties of pharmacist, head (and only) cook and meal planner, grounds keeper, safety inspector, recreation director, television remote control expert (a role I step into at least 20 times a day), laundress and, ummmmm, everything else.

When I checked my Mom and Dad into the capable hands of Lower Cape Fear Hospice and Life Care Center for five whole nights, it seemed like such a huge break - five whole nights of just being in charge of myself, playing with Cleo and Sailor, casually walking in and out of my home without reflexively reaching for one of the many keys I wear around my neck to lock whatever door I transited, striking out for lunch or the grocery store without the pressure of a twenty minute window to grab whatever I needed and get back home before my Dad wakes up from his nap. It was a crazy, carefree, liberating time and just when I was starting to get in the groove it was Saturday and guess what? It was time to pick up my twins and take over the helm again.

I know I write glowingly about every member of our LCFH&LCC Team and for good reason - they're all exceptional individuals and they make my life so much easier than it was prior to my parents' admission into hospice, but the member of our team whose focus is slanted more to the caregiver is our Social Worker Kim. Her contribution to our family and particularly me is inestimable. Truly.

Early in our admission process, after meeting everyone assigned to my parents' care, I actually wondered why we would even be assigned a Social Worker. I mean, I've got this, right? I'd been taking total care of both parents for over three plus years and, while I sorely needed the additional nursing care and was positively thrilled to have a CNA come in and take over showers and shaving, I didn't really understand what we could possibly glean from having a Social Worker visit. I wasn't going to turn it down if this was part of the protocol but it seemed like a waste of her time and ours. I just figured fine, I'll sit and chat with Kim, who appeared to be perfectly pleasant.  What the heck, I'm sure some "other" families would find the input of a Social Worker useful but really, why?

Was I EVER wrong.

Where do I begin? You know all of those niggling thoughts, fears and questions that pop up when you're stressed and under a Matterhorn of pressure? Yeah...the stuff you try and tuck into the deep recesses of your mind and work really hard to avoid thinking about because you simply have no answers? After awhile you find yourself working so hard to tamp down all of that unwelcome mental static that it begins to wear you down. It becomes exhausting fending off the fears; you begin to think you may well be going crazy because surely no one else on the face of earth ever felt the way you do. Haven't we all been there? Some of us have been "there" so often we have reserved seating. I know I do.

After a couple of visits with Kim, I found myself impressed with the way she'd handled some of my initial, albeit largely superficial questions and she certainly seemed to have quite a mastery of resources available to hospice patients and caregivers. After a couple more visits, I began to feel a genuine rapport with Kim and suddenly rather than just "accepting" her visits, I began looking forward to them.

Once again, I'm reminded that hospice has a LOT more experience in this arena than I do and clearly, like so many other caregivers before me, I discovered that hospice realized I had a need long before I did.

Care-giving is, by its very nature, an isolating business. Mom and Dad don't really have the capability to hold a conversation for more than about five minutes and I guarantee that four of those minutes will be taken up by my Mom asking about the weather. And yes, I talk to Cleo and Sailor and they reply with tilted heads, warm snuggles and many invitations to reduce "my" stress by giving them belly rubs and ear scratches. They're just super generous like that and I couldn't survive without either one of them but when I try to engage them in conversation, they tend to nod off. Honestly, I can't blame them.

Thank God for Kim! Talking with her is a huge outlet for me. I can vent, ask questions, explain things that have come up, discuss old fears, new worries and even speculate about what my life might look like someday. I can't begin to express what an hour of talking with our LCFH Social Worker does for me. Not only does she give me a safe place to ask tough questions, reveal scary scenarios my mind conjures up or, sometimes, do nothing more than compassionately listen as I express with a wide variety of colorful adjectives that THIS IS HARD AND I'M REALLY TIRED!! 

With all of my ranting,venting and "tales from the dark side of my brain", I don't seem, thus far anyway, to have rattled her. And perhaps THAT is the kindest gift I receive from Kim's visits - she validates my feelings, reassures me that I'm not crazy (yet) and maybe most comforting of all, reminds me that other folks in my position have felt and voiced the same feelings and fears I find myself grappling with every single day. That, my friends, is huge. Sometimes the most precious thing you can discover is that there are other people in the same freaking, creaky, leaky boat you're in. A huge measure of peace comes from knowing this. 

There is some kind of pixie dust comfort in realizing, or being reminded, that we are not a-l-o-n-e. God, that's just comforting, isn't it? It's almost like inside of all of us, no matter what we're juggling, handling or trying to manage, as long as we know that others have been where we currently find ourselves, some sort of cosmic strength instantly opens up - at least for me it does. Wow...someone has been right (or at least close to) where I am and lived through it. I can't tell you how many rough spots that concept gets me through. It's not magical thinking. I think of it as "strengthen thinking" (way better than "stinkin' thinkin'"). 

I remember back in late-April, during one of my second or third visit with Kim, when I didn't quite understand what her role in our lives would turn out to be. She asked me how I was feeling? Rather than give my usual polite but oh-so-dishonest reply of, "I'm just fine, thank you!", I paused for a minute or so, took a deep breath and said, "Like I've inhabited the role of Bill Murray in "Groundhog Day" and the DVR is stuck on repeat...repeat...repeat. I think I'm going out of my mind."  To her extreme credit and remarkable professionalism, she didn't flinch, but she did smile. From that moment on, I felt a connection which sustains me to this day. 

This whole experience has taught me so much but these past few months, in particular, I've come to truly understand how essential it is to keep it real; to be as honest as I possibly can with my family, my friends and particularly myself (hardest of all!). When I need help, I'm learning how to reach out. If someone asks me to do something that I can't fit into my pretty full retinue of daily chores - as much as I REALLY want to say yes, I've learned to say no. If I'm feeling extremely exhausted and spent, I now try and keep things as simple as possible and grab some rest, and when I feel my stress levels inch up, I spend some (guilt-free) time in the pool, watch a few episodes of "The Andy Griffith Show" or sit quietly in a corner and pour my focus on a particularly competitive "Words With Friends" match. I've learned to practice these positive coping strategies much more successfully thanks to Kim's positive direction and influence. I also know that being the stressed-out, weary human that I am, I have to keep practicing these things. 

Mercifully, my parents seem to be at a stage where they no longer even notice their shrinking sense of reality. I'm grateful that they don't. My dad is now sleeping several extra hours a day and my Mom seems perfectly content to sit in her chair and push buttons on her remote control. The big huge focus for her seems to seriously be the weather. Period. Their appetites are slowly decreasing and actually they no longer really engage in too much conversation with each other and that's understandable - my Dad is now pretty much deaf and my Mom seems to be tired of trying to make him hear her. Breakfast, which for so long was the biggest production of their day, no longer holds any appeal for them. Where they used to take great delight in mixing several brands of cereal and all manner of frozen fruit, they now slowly walk to the table and wait to be served. One morning a couple of weeks ago I realized I had no fruit in the freezer which would previously have been a very serious omission, didn't even register a comment. Eating seems to have become rote for them and it they both eat like birds. I haven't heard either of them say they were hungry for several weeks. Olga reassures me this is to be expected and normal for this stage, but it's sad just the same.

Through all of these mounting deficits and reductions, the slow trickle of "mourning" continues and it's extremely painful to watch bits and pieces of my parents disappearing right before my eyes. It can't remotely be labeled as "tragic" because they've lived long, productive lives and shared a deep and profound bond but hey, they're my parents. I try and keep all of this in perspective and most of the time, I'm reasonably sure I'm keeping it within the lines but there are moments when some moment or memory will sneak up and the next thing I know my eyes begin leaking.

It's tough, bizarre and sometimes it's funny. I cry, I laugh, I shake my head and take another step forward. 

Thank God for all of those people in this boat with me.  

Recap of Respite Care

My Parents LCFH "Sleeping Arrangements"

If you follow me on Facebook, you no doubt already know that we all survived our five glorious days of Respite Care. Lower Cape Fear Hospice once again exceeded my expectations in more ways than I can begin to recount. 

My parents were treated as if they were the parents of every member of the LCFH team who cared for them and really, can you ask for more than that?

When I went to pick Mom and Dad up at the appointed time, I wasn't quite sure what to expect but I need not have worried. When I walked into their room, it was apparent they were happy, quite at ease and being tended to with the warmth and compassion that is so deeply ingrained in every facet of care that Lower Cape Fear Hospice generously provides. We experience this every single week as we are visited by our CNA Patti, Nurse Olga and Social Worker Kim. As it turns out, LCFH also has a beautiful contingent of folks who deliver inpatient care with all the kindness we've been exposed to in our out patient experience. 

Dad, Kitty Cat and Mom

My first thought is...how do you adequately thank people for treating your family as if they were their own? Not only did they take care of my parents but, by extension, our hospice took care of me. When I asked for updates, I received them. When I was feeling tense and wondered if taking advantage of respite care was the right decision, our outpatient team firmly (but gently!) reminded me that it was the wise thing to do. In every way I can possibly recount, it was an exceptional experience for the three of us and I am profoundly grateful for every single healthcare worker, administration employee and the vast network of volunteers who touched my parents' lives.

On that first day of admission, when it was time for me to leave Mom and Dad at the care center, I gave them both big hugs and kisses, walked out into the corridor with  CNA "Kitty Cat" and Nurse Jane, and proceeded to cry my eyes out. Seriously, I was a mess. I had no idea all of this emotion was welling up inside of me but walking out of their room it hit me like a ton of bricks and clearly Kitty Cat and Jane saw this emotional tsunami coming and they both enveloped me in the most comforting embrace. Even though I'd only met these ladies fifteen minutes prior, they extended such compassion, gave me courage and allowed me to feel the gambit of emotions that overtook me. In fact, Kitty Cat walked me down the long corridors to the front door, reminding me to take it easy on myself in the next five days, to breathe, to rest, to sleep and to find some joy. It was as if she knew every concern and stress even before I could articulate it, and she graced me with solace. I will never ever forget her or that moment. She gave me permission to fall apart and then she held my hand while I put myself back together again. 

During my parents' week of respite, they made many new friends. Though their lack of short and long-term memory doesn't permit them to remember names, it was obvious they had experienced a wonderful week. On my first evening "home alone", I received a Facebook message from a woman with whom I share a mutual friend. She introduced herself and explained that she was a hospice volunteer and visited the various LCFH Care Center campuses, sharing her musical talent in the form of playing the folk harp. She then asked me if I would like for her to visit my parents. I was stunned. Talk about reaching out! Of course, I told Carole that I was sure my parents would love a visit with her, as they both love music. A couple of days later, I received another message from Carole telling me about her visit with Mom and Dad and how, upon entering their room and seeing the two hospital beds pushed together, she KNEW she had found them. As she told me about her visit and how much they both enjoyed it, how she even took requests from them and played "Country Roads", I read her words through teary eyes and a wide smile. There are so many kind and generous people in this world who must share some close lineage to angels. Receiving these messages from Carole warmed my heart and touched my soul. I hope someday to meet Carole and thank her personally for this huge gift. 

 Mom, Kitty Cat, Daddy and Jane

There were others, too. Nancy, another LCFH employee, called me during my parents' stay to give me a real status update and in doing so, she enabled me to relax and enjoy the rest of my "time off". She told me about an LCFH volunteer named "Mio", who struck up a remarkable friendship with my parents...so much so that she visited them two days in a row. As I  understand it, Mio is an artist and Mom and Dad found an instant connection with her. Once again, I don't "know" Mio, but I hope I meet this woman someday so that I can thank her for sharing her time and heart with my "twins". 

In another display of going "above and beyond the call of duty", our precious outpatient nurse, Olga, called me during our respite week, encouraging me to relax and take advantage of my time off. In fact, I found out about a week later that Olga had visited Mom and Dad at the Care Center, which is just another example of the quality of care and compassion that we've been exposed to since their admission in April. Even with her busy schedule of other patients to see, along with her own life outside of work, taking care of her family, Olga found the time to stop by and visit Mom and Dad. This clearly illustrates a theory I have that the folks who are employed by LCFH are truly "called" to do what they do. There's no other explanation because these folks do so much more than simply perform duties as stipulated in their job description. Each member of our team is something of an "overachiever" when it comes to care and I suspect their hearts are extra large. 

Our Social Worker Kim is also vital source of strength for me personally. Kim is my "lifeline" and I swear no matter how crazy my days and weeks might be, an hour spent with her is pure therapy for me. Kim is a great listener - in her role as our Social Worker, she is the part of LCFH who ministers to the caregiver, in addition to checking in on the psycho-social health of the actual patients. Kim's visits give me a chance to vent, to express my fears, worries and concerns. In addition to a being the most sturdy, non-judgmental "sounding board" imaginable, she offers me resources, helps me figure out the crazy logistics of the complicated work of being a primary caregiver to two parents and she shares insights. Kim gives me the golden gift of understanding, validating my feelings, reminding me I'm not crazy (yet) and as with every LCFH professional who visits our home, she begins and ends each visit with a warm hug. I can't tell you how welcome those hugs are because, whatever else it is, care-giving is a notoriously lonely business. 

In other words, it required an orchestrated effort by a lot of professionals to make my Mom and Dad's respite week a lovely success. In fact, it requires a great deal of work by a good many folks to make any transition from home care to inpatient care a smooth experience. What's strikes me as nothing short of miraculous is that there are so many people who make this possible, who pave the way for the rest of us every single day. It's kind of easy to forget all that's required - the medications, meal schedules, personal care (baths, showers, etc.,), and activities that soothe the soul in the form of music, volunteers and staff visits who engage the mind and warm the heart. It's easy to forget all of the components because our hospice team members, both outpatient and inpatient, make it look so uncluttered and seamless that we don't see how much hard work and collaboration is truly required. It isn't magic. It isn't smoke and mirrors. It is love and commitment, and it emanates from the very heart of Lower Cape Fear Hospice. It's a staff who gives great consideration to the needs of their patients, both physical and emotional, who created a room where my parents could be together, even as they slept. 

I don't know the statistics, but I would say it's a rare event where a husband and wife are admitted to hospice, and to respite care, on the very same day. Rather than treat my parents as a double work load, they were welcomed as cherished guests, tended to as family and discharged as loved ones. As I lead Mom and Dad down the long corridors, Jane, Kitty Cat and so many others stepped out of their routine to embrace them, expressing how much they enjoyed having them and inviting them to come back soon in such a sincere and endearing tone that I found my eyes leaking just as they did when I admitted them five days earlier. You know how you can tell when people are simply following a script, saying what's expected because it's their job and sticking to the company line as outlined in some corporate handbook? There is none of that at Lower Cape Fear Hospice. Mom and Dad left wrapped in a cloak of genuine affection. That brand of caring isn't simply rare...it's priceless. 

When we pulled into my driveway after saying our goodbyes, my dad had no real idea where he was. He wasn't even sure where he'd been, but he said he had a really good time. My Mom, a bit more cognizant (at times), reported she'd had a wonderful time visiting with all of her old friends and it was "so good to catch up with everyone!". It took my dad the better part of a couple of days to understand that he was home and it took Mom no time at all to explain that, while she was glad to be home, she really missed her friends. 

First Evening Back Home

I guess you could say my parents "week at summer camp" went better than expected. As for me, I wish I'd stressed less and relaxed more, but it was a learning experience for all three of us. We're now back in our "pre-respite" routine of meds, meals, locked doors, and bed times but thankfully we still have our LCFH "home team" lighting our way. Visits from Nurse Olga, CNA Patti and Social Worker Kim remind me feel that I'm not managing this alone...not by a long-shot. 

I always wished, particularly in later years, that I had a few siblings to lighten the load and tag team parental care responsibilities and I still envy families where each adult child is doing his or her part but thanks to LCFH, I no longer feel all alone. 

Right now all I can do is be thankful and deeply appreciative for all of the superb care we've been given these past few months but someday, I really hope to be in a position to give back some of the gifts that have been given to us. I don't ever want to forget all of the support and kindness we've enjoyed and what a positive difference it's meant to all three of us. I hope at some future date, I'm given the opportunity to pay it forward.

Don't Look Back...Don't Look Ahead...Look At The Moment

Friday at 9:00 AM, I made the call to our Lower Cape Fear Hospice Social Worker, Kim. I asked her about the protocol for admitting my parents to respite care. I never imagined making that call. To be honest, I've often thought of myself as fairly indestructible and I couldn't dream of a scenario where I would feel the need for a five day break from taking care of my 91 year old Mom and my 90 year old dad, but this past week, I found myself impatient, snapping at things that wouldn't ordinarily irritate me and weary of never piecing together more than two hours of sleep at a time. I wouldn't say I was near a breaking point, but I will say that I recognized I was drifting a little too close for comfort. 

Kim is wonderful. Indeed each member of our dear sweet precious hospice team is nothing short of exceptional. That's not an exaggeration. I couldn't function right now without their skills, support and inestimable compassion. Seriously.

This weekend I am trying to keep our routine as "normal" as possible, quite a hat trick in what constitutes a most abnormal existence. I don't know that I'm performing terribly well. I don't think Mom and Dad remotely suspect that they're about to check in to LCFH in a few days, and I'm glad they don't. Trust me, I'm thinking about it enough for all of us. 

You know how in life there are those hairpin points - one second you feel spent and hopeless and then something happens and life makes a 180 degree turn toward the positive and there you go feeling all relieved and maybe even almost smug...and THEN...when you find out you're being granted something you clearly believe you want and need, reality sets in and here comes another 180 degree turn and those knots in your stomach that were just hours earlier untied, reconfigure themselves into different knots and there you are. 

And here I am. 

I can be so completely neurotic and it's not my best trait but I'm so darn accomplished at it. Sad, really. I'm spending this afternoon trying to imagine what my parents will say when I take them in for five days of in-house care. Will they be profoundly confused? Oh wait, they already are. I can kind of accept that - it's how they spend most every single waking moment of every day. But my main focus, my premier mission is to do everything in my power to ensure they're not afraid, that even through the discombobulated dementia haze, they'll still feel safe, loved and cherished...because they are all that and so much more.

I'm not a prototypical over-achiever, but when it comes to having two of the best parents ever created, I kind of outdid myself. Somehow I managed to spring up from these two incredible souls and I almost feel as if I should come with a tattooed disclaimer that releases them from any responsibility for all the faults I have and mistakes I've made. 

A few days ago I was frustrated, weary and pretty much at my wits' end from the rote nature of taking care of my Mom and Dad. I was wondering if my mental and physical stamina could handle what seems like an endless stream of these days; days where I'm asked about a hundred times a day what the weather is going to be like, if I know who those people are in a photograph, how old my granddaughter Evelyn is, and how much does Cleo weigh and where did I get Sailor? Where's Katie? Why is the door locked? How long are we going to stay here? We need to get back home to West Virginia, can you take us? 

Today I'm remembering stuff - how many times I've taken my parents to Wilmington Health to see Dr. Babiss, how small they both looked in the examination room, how often I remember seeing my Dad push the lawn mower across the yard, well into his 80's - pipe in his mouth, baseball cap on his head, steadily taking one step after another with a determined, steady gait, knocking out one perfectly measured row after another, meticulous and uniform. I'm thinking how many meals my Mom has prepared in my kitchen, a room I had very little use for or interest in. How many steaming, mouth watering pots of chicken and dumplings has she created in there? I never learned how she did it and it wouldn't matter if I had because my primitive offerings couldn't come close to matching her culinary skills.

Such a history we have. When I was a little girl in elementary school, I used to lay awake at night worried that my parents would die because they were often at least ten years older than most of my friends parents. My Mom was 36 years old when she had me and so many of my buddies had moms and dads who seemed so much younger than mine. I noticed this pretty early on and, being the worrying and anxious kid that I was, I feared they wouldn't survive until I was an adult, when they would attain the ripe old age of 54 (one year younger than I am right now). I wish I could go back and tell my 10 year old angst-ridden self that really, of all the things that might happen in my colorful future, this is the one thing I really didn't need to worry about. 

Such irony. I never gave a passing thought that my sister might die - she was young, seemed healthy and such a possibility never crossed my radar. When I was 13 years old, sure enough, my 23 year old sister died out of the blue. It was a horrible time and cranked up my already panic-ridden self into overdrive. It was a profound loss but at 13, I never thought to realize that when the time came, I'd be escorting my parents into super old age. I missed my sister terribly when she died but NOTHING compared to how I miss her presence now. 

So on this oppressively hot Sunday Afternoon, I find myself struggling to come up with a script. Depending on the availability of beds at Lower Cape Fear Hospice, my parents may be admitted for five days of respite care tomorrow. I won't know until I get the call in the morning. It may be Tuesday or it could be Wednesday because I don't just have one parent to admit, I have two. I'm told this will be a unique opportunity for LCFH - bringing in a husband and wife at close to the same level of frailty and dementia. I know they'll be well cared for and I have complete faith in everyone employed by our hospice. I'm still nervous.

I need a story-line, a script, some solid, believable but uncomplicated reason to give them as I suddenly interrupt their routine and introduce them to a temporary new one. I've rehearsed what I might tell them about a hundred times. I've even practiced on Sailor and Cleo, explaining how they are going to spend a few days in this beautiful facility because I have to (fill in the blanks). When I pitch my spiel to Sailor, he listens attentively and then licks my nose. Cleo responds with soulful brown eyes and a tilted head and then takes her massive paw and places it on my arm as a cue to rub her belly. I wonder how my parents will react?

I just don't know. I'm anxious. I have no idea what to expect. Katie suggested I tell them I'm taking them to camp - hey, it's summer, that's normal, right? My kids always loved going to NASA Space Camp and were excited and happy on the drive from Ft. Lauderdale to Cape Kennedy. 

The LCFH main campus is only about 3 1/2 miles from my house. Should we stop at Brusters for ice cream on the way there? 

I guess I'll find out soon enough how they respond and when the phone rings telling me to bring them in, I certainly hope my story feels more believable than it does now because, right now, I haven't settled on one yet. 

Later today, I need to surreptitiously sneak into their room and grab some of their clothes, underwear, toothbrushes, and bedroom slippers, a couple of pipes, a pouch of tobacco, a couple of lighters and pack their things in a suitcase. I was told to pack light - that should be a new experience for me - and I don't have to bring any of their medications because hospice has all of their medical information and they will supply all of that, which is a blessing. One less thing to worry about. 

Yesterday afternoon I walked into my parents' room and my Mom was moving some pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that she honestly has absolutely no idea how to put together, but still she tries. My dad was asleep on the bed taking one of his marathon naps. Mom looked up at me and asked, "How long are we going to stay here?". The question stopped me in my tracks. I told her I didn't really know, but she'd lived here for nearly fifteen years. She nodded her head and went back to mismatching puzzle pieces. 

This is going to be so strange. I can't wait to see how this story comes out. Prayers and good thoughts are welcomed. 

...to be continued.