So I keep forgetting about this, my bad really. Lots o' stuff has been going down! Good stuff though, except for the dishwasher dying which most people respond to that as 'why do you just wash them by hand?'. We are doing that right now, however dishes is my least favorite chore. And when I say least favorite, I mean I'd rather get a root canal with a rusty spork. So I'm trying to coral the siblings and do some money poolin' and getting mom a new dishwasher!
In other news, we've got paperwork so we can apply to have our bathroom redone to make it handicap accessible. We're also trying to get a lift chair for my dad as well as a few other amenities for him.
Speaking of him, dad has been driving us crazy with a capital K. Let me start off by saying this though. I understand that my father is used to being able to do a lot more, and it practically kills him because he simply can't do very much around the house at all. And I know that if he could, he'd change that. But the fact remains is that he can't.
That being said, Dad now has to be involve with every conversation. He tries to provide solutions, and often points out the obvious. (I have dubbed Capt. Obvious in my mind) When my niece spend the weekends with us, he tries to....over-parent her. Now my niece is a great kid. I mean really, she's great kid and if any of my future children turn out like her, I will not complain one bit. She's very well-behaved, an angel, you name it. ( I know it's a whole 'nother story when she's at home, she is very much an almost 10 year old.) When I tell her to go to bed, she goes to bed with absolutely no fuss. Having her over for the weekends is effortless. However my dad is often nitpicking at her (not in a bad way), telling her do things that she's in the process of doing already, or telling her to do things that are unnecessary. Or he's trying to baby her, when she's very capable of doing things.
But that's the tip of the proverbial ice berg.
I'm excited for next month, though. I have a mini vacation coming up and I will be out of town for a weekend (celebrating one year with boyfriend!!). I'm also waiting to hear about a job opportunity that will take me away from home for 7 months.
Later!
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dad. Show all posts
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Feelings Schmeelings
There are many many days where the dialogue in my head does not match the dialogue that comes out of my mouth. There are days where that's okay, and there are day when it's not.
Caring for someone who is ill, is very emotionally intensive. For both the patient and the caretaker. The patient feels useless, feels like they should be doing more, and the caretaker often feels overwhelmed.
Frustration is a word I often use. I feel it best describes how I feel without having to get into the nitty gritty details. And even more often it isn't enough.
Trapped, I hate to use that word as well. But I do feel trapped. I want to go back to school, I even have a majority of my previous school loan paid off enough in to apply for more financial aid and go back full time if I wanted. Which I do. However, my proverbial plate is only so big and I have to give something up to do so.
I have work, which is full-time, in a place that understands if I have to take off to take care of my father. I've encountered other employers who weren't so understanding. Considering it is my main source of income, and I do have my fair share of bills, I don't feel comfortable with just using loan money to get by.
I have taking care of my father. First and foremost, I am here to take care of my father of my own freewill, if not my sense of responsibility. I see my mother struggling with taking care of him, because that in itself is a full-time job along with the full-time job she has as a lunch lady. My parents don't bring in enough to survive without the income from her job, so she has to work it. My father can, at best, be on his own for a couple of hours before problems set it, real or (for lack of a better word) imaginary.
While I don't have to be the one to take care of my father, neither one of my siblings have come in to pick up any of the slack. When my mother goes bowling, which league only lasts for 7 months at best, one night a week on average, one of my siblings takes my dad for the evening. But that is the extent of it.
I could pick up and leave, go to school and do the things that I've always wanted to do, but the question that remains is this, who is going to help?
That's a good question, I think. And until I have an answer to that, I will remain where I am at. Because I know full well that if something were to happen, I'd blame myself for not being there. And that's a slippery slope that I don't need to go down again.
Caring for someone who is ill, is very emotionally intensive. For both the patient and the caretaker. The patient feels useless, feels like they should be doing more, and the caretaker often feels overwhelmed.
Frustration is a word I often use. I feel it best describes how I feel without having to get into the nitty gritty details. And even more often it isn't enough.
Trapped, I hate to use that word as well. But I do feel trapped. I want to go back to school, I even have a majority of my previous school loan paid off enough in to apply for more financial aid and go back full time if I wanted. Which I do. However, my proverbial plate is only so big and I have to give something up to do so.
I have work, which is full-time, in a place that understands if I have to take off to take care of my father. I've encountered other employers who weren't so understanding. Considering it is my main source of income, and I do have my fair share of bills, I don't feel comfortable with just using loan money to get by.
I have taking care of my father. First and foremost, I am here to take care of my father of my own freewill, if not my sense of responsibility. I see my mother struggling with taking care of him, because that in itself is a full-time job along with the full-time job she has as a lunch lady. My parents don't bring in enough to survive without the income from her job, so she has to work it. My father can, at best, be on his own for a couple of hours before problems set it, real or (for lack of a better word) imaginary.
While I don't have to be the one to take care of my father, neither one of my siblings have come in to pick up any of the slack. When my mother goes bowling, which league only lasts for 7 months at best, one night a week on average, one of my siblings takes my dad for the evening. But that is the extent of it.
I could pick up and leave, go to school and do the things that I've always wanted to do, but the question that remains is this, who is going to help?
That's a good question, I think. And until I have an answer to that, I will remain where I am at. Because I know full well that if something were to happen, I'd blame myself for not being there. And that's a slippery slope that I don't need to go down again.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Why I'm a Little Crazy part 1
A large part of my life has revolved around my father. A large part of who I am and why I do things the way I do stems from him in some way, shape, or form.
I'm not sure how to start with this because it's a big topic for me. Often enough it's just easier to blurt it out and go from there.
My dad is sick. Terminally ill. It's not just one thing though, it's a whole slew of them. The man's had six heart attacks and six strokes. An even score. I really don't like that score, to be honest. Most people who hear this little bit, well, their eyes usually bug out, say 'What?', and generally behave in a way when one hears a piece of information they didn't expect to hear. But that little fact is the start of it, and I figure a haphazard chronological recap of what has happened thus far is probably the best way to go about this.
I was born in 1986 (yes, I'm 23, soon 24.), in '88, my dad had his first heart attack, watching Fatal Attraction with my Uncle Jack, in their home in Waterloo, Iowa. Obviously, he was quickly taken the hospital and thus starts the grand tradition of hospital visits. Shortly there after, a year or two later I think (because the details are fuzzy), he had yet another heart attack. Again was watching Fatal Attraction, with my Uncle Jack, again in Waterloo. To date, he has never seen the whole movie, mainly because he is forbidden to. (We're a bit superstitious?)
In '92, I'm in first grade, my father has heart attack number three. This leads to the decision that he's in need of a bypass of some sort (ended up being a quadruple bypass I believe), and me spending a large quantity of time with my Aunt and Uncle. There are also lots of trips to Milwaukee and some such. The exact details are rather fuzzy as I was busy trying to be a kid.
It was during these years that we set some sort of strange record. Within a twenty-two month period, we somehow made it into the emergency room something to the tune of thirty-two times. So if you're doing the math, that's, at the very least, a trip to the ER once a month. Sometimes it felt as though we were in there weekly, on a few occasions, we were in there one day and in less than twenty-four hours, we were right back in there. The majority of these visits consisted of false alarms. My father would have chest pains and we would try and figure if they were bad enough to take him in. This time was also used to get all his medication tweaked and perfected.
Eventually we hit a small plateau, nothing happened, our lives were relatively stress free. And then in '96, we decided to move to the country-side. A lake community close to a small town environment seemed ideal, especially with everyone so friendly. However on the day we were supposed to move...he had another heart attack. Thankfully a large majority of our family lived in central Iowa, so it was easy for everyone to pitch in a get us moved.
Within those four years, my dad had his first couple strokes. The first one was terrifying, as we had never experienced something like this up close and personal. It started off as a headache and eventually progressed to paralysis of the left side of his body. By this time I was old enough to know that something was seriously wrong and was especially scared standing there at twelve years old trying to hold up my dad as my mom was pulling out the car to go to the hospital. The downside to living in country is that the nearest hospital was over twenty miles away. Sometimes it was just faster to drive there than to call 911.
The first stroke left a lot of damage, however we were lucky in the fact that it was only my father's motor skills that were seriously affected. With physical therapy and a short time using a cane, he was able to strengthen the weaker side of his body and thus able to move around as he used to.
Along with the strokes came the seizures. Now these aren't the seizures that most people are familiar with. The kind of seizures that my father had were called focal seizures. They would focus on a random body part, most of the time being on the left side of the body, and that particular body part would go numb. For instance, his hand would go numb, or a whole arm, sometimes even just the tip of his pinkie finger. 90% of the time, we didn't know he was having a seizure because my father stayed conscious and cognizant through the whole thing. You could be having a conversation with the man and you wouldn't have the slightest clue that he was having a seizure right then and there. And it was that reason alone that my dad was able to keep his license for so long.
This did not last long. He then had two more strokes at unspecified times, the third one did enough damage to his motor skills that he needed a cane at all times. Shortly thereafter, we moved back to the town we had previously lived in, closer to a hospital, and closer to my siblings.
And for a while, all was quiet. I mangled my way through high school with little incident until about Nov '03, my senior year. I had a friend who I was taking home, on the route, I would pass by my house. On this particular day, I drove past, but this time, there was an ambulance sitting in front of my house. Of course I stopped and hoped to anyone who happened to be listening that everything was alright. I get in the house only to find that my mother was crying on the phone and I couldn't make out anything that she was saying. My immediate reaction was to think 'oh my god, he's dead.'
To be continued....
I'm not sure how to start with this because it's a big topic for me. Often enough it's just easier to blurt it out and go from there.
My dad is sick. Terminally ill. It's not just one thing though, it's a whole slew of them. The man's had six heart attacks and six strokes. An even score. I really don't like that score, to be honest. Most people who hear this little bit, well, their eyes usually bug out, say 'What?', and generally behave in a way when one hears a piece of information they didn't expect to hear. But that little fact is the start of it, and I figure a haphazard chronological recap of what has happened thus far is probably the best way to go about this.
I was born in 1986 (yes, I'm 23, soon 24.), in '88, my dad had his first heart attack, watching Fatal Attraction with my Uncle Jack, in their home in Waterloo, Iowa. Obviously, he was quickly taken the hospital and thus starts the grand tradition of hospital visits. Shortly there after, a year or two later I think (because the details are fuzzy), he had yet another heart attack. Again was watching Fatal Attraction, with my Uncle Jack, again in Waterloo. To date, he has never seen the whole movie, mainly because he is forbidden to. (We're a bit superstitious?)
In '92, I'm in first grade, my father has heart attack number three. This leads to the decision that he's in need of a bypass of some sort (ended up being a quadruple bypass I believe), and me spending a large quantity of time with my Aunt and Uncle. There are also lots of trips to Milwaukee and some such. The exact details are rather fuzzy as I was busy trying to be a kid.
It was during these years that we set some sort of strange record. Within a twenty-two month period, we somehow made it into the emergency room something to the tune of thirty-two times. So if you're doing the math, that's, at the very least, a trip to the ER once a month. Sometimes it felt as though we were in there weekly, on a few occasions, we were in there one day and in less than twenty-four hours, we were right back in there. The majority of these visits consisted of false alarms. My father would have chest pains and we would try and figure if they were bad enough to take him in. This time was also used to get all his medication tweaked and perfected.
Eventually we hit a small plateau, nothing happened, our lives were relatively stress free. And then in '96, we decided to move to the country-side. A lake community close to a small town environment seemed ideal, especially with everyone so friendly. However on the day we were supposed to move...he had another heart attack. Thankfully a large majority of our family lived in central Iowa, so it was easy for everyone to pitch in a get us moved.
Within those four years, my dad had his first couple strokes. The first one was terrifying, as we had never experienced something like this up close and personal. It started off as a headache and eventually progressed to paralysis of the left side of his body. By this time I was old enough to know that something was seriously wrong and was especially scared standing there at twelve years old trying to hold up my dad as my mom was pulling out the car to go to the hospital. The downside to living in country is that the nearest hospital was over twenty miles away. Sometimes it was just faster to drive there than to call 911.
The first stroke left a lot of damage, however we were lucky in the fact that it was only my father's motor skills that were seriously affected. With physical therapy and a short time using a cane, he was able to strengthen the weaker side of his body and thus able to move around as he used to.
Along with the strokes came the seizures. Now these aren't the seizures that most people are familiar with. The kind of seizures that my father had were called focal seizures. They would focus on a random body part, most of the time being on the left side of the body, and that particular body part would go numb. For instance, his hand would go numb, or a whole arm, sometimes even just the tip of his pinkie finger. 90% of the time, we didn't know he was having a seizure because my father stayed conscious and cognizant through the whole thing. You could be having a conversation with the man and you wouldn't have the slightest clue that he was having a seizure right then and there. And it was that reason alone that my dad was able to keep his license for so long.
This did not last long. He then had two more strokes at unspecified times, the third one did enough damage to his motor skills that he needed a cane at all times. Shortly thereafter, we moved back to the town we had previously lived in, closer to a hospital, and closer to my siblings.
And for a while, all was quiet. I mangled my way through high school with little incident until about Nov '03, my senior year. I had a friend who I was taking home, on the route, I would pass by my house. On this particular day, I drove past, but this time, there was an ambulance sitting in front of my house. Of course I stopped and hoped to anyone who happened to be listening that everything was alright. I get in the house only to find that my mother was crying on the phone and I couldn't make out anything that she was saying. My immediate reaction was to think 'oh my god, he's dead.'
To be continued....
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