Rear View Mirror

On saying goodbye

Within the past couple of years, I’ve been rear ended three times without warning.  The first time was a huge truck backing into my Prius in a parking lot as I was pulling out of a spot.  Wasn’t that much of an impact really for the truck, but it was enough to total my car.  The second time was a guy falling asleep at the wheel.  I was sitting still in a line of cars on an overpass waiting to go onto the highway, and he hit me going about 35 mph.  Another total loss and enough to make me start obsessing about watching my rear view mirror.  The last (I hope) time, I was in a line of cars waiting to merge from one interstate to another.  The guy that hit me was distracted, didn’t realize we were all stopped, and slammed into me going about 70.  He hit the corner of my back bumper, which sent me spinning (but saved me from being pushed into the car in front of me.)  I opened my eyes in the middle of the first spin and was looking down the highway into oncoming traffic.  For those of you in the Charlotte area, this happened on 485 merging onto 85, the way many people go to the airport.  You know how much traffic is usually on that stretch of highway.  In that moment, there wasn’t a soul.  Except maybe some from the other side who watch over me, because there were no cars then nor in the second spin, nor in the spin that sent me backwards into the median, where the ditch caught me and stopped me before I could go into the other lane of traffic.  I am incredibly lucky to be alive.

On Sunday, Sept. 18, I got hit even harder than a near death experience.  As I was sitting on  the steps waiting to go on a walking tour of Sevilla, my brother called me.  He is blunt, which I appreciate.  Go ahead and rip off the Band Aid.  I knew before he said the three words that something was wrong.  “Dad has cancer.”  Tears started rolling down my face as the tour guide came up to us and started chatting.  The world started spinning in an opposite direction as Glenn went on to tell me that Dad had been in the ED until 3am because he was having trouble swallowing.  He said that after CT scans, they had found tumors in his lungs and pancreas but that there were likely more, and he’d be going to his doctor soon, and then he’d go to another and then…By this point, I was spinning down the highway looking for oncoming traffic again.  This time, it was Dad who was near death.

As you know, we still did the tour.  Just FYI, it is hard to pay attention to history and architecture when in shock.  I called Dad when we got back to our place, and he actually sounded good.  He has dementia, so it’s always hit or miss when we talk, but he asked about our trip to Spain, and we talked a little about his trip to the ED.  He insisted we not come home early, and we didn’t.

Until we did.  We had talked a couple more times that week, and it looked like we would have more time, but his condition was changing daily and got to the point where there was no question but for us to come back.  After 17 hours of airports, flights, and driving, we made it “home” to see my dad this Tuesday.

I saw him two days before we left for Europe, but that man is already gone.  His cognition has plummeted, even though he knows something “isn’t right with my mind.”  I got a gift that first night, though.  When he saw me walk in the room, his face lit up, and he said, “Karin!” which was enough to melt me after the long day of travel.  Then he smiled and said, “You were one of the most beautiful babies.”  Then there were names of children I don’t know and saying he would love us only for 20 years and indignities like canes and spit cups and adult diapers.  And Hospice.

It was weird flying into Charlotte and knowing someone else is living at our farm.  It would have been great to curl up in a ball in my own bed, looking out my window at the moon rise.  But if home is where I am, my current home is alternating between Dad & Susan’s new apartment in Greensboro (they moved into the retirement community 4 days before his diagnosis) and Glenn & Jonni’s house about 30 minutes away.  On one end of my commute, I’m leaving behind my precocious 5 year old niece.  At the other end, my dad is in my rear view mirror.  And Susan, my bonus mom for 26 years, her daughter, Amanda, and more of her family and friends.  I don’t know how Susan is still standing.  She’s been caring for dad with his increasing dementia all by herself, even with her own diagnosis of Stage V breast cancer.  She is demonstrating such strength during this.  Amazing.  And Amanda has been a Godsend.  She has stepped up to take care of my dad in ways I just can’t, and I’m incredibly grateful to them both, as well as to Susan’s sister and other friends.

The Prius.  The Civic.  The CR-V.   I didn’t see it coming.

My dad.  This time I know the slam will be here soon.

He’s being moved to “Skilled Care” today, where he will be in a hospital bed until he dies.  They have admitted him as a “Short Stay,” which means less than 2 weeks.  He told Susan yesterday that he was on his last leg.  Last night when I was leaving, he grabbed my hand and talked to me for about 20 minutes. Some of it was gibberish spoken by the dementia, like how he used to write me letters when I was in the Bible, but there were also some heartfelt words spoken by my Dad, like how annoyed he was with Goodwill for not accepting his 20 year old encyclopedias.  And also how proud he is to be my dad and how he hopes when I’m 80 I’ll be able to understand how much he loves me.  He said, “You’ll remember me because I’ve passed,” and I told him, “I won’t remember you because you’ve passed, I’ll remember you because you used to draw ducks and airplanes for me.  I’ll remember you because I thought you were Mr. Rogers.  I’ll remember you because you had a trophy made for me for the first goal I scored in high school. I’ll remember you for how awkward it was for you to flip my veil when you walked me down the aisle. I’ll remember you for the way you love my kids as their Gramps, and the way you love Chad.  I’ll remember our days of looking at the globe and talking about Norway.”

I told him I loved him about 3000 times, and a couple of those, he picked up his head, opened his eyes, and just smiled.  He never asked why I had tears pouring down my face. He knows.  He told me, “You don’t need to come visit me anymore.  I’ll be gone.”  He knows.

I’m typing this a few hours before he is moved to the next level of care.  I’m scared.  I don’t want him to suffer any more than he already is.  The cancer is causing a lot of pain.  He is bloated and can’t eat much of anything.  He is the youngest of 8, and most of them have/had dementia.  Not recognizing his loved ones was his biggest fear.  I know he is suffering from confusion and think that this transition to where he is going to be living is going to be harder than the transition to him dying.  I hope I’m wrong and that he’s able to be at peace while he’s lying in that hospital bed looking in his rear view mirror.

FOOTNOTES:

1. Norway.  Netherlands.  Spain.  Germany.  Now also in my rear view mirror.  IOU my entry on Germany, as it was awesome.  Not sure when/where we are going to get on the road again.

2. Gramps and Granny gave Tayson (my niece) a globe recently.

3. This sucks.  Please send my dad light and love as he makes this next journey.