Well. Some things have happened since last I wrote.
My father died 6 weeks ago. He hadn’t been feeling well but perked up just as I was about to take him to the doctor. We went for a haircut, then out for an omelet, which he ate with enthusiasm. Gusto, even. He was content and ready for a nap when I left him at home after lunch.
That night he had chest pain and was unable to get a breath. He was admitted to the hospital and found to have severe congestive heart failure. After several days he was discharged to hospice care at home, which I scrambled to supplement with 24-hour private care because my mother was in no way capable of managing things between hospice nurse visits.
Omelet day was a Tuesday; he came home the following Monday, and died that Friday. My brother and I and Mom, of course, were there.
It has been a blur of first doctors and nurses and health aides, then phone calls and emails, arrangements and announcements. We had a small service and I was so stressed the week before because I had to write and deliver a remembrance, and all I had was phrases and scraps of thoughts that wouldn’t complete. It came together eventually and I’m told it went over well.
Now there is the estate to settle and so many forms to fill out. So. Many. Forms.
In the meantime, my mother still has dementia… and now has lost her husband of 52 years. She’s heartbroken, lonely, incredibly needy, and increasingly frantic and forgetful. I increased the frequency of my own visits and outside care in her home, and called her many times a day on top of it. Still, she managed to flood a bathroom, and I had to call a disaster restoration company (which I already had in my contacts due to her kitchen fire incident a few years back) to dry things up and take away sodden carpets, etc. That was the week of my Dad’s funeral, so at least I had nothing else to do. Har.
Anyway. I have had to compartmentalize grief for my Dad to handle care for my Mom. It hits at strange times out of the blue, but as long as I keep moving, I am OK.
Sometimes as I’m managing one or another of the thousand-and-one things there are to manage, I say “I’m doing it, Dad. I’m doing it. It’s all OK.” He was so worried about dying and leaving me to deal with all the stuff in the house. But the stuff is the least of it. Stuff is just stuff. It’s nothing. Mom, unhappy and unsafe alone in the house, is the bigger issue.