Turnaround... And Around Again

I'm getting dizzy. The plan was to have a nice family X-mas party at my house, opening presents, having dinner, and letting Daddy head off to bed if he got tired. I could stay and socialize.

It started in a rather unpromising fashion. Then it went downhill.

The clear mind we expected and got briefly after wringing out the Benadryl from his system was not to last. The previous morning he got up determined that he had spent the night before tracking his deer through the woods after wounding it. That took hours to straighten out in his mind. This day was worse. He was convinced upon waking that he'd just spent 4 days in childbirth, and noted in passing his amazement that the cat had picked that same time to have 5 kittens. Amazing!

Yeah! Miraculous is more like it.

While the boys were getting the last bits of the house ready for company, I was getting Daddy ready. I had promised him a shave. Basically this involves making sure his shaver is charged, walking to the bathroom to get it, and handing it to him. No big deal. I watched him as he shaved his cheeks, chin, neck. Then he swept it up to his forehead and took off half of both his eyebrows.

Hmmm, interesting choice.

When he turned it to the back of his head, I decided enough was enough. Richard would be giving him his usual haircut with the clippers and the 1/4" guard in a few minutes, after all.

We didn't change his clothes until after lunch. Since it was soup, that was a wise choice.

He settled down pretty well by the time company started to arrive, listening to the conversations he could, and generally acting like a lucid, well-behaved adult. By supper time he asked me if I knew who those other people in the house were. I reminded him who they were, that he'd exchanged presents with them already, and that they were now doing all the last-minute food prep so we could all sit down and eat.

After eating he became convinced that we all needed to go to work, and he was our supervisor, needing to crack the whip. We're still not sure if this was a factory floor or we were his troops in WWII and he was our First Sergeant. We stalled him for a while by saying we'd have our pie first, which he joined us in. Then he decided it was now too late to work, so we all needed to go to bed so we could get some sleep before morning. He started to yell at us to turn the lights off. We humored him by turning down a few, but that wasn't enough.

Not for him, anyway. It was enough for two of our guests, who decided that the festive part of the day was over. After they left, we got Daddy put to bed with the usual meds that should have put him to sleep, but he could still be heard talking to imaginary people down in his room. This was early enough that he was able to take another dose about the time I was heading off to bed. I hoped it would help. He was lucid enough at one point that he asked me just how long this was going to go on? I told him that at this point I suspected that only God knew. He accepted that.

A wee hours potty stop showed me he was still at it. I was, apparently, learning to tune out the noises from the baby monitor in my room. I was desperately in need of sleep, and if it wasn't my name or "help" or "Nurse", it didn't register.

About 4:15 it was my name. Not from him, however. It was Paul calling for me over the monitor. When I hurried to his room, the door was blocked. The boys had managed to get in, but they'd had to push my dad out of the way to do so. He'd fallen, again, this time hitting his head. He'd landed with his head in the corner where the door was, sporting a golf-ball sized goose egg, with a dent in my wall to match it.

They managed to get him into bed, and I talked with him for a while, trying to determine if he were seriously hurt or could just be gotten back into bed. We opted for bed. Paul couldn't believe I'd not heard the loud thump over the monitor. I had a hard time with that myself. Going back to bed, I heard him mumbling away for about another hour before finally getting quiet.

In the morning, I peeked in his room. He was still quiet, laying on his back with his mouth open. Still breathing. I decided not to wake him, but let him sleep for a bit. I took my own nap in my recliner after setting up his nebulizer and fixing coffee. Around 11 he was still sleeping soundly, and while I was still letting him, gearing myself up to deal with whatever new problems he came up with, I was also beginning to worry. The goose egg was still as high as a golf ball, but now with the diameter of a softball.

It was time to call in the calvary. I called Randy. Or tried. About 1:00 she answered, and we had a great talk. She also decided to come out. She had already arranged with her bosses at the county to allow for the overtime if she was needed to help with Daddy. It was, after all, a 3-day holiday weekend.

She and Rich and I had a long chat, both before and after she examined him. I needed reassurance that it was OK to do nothing if, for example, it were a serious enough head wound that he wouldn't wake. It was OK to let nature take its course if it was in fact that time. She suspected it was, by the look of him. A blood pressure check registered low enough that it indicated he was not in pain, whether or not he could tell us. It woke him up, and we chatted with him a bit. Randy asked him if he knew what was going on?

"I'm dying."

Five minutes of concentrated attention and he was ready for sleep again. He did indicate that he had been trying to call to me those times earlier when I'd peeked in to check on him. There'd been no motion or any other sign of anything but sleep, but Randy reminded me that hearing is the last thing to go, and from now on when I entered his room I should talk to him, reassure him I was there. I or someone should stop in hourly, change his position, offer a sip of water or dab some into his mouth from a straw. If we awakened him and kept him "busy" for five minutes, it would exhaust him so he'd go back to sleep and stay out of trouble. Meaning no more wandering.

He was no longer feeling hot or cold, but still a bit itchy, so we removed his longjohns he used for pajamas, as well as his pressure socks so we could keep an eye on his legs. One sign of imminent death is blotchy legs, creeping up from ankle toward knees. When it hits the knees, you've got about 2 hours left. We also added another sheet - a flat one - under him so he could be moved back into position easily, and removed excess blankets. Sips of water were to be offered for his chronic dry mouth, and his face and other spots sponged off periodically to remove sweat salt. We weren't to be surprised if he didn't want to drink, or eat - wait for him to ask for food - and we didn't need to shovel his huge supply of pills into him. We could still do his nebulizer treatment even if he slept, simply by holding it in front of his open mouth. It would ease his breathing anyway, as he would pull enough of it in that way.

He slept that way all day, as well as all night. Monday I left for work with Rich taking his hourly visits to tend him. His goose egg had gone back down from softball diameter to golf ball size. He of course had no memory of the fall. I cancelled his Meals on Wheels, had a long chat with my brother to prepare his family for what was happening. They were out of state, visiting my married niece in Oregon. By no means should they cut their trip short, I told them.

By the time his aid came in that afternoon, he was wanting to get up and go sit in his chair in the living room "for the last time." A few hours was all he managed, and by 5 he was ready for sleep again. He commented to Rich that he hadn't seen me for weeks and wondered where I was. We chatted once I got home, and he said he knew I'd been taking good care of him but his memory was screwing around with him. I mentioned his fall, and he expressed surprise. I took his hand and laid it over the bump. Now he was impressed. Perhaps the biggest mercy was that the whole time since he'd been awakened Sunday afternoon, he was lucid, aware of where he was and who was - and wasn't - around him. I had no thoughts left on how to keep him in bed if he decided to go wandering again in the night.

This morning when I woke him, he wanted to get up and go sit in his chair immediately. I asked him to wait while I tended to a few things, like switching over his oxygen and giving him his nebulizer right there at his bed. I'd need to get Richard, as Daddy needed more help than I could give him to stand and walk safely to his chair.

Once in his chair, it was much like any ordinary day. He had coffee, a bit of breakfast, juice and pills, and we watched news and weather together. I asked him not to try to get up and go anywhere today without Richard there to help, mentioning the three falls which he'd forgotten he'd taken. To illustrate, I suggested he feel his head, and mirrored where. His comment was, "It was much bigger yesterday."

Perhaps the hand remembers what the brain doesn't.

It turned into a full day in his chair, and he was hungry again well before lunch time. Richard reported him as mostly "present", as in lucid. He did say something about dying soon to his aid, upsetting her. He seems so much better, and yet he's more ready than ever psychologically to go. Randy stopped by, likely unable to believe my reports of his recovery left on her voicemail. I don't know how long it'll last, or how long he'll be lucid this time. Whatever it is, we'll celebrate this day. And maybe nickname him "The Comeback Kid."

And just one more thing to take care of.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

"Hello, this is ... Meals on Wheels.... Leave a message..."

Hi, this is... calling on behalf of.... You guys must think I'm schizophrenic, calling to resume, then cancel, then resume, then cancel. Anyway, he's just had a wonderful recovery, so could you please resume his meals tomorrow again please? ..."