I received the gift of renewed connection with my dad about six years ago. My dad had wrenched his shoulder when he fell out of the attic. Don’t ask. The doctor sent him to physical therapy first, but surgery was ultimately required to repair it.
I was loosely involved in the health concerns and decisions my dad was facing. I still saw my dad as a capable adult managing his healthcare as he aged. He broke his kneecap a decade ago, and is constantly nursing black fingernails from hammer mishaps. This is his life as a former farm kid and forever tinkering mechanic.
I was also distracted at the time by the evolving dementia situation with my mother in a different state. And there was this pandemic thing going on, so I had all five kids at home and I was repeating fifth grade with my youngest, who required a screen chaperone. In the midst of sandwich-generation chaos, I failed to realize the lack of depth in my relationship with my dad. That changed significantly after his shoulder surgery.
I left my home state of Iowa at 17 and have lived in nine different states. I moved for jobs, then my husband’s career, and ultimately retired in Arizona. Amid the moves, we have always made time to gather for graduations, milestone birthdays, and reunions. We are a close family, but lack the little things you learn when you spend considerable time together in close proximity. Dad keeps busy, I am busy, the kids are busy… it is easy to lose sight of what matters most.
My dad is not an elite intellectual or excessively emotional. He had a fulfilling career. He is generally a pretty happy guy with an active social network and good health. He is sharp and slightly mischievous and loves to make witty comments that give people pause.
When I called to check on Dad post shoulder surgery, I expected him to crack a joke, but he was lethargic and he sounded as if he had aged a decade. I was devastated. Sometimes it takes a few days for the anesthesia to wear off. I was absolutely and unexpectedly floored by my gut reaction and sudden realization that I might lose my dad someday.
We know death is inevitable, but knowing that fact and realizing the reality are different things entirely. I have talked to my dad almost daily since that post surgery phone call. Because of our frequent conversations, he has shared so many precious stories from growing up on the farm, of his career experience, of his dating life after my parents got divorced. Absolutely fascinating.
Caregiving became a trifecta for me in 2021. Mom was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, my stepmom was experiencing cognitive decline as well, and Dad required surgery again, this time for Normal Pressure Hydrocephalus. He had been diagnosed a decade earlier at the Mayo Clinic, but decided to wait on the surgery to insert a shunt in his brain to relieve excess fluid. Dad decided it was time in 2021 because his mobility had declined considerably, and he hoped the surgery would correct that. It did, bigtime.
I flew to Iowa to accompany him for the surgery. He seemed right as rain afterward, no fogginess from anesthesia this time. Maybe because I was there with him in the hospital and not thousands of miles away on the phone. I continue to call every other day to check in and chat. I often say, “I’ll be in touch,” to which he replies, “I appreciate your touch.”
As Dad gradually accepts his own aging reality, he has been more open to my suggestions for sharing information. I became a contact person on the portals, he sent my name and number to his neighbors and close friends, and vice versa. It is a lot to manage, and best done in small batches to avoid the overwhelm. I was able to gently suggest (bully) him into getting his financial and medical documents drafted. He held a very real superstition about the quickest way to bring about death was speaking to an attorney about a Will. After several trips and conversations, we found an elder law attorney and drafted the docs for him and his wife.
Dad has some dental issues, but otherwise is pretty healthy. He goes to all of the preventive appointments and takes a few medications and supplements. He recently had to have an MRI after a test result came back questionable. We chatted often about scheduling and follow up for the appointment. They took precautions with the MRI due to the shunt in his brain. I knew he must be worried and I was worried, too, but hoped for the best.
Humor is his coping mechanism, and I have made it mine. My dad has brought levity to our caregiving situation and it makes me realize that while caregiving is all consuming, making time for a chuckle or a good memory may help break up the day and reset your mood. Humor is good, laughter is medicine, smiling is therapeutic.
Some of us are born with a sense of humor, others are more serious by nature. Finding those friends and neighbors who are naturally wired for levity can bring some lightness to your life. Dad always intentionally texts an austere fellow parishioner from the bathroom stall to make a joke?! TMI?! Yikes! But it works. The Mayo Clinic even endorses laughter: Laughter enhances your intake of oxygen-rich air, stimulates your heart, lungs, and muscles, and increases the endorphins that are released by your brain.
We can take advantage of the positive aspects of social media, namely cat videos. Pets bring unlimited amounts of joy to so many people. Their unconditional love and affection is contagious. Find an account to follow that makes you smile. Instead of ruminating on problems, recall a fond memory from your childhood or a conversation with a dear friend that makes you laugh and keep that on a feedback loop to make you laugh and lift your spirits.
Finally, my dad called to tell me about the MRI results:
“I can buy green bananas,” he said.
What? Oh! I finally got it. The doctor gave him good news, death was not imminent, so he could buy green bananas because he would be around long enough for them to ripen. OMG. Always the jokester.
