It’s hard to know where to start.
When I last posted, I believe my dad was already in the nursing home, ostensibly for rehabilitation after a fall. Medicare pays for 100 days of rehab, and then if long-term care is needed, one’s own funds have to be used until gone, and then Medicaid kicks in. But then you are pretty broke, both the patient and the spouse, because the nursing home costs $6000 per month more or less, and that doesn’t include a lot of necessary things. So for most normal people, it doesn’t take long to run through the savings/retirement account at that rate.
But it does include the basic care an invalided person needs, like feeding and diapering, showering, and a variety of entertainments for those who are able to take them in.
Well. Dad’s 100 days were up, and Mom, who used to work at the very nursing home he was in, went to look at the room on the long-term care wing where he was to go. I didn’t see the room, but apparently it was dark, tiny, and horrible, and Mom freaked out, and she was talking about it in front of Dad so HE freaked out even though he didn’t really understand what it was all about, and he started crying and in his broken language, begging to “go home to his house.” So I freaked out too.
So Mom decided to bring him home, and I went along with that because Dad’s pleas were heartbreaking.
But. I had tickets to Israel for the two weeks surrounding the festival of Purim, and Mom wanted to bring Dad home before I came back. I didn’t like that idea, but when Mom gets a bee in her bonnet about something, it will happen regardless of any extenuating circumstances.
But. I refused to cancel my trip on account of her poor judgement, so I put Noga in the boarding kennel and went off to Raleigh to spend a few days with my son before hopping a Delta flight (free with miles) to New York, and from there to Israel on Turkish Airways.
Time with my nearly-29-year-old baby boy was wonderful as always. We never run out of things to talk about.
I arranged with my hotel to keep my car in their garage at $5 per day, cheaper even than the airport’s long-term-parking where you have to drag your luggage to a shuttle stop, then hope the shuttle appears before your flight leaves. Then, when I returned, I would stay the night at the hotel and drive back to West Bumfuck (as my gay boyfriend in Jerusalem calls it).
My flight was at 7 am. The night before, I called the front desk and asked them to arrange a cab for me at 5:30–the airport is a 20 minute drive, and since it was a domestic flight I only had to be there an hour before.
The desk person told me they don’t do that (calling cabs), but that there are tons of cabs hanging around at that hour because of all the guests leaving for flights. But did I want a wake-up call? I did. At four am, please. It takes me a long time to get ready in the morning.
Four am, both my phone alarm and the room telephone go off, and I levitate, thrashing for the light, the phone, whatever I could get my hands on first, sending everything on the bedside table flying: water bottle, glasses, asthma inhaler, cell phone, telephone, lamp. Fuck.
I felt around and got hold of the lamp. It still worked. Then I collected the rest of my belongings, calmed down, and went for the shower.
I got down to the lobby with my bags at about twenty after five. There was a cab waiting outside. I rushed to the desk and asked them to reserve that one for me; but at that very moment a couple jumped in and off it went. So I asked the clerk to please call another one, which she did. I finished checking out and sat down to wait for the taxi.
An elderly yet fit couple came down, checked out, and sat down to wait for a cab. Their flight was three-quarters of an hour after mine.
The cab showed up forty-five minutes late. We all rushed out. They had a lot of luggage; it took several tries to get it all arranged so that the back hatch would close. By now it was well after six. There was hardly any traffic; I entreated my driver to go faster, but he just bumped along. It wasn’t his flight, after all.
In short, I arrived at the check-in exactly five minutes late. Would they hold the flight? No.
But I could go on the next flight, which got into JFK at 1:30 pm. Great: that was exactly the time my Turkish Airways flight took off. I called Turkish Airways. It took a while to get someone who spoke English on the line. Wouldn’t you think they would have English speaking customer service people in their New York office?
There is only one Turkish Airways flight to Istanbul (the only place T.A. flies from JFK) per day. I could take the same flight out the following day: for an additional $444.
I considered it briefly.
Then it became clear that this pattern of obstacles was trying to tell me something. But which thing was it? Was it a test, to see how many obstacles I could overcome in order to merit to be in the Holy Land for Purim? Or was it a sign that I’d better turn back, let go, let all my plans (and considerable money) slide?
I chose the latter.
So I took another cab back to my hotel (another $45 fare!), collected my car, drove the five hours back to get Miss Noga, who was of course thrilled to see me (and I her), and drove back up the mountain to beautiful West Bumfuck. I fell into bed at 7 pm and slept until 10 the next morning.
I figured I’d better go up to the house (remember, I live in an outbuilding on the property) and see what was going on.
Mom was sitting at the table having her breakfast. Dad was sitting at the table in his wheelchair, staring at the slices of cheese on toast, pawing at them with his nearly useless hands while Mom ate her food and mildly scolded him for playing with his food.
She had only just brought him home, it turned out. She brought him home in her car, having forgotten that there is a county van service that would transport him safely in his wheelchair, for free. The very same one we used last week to take him to the dentist.
I fed him his cheese, but the toast was too much for him: it stuck in his throat. He can’t eat solid foods anymore. It has to be mashed up or put through the blender. And his hands have forgotten how to get his fork/spoon/hands to his mouth. If no one feeds him, he doesn’t eat.
Then the home hospice nurse came and did an intake. They have someone coming to the house a few times a week, and they provide a wide range of services that I am grateful for.
Mom has arranged for three hours a day of private nursing assistance. The guy came today and got Dad out of bed, which was a good thing because Mom was unable to get him out of bed by herself. TYS, TYS, not funny.
The bed of course was soaked in urine, since my dad is incontinent. So he wanted to get up, naturally, but couldn’t because he is mostly immobile, and Mom is 87 although she has not so far awakened to that fact. So they had to wait for the nursing assistant to arrive, to get Dad out of bed and showered and dressed.
I showed up there at noon, having slept till 11 am (am I stressed or something?!). Mom had made Dad a sardine sandwich–his favorite!–that he had not had in 103 days, the time he was in the hospital and nursing home. So Mom was very excited about the sardine sandwich. Dad was asleep in his wheelchair, drooling on his front.
She sets this delicious sandwich down in front of him, with all sorts of expressions of anticipated delight. He stares at it blankly. I ask him if he wants a bite. He nods, so I pick up the sandwich and bring it to his mouth, which remains closed.
“Do you want a bite of sardine sandwich, Dad?”
“Then you have to open your mouth.”
He does, I slip the sandwich in, and he takes a bite. I watch out for my fingers. He is known to have a ferocious bite.
We manage another bite, and then his throat rebels. I wait anxiously for him to get it swallowed. I guess that’s the end of the sardine sandwich experiment.
But Dad reaches over, in a rare moment of coordination, and takes the top piece of bread off the sandwich: he uses his spoon to carefully butter the bread with apple sauce, then drops it on the plate.
Mom mashes up the remaining sardines and takes the bread away. I feed Dad the sardines. When they’re gone, he spies a bit of onion on the plate and points to it. I feed it to him. There are little specks of sardine here and there on his plate; he points to them, and I gather them up on the tip of the fork and put them into his mouth.
Then he has an attack of acute chest pain. This has been happening more and more often. In my opinion he’s having cardiac angina–when the heart muscle doesn’t get enough oxygen, it complains loudly with pain. My mother has convinced herself it’s indigestion. Well, whatever. I try to convince her to give him a nitroglycerine tablet when he complains of chest pain, but she looks off into the distance, which I know means “I won’t.” She says she will give him an antacid.
And now she’s decided that he doesn’t need his pain medication for his destroyed spine and shoulder, because “he just sleeps all day.” I remind her that maybe sleeping all day might be better than being in agony all day. Quality of life and all that. Besides, he sleeps all days anyway.
She briefly brightens up at “quality of life,” being a social worker and all, but then starts complaining again that the medicine “dopes him up.” So I don’t doubt she will withhold his pain meds. If she does, I will speak with the hospice nurse and see what good it’ll do.
So here I am, back in my own little hornet’s nest in West Bumfuck, waiting to see what will be. I know what will be; it’s a matter of when.