myjourneysinsight

OUR LOVE REMAINS WITH EACH TEAR

Posted on May 25, 2012 by Judy

A still taken from an old video. My father is kissing me and I’m probably about six-years-old in this picture.

I grew up with an abundance of rules. The religion I was raised with has a lot of rituals and laws. Although I was raised with Conservative Judaism, my mother was very strict about the particular laws she chose to follow while I was growing up. My father was not as religious as my mother, but he did whatever my mother wanted.

I have chosen my own course. I have hardly written about religion on my blog; it is one of those topics that I rarely wish to discuss. I am conflicted. On one hand I have always been an agnostic, with many doubts about god’s existence. However, because recently I’ve decided I am “blessed,” I have begun to lean toward a different mindset and one that is far more spiritual.

I did not watch any of my grandparents die. My own son is intimately involved now in the process of watching someone die that he loves deeply. I am so proud of him that I want to give him a gold medal. I am amazed that I gave birth to this unbelievable human being.

My own parents did not keep vigil when their parents died.

However, I’m aware that there are many observant Jews who believe that when someone dies it is necessary to have a family member there with them at all times. There is also a rule of not attending or participating in anything “musical” for one year of bereavement. That I certainly could not follow. I plan to sing my heart out, and my dad would want me to.

Guilt is a horrible thing. It can wreck a person’s ability to live peacefully. Every time I have left my dying father at his facility, I’ve tried not to think that I was dooming him to a lonely death.

Did I owe it to him to sit there until he died?

It wasn’t like I didn’t want to. But I also knew how much my father instilled in me the ability to take care of myself. He always told me not to get overly stressed with my mother’s situation. He would say, “You have done so much for both of us and if you never did another thing, it would be enough! Cut back!”

So I listened to him and I cut back.

–

I decided that my course was mine to follow and no one else’s.

–

My mind told me that if I didn’t pace myself better, I might get sick. It wasn’t an excuse. My oldest brother was there in the morning and late afternoon. His wife (my sister-in-law) came every day. My middle brother came after work. During the day I was often there at the same time as my brother, and late at night I would come back again.

I have chosen to get through this difficult time by writing about it. Sharing is a beautiful thing, because yesterday I received a comment from a total stranger who told me that my writing is helping her deal with a similar situation.

Tonight, one of the nurses who read my blog told me that my writing is very sad. That led to an interesting discussion. I admit that I write about very sad things. I have written a great deal on my blog over the past two years, and I know that there were also times when I was humorous and witty.

But my writing is truly about honesty.

As a writer and a person, I am transparent and completely open. I do not hold back. There are no filters for me. My current situation might be sad, but I also see great hope and optimism with my writing.

Even with this story about a very dark time, I see light shining all around me.

I am living through something that many people go through at some point in their lives. That is watching someone you love die.

This is a different experience than losing my child. I have always known it was expected and inevitable. My father lived to be 88-years-old and he had a good life. He was ready to die and looked to me to help him.

A beautiful closeup from a wedding portrait of my parents. My mom was 25 and my father 26 when they got married.

7 p.m.

My son and I took separate cars. I needed to get gas and he waited in the parking lot for me until I arrived. He did not want to go into the room alone.

Before we went into the room, I stopped to ask the charge nurse how my father was doing. She told me she had administered Morphine a few minutes earlier. It was every two hours now. She said, “I’ll be checking on him after an hour and if he needs it, I’ll give him a boost.”

What a change from earlier in the day when the order was every eight hours.

–

I had no idea I could make such a difference. I was so glad that I went from observer into warrior mode!

–

Not much had changed from when I was there earlier in the day. My father was still snoring away. But he was obviously dying. He had not had anything to drink or eat since Sunday night.

He was as dry as a human could possibly be. I remembered that I always considered death to be something ugly. My father actually looked beautiful to me. I was not afraid.

I held his hand and I kissed his sandpaper-like forehead. With the morphine now, I wondered how aware he was of my presence. His eyes were glued shut, but it looked as if his eyelids were fluttering for a moment.

The nurse told me his temperature was 102. My father was always cold and wore blankets and a scarf whenever I took him out anywhere. I wondered how he felt with only a sheet on him. Measures were being done to cool him down, and I knew he probably hated it.

His nurse gently sponged him and spoke so kindly to him. All my life, my father’s name was Lee, but at his facility everyone called him Leo. While she was changing his gown I went outside the room.

I spoke with another nurse in the hallway who was close to my father. She spent a lot of time with me and seemed very experienced. I asked her how much longer she thought it would be until my father died.

She told me that the frequency of the morphine would hasten his death. She said, “Oh, if he’s getting it every two hours now, I think he’ll be gone within 24 hours.”

I felt like the wind was knocked out of me with her words. I was astounded to think that I had not only given my father a comfort measure, but I had also assisted him in getting to the end of his tunnel through death into the light.

I didn’t know if I believed her, but I sure wanted to!

I went back in as the nurse was lifting my father’s limp body into a better position.

Time ticked by as my son and I talked reassuringly about whatever we could think of. I let my father know how I had found all the papers I needed. I appreciated how he had made that job easier for me. I told him the mortuary arrangements were clear and helpful. I remembered to share that I had received a check for one of my recent art jobs. He had worried about whether I would receive payment on a particular job. How I would miss being cared about by him so much!

My son just kept telling his grandfather what a difference he had made to his life. He repeated over and over how he made Dean’s List again. He recited his GPA and told him that it was all because of his wonderful grampa.

–

Every single word was true.

“The Tear”

Since Monday, my life had blurred into one where every minute ticked louder than usual. At the same time, I tried to do the normal things of eating and sleeping even if things weren’t really normal.

The ticking was about knowing that those minutes were the very last ones on earth for my father. Although I didn’t grasp every possible minute by maintaining a vigil, I never tired of telling him I loved him. But I was getting tired.

Tired of hearing him breathe, and waiting for the breathing to stop.

Was there a purpose to this time? It was one-way communication. My father couldn’t really move, nor speak. I certainly knew he loved me and without saying this negatively, my father often nagged me. I joked with him, and let him know that I wouldn’t forget all the things he nagged me about.

When I stopped biting my nails at the age of 51, it was a very happy moment for him. As a child, I still remember him promising me a dime for every nail I grew.

My son and I were talking to him, when his nurse came back in to check him. I moved over to allow her to get closer to my father.

Her words changed everything.

She said brightly, “He’s crying! Do you see it? There are tears coming from his eyes!”

Once again, I felt shock course though my entire body. She was right. My father, who was completely dehydrated, could still make tears.

This was huge. It meant that he could hear me – and my son. The revelation caused my emotions to swell to a state where I could feel my heart almost burst. I still had not really cried and the waves of emotion almost caused me to faint.

With that knowledge, every word counted even more.

Suddenly, my father moved his mouth to clamp down on the swab the nurse was using to wipe his mouth. It was obvious; he was thirsty and trying to suck on it. The nurse went to use another swab and he did the same thing.

My heart was breaking. My poor father was thirsty. I had been told that liquid would cause him to aspirate, and he could not swallow.

Doubt, like poison began to seep through me. Should he have been given water? Was this a painful death? Why was he crying?

Then my son said loudly, “Mom, he squeezed my hand!”

Both of us became more and more excited. He was able to communicate now by gripping my son’s fingers.

We began to ask him question after question. If his answer were yes, he would squeeze my son’s hand.

We asked him, “Are you in pain?” His hand was still.

Do you know how much we love you? My son yelped, “Mom, his fingers are really moving!”

Our last question as we walked into the cool nighttime air, was if it was ok for us to leave and come back in the morning.

I wondered if this was our final goodbye or whether I would see him the following day. I wasn’t sure.

But I felt inspired to write when I got home.

I had written my song “Set You Free” a year ago when my father’s decline truly began. I had no idea that the lyric line “our love remains with each tear” would play out this way.

Such are the mysteries that my songs hold for me.

–

I could not ignore another miracle that I witnessed today. My mother walks every morning. She broke her hip over a year ago and never had any surgery to repair it. She cannot grasp what is going on with my father due to her advanced dementia. I’ve decided to include her at the reception after the funeral, so she can see all of the family members.

© Judy Unger and http://www.myjourneysinsight.com 2012. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Judy Unger with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Tagged "sandwich generation", Aging Parents, dad dying, death, death from sepsis, death of my dad, death of my father, father dying, father's death, father's illness, grief, GRIEF RELATED, inspiration, loss, loss of a father, loss of my dad, lyric development, lyrics, morphine when dying, nursing home death, terminal patient | 1 Comment

YOU’RE HANGING ON

Posted on May 24, 2012 by Judy

Day 4

It was now four days since the death march for my father began. It started on Monday when he could not be awakened; it was now Thursday.

I was going through the motions of eating and sleeping, but I knew I was in that familiar “netherworld” of living through a life crisis. I remember my mother-in-law sharing with me that when Jason was sick; I behaved much as she had during her occasional manic episodes. My mother-in-law had bipolar disorder. She said, “I know what you are feeling; you have endless ideas and thoughts and are in a place of genius that never quits.”

I didn’t know about the genius part, but I understood what she meant. I had cut back on caffeine, but still felt like my mind was functioning at a fast pace. My heart was often racing.

I had stayed late with my father last night. My oldest son was with me; exhausted from his camping trip and the long drive home. He was energized to finally get the chance to speak to his grandpa. I was certain my father was delighted he was there.

As we left, my son promised he’d be back in the morning. I said my goodbye to my father.

Each time I left him, I hoped it would be our final goodbye.

9 a.m.

Now it was morning. I entered his room with dread; Miriam, my mother’s companion, came with me and was holding my hand.

Miriam kept wiping away her tears. She told me that she loved “Mr. Lee” (as she called my dad) more than I could imagine.

After sitting next to him for a few minutes, I decided I needed to do something. It made perfect sense. I could get started with the huge task ahead of me by sorting through the mess in his room.

My mother was napping, so Miriam was able to help me. Inside I laughed; I realized that if my father knew what I was doing, he would have a heart attack. Was I passively trying to hasten his death this way?

As I separated out the many items for the trash, I found it unbelievable what he chose to save.

There was a clipping about hiccups from a newspaper in 1950 and my son’s class schedule from years ago. There were many cards and photos. I enjoyed sharing them with Miriam; it sure helped having her there.

I had actually pictured this moment a long time ago.

–

This card from my mother made me laugh. I loved her p.s. “except for your junk,” I love you.

As I emptied more important papers into bags to take home, I said to Miriam, “Just imagine, these piles that I am cleaning here represent a fraction of what there is for me to clean at my parents’ empty apartment/coop. That place is filled with thousands of areas like this. Growing up, I was used to it. There was little room in my closet for anything. My clothes were relegated to a small corner.

My own home had a closet and whole area in the living room filled with his “stuff.”

—

An area in my living room specifically for my father.

I purposely did not clean that area. When my father went into skilled nursing, I didn’t know what to do with all the items from his cluster home. Every week when he came over, my father was filled with motivation. His eyes would light up and he would say, “Give me a bag or box to sort through! I am really going to help you clean this up.”

He would say that, but in the meantime, the pile never grew any smaller. I didn’t care. I learned, as I had with many things in my life, to simply let go. With my healing over the past two years, I’ve let go of many things because so many of my priorities changed. I let go of entertaining, cutting coupons, television, movies, car washes and anything that took up precious time I preferred to spend on my new passions.

My son took my picture as I rested my head close to my father. My dad always hated being touched. I wondered how he felt having me touch him now.

11 a.m.

His forehead felt like sandpaper. His breathing was fast, continuous, and raspy. I was certain he could hear everything going on around him.

I started to snap.

I asked the nursing staff to call the hospice department; I wanted to speak with someone. It bothered me that I could not be certain if my father was in pain or not. I wished I could know for sure. Imagining him being paralyzed in his dying body without even being able to scream in pain was not a helpful thought, however.

The chaplain arrived. We had a long discussion about pain management. I said, “Life can be brutal. For instance, there is natural childbirth. And then there are wonderful drugs that make the whole process bearable and make you want to fall to the ground and kiss the anesthesiologist who delivers that epidural. Modern medicine has wonderful things. But where is it now? Can my father die a peaceful death without suffering? Does he need to be aware of his death as he struggles to breathe?”

I could feel my voice tightening as I said; “The order is PRN – as needed. How do they know it’s needed? He can’t tell you. Why not JUST GIVE IT?”

The chaplain explained that no nurse wants to administer what might be the final dose. She told me that it was the reason for hospice to step in. I wondered where they were; I hadn’t seen anyone except if I asked them to come. She added, “It’s uncomfortable for the nursing home to deal with a situation of having a resident die without hospitalization and intervention.”

She pulled the covers down off my father’s feet. She explained that as death approached the circulation to the extremities slowed and toes would curl and turn blue. My father’s feet were warm and pink.

It was going to be a lot longer than I thought.

The chaplain shared an anecdote as we waited for the hospice nurse to arrive. She said, “There was a 103-year-old woman who was dying. This woman refused any and all medication, and had been that way her entire life. In the throes of dying, she adamantly insisted upon not being given anything. But she was screaming and hallucinating while dying.” The chaplain continued. “Because it was so upsetting for the other residents to hear her, morphine was eventually administered. She died immediately after that. It was as if the drug took the fight out of her and she that’s why she didn’t want it.”

The hospice nurse arrived. I told her exactly what I wanted and then I went home. The warrior in me had erupted. All my father’s orders were rewritten and now he would automatically be given Tylenol ever four hours and Morphine every two.

–

I wrote this last week.

I added this to my list today.

When I came home, I rested and showered and planned to go back soon. Writing was something that always helped me. Despite the real pressure I felt to write my father’s eulogy, I decided it would be more helpful for me to express my feelings and write for my blog instead.

This was how I was feeling.

I was angry.

If I wanted to, I could write a whole list of the things I was angry about:

I was angry with my father for leaving me with his horrendous amount of things to go through, because of his severe hoarding problem that did not allow him to throw anything away.

I was angry as I wondered why it was taking so long to get test results about my eyesight from almost a week ago.

I was angry that my husband and sons were home, and now I had to take care of their needs. After listening to my father snore to his death for hours, I could not bear to hear my husband snoring, so I napped in my youngest son’s room.

I was angry about conversations I had with friends who cared about me, but said things that brought me down.

I was angry about how my father was dying and I couldn’t be sure whether he was in pain or not. The hospice team I relied on were nowhere to be found and the morphine order was every eight hours or as needed. A nurse confided to me that it could be every four hours, instead. My father was running a high fever of 102 when I arrived and Tylenol was administered after I complained about it.

–

I emailed my doctor today. Clicking on this makes it larger.

–

“Appreciation”

Despite acknowledging that today I was angry, most of the time I was so grateful for all the wonderful care my dad had received at his nursing home. He was a demanding person, but never hesitated to express his appreciation when treated with dignity. I smiled at the CNA who came in to administer his Tylenol by suppository. This young man always treated him respectfully. He would say, “Yes, sir. What can I do for you, sir?”

Every time I was at my father’s beside, so many staff members came to hug me and pay their respects to my father. They were like one big family. I realized that this was truly now my father’s home and he was in the most comfortable place he could possibly be in. I was wistful because it was understood, that my father would die and then I would probably never have any connection with these people again.

But of course, there was still my mother.

–

I walked down the nursing room corridor and wondered whether I would look back and miss this place someday.

I doubted I would.

–

What my father wrote: (He already submitted this)

The basic unit of caregiving is the CNA. I depend on my CNA for almost every phase of my life. My daughter wanted to take me out for lunch once. I was not ready. Susheila made me ready. She emptied my catheter bag, dressed me to keep out the cold weather, quickly took care of life’s necessities, etc.

She is conscientious and caring, exactly what this facility needs.

–

Tagged "sandwich generation", Aging Parents, composing, creativity, death, father dying, father's illness, grief, inspiration, loss, nursing home care | 1 Comment

I NEED TO SET YOU FREE

Posted on May 23, 2012 by Judy

Story behind SET YOU FREE-PART 1

—

“It’s hard to let go”

Sometimes I ask myself, “What does my journey’s insight really mean?” Of course, that brings the memory of my father telling me how my blog’s title was grammatically incorrect. My father told me that only people can have insight, and journeys are not people. I like that memory; because I know it is the beginning of the many ways I will remember my father.

For me, it is about sharing every bit of insight I find as I navigate my life’s journey. I believe it was the process of opening up that ultimately healed me. Containing feelings is very unhealthy; but I do acknowledge that sometimes it has felt necessary for me personnally.

In order to help myself cope better, I am opening up to intimately share how it felt to watch my father die. I am not alone with this process, because it is universal. All of us are going to die some day. Much of our culture’s approach to death baffles me. We are kinder to our pets than to our elderly.

A few days before my father’s birthday, I asked him what he wished for. He said to me clearly, “You’re not going to like my answer, but I wish I were dead.” I let him know that although I indeed did not like it, I understood.

–

And so it was on my father’s birthday, that he received his wish when he was unable to be awakened. It was even a little mysterious that so many of the staff at my father’s nursing home found his demise baffling. He did not behave differently the days before his final birthday. On that morning, he simply snored and could not be roused.

I was asked (despite my father’s no hospitalization order) if I wanted a 911 call to be made. Without an invasive approach, I would not know what had actually happened. I preferred for my father to die peacefully; whether he had a stroke or sepsis was unimportant.

My father’s wish might have come true, but because he had a strong heart, his body continued to breathe and fight to stay alive.

Late last night, I rambled on to him in the darkness. I thought about his last message on my answering machine. He said simply, “I’m saying goodnight and wondering how your eye is.” He always worried about me. Oh, how I would miss having him there to care about me that way. The day before, I wondered if he might just awaken and this would all be a mistake. I wanted to think his snoring was just that, instead of the death rattle I knew it was.

I was certain he could hear me. Every time I brought up things that he wanted to respond to, his rasping snore became louder. When I ran out of things to say, I decided to sing to him. I was singing when one of his favorite nurses, Veronika, entered the room. She was crying and told me that she would never forget him. From the beginning of the death march, many caregivers approached me to share how they felt my father was wonderful man; all the beautiful words and hugs buoyed me. There were many, many people who loved my father. The last few months when I would drop him off at his facility, he would cry with joy when he had any of his favorite ones. His life revolved around who would be his caregiver for the night.

The process of watching him going from being an independent man to a helpless man, often filled me with despair. But eventually, he accepted it and so did I. It was harder with my mother because I hadn’t gone through seeing deterioration before. But my father remained my vestige of strength; I could always look to him for support. Eventually, that changed, especially during the times when he was continuously moaning.

The kind nurses in the room lifted my mood. We chatted about my father and the conversation became light. An older nurse said to the other, “Do you remember the lady who lived almost twenty days this way – no food or water?”

I didn’t like hearing that. I thought it would be five days, at most.

Then I heard Veronika interject how she knew my father hated drinking water. It made me laugh, because she was right. At every restaurant I had ever dined at with my dad, he insisted on not being given a glass of water. He did not want it to be wasted on him since he would not drink it. Veronika really knew my father!

I came home and it was peaceful and quiet. As I tried to sleep, I wondered if I would receive the dreaded phone call. In the afternoon, I received a call from the facility, and my heart was pounding. But the voice on the other end said she needed to inform me that my mother’s blood pressure medication would be raised.

I could not sleep. I listened to music and took in the magical elixir that allowed me to relax. But my heart kept pounding. I knew I was feeling that extra heart beat. I had never noticed it before, but now I did. My doctor told me it wasn’t dangerous, but I didn’t like it at all.

I prayed for the moment when my father’s heart would stop, because somehow I knew that after that my heart would be calm again. It would be my signpost that he was free.

Most of the time I was with him, I coached and begged him to let go. I wasn’t sure if he was able to voluntarily do that. But I told him it was okay and that he could be free from the prison of his body.

–

My original illustration of a fantasy butterfly which I changed coloration for to use for my song/story cover “Set You Free.”

The Death March

I wondered why I searched for an image to represent courage at my last hypnotherapy session. Had I known this was so imminent?

My image of a gray piece of granite blocking my vision held a lot of layers of meaning for me. Initially, it represented transformation by being a metamorphic rock. I certainly found the concept of allowing challenge to shape me into something stronger to be compelling.

Other thoughts began flowing into me. Perhaps the grayness of the rock represented other things, such as the reason my vision was obscured.

And then came another revelation. Gray was often a metaphor I used for grief. I have said that when I was grieving I did not see any color in the world.

I decided my rock was the image of impending grief for which I needed courage to face.

It was now the third day of the death march. I heard that my mother had babbled something about my father being dead to one of her grandchildren who visited. Perhaps she knew?

I wasn’t yet ready to face seeing my father on this third day of the death march. For the past three days, I had also been avoiding my mother. I brought in lunch to eat outside with my mother’s caregiver, Miriam, my mother and myself.

My brother and I had talked about how much better it was that we not upset our mother. She was mostly incoherent and it wouldn’t be helpful to give her grief over my father. My parents had been married over 61 years. Recently, she had even called him her “ex-husband” much of the time. As we finished our lunch in the beautiful sunshine, I felt rather impulsive when I told Miriam, “I want to let my mom say goodbye.”

Miriam said, “I have been wanting to ask you about this. So many people have told me it would be a good thing – but I respected whatever you decided.”

I said quietly, “I think it’s something I want to do for both of them.”

Together all three of us entered my father’s room. My mother hardly noticed my father. Just as he had the night before, he was prone on his bed snoring loudly. But it was clear that he was dying. My mother seemed pleased to be in the room and did not appear sad. She seemed to appreciate the dignity of not being left out. I asked her to say something to him and she babbled incoherently. The moment became sad, as I whispered to my father that she was there. It was clear my mother did not truly understand the situation.

She looked tired, so I said, “Mom, I want you to say goodbye to dad.” I put her hand in his. His hand was warm and limp. She held onto it for a while; then she said loudly, “Goodbye, honey.” Her goodbye was so clear and familiar. It was as if she was saying goodbye to him, expecting he might answer or she’d see him later on.

–

The moment caused tears to well inside me. But there were no tears I could release yet. They were waiting.

My mother left with Miriam. I sat alone at my father’s bedside. His throat muscles were completely visible now. The base of his neck bulged with a ball the size of a small apple. Taut veins were popping out from his skin with gullies on either side.

Every year around this time, I used to be filled with grief and sadness over the upcoming birthday for my deceased child, Jason. Memorial Day weekend was a reminder of all the wonderful birthday parties I used to make for him. He only had five of them, but the memory was always there.

I was not sad about Jason anymore. Healing was another blessing for me to hold on to.

So often, my father had wept to me about how he looked forward to seeing Jason in heaven. With that thought, I began coaching him. Firmly and gently I said, “Dad, please do this. You can leave the prison of your body. You are not alone. Jason is waiting for you. You can give me a sign and a beautiful gift if you would just let yourself go. I watched as his breathing slowed; I held my breath. But he continued rattling.

Over and over, I continued to beg him to go. I wished I could put a pillow over his face. Why was it like this? Why couldn’t he have died in his sleep on Monday morning?

I left him with my heart pounding in that funny rhythm. I knew my heart would be calm when his stopped. Of that I was certain.

–

I came home to write and prepared myself to go back in the evening with my oldest son after he returned home from his camping trip.

–

My father was waiting.

–

My father has always been a hoarder. I have begun to clean his room and take things home with me.

–

LINKS TO STORIES ABOUT MY FATHER:

–

#270 YOU WERE THERE – PART 2

#77 MY FATHER

#239 SET YOU FREE

#224 I ALWAYS KNEW THAT I HAD YOU

#240 I CRY AS YOU LEAVE

#246 TO SOMEWHERE UNKNOWN

#247 WHEREVER YOU ARE, MY LOVE WON’T BE FAR

#25 HEALING THE DAUGHTER’S HEART

–

—

SET YOU FREE

You’re hanging on as night turns to dawn

I know you can’t stay and soon you’ll be gone

we both know it’s hard to let go;

wherever you are my love won’t be far

your smile, your touch, your voice, your face;

your essence I will never replace

though I long for you to hold me; I need to set you free

There is no fear and your leaving is clear

we’ll still have our love; it remains with each tear

I cry as you leave, but I truly believe

as you leave my sight we’ll both be all right

your smile, your touch, your voice, your face;

your essence I will never replace

though I long for you to hold me; I need to set you free

though you have flown to somewhere unknown

we’re never apart ‘cause you’re here in my heart

your smile, your touch, your voice, your face;

your essence I will never replace

though I long for you to hold me; I need to set you free

Tagged "sandwich generation", acoustic guitar, Aging Parents, Caregiving, composing, dad's death, death, death of my dad, dementia, father's death, grief, GRIEF RELATED, guitar, Hypnotherapy, I long for you to hold me, I need to set you free, inspiration, Judy Unger, loss, loss of a father, loss of a parent, lovesong, lyric development, lyric writing, lyrics, mother's illness, Music, original songs, performing, Set you free, setting free, singing, songwriting, You're hanging on | 8 Comments

AS YOU LEAVE MY SIGHT

Posted on May 22, 2012 by Judy

Click on the blue link below to hear an excerpt from my voice lesson with Peaches Chrenko, yesterday:

BLOG EXCERPT 5-21-12 SET YOU FREE

EMAIL MESSAGES AND UPDATES (my words are in blue):

WEDNESDAY, MAY 23, 2012

Was with my dad until almost midnight. He was snoring/breathing very loudly. It got louder when I talked to him, so I know he could hear me. It was the first time I was able to be alone with him – although I guess my talking/singing probably woke his poor roommate up. I remember how it was for my mom when her roommate(s) died (more than one). Yesterday, the man who shares his room offered my brother, Norm and I chocolates – boy was that a comfort!

The most beautiful moment was when I was singing to him. One of his favorite nurses, Veronika (whom I shared a picture of recently), came in crying and stayed with me for a long time. She told me his dying was affecting her deeply; she was the only nurse he allowed to shave him (I’m sure she must have been extremely gentle). Then I was touched when she told me she had read my blog and that meant a lot to me.

This dying process is a mystery. I coached him and begged him to just take his last breath. I knew he could hear me, because his snoring became much louder when I talked. I am not camping at his bedside because I am trying to stay in a place of functioning. One nurse told me that there was a woman who lived this way (no water, nothing) for 18 days.

I think my father is hoping to see my oldest son, who is coming home tonight from a camping trip.

As far as my eyesight goes, it wavers. Unfortunately, because I’m very near sighted with a huge prescription, I don’t notice many of the changes. My one eye seems to compensate well. I need to see my optometrist again to see what to do about the glasses that I ordered, which will have to be redone. But this will all have to wait. Yesterday I saw my doctor, and I need to have lab work done when I get a moment.

The palpitations I’m feeling are bothering me, but I know they are clearly a result of stress. I have cut back on coffee. At the forefront of my mind is my father’s eulogy, which I am writing in my mind wherever I am. But I listen to my music and comfort spreads throughout my body. I am thankful for the blessing I was given to help me through.

Love, Jude

TEXT MESSAGES FROM MY OLDEST SON WHO IS ON A FIVE DAY CAMPING TRIP.

Let grandpa know I am coming to visit him tomorrow night and the following morning

I wish I were there so bad right now. It’s so painful right now. Glad I have your support. Hate having to keep a straight face here.

I want to be there so badly. Thanks for letting him know for me.

Tell him I will take good care of his stuff and that I’ll search under the dresser in the game closet.

Let him know I am standing up straight and not chewing on ice. That I am in college for a general education.

Let him know I am driving home tomorrow morning and I’ll visit him right away.

I stayed last night late. I begged grandpa to let go, but he’s hanging on. Your messages were so beautiful & I read them 2 him. I know he heard them. Can I share your messages? I am writing a lot because it helps me. I love u. be safe coming home.

You can share my messages. Whatever helps you. Can’t wait to get home. I’ll drive safely. Love you, too, mom.

MESSAGE FROM MY FORMER ART TEACHER AND DEAR FRIEND, NANCY:

I am reading your feelings wondering if perhaps they aren’t prophetic as I watch my own parents decline. Yes, the dying process is fascinating. Difficult as it is, it is a remarkable privilege to share in the very intimate end of someone’s journey on this earth. We will never know until we die if it isn’t THE most intimate moment of our lives….the end. I liken it to being born. I wonder if your dad is simply moving through the birth canal toward his new life. And you are helping him, guiding him to that beautiful new place at the end of this journey. Someday we will know ourselves and hopefully we will have a helper as loving and compassionate as you.

They help us enter– and we help them move on. I wonder who was on the other side when we were being born. Do all people imagine such things or is it only that I am an artist. Hahaha!

You are soooo important to your parents and to all of us. Yes, your dad knows and he won’t forget, even as he moves on.

As far as your own health is concerned…. Judy, we both know first hand what emotions can do to our bodies. Please allow that awareness to guide the choices you make for your own well being.

I love you Judy!

Nano

XXX

TUESDAY, MAY 22, 2012

Judy, my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. I remember your dad being so patient with me when he tutored me in math. (Not my best subject) He couldn’t have asked for a better daughter.

I think of all I’ve gone through with both my parents the last five years. It’s been hard, but I am grateful for all that I was able to do for them. I have a blog, where I’ve shared a lot about that journey. I hope to help others by maintaining my positive attitude.

I’m just amazed at the way you are handling this moment in life even though I know it is so very hard. YOU, Judy, are a courageous person. I imagine your father lovingly sharing with you that beautiful inheritance as you walk with him through this door. You are surrounded by a million people who love and support you, even from afar.

I have colitis symptoms, so I wish I were handling it better. Our body exhibits what our mind doesn’t allow. I am off to visit my father for a while, and then I am going to do music. That will help me.

Judy, my prayers are with your father and for you and your family. How is your mother doing?

My mom has no idea. She is in her own world and cannot hear, nor communicate coherently anymore. That is a blessing at this time, I think. But I’m sad, because she is gone from me, too. I miss them both.

Judy, I’ve been thinking how your mom’s dementia is a blessing for her. She will not suffer her husband’s loss. It must be very difficult suffering the loss of both parents at the same time. How lucky you’ve been to have had such a wonderful relationship with both of them for so many years!

Thank you for your message. I am hoping it’s getting closer. I just came back from visiting him. His breathing is more labored, but it sounds like he’s just snoring. I pray it is over soon. I wish he were a pet that I could just give a shot to. It’s horrible to watch.

Oh Judy, I’m so sad to read your email. If your Dad made his wishes clear to you, then you are doing the most loving thing you can for him by not prolonging his suffering. Be strong and remember that. You are as always so far evolved from anyone else I know. Keep that clarity. I am so thankful that your mom is missing this and that you and the brothers are all on same page. I’m still religious, or spiritual, enough to believe there is purpose in transition, five days to disassociate from the machines and interventions of modern medicine. As long as your dad is not in pain, so be it for his sake and yours.

Thanks so much for your loving message. Each medical situation I’ve faced has been so difficult and required a lot of consideration about what my parents’ wishes were. My mother was a fighter. I was amazed how she pulled out of her ordeal on a respirator. Her broken hip was another situation altogether.

My health is not good. Although I am emotional and clear about my feelings, my body is telling me things. I wish I knew what I could do to feel better. I am trying to do all those things. No word yet on the eye tests I had. This is on top of everything! But thankfully, I feel calm because of my music.

Love, Judy

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