So about last December - My Father's decline and committing to a facility

(In a sense of frustration and stupidity, I had begun drafting a story behind my trips back to Canada last year in November and December - only to have typed half of it and then losing it when I tried splitting it into separate posts. What follows below is Part 2 of the overall story, with other posts to follow.)

 

 

Time passed on, and we all got older. And so it was with my Father - except his condition and state continued to decline further and further. The COVID-19 pandemic sealed his fate, and he was never quite the same. The only differences were the declining. It was fairly noticeable with each subsequent phone call/conversation. He spoke less words, and over time spoke less. Eventually he stopped really speaking altogether.   

 

Around this time, I had begun asking my Mother about whether it made sense to commit my Father to a long-care facility. She had reservations. Among them were of course the commitment she made to him when they married some 50+ years ago. In her mind, putting him in one of those places was a form of abandonment or a rejection of their life - like a betrayal of sorts. Granted this was tied into her and my Father's religious beliefs and all that. Which I understood - to a point. There were also some logistical issues - the wait times to placing someone in that type of care and all the legal and paperwork dragged things on and on. In a very twisted and warped sense, you literally had to wait for someone in one of those places to die before someone else can get in. It's certainly a racket of sorts.

It's both a strange and scary feeling to know someone (especially more so knowing it's a parent) and watch them slowly disappear, even though they are still physically alive. All that my Father was - his mind - was slowly but surely dying off. There was nothing that could be done. Soon people were helping him get dressed or helping him eat. Then helping him get from one part of the house to another. Then from one room to another. Eventually he would become a complete invalid. My Mother needed (and hired) someone to come in and support taking care of him. For awhile the woman she hired truly helped my Father because she was kind and would form a sort of bond. But then she got sick and had to take some time off (she had of course her own family to take care of, and eventually she took a better-paying job). That was the final blow I think. I still vividly recall speaking to my Mother on a regular basis, and I would tell her that the time to commit him was coming. Both my siblings of course were there are now-regular basis, and were pretty much telling her the same things. Finally in October of last year, some 'openings' came up in a couple of different places close to home. My Mother began the process in two places. Eventually it was finalized in one, and my Mother began the prep work to move my Father over to a facility about 25 minutes drive from his house.

All of this was to take place last week of November, and I flew up to help support my Mother in the process. I arrived in the late evening, and my older brother was at the airport to take me to the house.

During the ride there, I asked my brother how things were at the house, and he said it was fairly tense. Our Mother was under a lot of stress and that this was going to be a difficult time.

It was a very strange set of feelings seeing my Father the night I arrived at the house. My Mother had taken to sleeping in the living room which was not too far from the family room, where a hospital bed has been set up for my Father to rest in.When I arrived in the house, it was dark. Everywhere I looked, everything I saw, even everything I smelled, were in large part a reminder of various aspects of the past. Pictures, trinkets, furniture. Even the smells of certain foods - all of it reminded me of my childhood, my teenage years, various events and memories - it would come back, and often times in waves. This would have implications later on, but I'll get back to that later.

 

When I arrived at my Mother's bedside, she awoke and was in tears - I think mostly from not literally seeing me for several years prior. But she smiled and said she was so glad I was there. And I was. She asked if I wanted to see my Father. I told her I would, but only if it would not be disruptive to him resting.

When we went in, she drew the sheet and I saw him. I actually didn't think he looked as bad as I had anticipated. He was older and thinner for sure, and gaunt. But he still looked as I had seen and knew him the past few years. In typical Mother-fashion, she asked me if I wanted to eat something (I respectively declined). We talked about the timeline of events and the sequence, and I asked if she needed me to stay up and keep watch. She said it wasn't necessary at this point because he was mostly quiet at night.

The next day was somewhat of a different story. Seeing and supporting my Father being cleansed, dressed, and not really eating much of anything - was distressing for sure. Perhaps ironically - because he wasn't really eating, he wasn't that difficult to clean and dress. He wasn't at the point where he needed to be bathed because it was too difficult to take him to and from a bathroom with a tub. So my Mother and I took to lots off wipes and lotions (the smell of the particular lotion is something I'll forever equate with death), 

 

All the while, he had a look of complete bewilderment; he didn't seem to recognize me at all. Indeed apart from my Mother, he didn't really seem to know anyone or be aware of anything going on. The pupils of his eyes had lost their dark brown color, and were more a light grey. Indeed, at times it seemed he looked upon me with suspicion (as in, 'Who the fuck is this guy?').

 

It's a weird feeling seeing someone I've literally know my entire life, and not have them know who I was at all. It made me wonder about all the life decisions and actions he had undertaken and how both he and I were now at this point in each of our lives.

But it was apparent to me in that time, that a big part of his slowly wasting away was the reality that he wasn't eating. This certainly sped the decline up more and more so. My Mother explained that part of this was a recent respiratory infection and related issues. He ended up having a lot of phloem in his system and he was unable to cough it up. As a result, his throat was all swollen and messed up, and he wasn't able to eat or swallow food. My Mother had thought of having a food tube to be setup, but her concern was because he could still move his arms and hands, that he might inadvertently pull it out.

All of this made it apparent to me that unless some degree of nourishment were given to him, it was simply a matter of time before his body would expire; regardless of what care was given, or where it took place.

At one point I had asked if it'd be simpler to take him to a hospital where they can provide such treatment, but my Mother was adamant that he not go there. It wasn't out the realm of unreasonableness; after all she had been a hospital nurse, and she was aware of all the issues in Canadian hospital and care facilities around patients contracting COVID-19 (among other things). So as a result, that wasn't an option.

The day finally arrived and a facility van arrived with a wheelchair and equipment to transport my Father.

It was surreal. People that my Mother knew (whom I didn't) would stop by and take pictures of him and with him. I thought it was disrespectful at best, and outright ghoulish at worst, but I wasn't really one to object that much. Indeed when it was time for my Father to be loaded into the van, I helped take a picture of him. It was surreal to be part of all of this. I could've objected, but I had made a commitment to myself that I was there for him and for my Mother, and that I wasn't going to cause a scene or drama. And, if that meant swallowing my tongue for things I could be later called a hypocrite on, so be it.

My Mother and I traveled in the van with my Father. All the while he still had on this blank/checked-out look on his face.

When we arrived at the facility, the whole place looked and reeked of death in the making. All the patients looked like they didn't want to be there (neither did the staff). Indeed, some of them looked like they were going to die right then and there. One in particular - who had some mental health issues - kept this repeated howling, which echoed in the floor my Father's room was on. Perhaps she wasn't unhappy to be there. Perhaps a part of her was dying too.

 

But most everyone we saw were polite in a 'I don't really give a fuck about you, but I'll stay silent' sort of way. My Mother and the administrator went through the check-in process and the associated paperwork.

 

Eventually we made our way to his assigned room. We placed his clothes and other associated items in the various dressers and closets, while the facility attendants placed him in the room's bed. It was surreal. Other staff brought in meals for him to eat, but he wouldn't. They tried, as did my Mother, but none of it worked. This was around lunchtime, and the same would result closer to dinnertime. This wasn't a good sign. They even brought in a specialist - someone who'd worked wonders with some of the other patients, but as before, my Father wouldn't eat.

When it was time for my Mother and I to leave, my Father gave her a look that I swear she saw as betrayal. As if this was his way to of expressing some sort of anger at the situation and everything going on.

When we got home - my Mother and I and my siblings toasted my Father over dinner. It was a sad moment for sure. I was certainly upset at the facility for not taking better care of that clearly messed up woman. My mother got upset what she was as me mocking this women, but she missed the point. The point was my Father was stuck there and would have to listen to that for the rest of his remaining days.

Eventually I went back the next day on an early flight. I remember telling my brother about what I observed about my Father not eating and quipping, 'if nothing changes, I suspect I'll be back here very soon'. 

Later I had not recalled even saying that, and little would I know about a time where I'd be right.