A Man in His Ocean…Drowning

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Photo Taken In Feb 2012

Walk into the hospital room and see Papa sitting on the edge of his bed with the lunch tray still in front of him. The pudding, ice cream and jello containers are empty. Sugar packets lay torn and scattered near his half full coffee mug. The salad sits untouched. 

“Rajdeep, you came?”
“Hi Papa. How are you?”
“Good. Good. Fine. I feel fine. Can you take me home now?”
“Not until the doctor says you’re okay to leave.”
“I feel fine. Good. I can go now.”
“Sorry Papa. I have to wait until the doctor says it’s okay.”

“Can you go and call the doctor then? Call him right away.” Papa is tugging at his I.V. as if it’s a chain. 
The nurse’s aid and his wife take turns giving him directions:

“Don’t pull it out.”
“Sit down.”
“You can’t leave yet.”
“We have to wait for the doctor.”
“Sit back down.”
“Stop pulling at your I.V.”
“Stay seated.”
“Raj.” Papa stands and then sits back down again. “Call him right away. I want the doctor to come right away.” 
“Okay.” I step out into the hallway and slowly make my way down the nurse’s station. The paintings on the walls are all scenes of fields and forests. Sunrises and oceans. Freedom. But they’re inside—like windows for patients only allowed to stroll the hallways. 

“Excuse me.” Everyone behind the counter is on the phone or looking through charts. Not even sure who I should interrupt. “But my father-in-law is getting kind of anxious. Does someone want to check on him?”
“Sure.” A woman in dark blue scrubs looks up from her binder. “Someone will come by in a little bit.”
I walk back, not ready to return inside. It’s been a whirlwind ever since Thursday night, and I need a moment. When I think about it, the first tornado came through our family exactly a year ago when we got a phone call while camping in the Black Hills of South Dakota. Had to shorten our vacation to face the crisis none of us ever saw coming. An aging parent with progressive dementia causing him to make very poor decisions. Decisions too sad to even write down. Sigh.
Come to find out this past year that Papa very likely has Alzheimer’s. This definitely explains his progression, or rather regression, both mentally and physically. It’s difficult enough for adult siblings to agree on how to take care of their aging parents, but throw in a disease like Alzheimer’s into the equation and the cards on the table all fall off. It’s time to start over. And rethink every part of the plan. This is not as simple as, “Hey, let’s go with Plan B or even Plan C, D, or E.” More like—throw out the blueprints. The rules of the game have changed. In fact, it’s a whole new game altogether. And not the kind of game any of us ever signed up for.
But we’re here now. At the crossroads of time and duty, disappointment and forgiveness. And we all have to choose how each of us will walk from this point forward. No one ever said life is fair, so please, let’s not get into a debate over things that we cannot control or change. Been there. Done that. It’s a waste of time. Time none of us has right now. 
“Excuse me miss,” A burly guy wearing a Hospital I.D. badge sees me pacing outside Papa’s room. “Whatever it is, [his eyes point toward the inside of Papa’s room,] remember that you woke up today.”
“Okay.” I smile. “You’re right.” Big sigh.
Not like the guy said anything in particular to turn on a light bulb, but something about his voice or the look of confidence in his eyes gave me courage and resolve that I didn’t know I needed. I smiled again after saying, “Thanks,” and made my way back into Papa’s room.
“Papa.” 
“Yes Raj. Did you find the doctor? What did he say? Is he coming now? Can I leave now?” Papa’s questions keep coming.
“Papa.” I move to put my hand on his shoulder. I reconsider and simply put my hand by my side. “Can I pray for you?”
“Yes Raj. Pray. That’s a gggg-good idea.”

I can’t lie—I don’t have anything to give right now. From an empty well, that’s how my heart feels today—God helps me to love this man enough to pray for him. My second dad. Papa.
I pray for less than a minute. With raised arms of surrender inside my heart, I tell God that this is so much bigger than all of us. That I, that we, do not have the answers for Papa and where his sickness has brought him. And he needs peace to calm his anxious heart, a peace that no doctor can create. And right there and then God, visits us in the midst of the madness and brings a peace that seems oddly out of place. And I brush my tears away as I barely manage to say, “Amen.” Because only God can do a thing like that. 
Soon after, Papa is carrying on like his old self. Joking. Making rhymes out of every other word spoken. 
“Are you joking?” Mama [his wife] asks. She is laughing now too. We’re all laughing. 
“Joking?” Papa says. “Sometimes the food makes me start choking.”
“What are you thinking?” Mama asks, still giggling.
“Thinking?” Papa repeats. “I’m not thinking. I’m blinking.” 
More laughter. Even the nurse’s aid is laughing with us now.
I’m laughing too. But Inside, I cannot help but weep. Because Papa, your next rhyme isn’t so funny.
“I’m sinking,” Papa says. 
But he’s still laughing, his childlike grin wide and his sunken eyes distant, like he’s back there. Looking over his ocean. Except this time, he’s drowning. And he’s flailing. But from the outside, it appears as if he’s just playing in the water. The spilled days of this past year. Days that are not so simple as milk that can be wiped up.  
I’m so sorry that you’re sinking Papa. It’s been a long, hard swim. Especially for Mama, my second mom. 

We may enter this life alone. But we were never meant to live this life alone. 
It’s time to get out of the water. And ask for help. That’s why we’re here Papa. We need help.
And I’m asking. Before we all sink. 
—-
*What has your journey been like, taking care of an elderly loved one? Share in the comments or email me. I love to hear other’s stories.
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5 thoughts on “A Man in His Ocean…Drowning”

  1. Pingback: Fare Thee Well 2012 … Hello ’13! | In Search of Waterfalls

  5. Hi Raj!
    This is the first of your many wonderful stories that I just read!
    Your words create a lucid vision and I can imagine myself being there with all of you. I got to admit, definitely got teary-eyed towards the end but like you said, we cannot control what is beyond our reach. Only prayers can help us overcome our heart’s grief and give us new hope, a new day and a positive vibe.

    Thank you for your inspirational wisdom. I love to read refreshing and thought provoking stories about everyday life.

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