MOST THINGS CONSIDERED
By:Minx McCloud
Mom suffered a stroke in October 1999 and recently broke her hip. She was in a nursing home, but against the doctor’s advice, Dad brought her home in October.
He tries to care for her with the help of a live-in companion, whom he really doesn’t trust, because she is untrained. So every time my dad goes out, he bundles up my mother and leaves her in the car with the companion while he shops (or whatever).
The doctor told me Dad is putting my mother at risk, but he can’t get through to Dad and he can’t force him to put my mother back in the nursing home. He cannot even get my dad in for a physical, which is very bad since Dad had quintuple bypass surgery last year and his own health is precarious.
Dad had spent the entire week preparing all the traditional Thanksgiving foods, in spite of my begging him to just keep it simple.
He was exhausted when we arrived. His face was drained of color, his hair was mussed and he had forgotten to shave. With a shock, I realized that I now had an incompetent 79-year-old father caring for a helpless 83-year-old mother. And they live 3½ hours away from me, the only child.
While Dad was preparing dinner, he suddenly became obsessed with the toilet. Apparently, the girl, as he calls the companion, had flushed something inappropriate down the toilet a few days before. Why this situation had to be addressed an hour before Thanksgiving dinner when there was no apparent drainage problem was anybody’s guess.
The doctor later told me this was another example of the short circuit in my dad’s brain, resulting in loopy behavior. Don’t you love medical jargon? And if I try to offer any advice whatsoever, Dad tells me to get off my high horse, a favorite phrase of his.
My cousin Rob and his wife, Kristen, arrived at noon. I had coordinated the menu with Dad (I thought) and had reminded him that I would be bringing homemade apple and pumpkin pies. I told him this four times, because last year, he bought Mrs. Smith’s pies even though I was baking.
Kristen showed up with two small cakes.
Your father told me to bring something sweet, she said apologetically when she saw the stricken look on my face. I had told her to bring a green vegetable, but she had made the mistake of calling my dad.
A diabetic, my father suffers from nerve damage because of his love of sweets. The kitchen is filled with Hershey bars, cookies and other delectables. Every day, he bakes a small banana cake, which is gone the next morning.
My father sliced Kristen’s cakes and put them out as snacks before dinner. Then, he thawed some homemade babka from the freezer and put that out too. He nagged until everyone agreed to try just one piece.
Naturally, everyone was so sugared up after dinner, they weren’t in the mood for my homemade pies. Tears stung my eyes, but I bit my lip to keep from saying anything.
My husband and cousins, feeling sorry for me, each had a sliver of pie. My father cut a piece of banana cake for himself and for my mom.
Don’t worry about the pie, my father said breezily. The girl will eat it. She eats anything.
Ouch. Thanks, Dad.
At one point, he insisted a 13-pound turkey (unstuffed) stay in the oven for almost five hours, because your mother always roasted it for five hours. I tried to explain that back then, we roasted an 10-pounder, stuffed, but he insisted on doing it the way Mom did. We choked down dry meat in silence.
He cooked the stuffing outside of the turkey so it would be less fatty, but misjudged and only used eight slices of bread for six people.
He insisted on putting a dish that was a family heirloom in the microwave, in spite of my warning him it would crack.
Get off your high horse, he said angrily.
The family heirloom is no more.
I called up my father the day after Thanksgiving and he is not speaking to me. None of us have any idea why, since I was the model of self-control.
My cousin told me Dad has conjured up an incident that never happened. She tried to explain to him that he must have had a bad dream, but he won’t listen.
He says the doctor called up on Thanksgiving Day and told him I m trying to have him committed. Never happened. So how do I cope with bad dreams? Every time I call him, he hangs up on me.
Christmas has always been my favorite holiday, but I just can’t bear another family gathering, even though it may be our last. I’d cancel it if I could.
I’m searching for a support group, but it’s difficult. There are groups for Alzheimer’s disease, or for caregivers, or for those whose elderly parents live with them, but there aren’t many groups for children who are too far away to intervene and would not be allowed to help out even if they lived closer.
My dad is the victim of stubborn pride and denial regarding my mother’s condition, and there is not one person medical and non-medical who has observed him who does not agree that he is, however well-intentioned and loving, killing my mother.
They just don’t know what to do about it.
Minx McCloud is a free-lance journalist who writes about life in New Jersey. She can be reached at mccloudnj@thethinker.com.
Last week’s column:
Stamp out litterbugs before they ruin everything