Loss

I spent most of last week fretting about my father-in-law, living (and dying) up in Jacksonville, IL. The hospice care team determined he could no longer live at home without 24-hour care, and had him all set to go to a local nursing home--then he heard the price and balked. There were many frantic emails and phone calls, and both Bill and I sent him emails trying to convince him that the nursing home at $150/day was better than paying someone $12/hour to be with him 24/7 ($288). His only other option was Jefferson Barracks Palliative Care down in St. Louis, which was free, but far away from any friends or his hospice team.

So, I boarded the dog, put myself in the car, and drove 600 miles. I was the tough cookie--I was the one who "incarcerated" him. I was the one to tell him that he was not going back to the apartment. I was the one who told him I was taking his checkbook, rummaging through his apartment and his belongings, selling his cars, taking away the last vestiges of his freedom.

He was pretty pissed, to say the least.

Friday, I took my Power of Attorney to the bank, got signed on all his accounts; met with the hospice nurse and social worker; called the TV and Lifeline people and got those services cancelled, packed up the TV receiver and returned the Lifeline ("help, I've fallen and can't get up) to the hospital; cleaned out his kitchen cabinets and took the food to Grace Methodist Church; met with the nursing home administrator (who went to high school with Bill) and arranged for us to take over the billing. I inventoried everything in his apartment and sent lists to Bill and Carolyn via email; cleaned out the refrigerator; started sorting through papers.

During my cleaning phase, I started finding $20 bills tucked in boxes of grits, taped to the underside of dresser drawers, stuck in the baseboards in the back of closets--things slowed down. The fact that he stashed money in odd places now meant I had to go through EVERYTHING. Every canister of oatmeal, every cereal box, every piece of junk mail in an envelope. Then I found the laundry basket in the closet filled with THOUSANDS of coins. I rolled coinage, to the tune of almost $400. I found a pie crust with a sell-by date of January, 1989. Really. (By the way, it looked fine. I would suggest that no one ever eat a pre-made graham cracker crust ever again).

Note to seniors: Do NOT do this, please.

I loaded my Hyundai (now known as the MusicMobile) with 14 accordions, 2 guitars, 1 banjo, 1 violin, all the coins, unpaid bills, keys to all the vehicles (he has 5), checkbook, signature stamp, paper goods, gifts we gave him that he never used, and some tools.

All the while, I was going to the nursing home and trying to cheer up Dad. I kept thinking how awful I'd feel, if this were being "done" to me. I felt downright disrespectful, tearing through his home and possessions. He has been through so much already. His tumor has turned his face into Elephant Man proportions. He cannot speak, because the bandages to absorb the drainage cover his neck--he can no longer use his artificial larnyx. His hands and feet are numb from the chemo. His wife is gone; she died in 2009. He is almost deaf. And now, the cancer is in his brain. He gets confused.

So much of aging (and dying) is about loss. Loss of mental and physical capabilities. Loss of loved ones. Loss of control over your own destiny and wishes. I'd be pissed too.

My September will be about vacating his apartment, packing away things he might need if he lasts through the fall and winter, selling all the sad junk in his apartment. There is very little to show for a lifetime in terms of material valuables. The musical instruments are his only legacy worth much at all. The rest is mostly sheets and towels that are 30 years old, boxes of photos that his decendents will wonder about (because they are not labelled), cheap particle board furniture, sagging chairs and sofas, and ugly lighting fixtures.

It is all so very sad.