The Dead Still Have Footprints

I haven’t blogged in three days.

Things keep improving for me. The truly unpleasant stage of grief is behind me. Every so often, something brings a little bit of the grief back. Today I had to cancel my dad’s cell phone account, for example. I had been reluctant to do that. Of course, it was a hassle. Canceling any kind of account is a hassle. They never let you cancel without the customer retention speech. Today the customer rep asked me why I wanted to cancel, and I came up with a brilliant response. In a cheerful voice, I said, “I just want to cancel.” He couldn’t counter that. If he had asked me for details, I would have said, “Well, I have to cancel.”

Little things keep reminding me how difficult caring for my dad was. The actual tasks usually weren’t that hard, but the weight of the responsibility was tremendous.

A short while ago, I drove past a strip mall. It has some sort of operation where seniors go for day care, if I understand the sign correctly. I used to drive past it with my dad, and I would wonder if I should be dropping him at a place like that a few times a week. I never did it. I thought he would find it insulting, and I knew the people would be from a different social class. Maybe I was wrong. Anyway, I don’t think about things like that much any more. They used to weigh on my mind constantly. “Am I doing the right things?” “Am I choosing not to do this because it’s a bad idea, or is it because it will be troublesome for me and expensive?” “When I choose not to act on his complaints, is it because they don’t make sense, or because acting on them would be impractical, or is it mostly to save me aggravation?”

I always wondered if I was doing the right things for him. I also wondered whether I was doing right by myself. It was hard to be sure.

Driving is completely different now. I don’t have my dad’s strange input in my ear. He used to sit beside me and ask me questions. One of the things he asked me about involved the cars we passed. He hated the way people drove with their headlights on in the daytime; it got under his skin for some reason. He would ask me why people had their headlights on, and I would say it was for safety. Then he would start listing his objections, and I would say, “Remember, it wasn’t my idea.” We must have had that conversation more than a hundred times.

While we rode in the car, I tried to talk to him enough to be thoughtful and patient, but not enough to drive myself crazy. Sometimes I realized I was only talking to him when absolutely necessary, and I would try to engage him in order to make up for it.

At some point in 2017, he started asking me to come up with good topics for conversation. He did this mainly in restaurants, while waiting for the food to arrive. I guess the dementia made it hard for him to think of things to talk about. He came to hold me responsible for entertaining him. Trying to cooperate, I would bring things up, and he would dismiss them in a crabby and condescending way. That discouraged me from talking. I realized I couldn’t do what he was asking, because there was no topic that would satisfy him. No matter what I brought up, he would end the conversation quickly.

Every minute I spent with him was work. There was no way to relax or look after myself.

He always paid for lunch. You would think that would be a blessing, but I had to help him to the door. I had to help him sit down and stand up. I had to order for him. If he went to the bathroom, I had to go check on him and hope nothing bad happened. I had to entertain him. Also, his table manners were a problem.

Today, as I drove past the strip mall and the humble day care place, I thought of these things, and I saw how much my life had improved. I was driving home from the grocery, and all I had to think about was getting myself home.

“Humble” is a word that should resonate with all caregivers. The world of seniors who need help is very humbling. They go from performing surgery and writing musical scores to activities like making holiday cards for their loved ones out of glue and construction paper. The whole process is humbling. Very painful to watch.

I have one of those cards. Valentine’s Day. I can’t decide whether I should keep it. Did it mean anything to him when he made it? I doubt it, but I will never know. Maybe he was just following directions to keep the staffers at the ALF happy, or maybe he was thinking about his love for his children.

It was in a drawer in his nightstand when he died, and he had spilled a glass of water on the nightstand, so the card is not in good shape. Did he put it in a drawer because it meant something to him, or did a staffer do it to get it out of the way? No idea.

Of course, when I talk about the stress I used to feel when I was with my dad, I’m thinking of the pre-assisted-living days, before God altered his personality. Once he changed, I looked forward to seeing him. I did limit the time I spent at the ALF, because once I hit two hours, I wanted rest, but I was grateful to be there, and it was very rewarding.

He was wonderful after he changed, but I didn’t drive him much after that, so when I drive, I think about the way he was before he changed, and that makes me recall the stress.

Sometimes I still feel sorry for him, because he was so helpless and dependent, but I keep reminding myself that he’s nothing like that now. I’m feeling sorry for someone who no longer exists and will never exist again. My dad is with Jesus, and he is young and healthy. He doesn’t forget things. He doesn’t fall down. He can’t be sick. He can’t have an injury. He’s full of love, and he is surrounded by love. He’s doing much, much better than I ever have. He must be so happy to be there. My mother must have been beside herself when he appeared to her.

It’s crazy to feel sorry for either of them. I’m the one who still has problems!

Why do we feel sorry for dead people we know are with Jesus? I would trade places in a heartbeat, but the feeling of pity still comes back to me sometimes.

Maybe I made serious mistakes. Maybe I was a jerk sometimes. It’s hard to judge myself accurately. But does it matter? He was content with me, and we were perfectly reconciled when he died. I told him how much I loved him, and I said he was a great dad. I told him he owed me nothing. I made sure he knew there was nothing between us but love. Then he left this cursed world and all of its problems behind. Now no mistake I made matters. He made it! After 87 years of steady work, Satan lost! What does my dad care about what happened on earth? None of that stuff can touch him.

I hate Miami so much I can’t describe it. I’m so glad I left that place. If someone came to me today and said, for example, that one of the major highways there had sunk into the earth, and that traffic in the area would be unbearable for at least three years, it would mean very little to me, because I stay out of Miami. It would be like hearing about a crop blight in Cambodia. I doubt people in heaven sit around stewing about trivial things that happened here on earth.

I suppose it will take me a couple of months to heal, internally. I don’t mean I won’t be happy until then. I’m very happy now. I just mean I need to get over the internal reactions I developed in response to a heavy burden, and I need to stop re-evaluating my performance as a caregiver. Other people will need my help down here. I will apply the lessons I learned from caring for my dad, and I will try not to make mistakes with them.

I forgive myself. What else can I do?

I’m just starting to understand that I can relax. I don’t have to be all over the probate stuff. Nothing has to be resolved this very minute. It doesn’t matter if I take a couple of months or even a year to get it done. No one cares. Virtually everything belongs to me already, there are no other heirs, and there are no significant debts.

I used to be concerned about spending my dad’s cash too freely, because he had money tied up in some properties we needed to dump, and I was reluctant to invade certain accounts. I no longer have to think about conserving my dad’s cash, because everything is mine now. There is no difference between “his money” and “my money,” so I can spend what needs to be spent, without thinking about loans or the threat of unexpected bills for new care.

I can take some time and get my property in order. I’m fixing the yard. I finally got my big chainsaw fixed, so I can move the remaining downed trees that cause problems. I can get the house pressure-cleaned. I bought a harrow, and I used it to dislodge the horrible oak leaves that are ruining the yard. I’ve been picking them up with a yard sweeper and dumping them in the woods. Pretty soon, the grass should start looking like a lawn again.

I have fewer cares. I just need to make my heart understand that.

The other day God gave me this phrase: “Thank you for freeing me from my dad.” That may sound disturbing, but God is always right, and I don’t apologize for anything he says. My dad, the new Christian who was bursting with love, was absolutely wonderful, and I was extremely blessed to have him, but our situation was unsustainable. He couldn’t stay, and I couldn’t keep caring for him, even with the help of the ALF staff. He had to go so I could live. He didn’t give too much up. God had already perfected our relationship, and my dad’s body was beyond help. It was time to leave this life and be born into a new one.

When I put it that way, I almost feel jealous.

These days, I feel my dad’s absence when I pray in the morning. I pray for this one and that one–people I keep on a list–and after that, there’s a hole in my prayers. I used to pray for my dad, but now I can’t. It feels strange, but it reminds me that things have gone very well. There are only two reasons why you can’t pray for someone: either they can’t be saved, or they are doing so well they can’t be blessed any more than they already are. My dad is in the second group. Feeling sorry for him is irrational.