Notes from Maine - 2021/04/24
Compared to last year, it’s hard to believe how well my father is doing. He went into the hospital in March of 2020 because he couldn’t trust his right leg to hold him up. A night on the floor convinced him. It was a return of the spinal stenosis in the base of his spine. That problem built for decades until he had surgery a few years ago. They said it would return, and they were right.
All that was expected, I suppose. The issue with the surgery turned out to be a spinal fluid leak (there was a lot of scar tissue and nothing healed correctly) and infections. Every time they tried to move him to rehab, infections sent him back to the hospital section.
Over the course of a couple of months, we had to come to terms with the idea that he didn’t have much of a chance of living at home again. He bounced between a couple of rehab places curing the first big surge of COVID. He begged us to help him get released. Sometimes he would plot to hire a lawyer and make his escape. He would go days where he would refuse to talk to us because he said we were conspiring against him. As he weakened, his cognitive abilities slipped more and more.
I thought he was making decent progress in the last rehab place and then they declared he had plateaued and should be moved to long-term care. Coincidentally, they had a long-term care wing in the same building. Coincidentally, his plateau ”necessitated his transfer” right when his benefits would have to be reevaluated. One day they said he was doing great. The next, they said we had to make a decision. They seemed like nice, caring people. I’m sure I’m remembering all this with a good deal of bias, but it feels like there was some financial motivation behind the decisions they were asking us to make.
My sister and I transferred Dad to my house on July 3 last year. He couldn’t sit up on his own for long. It was rough. That was less than ten months ago.
All that in mind, yesterday was awesome.
Dad was watching TV in his living room when I went to see him yesterday. I told him I was going to visit his camp to see if the shower fixtures were installed and the water was turned on. Dad used a walker to get to the stairs, descended himself, and got into his Polaris on his own. I drove. At the camp, he used his walker to cross the driveway, climb the porch, and go inside to look around.
None of this would have been remotely conceivable last summer. I have a video of him trying to stand up at the counter for ten seconds. It was a struggle.
Sitting at his table, Dad glanced around his camp and said, “I guess I won’t be able to come here anymore.”
It’s sad, but it’s also very funny. He doesn’t remember how far he has come—how much stronger he has gotten this year alone. I could show him the video, but that wouldn’t stick either. For a moment he would realize that he was much worse before, but the implication wouldn’t sink in. Visiting his camp is well within his capabilities, but he will still glance around and lament that he can’t go there anymore.
Sad and funny.
Now that the camp has been remodeled, with a kitchen and bathroom, he could actually stay there this summer. It doesn’t have a TV, but in several ways it’s more practical than his house.
It will be fun to see what happens. Dad still has some time left, he’s at home, and he has freedom. Compared to last year at this time, his condition is fantastic. Thinking about him reminds me to be thankful for everything that’s going right.
