Report
Creatures of habitat
I was on the phone from 8-6 with doctors and insurance today, trying to figure out care for my parents. Last night I was on the phone from 9 until midnight trying to get my mom to give my dad his pills. It’s unsustainable. I am desperately trying to keep them in their house but it’s a precarious juggling act that will probably fail. Tonight I talked to my dad (who was at home) and he cheerfully told me he was in a motel “with free T.V.!” The other day he couldn’t remember my mom’s name or that she was his wife. I asked him how his dog was doing and he said she’s very happy and active but sometimes she’s a different dog. I reminded him that I’ve been sick but am coming to see him in a couple of days and I’m bringing my dog, Marvin. “And Jesse’s coming too, remember Jesse, Dad?” “Oh that one, he’ll have fun playing with the other dogs,” he said, and then he laughed. “Pretty good right?” Somehow, in the middle of all his confusion, he’d made a joke.
That’s my dad. My mom is doing slightly better. She went to the doctor yesterday but within an hour of returning couldn’t remember that she’d gone anywhere. I’m gearing up to tell her that my dad is going to need more care—he does already—than she can give.
In between everything, I found a few minutes to write this—an attempt to encapsulate my existence right now. Some days it feels like writing is all I have, or at least all I have time for—but I’m so glad I do.
Remember: Being where you’re from—every time I’ve lived somewhere else no matter how beautiful I say something like “I miss southern California so much. I’ll never get over it.” I’ll have this overwhelming almost physical longing for the mountains, the sandstone and taquerias, the loquats and low riders and bougainvillea.
I remember living in northern New Mexico and lying there at night with my eyes closed as I tried to picture all of the miles between me and the ocean and the tumble-down creeks of my youth. It was hard to feel easy knowing there were so many. We’re creatures of habitat like any other.
Request: Hello I’m calling to ask the doctor to re-instate urostomy care for my dad. My dad has a urostomy pouch; he needs a urostomy nurse to change it twice a week. He had one but she stopped coming because she thought my mom could do it which used to be true but now my mom can’t do it because her memory isn’t working so I need him to re-prescribe the nurse. Yes I can hold. A urostomy pouch. It sits outside the body. No he’s not in any pain. He just needs the pouch changed. Twice a week. His medication list? It’s in his chart. This is a request for urostomy care …yes I understand. I’m not sure what his weight is. I know these forms ask a lot of questions but his doctor already knows all this—if you could just send the info straight to him without the forms? Oh ok. Yeah. I understand. Yes, I can hold.
Returned: 5 tickets to the Isidore quartet’s performance of the Schubert C Major in my hometown. We’re sick but even if we weren’t my parents are too frail to go. When I bought the tickets a few months ago I worried that they might not be able to do things anymore by the time of the concert. But I couldn’t not get them, the tickets, because I didn’t yet know.
Release: A couple of days ago we were out driving and I said “hey let’s go jump in the water!” So up we went to the mountains and down we climbed to the creek. We didn’t have swimsuits or anything, just got in. I kept my shoes on. We splashed around a little. Then Jesse and I climbed up a big boulder over a deep hole and started chanting “Do it, do it,” to James below. He stood there and looked up at us and down at the dark water and shook his head. “Do it, Dada!” shouted Jesse, so he did. He swam around and around in all his clothes and then we slid down the rock to join him. The water was cool. Jesse kept shrieking with delight. “We have to do this more often, guys!” When we got in the car to leave he squelched his wet pants on the seat and laughed. “My farts have been sounding more realistic lately,” he said, “should I tell the doctor?”
Thank you for sharing this encapsulated moment in your world, Anna. It’s a picture of love and grace and light in even difficult times.
Thanks for letting us into your life, eloquently. And good luck.