So two years ago my neighbor Don was helping me out, either collecting the mail or feeding the cat as I traveled back and forth to care for my father. Now it's Don who's in distress, and me helping him, something neither of us could have imagined. Surprisingly, Don's rallied and made into an acute rehab where he continues to battle to get back the life he had only three weeks ago. He has a feeding a tube now and seems to have good days and bad, for my part I try to keep him motivated.
So today I pick up Sophie from school and we spent the afternoon seeing a movie she really wanted to see. The new Raven Symone and Martin Lawrence movie "College Road Trip". He plays her father who just can't seem to let go of his "little girl", trying desperately to convince her to attend college close to home in Illinois. Of course she wants to attend Georgetown. A funny and cute movie for sure, but a very real theme for many parents, one I'll someday own as well. The message of "letting go" a universal one, yet the one line that stuck with me in between the yucks and the tender moments was the father's line "where did the years go". As I jostled for popcorn position with my little movie date I felt how true that was when I considered how fast her 10 years have blown by me. We made the most of the day and immediately went into the litlle photo booth in the lobby and took some silly shots of us like we always do......
Further illuminating this statement is the fact that tomorrow, March 13 is two years since my dad passed away. Time, it's a killer in more ways than one. Ask my neighbor Don what three weeks of time have done to him. It's almost as if you wish you could just slow it all down. Two years, yet it's still all very real and close that last night in South Philly with my brothers. Still, time marches on; hopefully making us all wiser and more appreciative. Sophia and I talked on the way home of her pop-pop, she with her photos, and me with mine. The days fly by so fast so we at least try to capture the "moments" on film.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Friday, March 07, 2008
Shades of Empathy
Don's dying, albeit slowly. For if his current predicament of problems doesn’t take him, the cancer in his belly surely will if left unchecked an untreated. All cancer treatment has been suspended due to his current crisis. Shades of my own father’s ordeal are written all over this life drama, and I am in many ways, better prepared to handle the questions that need to be asked. My old neighbor Don; who only three weeks ago was a vital, and for the most part healthy, 79 year old 200 lb man is now looking 10 years older and 25 lbs. lighter. The effect is quite dramatic to witness.
The Doctor’s have stemmed the current demoralizing effects of the chemo, and he is now faced with arduous task of making himself eat, and of course the physical therapy. Much to his credit (and my imploring nagging) Don has managed to pull his creaky body out of the bed and participate in PT. His mind is clear. His body is willing. These are all excellent signs of his ability to turn this around, and eventually face what brought him here in the first place his still waiting cancer treatments.
I hadn’t intended to be “involved”. I was just stopping by to lend some support and encouragement. When I saw the sunken face, the unshaven beard, and loose dentures, something drew me in further; I’m obviously smart enough to recognize the similarities to my own father. They’re both from Delco, both love their Philly sports, and have similar mindsets regarding likes and dislikes. Don, like my father is a bit curmudgeon, and I find myself having to speak some reason to him regarding his refusal of PT or medicine, or maybe his ornery attitude regarding his situation. He’s entitled to this though. God knows he’s been through the ringer.
I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no finer traits to being a nurse than compassion and empathy; for if you lack these basic qualities no amount of skill or knowledge will ever compensate for their loss. The ability to hold a hand, stroke a tired persons’ brow, or maybe clean them, shave them, or just listen to them is of far greater values than ability to administer an IV, or a machine.
Two years ago today I sat in cloudy gray Philadelphia at St. Agnes Medical Center and settled in for my father’s last journey, one which in many ways still affects my decisions and impressions on life in general. I held the hands of a dying man for 7 days and came out a better, wiser, and more empathetic man for it. I highly doubt I would have the interest or courage to help Don had I not been through this myself. Don is going to die one way or another, either he is going to succumb to his current maladies and lose hope in himself. Or, Don will fight the good fight, encouraged by all he sees to still live for. He’s had a long life either way, and Lord knows the path of life offers no easy journey as he must return to fighting for his life once he regains his health.
So here I am, involved on a daily basis. Incredibly I don’t feel sad, I feel actually like I spending quality time as Don reminisces about growing up in Springfield and working for IVB bank back in the day. I usually stop by after work everyday, shave him or clean him up, much to his wife Doris’ pleasure, as she isn’t on those types of terms with her husband. Odd as it may seem, she brings other things to the mix. I’m happy to bring what little comfort I can, and am better able to recognize and appreciate my own life and new found health.
Don’s 80th birthday is on Wednesday. He tells me when he gets out he wants to take me to Ruth Chris is appreciation for all I’ve done. I told Don that his shooting the shit with me again at the mailbox each day would be repayment enough. Let’s see if he can’t turn this around.
The Doctor’s have stemmed the current demoralizing effects of the chemo, and he is now faced with arduous task of making himself eat, and of course the physical therapy. Much to his credit (and my imploring nagging) Don has managed to pull his creaky body out of the bed and participate in PT. His mind is clear. His body is willing. These are all excellent signs of his ability to turn this around, and eventually face what brought him here in the first place his still waiting cancer treatments.
I hadn’t intended to be “involved”. I was just stopping by to lend some support and encouragement. When I saw the sunken face, the unshaven beard, and loose dentures, something drew me in further; I’m obviously smart enough to recognize the similarities to my own father. They’re both from Delco, both love their Philly sports, and have similar mindsets regarding likes and dislikes. Don, like my father is a bit curmudgeon, and I find myself having to speak some reason to him regarding his refusal of PT or medicine, or maybe his ornery attitude regarding his situation. He’s entitled to this though. God knows he’s been through the ringer.
I’ve come to the conclusion that there are no finer traits to being a nurse than compassion and empathy; for if you lack these basic qualities no amount of skill or knowledge will ever compensate for their loss. The ability to hold a hand, stroke a tired persons’ brow, or maybe clean them, shave them, or just listen to them is of far greater values than ability to administer an IV, or a machine.
Two years ago today I sat in cloudy gray Philadelphia at St. Agnes Medical Center and settled in for my father’s last journey, one which in many ways still affects my decisions and impressions on life in general. I held the hands of a dying man for 7 days and came out a better, wiser, and more empathetic man for it. I highly doubt I would have the interest or courage to help Don had I not been through this myself. Don is going to die one way or another, either he is going to succumb to his current maladies and lose hope in himself. Or, Don will fight the good fight, encouraged by all he sees to still live for. He’s had a long life either way, and Lord knows the path of life offers no easy journey as he must return to fighting for his life once he regains his health.
So here I am, involved on a daily basis. Incredibly I don’t feel sad, I feel actually like I spending quality time as Don reminisces about growing up in Springfield and working for IVB bank back in the day. I usually stop by after work everyday, shave him or clean him up, much to his wife Doris’ pleasure, as she isn’t on those types of terms with her husband. Odd as it may seem, she brings other things to the mix. I’m happy to bring what little comfort I can, and am better able to recognize and appreciate my own life and new found health.
Don’s 80th birthday is on Wednesday. He tells me when he gets out he wants to take me to Ruth Chris is appreciation for all I’ve done. I told Don that his shooting the shit with me again at the mailbox each day would be repayment enough. Let’s see if he can’t turn this around.
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