The Promise I Kept: My Journey with Dad from Home Care through Hospice
Copyright © 2018 by Jackie Madden Haugh. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
Published in the United States by WriteLife Publishing (An imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company) www.writelife.com
Printed in the United States of America
978-1-60808-187-5 (p)
978-1-60808-188-2 (e)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018930303
Book design by Robin Krauss, www.lindendesign.biz
Cover design by Marla Thompson, www.edgeofwater.com
First editor: Olivia Swenson
Second editor: Pearlie Tan
PRAISE FOR JACKIE MADDEN HAUGH AND
The Promise I Kept
“For every person who has ever made a promise to a loved one and struggled to keep it, to all who have ushered a soul from life to death, to those who aren’t sure how to manage and support an aging parent, this book is for you. Jackie brilliantly and with humor invites you to walk with her through the struggle and triumphs of the parent child relationship, when roles are reversed and the adult child must take charge. She challenges her reader to look at death and dying through the lens of life and living and in doing so replaces fear with love.”
— Sheila Ellison,
Author and Founder of Single Moms Connect
This book is dedicated to those who have sacrificed much to care for a loved one. It is a thankless job and one we’re typically unprepared for, but with your divine spirit shining brightly, you have showed compassion, patience, and love to a soul in their greatest time of need.
Acknowledgments
Our life stories are never written alone. There is always a host of people who have led us along the way, intentionally or not, to where we were meant to go. This story could never have happened without the support, patience, and blessed love I received from so many, and I would be remiss if I did not mention them here.
First, to my brothers David and Tim Madden. While geography made it difficult for them to be with me all the time, I always knew they were just a phone call away, especially if I needed them to talk me off the ledge I occasionally found myself dangling from. And, when I truly needed their physical help, they dropped everything without question to be by my side.
Next, I’d like to thank caregivers Enemi Helu, Emori Suevdre, and Mike Toll. Without their kindness, support, and help, I could have never taken on this carer role. While their job was to attend for my father’s physical needs, I often found them nurturing my emotional ones.
To the “Daddy Sitters,” Kelly Cheek, Elizabeth Cook, and Cassie O’Hearn—bless you. When he was awake, you sat with him and talked or sang to him. You helped Dad feel like he was still a viable human being and alive.
Then, there were the two beautiful women who brought my father Communion every Sunday: Kelly Cook and Sue Marion. Receiving the sacrament was the most important part of Dad’s week—it was a ritual he honored and treasured. And, to Father Warrick James, our Pastor at St. Simon Church, who calmed Dad’s fears about the end of life’s journey. Sitting with him on a regular basis, together they discussed theology and the sins he felt he committed over his lifetime. With Father Warrick’s absolution and blessing, Dad was able to make complete peace with his life.
To my mentor, writing coach, and dear friend, Sheila Ellison: without you, I never would have had the courage to put my thoughts onto paper. You guided me to write without fear, free and open.
And, finally, to my four children: Michelle, Jenni, Lauren, and Timmy. We started our journey when I was the mom who took care of you. But as you grew into adults and my life became complicated, you stepped in to take care of me. You lifted me off the ground when I fell. You dried my tears and supported all my decisions, even when they greatly affected you. And, with your love, you allowed me to give your grandfather a dignified and peaceful passing. For that, I’m eternally grateful.
INTRODUCTION
My Special Man
Standing in a long line at Starbucks one dreary November morning in 2016, I did what I usually do to kill time while waiting for my double cappuccino—I asked the woman in front of me about her life. As a writer, I’m always curious about what makes others tick, for we all have a unique story that belongs to us and us alone. But before I could drill deep and unpeel the layers of her world, she turned the conversation around to me.
“Don’t you write for the Los Altos Town Crier?” she asked, recognizing my face from the picture beside my column.
“Yes, I do!” I exclaimed, delighted to meet a reader. “I’ve been submitting stories since 2010.”
“I thought that was you. I read it every month,” she told me with a bright smile.
I beamed. “Why, thank you!”
Before I knew it, we were discussing some of the topics I wrote about, my first published book, My Life in a Tutu, and my current project, The Promise I Kept.
“I don’t know how writers do it,” my new friend said as we moved two steps closer to our coffee. “I can’t even write a letter.”
Having heard this a million times, I told her my skill hadn’t arrived until after my kids were grown up and my husband and I divorced. In high school and college, a learning disability that went undiagnosed in my youth made reading and comprehending a complete nightmare for me. Unless it was some racy novel or a murder mystery, the words just dissipated into the space between the page and my eyes without ever connecting with my brain.
“We never know what hidden talents we own until the timing is right to give birth to them,” I answered, patting her shoulder to reassure her that she too could write—or do whatever else she wanted.
After a few other questions, she moved onto the topic of my father. I’d written several articles for the newspaper about our time together before he passed away and the caregiving process for an aging parent.
“How many years did you take care of him?”
Remembering as if it were yesterday, I grinned. “Nine years. After my mother died in 2003, it became his turn to have someone look after him. He was alone, crippled, and slowly losing his eyesight.”
We talked about the complexities of being a caregiver: the time lost for personal endeavors, the depletion of finances, and the boredom. Oh, the boredom. But also, when all was said and done, the great rewards.
Just before grabbing her cup, she turned to me and said with a smile, “If you’re writing a book about him, he must have been very special. I don’t think I’d have that much to say about my father.”
Looking into her warm brown eyes and sensing her question about what made my father special, I wondered, how do I explain the relationship between an extroverted daughter who loves parties, dancing, and talking to everyone, and her introverted father, who lived most of his life in his head?
To many, Dad might have appeared ordinary. He didn’t invent anything that made a mark on the world—no cure for cancer, no walks on the moon, nothing to ease the burden of the working man. Dad’s life was order, routine, and work—lots of work. If he wasn’t at his job in San Francisco, he was home cleaning toilets, washing windows, mowing the grass, and pulling weeds. He wasn’t a mover or a shaker—parties often left him exhausted, and he rarely belly laughed.
What he was, however, was solid, trustworthy, and devoted to his faith. He was always ready to help anyone who needed it. When
we were on a family picnic at Half Moon Bay in 1960, he rescued a drunk man caught in the raging surf—and my father didn’t even know how to swim. He was a man who applauded our accomplishments but never took them on as his own. Our personal successes and who we became as adults didn’t define who he was as a father or man because he was confident in who he was. He showered us in unconditional love, a phrase often bandied about, but true for him. No matter what we did or how we acted, we always knew he loved us deeply.
The most common description I heard from anyone who took the time to get to know him was, “Your father is such a good, kind man.” Such characteristics are rare in our fast-paced society of entitled “me first” Silicon Valley dwellers.
In 1916, John Joseph Madden (better known as Jack), a stoic Irish Catholic, was born to immigrant parents and groomed from an early age to never show emotion. To cry or appear weak was unmanly. Typical of his generation, Dad focused on his duty to his family, rather than connecting with his children.
It was his role to earn money to keep our home fires burning while our mother tended to the child rearing, discipline, and conversation. My father was not only the strong type, but often deathly silent.
In my youth, I accepted that this was who he was even though I craved to know him on a more personal level. How I would have loved to have him more present in my life—to take me to the park, tell me stories, and play house with me. Each night as he sat in his recliner after a wordless dinner, pipe and newspaper in hand, I often found myself wondering, what do you think about? Despite the fact that he appeared emotionally vacant much of the time, I never doubted he loved me by the look in his eyes whenever I entered the room.
Just before I left for college, I decided it was time to learn more about the man who helped my mother bring me into the world.
“Dad, talk to me! I know nothing about you,” I implored one night as we sat outside having dinner together. It was a blistering hot July evening in 1971 and I was about to embark on my college career at the University of San Francisco. My mother and brothers were out for the evening, and I was left to act as the lady of the house—responsible for turning on the oven and heating up our Swanson’s TV dinners.
Staring at his meal, which he wanted to inhale before it became cold, my father sighed. Dinnertime interruptions were never welcome, but he apparently knew from the intense look in my eyes that I was not about to be deterred from getting what I wanted.
Putting down his fork, he wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, folded his hands on the table, and asked, “What do you want to know?”
“Everything!”
For the next hour, I learned the bullet points of his life: He had grown up poor in San Francisco during the Great Depression, which made life nearly impossible. He took higher education at St. Mary’s College in Moraga, California, and held two jobs as a bus boy to pay for his tuition. Then we hit a roadblock. Most men of the Greatest Generation went to war but never talked of it. He had served in World War II but clearly didn’t want to go into any detail. There was no depth to his story, no emotion—only the facts.
After heating up his dinner again, I let him get on with his meal, but not before asking, somewhat confused, “Dad, why haven’t you told me any of this before? I’ve heard all of Mom’s stories a million times.”
Picking up his fork and laying the napkin in his lap, he looked up. “No one ever asked me.”
It was the turning point for future discussions, the most poignant of which came in his later years. In 2003, a promise I’d made to him thirteen years before was called in. For the next nine years, life became about Dad and me as we cared for one another—me for his physical needs, him for my spiritual ones. It was during those vulnerable times that I learned who my father really was.
My father was a simple man who believed in the art of surrender when life became challenging. By living with a grateful heart, he carried a happy heart. My father walked daily with his deep connection to the Lord and all of life’s possibilities. My father was also pure love and constantly taught me to honor the souls of humanity, not their physicality. He’d say, “Some people are hard to be around. Human falseness and ego can do that, but it’s the soul God sees and loves, so learn to love that in everyone.”
In between the boredom and diapers, my father’s strength, honesty, gentle and optimistic nature made me pause and revisit how I was living my own life—a life that perhaps needed some adjustment.
Smelling my freshly brewed coffee, I looked at the woman with inquisitive eyes standing in front of me, and was brought back to the moment. Grabbing my cappuccino, I shook her hand, thanked her for the conversation, and just as we turned to go our separate ways, I answered, “Yes, he was truly special and his story needs to be told.”
Contents
Acknowledgments
INTRODUCTION My Special Man
CHAPTER 1 Promises Should Never Be Broken
CHAPTER 2 Day of Reckoning
CHAPTER 3 Enough is Enough
CHAPTER 4 Preparing the House
CHAPTER 5 Child Displacement
CHAPTER 6 Battling the Naysayers
CHAPTER 7 The Reality of Care
CHAPTER 8 Selling the Family Home
CHAPTER 9 Time to Say Goodbye
CHAPTER 10 Conversations in the Dark
CHAPTER 11 Doctor Appointments
CHAPTER 12 Untold Sins
CHAPTER 13 Back to Church
CHAPTER 14 All in a Day's Excitement
CHAPTER 15 Where Has All the Money Gone?
CHAPTER 16 Love Revelation
CHAPTER 17 Evil Thoughts
CHAPTER 18 A Time for Changes and Memories
CHAPTER 19 Just the Way You Are
CHAPTER 20 Learning to Walk Again
CHAPTER 21 Changing of the Guard
CHAPTER 22 The Final Transition
CHAPTER 23 A Time for Goodbye
CHAPTER 24 The First Hundred Days
EPILOGUE Time to Move On
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Promises Should Never Be Broken
The mantra “promises made should never be broken” sat on the top rung of my parents’ moral ladder, alongside no cheating, lying, or dishonoring the family name with inappropriate behavior in public. Being a “good girl” in the 1950s and 60s, these promises were easy to keep. But, as I tiptoed into my teenage years, others became just too hard.
In 1968, I was in my sophomore year at Mercy High in Burlingame, an all girl’s Catholic school. While the blue and white uniforms made us look like a sea of Smurfettes, I found ways to set myself apart from the throng. It was the era of long hair, typically straightened with an iron and ironing board, but mine was worn in a shoulder-length flip. Throwing on a navy-blue vest and brown-and-tan shoes (a big no-no when cardigan sweaters with pearl buttons and white shoes were required as part of the uniform), I could at least be myself on the long bus ride. But the minute I stepped onto campus, out came the prescribed apparel hidden in my backpack, and my signature look was locked away until school was dismissed.
While I was forced to conform, never did I want to appear like everyone else, even when white go-go boots and John Lennon hats were the rage. Instead, I leaned toward my hippie nature with handmade clothes that I covered in embroidered flowers and hearts.
Each morning, staring at the reflection in my bedroom vanity mirror, I’d smooth the few frizzy strands of hair with a little spit, double check my mascara and eyeliner to be sure none had drifted south to my pink cheeks, and look at my teeth one last time for any remnants of breakfast my toothbrush had missed. While I wasn’t trying to impress the other girls with my budding beauty, I just never knew when a cute boy might cross my path.
One particular morning, my mother’s voice interrupted my regular beauty ritual. “Jackie, I need your help getting dinner ready tonight,” Mom called from the kitchen. “I’ll be late and you know how your dad wants his meal the moment he walks in the door.”
> While Lassie Pearce Madden may have appeared to be “just” a housewife, there was nothing ordinary about her. The daughter of silent movie actors during the reign of W. D. Griffith in the early 1900s, everything she said or did had a flair of the dramatic. She was a woman ahead of her time: she had a high-powered job at Standard Oil in San Francisco just before World War II and drove a car when other women depended on the men in their lives to get around. My mother was beautiful, funny, and well-read, with defined opinions on how life should unfold (often not agreeing with my dad’s). Her magnetic personality lit up any room she entered. She was a force to be reckoned with.
Applying one last layer of gloss to accentuate my sixteen-year-old pout, I mumbled a reply under my breath, “Yeah, yeah.”
“All you have to do is take the casserole out of the freezer when you get home. You have a half-day today, right?” she went on. “Then, stick it in the oven at 400 degrees. Do it at five.”
Hmm, maybe a little more eyeliner is in order too. I smeared on an extra swipe of Cover Girl midnight blue for good measure.
“Jackie, I didn’t hear you. Are you listening to me?”
Throwing my burdensome backpack filled with thick history and chemistry books across my shoulder, I pulled a knitted ski cap over my ears to drown out the nagging sound of her voice.
“Yeah, Mom, I heard you.”
“Promise me you’ll do this.”
Holy crap! Shut up!
“Jackie?”
“Okay, okay, Mom. I promise.”
“Be sure you do it. I’m counting on you.”
While my studies as a sophomore were important, it was extracurricular activities that took up most of my free time. Neil Armstrong was walking on the moon and exploring the beyond, but I was conquering my own planet: dating. There were plans to be made—how to snag the latest flavor of the month, what outfit to wear so he’d sit up and notice, and ways to style my hair and makeup to be truly picture-perfect at any given moment.
And, if the phone magically ring-a-dinged with a possible date for Friday night, any thought of a past promise scattered like leaves on a windy fall day, especially any promises regarding the Tuesday night special, tuna casserole.
The Promise I Kept Page 1