Finally, there was the youngest, or as I lovingly referred to him, my “angel baby.” Timmy—the beautiful child with his golden curls and deep blue eyes—was the easiest of all my children as a little person, sleeping through the night at six days old, and sweet in nature. Named after my second brother, as a toddler, he tended to the family dog and his mother with hugs and kisses to let us know we were loved. Later, he grew into a typical boy—mischievous, overly active, and constantly finding himself in trouble at school for being the class clown. During his grammar school years, I had many a meeting with his teachers over his desire to make others laugh at the expense of his learning in the classroom. But each time his contrite eyes looked into mine, my heart melted.
When my children were younger, I made life completely about them, forgetting that my aging parents even existed. I bent over backwards to make everything perfect, was on top of every need and whim while sacrificing any needs I might have, and fell into bed at night completely exhausted. To stay one step ahead of any verbal tongue lashing from any one of them because things weren’t quite right, for I hated confrontation, I got through the day by running—figuratively, but running just the same.
“I feel like all I do is race through my life,” I moaned to my friend, Linda, as I sat at her kitchen table a week later. As the mother of three daughters close in age to mine, I was sure she’d understand. “I run a taxi service. I run the family laundromat, bath water, vacuum cleaner, dishwasher, and dust buster.”
“Oh, I know,” she agreed. “I’m constantly on the go too. It all gets to be too much.”
“It’s like I’m a damn short order cook making heavily loaded carbohydrate meals for the athletes and hard-boiled eggs for the dieter. Each one is so picky about what they eat. And I’m always forgetting things at the store they claim they need. They’re starting to catch on I might be lying when I say I forget.”
“Really? How?”
“They wanted apples the other day. Typical, I forgot them and told them the store ran out.”
“Ha! Nice try! What store runs out of apples?”
“That’s what they said.”
Pouring me another cup of coffee, Linda sat down next to me. “I don’t know how you keep anything straight. Look at all you do: Women’s Club president, cheerleading coach, art docent, softball coach, and dance instructor. If I ran that many miles in a day, I’d have serious blisters on my fatigue factor too.”
In those crazy early years, long before I added real estate agent to the list of duties, every second of every hour was accounted for. I felt like I needed an oxygen tank just to catch a breath.
Just when I thought I was stretched to the max, 2000 became the year when life began to pour lighter fuel onto the already out of control bonfire. On top of my mother’s cancer, back issues, and arthritis that made it hard for her to get around, the muscles that once held her intestines in place gave way. She was now dealing with a prolapsed rectum, which caused excruciating pain, bleeding, and many a mishap when it came to getting to the bathroom on time. Constant cries of “Jackie, I need you” over the phone left me feeling like a Duncan yo-yo that never stopped spinning as I drove a half hour each way, often several times a day, to bathe my parents, feed them, and run the errands they could no longer do themselves.
“Mom, where are your brothers?” Jenni asked one evening as I rushed in the door. “This just isn’t fair.”
“I’m sorry I’m late, honey. I had to be sure your grandparents had all they needed.” Trying to diffuse her frustration, I explained, “Your uncles are too far away. Only I can do all this.”
“Well, it’s not fair. You do everything.”
“I know it seems like that, but Grandma needs a lot of extra care now,” I explained. “Her back surgery didn’t work the way they hoped, and she’s in constant pain. There’s no way your grandfather can help. After his stroke, he can’t do anything for himself.”
Looking up from her homework, she suggested, “Why don’t they hire someone so you can take a break?”
What a logical and simple solution, I thought. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were an option?
But adults from the Great Depression didn’t pay for anything they could take care of themselves. Or their children could take care of.
“I know this is hard on all of us, but please be patient. It won’t last forever.”
Then she had another perfect solution. “Have Dad help you.”
Walking over to give her a kiss on the top of her innocent head, I said the only thing I could think of, “Your father’s busy with work. Besides, they’re not his parents.”
By 2001, my life was frayed so thin that the tapestry of who I once was became a scrap of fabric with no design, no texture, and no worth. Instead, I was a shredded piece of material that was better used as a dust rag than a piece of art hung on the wall. I was a mess and exhausted, and life was about to get even messier.
CHAPTER 3
Enough is Enough
On July 20, 2003, a massive chunk of my father’s enormous loving heart was ripped out of his chest by the greedy Angel of Death. Long before we were prepared, his life partner of fifty-five years was whisked away on spiked wings, leaving him isolated in an empty house. To deal with his loneliness, he wove an impenetrable cocoon around his aching memories. Twisting and turning in his mind, this already quiet man encased himself in prayer and shut himself off even further from the world.
The last two years had seen my life implode as well. In addition to the death of my sweet mother, my children left for college and their adult lives, and my marriage of twenty-two years fell apart. I was fifty-one years old living in a five-bedroom home and supporting myself with several jobs with flexible hours: a new career in real estate as well as a dance and fitness instructor, and an author with a column in the local newspaper. Not stuck in a desk nine to five, I was free to make choices about how I spent my time. Except for the companionship of our hyperactive pound puppy Maddie who we rescued in 2001, I was now all alone, and my father needed me. It was time to make good on my thirteen-year-old promise.
“Dad, I think it’s time you considered moving in with me,” I said gently to him shortly after my mother’s funeral. “I don’t like the idea of you being all alone in this big house.”
Determined to hang onto his independence, he did what he typically did when avoiding a subject he didn’t want to discuss. He harrumphed and placed the San Francisco Chronicle’s sporting green in front of his face.
“Dad, we need to talk about this.”
“There’s nothing to say,” he grumbled. “I’m not paying someone just to sit around all day.”
Casting around for a gentle way to show Dad that he needed help, I noticed his disheveled appearance. My father had always been fastidious about his appearance. Each morning began with a shower and a shave, followed by getting dressed in a starched shirt and pressed pants. His outfit alone told me he could not live alone anymore.
“Dad, who dressed you this morning?” Teasing, I rebut-toned his shirt.
“What’s that supposed to mean,” he groused, irritated. “Me, of course.”
“Do you know you have on different colored socks, and I hate to tell you this, but you need to pull up your zipper.”
Struggling to guide the slider over two rows of jagged metal teeth, his frustration escalated. Pulling harder and harder but going nowhere, he gave up.
“What does it matter? No one comes to visit me.”
“I’m here,” I reminded him, trying to reduce his dejected feelings.
Silence.
Besides the fact that getting dressed had regressed him to a two-year-old, where clothing was picked without thought, there was the issue of personal cleanliness. A shower on his own was no longer a possibility as he needed help getting in and out. Preparing food had become dangerous—he tended to forget the stove was on. On top of that, his left arm was useless and his mobility had slowed to a turtle’s labored crawl. Whatever he p
repared for himself would be cold and unpalatable by the time he made it to the table to sit and eat.
“Dad,” I began, calming my nerves with a large swallow of air but wishing it was a glass of Chardonnay. “I want you to have the life you desire, but I can’t be here every day to help you.”
He was as unresponsive as the granite statue of St. Francis in our garden, so I carefully pulled back the Chronicle. His bushy eyebrows lay pinched on the bridge of his nose, and eighty-six years of expression lines were tightly tugged into a pursed frown.
“I know you don’t want to live with me yet, and I respect that, but you have to give me a little help here.”
Pulling the paper out of my fingers, the daily news rose like the Great Wall of China, repelling all invaders and daughters with bad ideas.
“No, Jackie. I don’t want it.”
Over the course of my life as daddy’s little girl, I learned when to force an issue or when to fold. Seeing he had his cards tight to his chest, this was going to be a long game of poker before I could make him throw in his hand.
Leaving his side, I went about my duties as the new woman of the house. There was laundry to wash, a layer of dust to erase off the furniture, vacuuming to do, linens to change, bills to pay, and food to prepare for later.
Sensing his eyes peeking above the green paper, I played my best Greta Garbo with heavy sighs of exasperation as I pushed the old Hoover past his chair, sucking up weeks of dirt out of the green shag carpet. Watching his only daughter work too hard always softened his heart. He could be a pain at times, but not at the expense of his sweet little rosebud—his rose among my three thorny brothers.
“Okay, okay. You can hire someone, but only to get me in and out of bed. No sleepovers.”
“Thanks, Dad!” Kissing him on the cheek, I proclaimed, “I’ll get on it right away.”
In California’s Silicon Valley, the Tongan community had developed support groups for the care of the aging. Originally from the South Pacific, these men and women carried with them a deep respect and love for family and religion. While we Americans held youth, independence, and skinny girls in bikinis in high regard, Tongans respected and revered their elders. Who better than a robust Islander to help me with my father?
“Dad, I think I may have found the right fit for you,” I began one morning as I stripped his mattress of soiled linens. “I interviewed her yesterday. She helped my friend Debi with her mother-in-law when she was sick and is now available. Her name is Rena.”
“Did they fire her?”
“No, Dad, they didn’t fire her. Why do you ask?”
“Well, if she’s so great, then why did they let her go? You just don’t let good help go.”
“Debi’s mother-in-law is now in heaven.”
Hearing that another soul was called home, he slumped in his chair.
“Oh. That’s too bad.” Then, as he looked outside the window, I heard in a low tone, “Okay, we can try her out.”
Rena Fuenta, a massive, hairy, wild boar of a woman with solid gold teeth arrived a day later. Built like a Hummer in a colorful sarong, I was sure she could hold back an entire line of 49er defensive linemen if necessary while performing her duties as a vocational licensed nurse.
“I never knew a woman could be that strong or scary looking,” I said to Debi, calling her to thank her for the referral. “Her teeth have enough gold to make a wearable piece of jewelry.”
“Is she good to your dad?” Debi questioned.
“Yes, very sweet.”
“Good. Then you can get past her looks.”
At five foot ten, Rena took complete control of all his needs—cleaning his bottom when accidents occurred, feedings, meds, and adjusting his ragdoll body into whatever position needed. Her massive girth and vigor, coupled with scientific knowledge about momentum and inertia, looked at ease catapulting his 180-pound, six-foot frame from one chair to the another and back into bed at the end of the day.
“What do you think, Dad?” I asked one evening on a visit home.
“She’s all right.”
Knowing full well she was doing a great job, I responded, “Just all right?”
“She’ll do, for now.”
In the beginning, all went swimmingly. Like my childhood goldfish Peaches swirling lazily in circles in her clear glass bowl without a care in the world, I could relax and just come when I wanted to spend time with my father.
Rena doted on Dad’s every whim, from ice cream sundaes for breakfast to the volume set on full blast on the TV. She fluffed his pillows, bathed his body, sang him religious melodies, and wiped the drool from his sagging lips. She also made promises.
“Jack, I’ll always be here with you. You’ll never need to find anyone else to care for you.”
“Promise?” he asked like a child wanting another bedtime story if he brushed his teeth.
“I promise!”
But some promises can’t help but be broken when the sirens of money croon their hypnotic tune. Living on a fixed income, Dad only had so much discretionary cash for his care. At eighty-eight, his savings were beginning to wane and he planned to live to one hundred. Therefore, a strict budget was mandatory if he was not to become a burden on his children. Unfortunately, the call of the almighty dollar is an evil we can all get sucked into. After one year with my dad, Rena left for a more lucrative position, dissolving her vow and leaving a sad heart as she closed the door behind her.
“She knew what I could pay when she took the job. She promised she’d never leave.”
“I know, Dad. I’m sorry you’re upset, but we’ll find you someone else.”
“I should have never let you talk me into all this. It only ends in disappointment.”
Thinking this might be my big chance, I asked again, “Would you like to live with me now?”
With his remote firmly in his grip, he changed channels on the TV at lightning quick speed. To avoid any further discussion, he ratcheted up the volume.
“Dad, did you hear me?” I yelled close to his ear.
Long seconds dragged as the wheels turned behind his blue eyes. Then, as if the angel of mercy couldn’t take it any longer, he hit the mute button.
“I have a better idea. You sell your house and come live with me.”
“Ah, no.” I replied. “My life is in Los Altos.”
As a writer, I’ve been programmed to watch for that flicker of consciousness when you truly see a person and their idiosyncrasies. That flash of “aha!” clarity. This was one of those moments.
Just like me, my father loved his home. It was where he felt safe and housed all his happy memories of growing babies, a beautiful wife to meet him at the end of his busy day, and a sanctuary from a world that could be unkind. Of course, he didn’t want to leave it.
“Okay, but we need to find someone else to help.”
A week later, in walked the second string.
Enemi Helu, a short but powerfully built mother of four, quickly picked up where Rena left off.
“Enemi, how are you able to move him the way you do?” I asked as I watched her lift him like an oversized bag of sugar. “You’re so much shorter than I am.”
“Yeah, but I’m strong,” she said lifting her thick ham hock arm and patting the well-developed bulge of her bicep.
Not only could Enemi maneuver my father’s deadweight body throughout the house and get him to his doctor visits, but she also performed all the daily tasks for a salary that didn’t drain his bank account.
She also made a promise to stay with him to the end. We hoped that this time, it was a vow that would be kept.
After six years of fairly smooth sailing with Enemi at the helm of my father’s care, the low rumble that comes before the enormous shock waves began, slowly disintegrating my childhood home into a pile of rubble. Unfortunately, what began as a foundation built on bedrock gradually liquefied like loose sand and dirt that mixes with ground water during an earthquake. While Dad’s physical needs were met,
housekeeping was a different story.
“Holy shit!” I blurted in horror as I walked into my dad’s house one Wednesday morning. Panicking that his bills needed to be paid promptly (like the moment they arrived at the house), he wanted me there every day. “What happened? It looks like a tornado hit.”
Roaming from room to room, I saw piles of unfolded laundry were stacked over chairs, on beds, and in corners. It looked as if Enemi waited for a month to pass before washing his clothes. But I knew that wasn’t true—Dad didn’t even have this many clothes.
“When did Dad start wearing flowered panties?” I mumbled, picking up a pair of elephant-sized unmentionables. Studying the mountain of cotton, it was obvious that the oversized Kmart undies, florescent tank tops, and paisley printed skirts belonged to anyone but Dad. Somehow, my father’s house had turned into a laundromat.
Things had gone adequately for so long, but somehow a new arrangement had been made, one my father and I were never told about.
What I began to understand was that Enemi was not the greatest of poor housekeepers. While she tried, her version of cleanliness and mine were on opposite ends of the broom handle. She was now living full time with Dad and had begun to feel comfortable enough to see our home as her home, inviting her extended family over. However, it seems that this included the entire freaking village! Before I knew it, strangers were taking over every room—her “uncles and aunts” having the run of the house when my father was in bed, and sometimes when he was in his chair right in the living room. Quickly, I called for reinforcements.
The Promise I Kept Page 3