The Promise I Kept

by Jackie Madden Haugh

  “David, I think she’s doing the wash for the entire church,” I said, calling my older brother for advice. “What do I do?”

  David was the firstborn in the Madden family, the brother we all looked up to because of his wisdom and higher education. Obtaining a PhD in English literature, he was as well-read as our parents, equally bright, and always seemed to have the answers for any problem.

  “Ask Dad.”

  “Ask Dad? How would he know? I think he can barely see. I bet he doesn’t even know they’re here half the time.”

  “Well, it sounds suspicious. You better keep a close eye.”

  I tried, but each time I arrived it seemed to get worse. Rotund brown bodies wrapped in colorful prints lurked in every room, grinning like Cheshire cats (in need of a good orthodontist) who’d just eaten a juicy mouse. The washing machine never stopped gyrating.

  “Dad! Who are all these people?” I whispered loudly into his good ear. It was getting out of control.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he looked out the window to the creek across the street, watching a quail wiggling her little body.

  “Your mother used to love those birds.”

  “Dad, I’m talking humans! People are all over the place with gold teeth and sumo-type bodies.”

  Staring back at the daughter who was obviously bothering him, he said, “She says they’re her cousins.”

  “By the looks of things, her family was rather fertile.”

  Each time I came to visit my dad, another offense was added to my growing list. Being a woman who typically does a slow burn to get her pot boiling, I was now at 212 degrees Fahrenheit.

  Finally, during one visit in May 2011, I reached a rolling boil. Standing in the kitchen, I choked back a gag at the odor of rotting shredded pork and mushy cabbage, which reminded me of the days I shared the hall bathroom with my three brothers. The musty smells of athletic bodies lingering on the damp towels and in toilets that were never flushed were fragrances I didn’t want to revisit in my adult years, yet here we were again—only now it was in the hub of food preparation.

  Floating in the middle of my mom’s favorite cut glass crystal bowl on the kitchen table was a shriveled black turd-like log.

  I leaned over the disgusting substance and took a whiff.

  “Crap! What is that?”

  If there was one thing I knew in life, it was feces. Between my four children’s smelly bottoms, a dog that had no idea what “outside” meant, and a mother with no bowel control near the end, I was the queen of cleaning up shit.

  Immobilized, I stared, wondering what the thing was and afraid to find out.

  On the kitchen counter, bananas and mangos rotted in the pink vase my mother once filled with sweet smelling roses from her garden. Stacked in the sink was her good china, dried food petrified to the hand-painted poppies. And, on the filthy floor, a dead cockroach who couldn’t escape fast enough lay on its back, tiny legs stiff and frozen mid-kick, as if reaching for the ceiling to escape the madness.

  Enemi used to be diligent with keeping things up. Maybe she was too distracted entertaining all her guests, but this had to change.

  To say I was pissed was only a partial expression of the resentment building inside of me. The carpets hadn’t been vacuumed in weeks, dust was covering every piece of furniture in volcanic thickness, and black mold was creeping up the walls of the bathtub.

  I’d been there the day before but hadn’t noticed the filth. My focus had been centered on my father and the puddle of urine he was laying in on his bed. I soon realized that adult diapers would be the solution for future leakage problems.

  Fire and rage surged in my veins. I thought my head was about to explode. My dad was being taken advantage of.

  All that would have been manageable except for the words that slipped through his lips as I sat down next to him. I gave him a soft kiss on the cheek to let him know I was there.

  “I’m a little depressed.”

  I’m not surprised, I thought, but I waited for him to tell me why.

  “I never get ice cream anymore.”

  I sat stunned as if someone had just thrown water in my face to get my attention. The one thing my father loved was his ice cream after dinner. It was a staple in our home, just like flour, milk, and sugar.

  “What do you mean, you don’t get ice cream?”

  Fingering the tissue on his chest to catch the drool that dripped from his gaping mouth as he slept his day away, he sighed. “She’s too busy to buy it.”

  “Excuse me?” I exclaimed, flabbergasted. “With all these people in our house, there’s no excuse for someone not to go and buy you ice cream.”

  “I ask for it every day, but she says she doesn’t have time. I think she just forgets.”

  I was livid.

  “That’s not okay! I’m going to have a word with her,” I bellowed.

  “No, no. Just leave it alone,” Dad answered, his voice hushed so as not to be heard. Hating confrontation, he’d rather suffer in silence than do anything about it. Besides, he felt safe in her arms whenever she lifted him in and out of bed and I knew he didn’t want to lose that security. But enough was enough. Something had to change.

  “That’s it, Dad. We’re not doing this anymore.”

  I gently turned his sad face in my direction so he could absorb every word I was about to say to him.

  “We’ve done all this long enough. I’m giving you one month to wrap your mind around the fact that you’re coming to live with me.”

  I understood my dad’s need to be independent was something I should respect, but it was time for a change.

  “If you come to my house, I promise you’ll have everything you need and want. You will have ice cream every day.”

  In this tired moment, his rheumy eyes looked into mine, and he softly uttered, “Okay, but what about Enemi?”

  When Enemi moved in with Dad two years before it had been a win-win situation. Up to that point, she’d arrive at 9:00 a.m., do her routine and leave at 6:00 p.m. once he was settled in bed. Knowing he was lying alone for all those hours gave me many a sleepless night, but he refused to pay for more care.

  But when a stint in the hospital left him under the watchful eye of the caseworkers, 24-hour care was mandated. Enemi’s husband had recently left her and her daughter for another woman, taking the younger son with him, and she needed a place to live. Dad needed more help, but didn’t want to pay for it. Enemi and her child moved in and she was only paid for the daytime hours.

  “Maybe we can find a way to keep her, but only to work for you. She can see her cousins after hours.”

  June 1, 2011, became the due date for what I anticipated would be a new life of peace, love, protection, and after dinner sweets. A month would give us both time to prepare—for him to let go and ready himself for the final stage of his life, and for me to figure out how to fulfill a promise that would soon feel like my great undoing.

  CHAPTER 4

  Preparing the House

  For over the past seven years, my father’s body had mostly been sequestered to a fabric cell in the shape of a frayed recliner with decaying walls of green plaid closing in around him. Unable to move on his own, he spent his days staring out a wall of glass, watching birds flapping their wings on the tips of dancing trees, all keeping perfect step with the melody of the wind. I could see by the look in his eyes how he longed for the day when he’d be free to fly too.

  While my heart ached for his situation, I knew living with me would be much better than the isolation he’d been experiencing. Other than the weekly visit from a member of the church to bring him communion, there was no mental stimulation from visitors to ask about his day, what was on his mind, or what memories he had hidden deep within. Despite the fact a Tongan army had descended upon his quiet sanctuary, no one thought to interact with him. They were too busy cackling in the kitchen to care that an old man sat by himself every day, staring out the window.

  As I thought about m
y father’s life, it became apparent that moving him would entail bringing very little.

  “Dad,” I said, gently tapping his arm to get his attention, “I want you to think about what you want to bring with you.”

  Turning his gaze from the world outside, he studied my face as if I were speaking in a foreign tongue.

  “I changed my mind,” he gruffly said. “I want to stay here.”

  At times, Dad could act like a petulant child, holding his ground until he got his way. Unfortunately for him, this was one argument I planned to win.

  “Dad, we’ve already discussed this. You can’t live here anymore, so you better start thinking about what’s important to bring with you.”

  Giving me an annoyed look, his eyebrows furloughed into narrow grooves that hung so low they seemed to rest on the tip of his nose. “Women . . .” he grumbled.

  From my perspective, what to bring would be easy. His life had become minimalistic. There’d be no need for fancy suits, jackets, and ties. Each day followed the same pattern: sponge bath in bed, dressed in comfy sweatpants and a golf shirt, brown socks with Velcro shoes, breakfast at the kitchen table, and then plopped into his chair for endless hours where he thought about God knows what. Later in the day, the order was meticulously reversed.

  To maintain this lifestyle, all he’d need was his hospital-issued bed, walker and cane, TV with headphones, and a picture or two. Fifty-two years of his life at 112 Windsor Drive, San Carlos, could easily fit into two small boxes.

  “Dad, would you like me to walk you through the house to look at things you want to take?”

  He made no eye contact as he brushed me off. “No, you know what I’ll need.”

  With his eyes glued again to the world beyond the window, I was sure there were things he’d want with him. But what worried me more was that he’d be leaving behind items he didn’t get to give a proper farewell to.

  There would be the “goodbye” to the scarlet rose bush outside his bedroom window that he planted when we first moved in 1959, still effortlessly blooming in vibrant shades of red in the spring and summer. I would expect a teary-eyed “cheerio” to the sandbox that once called to his four children and years later, his eight grandchildren. Now, it just crooned to the neighborhood cats as a spot to relieve their bladders during an evening prowl.

  And I was sure there’d be an emotional “toodle-loo” to the mountain of books waiting to be devoured, books he’d received as gifts but sat unopened. I had yet to understand that the macular degeneration had already poured a film over his eyes, leaving his vision blurred and the written word undetectable.

  There’d be an “adios” to the kitchen table where the family once congregated in high spirits for a meal and discussion. Long ago there were talks of politics, school grades, matters of faith, and the current events of his young and restless children as they prepared for their futures. Now, all that remained was a seat for one.

  But the saddest “farewell” would be to the bedrooms where his children once slept. Despite the fact we no longer lived there, he still acted as the castle’s sentinel: the graying knight safeguarding his holy grail, rolling slowly by each evening on his way to the lonely tower he once shared with my mother. Passing each doorway, he’d say a silent prayer for our continued safety in a world he perceived no longer needed him.

  Yes, in my mind, a month was plenty of time to make peace with it all. What I didn’t realize was that it was I who would require a course in time management to prepare. My home had been built for children getting ready to fly the coop, not molting chickens stuck in their cages.

  “There are so many things I need to do to get ready for your grandfather,” I told my youngest, Timmy, on a rare visit home from his life in San Francisco as he was watching the 49ers play the Rams. With all my children out of the house, and me wanting their opinion whenever I could grab it, I continued, “I want to make sure he’ll have everything he needs.”

  “Mom, I don’t know why you’re so worried. His life is pretty simple.”

  “I know, but what if I forget something? I want him to feel as if this is his home.”

  “You need to relax. He should be happy with whatever you do for him. At least you’re not sticking him in a home.”

  True, but I often wondered why some of life’s major decisions were easy for others to take in stride and not me. Maybe it was because I was the one most affected. Friends and family got to go on their merry way while I was left with an aging soul.

  “I know this may sound simple to you, but I want him to be comfortable. He’s used to looking out a window to watch the birds,” I said, trying to express my need to have everything right. “I have no idea where to put that ugly chair he loves. If I put it in the living room, it’ll be the first thing people see when they come in.”

  Looking up from the game, my child shot me his exasperated look of frustration that I knew all too well when I overcomplicated a simple matter.

  “Just put it by the sliding glass door here in the family room. He’ll be close to the TV if he ever wants to watch it and he can look at those stupid birds all he wants.”

  In its youth, the recliner, made of fine Ethan Allen construction, was inviting and pristine. But due to the daily battle of loading and unloading my dad’s broken body, the seams were splitting apart, exposing the stained, spongy foam within. Where his feet rested, the fabric had been ripped away as his leg brace sawed against the grain of fabric.

  “Mom, it’s just a chair,” my baby boy, now twenty-three-years old, continued as he noticed I wasn’t paying attention to him. “What does it matter where you put it?”

  “It’s so gross! I bet if I left it out on the street with a sign that said ‘free,’ not even a homeless person would want it.”

  “Get over yourself and stop worrying about it.”

  He did have a point. Next to the sliding door was a better solution than the living room.

  But despite the fact the chair had now found a home, there was still much planning left to do. Unfortunately, no matter how many times I made a list and checked it a million times, I felt like something was missing. Like I was planning a big birthday celebration but had forgotten to send out the invitations.

  By government standards, my dad was deemed handicapped, and as such, the rules and regulations that guide the safety of others from disabled individuals became his undoing. Because he’d become challenged in his gait, the DMV took his license away in 2006 when he was eighty-eight. I suppose it was a good thing since he was bumping into other cars, but it broke his heart. Besides the question of how he would get to Mass every day, the last shred of independence he owned had been ripped away.

  Along with ways to protect those around him, laws are in place that require buildings used by disabled individuals to have stress-free entry. The Bill of Rights declares we all are guaranteed the right to “Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Easy Accessibility.” In other words, I’d be forced to build a wheelchair ramp for him, one of those ugly platforms placed over perfectly designed steps that destroy the curb appeal of any home.

  Later that day, twenty-nine-year-old Michelle, who was visiting from Los Angeles, came home from shopping at the Stanford mall and found me standing in the gutter, staring at the front of the house, deep in thought.

  “Mom, is something wrong?” she asked, clutching her purchases and passing me on her way to the front door.

  “I just can’t bring myself to stick one of those things on the front porch,” I moaned. “They’re so tacky.”

  “What thing?”

  “One of those ugly metal ramps for Grandpa’s wheelchair. My house will look like a nursing home.”

  “So . . .”

  “So, you don’t understand. I’ve worked hard to keep my home looking pretty.”

  “All right, but how do you think you’re going to get him in and out of the house?”

  Studying the situation, I found myself deep in thought. There has to be another way. It’s no
t like he has a social life or anything.

  “Mom, are you coming inside?”

  Helping her with her bags, we walked in together as my quest continued. Placing her items on the kitchen counter, I began wishing I could build an undetectable escape route, an invisible door I could reveal with a snap to my fingers. Then, snapping twice, it would evaporate once the job was complete, leaving my house just the way I wanted it—wheelchair-ramp free.

  “I don’t understand why having a ramp is such a big deal,” Michelle said as she unloaded her new clothes.

  “I know it’s silly,” I agreed. “I just want what I want.”

  Just then, my eyes traveled to the sliding glass door where I had decided Dad’s chair would be parked and I got a marvelous idea.

  “I can build one over there,” I shouted, pointing to an area just outside the door.

  “Yeah, then what?” Her eyebrows raised into perfectly shaped arches. “So, you can get him in the backyard, but what if you want to take him for a walk or need to rush him to the hospital? You’re going to have to wheel him around the side of the house where the garbage cans are, just to get him into the front yard.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Mom, what if it’s raining?”

  As a mother, I’ve been well trained to answer any question my brood might pose, even the tough ones.

  “If it’s raining, I’ll just wait for it to stop before we go.”

  “Mom!”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll buy a really big umbrella. I’m not putting a ramp in front of the house.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  And, with a shake of her blonde head and a kiss to my cheek, out the kitchen she went.

  Now that the solution was solved for the exterior, the interior became my next country to conquer. There’d be drawers and cabinets to clear out for his special food: canned peaches and pears, endless bags of Quaker Instant Oatmeal, and red licorice. Lots of red licorice.

  The kitchen shouldn’t be a problem, but where do I stick all the junk he has in his bathroom? He has more creams and lotions than I do.

  Once upon a messy childhood, the hall bathroom was in a constant shape of chaos. There my four children did their business to get ready for the day—shampooed their bodies and hair, coiffed the follicles with hairspray and gel, picked at their skin an inch away from the mirror, and clogged the sink with enough hair to stuff a couch. The moment they left, it took a fire hose to wash it down.