“Okay, Jack,” Enemi called, waking him from his peaceful trance. “Time to go to bed.”
Nodding, he prepared himself to be lifted, thrown, and dropped one final time.
Watching with the intensity of a medical research analyst dissecting foreign particles under a microscope, I was determined to learn every aspect of his care. The last thing he needed was his daughter screwing up.
After extracting him from the recliner, Enemi wheeled Dad into his new room and parked him next to the bed. Next, she leaned over and locked the wheels for safety. Grabbing him by the transfer belt tied around his chest, she called out, “Okay, Jack! One, two, three.” And, as if a magic fairy wand had been waved, he was catapulted to the edge of the bed. “Time to get ready for bed.”
Gingerly lifting up his dead arm, she guided his blue golf shirt over the appendage and down his fingers. Gathering the fabric into continuous folds with her left hand, she pulled the garment over his head and slipped the remaining fabric off his right side.
Easy enough, I thought to myself, taking mental notes. The pants should be no problem.
Squatting to the floor, Enemi detached the Velcro strips of his black shoes and guided them off gently, exposing brown socks worn thin, his big toes playing peek-a-boo.
First order of business is to buy new socks.
Then came the brace and, finally, his gray sweat pants, which she yanked off with the speed and agility of a tablecloth being pulled out from under a place setting.
“What’s next?” I asked.
“He won’t be ready for dinner for a few hours,” she responded. “But he needs his pants changed.”
“You put another pair on him for bed? Won’t he get hot?” I asked, perplexed. I knew how my father hated the feeling of being overheated.
“No, his diaper.”
As if my mind were a car coming to a screeching halt to avoid hitting the neighbor’s dog in the middle of the road, my thoughts skidded to a halt.
Oh no! I forgot about this part.
For years, I helped my mother and grandmother with their “pants,” a task that always made me queasy. But being that we had similar female body parts, I found a way to stomach it. Dad would be a different story.
“Right. How often does he need to be changed?”
“He’ll need one more tonight and then again first thing in the morning.”
I found myself wishing I was a little girl again and could hide in the fort Dave built in the backyard where no one would think to look for me.
“Jackie, did you hear me?” Enemi asked.
“Okay. Once more tonight and then in the morning. Gotcha!”
Knowing Dad would prefer some privacy during his unveiling, I left the room to clean up the mess left behind by a day filled with nothing.
Entering the family room, I was shocked to see the disarray. To make room for the manipulation of his wheelchair, Enemi had shoved all the other furniture out of the way. Carefully sliding the couch and coffee table back to their proper place, I repositioned the recliner. Looking down, I was horrified to already see tic-tac-toe scratch marks in my hardwood floor. Sighing, I closed my eyes. Between his wheelchair and her rearranging of furniture every day, I became fearful there’d be nothing left of my beautiful home.
God, help me let it go, I began to pray.
“Jackie, I’m leaving,” Enemi called. “He’ll want his dinner at 6:00 p.m., right after his rosary.”
“Does he say his beads at an exact time every night?” I asked, walking her to her car.
“No, just turn on channel 229 at 5:30 p.m.,” she informed me. “He prays with the nuns on TV.”
“He prays with the nuns?”
“I think that’s what you call them. Funny looking ladies covered in black from head to toe, mumbling the same words over and over.” Rolling her eyes, she smirked and said, “Get ready. He needs the TV on full blast.”
As I walked back into the house, memories returned from ten years before. In 2002, my parents’ lovely home suffered an electrical surge during a violent storm that caused a blazing fire that ripped away the garage and caused smoke damage to the rest of the house. With no place to go, my parents stayed with me for three weeks until I could find a rental for them while the house was being rebuilt. Both were becoming hard of hearing, and every time the TV was on, the volume not only made our heads swim, but rattled the windows and walls.
Realizing my dad’s visit was going to last a lot longer than three weeks, the thought of getting earplugs became very appealing.
Sitting with my 5:00 p.m. glass of wine, I watched the clock. A half hour later, I entered his room to start his evening prayers.
“Time for your rosary,” I called, nudging him out of another meditative trance.
“Channel 229,” he reminded me.
“I know, Dad, I know.”
Flipping through the TV stations, I finally stopped on the channel showing a room filled with ladies in head-to-toe black habits.
I’d thought the nuns got rid of those awful outfits years ago.
Twenty fresh-faced young women knelt onscreen, their faces peeking out from heavy headdresses—no make-up, no hair exposed, and every inch of skin hidden behind the thick black fabric. It looked like a scene out of the TV show, “The Flying Nun,” and I wondered if a strong wind would send them flying too.
In the center of the mob sat a portly, beady-eyed woman they called Sister Angelica, who called out the prayers.
“Let’s begin,” her monotone voice announced. “Our Father . . .”
Knowing he was all set, I bent over and kissed his forehead.
“I’ll be back with your dinner when it’s over.”
“Would you like to pray with me?” he shouted over the rumble of voices. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they were a pack of yogis chanting om.
“Ah, thanks, Dad. Maybe some other night.”
A half hour later, I was back. Turning off the TV, I sat next to him to spoon feed him chicken puree and mashed up vegetables. As he scarfed down each pulverized mouthful, I found it ironic that we turn into infants at the end of our lives, what between the baby food, the diapers, and the dependency.
And, just like in my childhood, no words were spoken as he devoured his food.
“Are you ready for some ice cream?”
Again, there was no conversation as he inhaled his favorte treat.
“Okay, Dad,” I said, smiling. “What’s next on the agenda?”
“My pills and then my teeth.”
Counting the vast array of blue, yellow, pink, and gray tablets, I wasn’t sure what any of them were for since the names of the vials were incomprehensible. Carefully dropping them into his mouth, I tentatively lifted a tall glass of cold water to his lips, careful not to spill.
“Thank you, honey. Now my toothbrush.”
Fortunately, brushing his ancient pearly whites, which had become fossilized with the years, was one thing he could still do for himself.
Scrubbing away sideways, up, and down, he forced the brush with such intensity across his yellowed teeth and pink gums I was worried some of them might fall out.
“Okay,” I declared, preparing myself for the final step to the evening. “I have to change your diaper now.”
He shot me a glare, the same look I used to receive when I was caught feeding the family dog my dinner under the table as she sat at my feet.
“No! I’m fine. It can wait until the morning.”
Oh no, I thought, terrified I was in for one of his moody, childish battles. I guess he didn’t get the memo that I’d be doing that part of his care too.
“Dad, I have to change you. It’s not healthy for you to lie in a wet diaper all night. You don’t want to get a rash or bed sores, do you?” I added, appealing to his fear of pain.
While Dad was the strongest man I ever knew, the one thing he had an aversion to was pain. Any pain, whether it be a gaping wound or a minor sore throat, made him whimper.<
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“Couldn’t we let it go just for tonight?”
“Oh, Dad,” I giggled, trying to mask my fear. Slowly pulling back the blankets, I advised, “I know this is awkward for you, but just close your eyes and think of me as some cute nurse. This will be over in no time.”
Pursing his lips, his expression shriveled like an apple doll left to dry in the hot sun for too long: body stiff, eyes shut tight.
Grabbing a fresh diaper from the tower of Depends next to his bed, I thought, How hard can this be? After all, I’ve changed a million poopy pants in my life.
But as I stood over his crippled body, a powerful avalanche of fear crashed down. This was no baby with a cute butt. This was my withered ninety-five-year-old father with a hairless groin and weenie shrunken to the size of a peanut. If this happened to all men, it was no wonder women lost interest in sex late in life.
What if it all goes bad? I worried. God knows I failed miserably changing Michelle’s diapers when she first came home from the hospital. But, each time they fell off, my mom swooped into the rescue. Now I was all alone.
After detaching the plastic strips, I guided him onto his side and yanked off the soggy slab of paper pulp lined in plastic with no problem. Part two would prove to be a different story.
Shoving and yanking the dead weight of his body back and forth, I struggled to get the clean one positioned just right.
“Okay, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” I feigned fearlessly.
Pushing him to one side, then the other, I rolled his body so many times I worried momentum might take over and he’d tumble off the bed. Several frustrating minutes later, I was sure I had it.
“All righty then. Let’s see how this looks.”
Rolling him over, I easily fastened the left side, but when it came to the right, there was a gaping hole between the two ends and a vast expanse of white skin left exposed.
Oh my God! Now what do I do? There’s no way I can do this all over again.
Sweat began dripping from the nearly five million pores in my body.
“Dad, I’ll be right back!”
Totally flummoxed, I quickly ran to get the one piece of household equipment that always kept things together: the roll of electrical tape. Rushing back, my lifesaver in hand, I ripped a large piece of the gooey tape and secured the two ends together. Studying my handiwork, I caught Dad staring at me.
As my lip began to quiver, tears found their way down my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry. This will hold you together for now. I’ll get it right tomorrow.”
Grabbing my hand, he continued to look at me. Then, smiling sweetly, he said, “Honey, you’re always so hard on yourself. You did just fine.”
Kissing his check, I turned off the light and left to finish my meltdown in private.
Curling into a ball on the couch, I sobbed convulsively.
How could I be so stupid? I moaned. This wasn’t how his first day was supposed to end. I was such an idiot.
But as I sat immersed in my pity party, I remembered the kind look on his face and the words that now hugged my heart: “You did just fine.” Words I’d heard my entire life but were now rich in meaning. He believed in me. He always believed in me.
Dad, I promise I’ll get all this right. You deserve the best, I said in my heart to his.
The following morning, as Enemi entered the house, I called to her, “I need you to teach me how to do this.” Coming into his room, she surveyed the crumpled mess and began to giggle.
“I can’t let his happen again,” I said, begging for help.
“Jackie, it isn’t that hard.” Obviously enjoying the fact she knew something I didn’t, she told me her secret. “It’s all about momentum.”
“I tried that, but I was worried he’d go flying off the bed if I tried any harder.”
“Let me show you now.”
Fearful of being late for work, I implored, “Please, wait until I get home to do the last one. I want to watch. I’ll be home before 4:00 p.m.”
Later that afternoon, I flew into the house, ready for my tutorial. Although I had arrived at 3:45 p.m., I saw she had already finished her day’s work.
“Enemi! I asked you to wait for me.”
“I’m sorry, but he wanted to go to bed. You know your father. When he wants something, he wants it now.”
Frightened of another debacle, I looked at him lying peacefully, eyes closed, off in prayer land.
Noticing the terror in my eyes, Enemi said sweetly, “I’ll show you how I move his body without re-changing this one.”
Grabbing another paper pad, Enemi brought it back to his bedside and tapped Dad’s shoulder.
“Jack, we have to show Jackie how to do this correctly,” she said loudly into his one good ear.
Opening his eyes, he shook his head no and demanded to be left alone.
“I don’t want to do this again. I want to pray,” he barked.
“Dad, you can stop praying for just one moment. You’ve been doing that all day,” I pleaded. “This is important.”
He grumbled in his annoyed manner when not getting his way, so I tried to reassure him, “We’re not taking this one off. She’s just showing me how to move your body so I don’t mess it up like last night.”
“Make it quick!”
When she placed her hands under his back and lifted him slightly, Dad took the one arm that still functioned and grabbed the opposite railing of the hospital bed. Pushing him up even higher, she quickly threw the new diaper under his bottom and rolled him back, both tabs in their precise location for easy fastening.
“See, it’s as easy as that.”
“That’s what I tried to do last night. Can you do it again?”
Enemi did a replay, and now two diapers were perfectly in place. Looking at the stack below his bottom, a miraculous thought crossed my mind.
Wondering if he was stuck in this prone position, I asked Enemi, “He doesn’t roll around, does he?”
“No,” she answered, confused. “He stays right there the whole night.”
“Yes!” I cried. “I’ve got the greatest idea.”
It’s been said that necessity is the mother of invention, and this mother just created a doozy.
“Don’t take those away. I can get the old one off. I just can’t get a new one on.”
Looking at my dad with two clean diapers perfectly poised under his bottom, my life was saved. Like in the story of The Princess and the Pea where the princess slept on several mattresses, my dad would be my slumbering prince piled high on a mountain of Depends.
“When you prepare him at night, I want you to place three to four more diapers underneath him. That way if I have to change him more than once, there won’t be any issues.”
Leaning over, I kissed him on the cheek, and happily announced, “Dad, we’ve got you covered now! No more mistakes on my end.”
“I’m sorry I’m such a bother,” he mumbled, glistening tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “This is all too much for you.”
Stunned that these words had come out of his mouth, I stopped in my tracks, my “Eureka!” moment fizzling.
“No, no!” I declared, moving my face close to the face of the first man who ever loved me. “We’re good. Please don’t feel like that. I can do this!”
The magnitude of where his life had been and what it had become was now overwhelmingly visible. Dad was a man who’d lost everything—first his mobility, then his wife, his driver’s license, home, eyesight, hearing, and the ability to do his finances. Now, his daughter had to change his pants. It was sort of okay when someone else did it; after all, they got paid. But it was a different story when his daughter had to take on the task.
“Dad, I’m so happy to be able to do this for you.”
Seeing the sadness wash over his eyes, I whispered in his ear before kissing his cheek, “I never want to hear you say that again. All we needed was a little practice.”
Patting his wrinkled cheek, i
t was time for the next item on the list of things to do. “Let’s turn on channel 229. Ready for your rosary?”
CHAPTER 8
Selling the Family Home
A week later, on July 8th, I found Dad slurping his maple-flavored Quaker oatmeal with Enemi’s help. Looking up, he smacked his lips and announced with certainty, “It’s time to sell the house and I want you to do it.”
A listing is the one thing every realtor goes cuckoo for Coco Puffs for. In the industry, realtors have a motto for longevity: “You need to list to last.” And while I was no different than any other agent, salivating at the idea of my name being plastered all over a signpost, I was having a hard time comprehending why my dad needed to sell now.
“But Dad, you just moved in here. We can wait. What if you decide you don’t want to live with me anymore? Then what?”
With his bushy eyebrows creeping downward, nearly covering his eyes, he opened his mouth and accepted another spoonful of the mushy mess. “Do it,” he restated.
“Dad, are you sure?”
As with any situation, when my father said his piece and didn’t want to be challenged any further, a wall of silence rose. Then, in a tone barely above a whisper, I heard him say, “I want a nice family in there.”
Driving to work, I thought how strange this was going to be. For fifty-two years, 112 Windsor Drive had been our family home. It was the one place that remained constant in my life: my sanctuary, my refuge from the cruel world outside, and my safe house when I found myself grappling with self-esteem.
“This is too soon,” I said to myself, looking into the rearview mirror and applying an extra coat of mascara while sitting at a stoplight. “I think he’s being rash.”
But, knowing my dad never did anything rashly—in fact, every decision he ever made came from long hours of deliberation and prayer—I decided to drive to San Carlos and take a look at what preparing the house for market would entail. I knew there was a lot of stuff. As products of the Great Depression, my parents stored away every rubber band, paperclip, plastic tie wrap, and piece of tin foil, all waiting to rise again like a phoenix from the ashes, to be more useful than before.
The Promise I Kept Page 7