The Promise I Kept

by Jackie Madden Haugh

  Evil Thoughts

  What was supposed to only take six weeks of radiation turned into eight. Some lesions are stubborn and refuse the specific timeline to heal. Each day we made the trek to the oncologist where Dad, Enemi, and I would sit for several minutes in the waiting room before he was seen. To say the experience was excruciating for him doesn’t begin to describe the torture his poor body endured as he was manhandled from the car to the wheel chair to the gurney for radiation and back again. Tired and in pain, sleep was the only way my father could survive the experience. And, sleep he did.

  Since the dating debacle, I had decided to concentrate on more important things, like how to fall asleep at night despite the fact my body was bone tired. Unlike my father, it never failed—after a busy day of caring, I’d tumble into bed heavy-eyed only to find my mind was in overdrive. Most nights I got barely three hours unless I took a sleeping pill to knock me out.

  “Mom, why don’t you go to Tahoe?” Jenni asked, calling to check in on her fading mother. “It’s June and you love it up there when the weather starts to get warm again. It might be the perfect break for you.”

  I sighed, thinking of our little piece of heaven right here on Earth. How I’d love to run away and walk among the pine trees in the forest behind our Tahoe home. Having cabin fever there was such a different feeling than experiencing it in Los Altos. There, I expected it occasionally and let everything go, allowing the time for books, writing, or just staring out the window at the inclement weather holding me inside. But when it happened in my main residence, all I felt was trapped.

  “There’s no way I can get away right now,” I said, closing my eyes and remembering the times I’d escape there after my divorce. Only there did I feel centered and at peace.

  “Why not? Can’t Enemi spend the weekend with him?”

  Thinking back to several weeks before when the two of them were having a contest to see who could sleep the entire day away, I simply told my child, “I think she’s on overload. She hasn’t had a single day off in years. While she says she desperately needs the money, I can’t do that to her.”

  “Well, how about getting with your girlfriends?”

  “To be honest, I’m just not up for all that small talk. I feel like I have absolutely nothing to say.”

  As Jenni kept suggesting new ideas, I retorted with excuses. Soon a heavy pause lay between our sentences. Feeling defeated, she said goodbye. She had things to do, people to see, and places to go. She was young and living a rich, busy life. All my kids were. While I was grateful they were safe and happy, I envied their freedom. Deciding I needed to do something for me, I woke Enemi to let her know I was going for a walk and ended up crying in the park around the corner.

  Sitting on a bench, I watched young mothers pushing their babies on the swings and was reminded of all the times I had done this with my own. When they became squirrely in the late afternoon, right before dinner and I wanted to wear them out so they’d fall asleep early, we’d go there and play. It was also where Timmy had his birthday parties because all he wanted to do was run around—no clowns or blow-up jumping structures, just one with the wind and his little friends. Instead of days of wine and roses, they were days of sand and shovels, soccer balls and softballs, and the rope swing across the creek.

  Where did that time go? I sighed. I was so happy then, and fulfilled. No one can ever say I didn’t love being a mommy.

  Arriving home an hour later, I saw Enemi was preparing to leave. Dad was content in bed with his rosary and about to fall sound asleep.

  “Are you leaving?” I asked, knowing the answer by the purse in her hand and the look on her face that said she was anxious to escape.

  “Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow. He’s really tired today. I bet he sleeps through the night.”

  Preparing for another night of quiet nothing, I nodded my head and opened the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thank you.”

  Later that evening, Michelle called to check in. I was sure she’d been talking to Jenni because the litany of questions sounded awfully familiar.

  “Mom, why don’t you try to get out more?” Michelle encouraged her sad sack mother. “You’ve got those girls you can pay to stay with him. Call some friends and go out to dinner.”

  I sat quietly, thinking how lovely that sounded.

  “You know, if you don’t contact people, they might forget about you,” she encouraged with her twenty-nine-year-old wisdom.

  I feared they already had.

  “Have you heard from Oliver?” Michelle asked, bringing up a name from the not-so-distant past.

  While I understood that my girlfriends were busy with their lives, their husbands, and now their grandchildren, I could forgive that. At least they occasionally called to check in on me. But how could I forgive someone I’d been hanging out with for almost two years, someone I had introduced to my children and father, and someone I had invited for dinner at the holidays, only to have him vanish the minute my life took a different course?

  “No, not a word. I guess he didn’t want to get involved with all this.”

  “Have you reached out to him?”

  Thinking of all the people I barely knew who sent a card or called to see how I was surviving, I said flatly, “What’s the point? He’s busy. Maybe he thinks I don’t have the time.”

  “How would he know if you don’t reach out?”

  Feeling the effort was more than I could handle, but more fearful of another rejection because of my choice to care for my dad, I made some excuse and let it go.

  After saying our goodbyes, I meandered through the house, aimlessly looking for something to keep me occupied while he snored. Going into the bathroom, I took one look in the mirror and wondered how much longer I could handle all this. There was no amount of makeup that would ever be able to cover the dark circles around my eyes. Since Dad had moved in, I went from being somewhat youthful at the age of fifty-eight to looking like an old hag at sixty. All I needed was a wart on the end of my chin and a few missing teeth, and I’d be in perfect costume for Halloween.

  Entering his room, I proceeded to change his diaper, pushing the dead weight of his body in one direction, then the other, as he slept through. Suddenly, profound sadness washed over me. For some reason, Dad didn’t want to talk like he did in the earlier days. I wanted to think it was because he was tired; he seemed to be sleeping more all the time. But I was worried that maybe he just didn’t have anything left in him to say. No longer were there stories about his youth, how even at a young age he was the dutiful child taking on odd jobs to bring whatever pennies he could back to the family piggybank. He also seemed disinterested in what his grandchildren were up to or how I was doing in my job.

  How I missed hearing about how smart the nuns and priests thought he was and how it was they who encouraged him to go on to higher education. Dad was the first in his family to go to college. It was never a burning ambition. In fact, he had never given it much thought, but when religious authorities thought something was a good idea, he paid closer attention.

  And then there were all his memories of watching his four children grow up. He held such pride in his heart over our accomplishments, whether it was learning to ride a bike for the first time or the fact that we occasionally got a math problem correct. The grin on his face over the simplest of successes always tugged at my heart. To him, we were perfection just as we were and he was proud that we turned out loving, moral human beings. Once, there wasn’t a subject we didn’t explore. Now all I heard was silence. Our time together had become my responsibility to his physical needs and I was on overload.

  Perhaps I should have listened to all those people and put him in a home. The way he was going, I imagined he’d outlive me!

  Standing over the snoring beast, I didn’t just blubber, I raged over the unfairness of it all. Why was it always me that had to take care of people? Was this all some contract my soul had made before I arrived on this planet, and if so, why was I so s
tupid to sign up for it?

  Steam that had been building inside poured out of every orifice in my body. I was tired, and I was becoming unglued with self-pity.

  You’ve not only destroyed my house but my life! I’m a prisoner in the mess!

  Jenni’s bedroom, with walls that had been freshly painted a cheery yellow and the carpet newly shampooed, was now beginning to look much like my bedroom after my grandmother had her way with it. Stains covered the carpet, from spilled food to debris that had escaped his diapers on their way to the garbage. Her dresser was covered with water stains from wet glasses, pill bottles lay scattered everywhere, and her curtains were destroyed!

  How in the hell did they become so tangled? Did he play with them in the middle of the night trying to look outside?

  Forcefully pulling up his blanket to tuck it under his chin, I noticed a stack of pillows in the corner, one right on top of the other. During the day, these served to elevate his head, his knees, even his feet. With my mind beyond tired—in fact, it was as fuzzy as a TV with no reception—it began to travel to a dark place. My humanity was faltering. Like the Sirens in Greek mythology calling to sailors so their ships would crash on the rocks, the pillows suddenly sang an evil song.

  No one would ever suspect he was suffocated. He’s 96 after all. People die in their sleep all the time. Plus, he’s so tired, he won’t even struggle for air.

  Picking up an extra fluffy one, I stretched out the ends out as far as they’d go until the down inside was stiff, like a board covered in fabric. Walking over to his bed side, I held it high over his head. Just as I began to lower it, the reality of what I was doing slapped me across my heart with an invisible two-by-four.

  “Oh my God! What am I thinking?” I cried aloud.

  Horrified at myself, I threw the pillow across the room, fell to my knees, and burst into prayer.

  “Please, dear Jesus. I need help! I can’t do this by myself anymore. All this taking him to doctors is wearing all of us out,” I sobbed. “Please, please don’t let me wish him away. I know one day he’ll be gone, and I’ll want him back again.”

  Pulling myself together, I apologetically kissed his snoring face and left the room utterly mortified. I needed rescuing, but where to turn? Enemi was obviously just going through the motions. None of my friends had ever experienced something like this, so there was no one I could turn to for suggestions. Knowing I’d have to rely on something I’d grown to despise—the medical profession—I decided to talk to his doctor in the morning.

  CHAPTER 18

  A Time for Changes and Memories

  “Hello. This is Rite Aid Pharmacy calling. The prescription you ordered cannot be filled without your doctor’s consent. Please call the physician,” I heard on the phone the following morning.

  What the hell? It’s cholesterol medicine. Why do we need to call the doctor? It’s not like we’re abusing Ambien or Oxycodone.

  But as instructed, I called his physician.

  “Hi, this is Jack Madden’s daughter calling. His refill was denied, and we were told I had to call you.”

  “Let me check his records,” replied a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “I’ll get right back to you.”

  When did the doctor hire a seven-year-old as a receptionist? Either everyone’s so much younger these days, or I’m just getting old, I thought.

  Putting the phone on speaker so I could hear the minute she returned, I began catching up on chores. First, I scrubbed the kitchen sink, then the counters and sticky fingerprints off the cabinets. Still the elevator music played on.

  Geez, they even make you wait on the phone.

  Next, I swept the hardwood floor. And just when I was about to fill the sink with hot water, I heard, “Hello? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here. I’ve been here for twenty minutes.”

  “I’m sorry it took so long. I had a hard time finding his chart. He hasn’t been in here in over three years.”

  “That’s because he’s so damn healthy,” I said annoyed.

  “It looks like the doctor needs to see him before she can prescribe anything.”

  “You mean I have to bring him in there?”

  “Yes, we have an opening tomorrow.”

  “Please put the doctor on the phone,” I hissed, desperately trying to keep my cool. “This just won’t work for me.”

  A few minutes later I heard, “Hello, Miss Madden, this is Doctor Wong. What can I do for you?”

  “Thank you for talking to me. I’m really struggling here. Every time Dad has an appointment he sleeps literally for days afterwards. He just finished eight weeks of radiation for cancer on his lip. Thank God it worked. He is now cancer-free, but I don’t think he has the strength to come. Can’t you just prescribe the same stuff again?”

  Listening to all her medical reasons as to why it was important to see him, I wanted to break down and cry. The true reality was that it was I who didn’t have the strength to keep doing this.

  “There has to be a better way,” I pleaded. “I recently read about hospice and how it’s now about declining health and not just for the dying. Couldn’t we set him up with that so people come to him?”

  For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the phone. Then, with astounding affirmation, I heard, “You know, Miss Madden, that’s a great solution. I’ll renew the prescription and send you some options so you can choose which organization you like.”

  “Really? That’s terrific!” I happily replied, feeling like the troops were about to land at Normandy, and I’d be rescued from the hell I was living in.

  Ten minutes later, the email arrived with her recommendations. Looking through them, I found one that spoke to me: Mission Hospice. The website looked friendly and I loved their philosophy: “A place for patients and families.”

  Especially for families. Sometimes we need it more than the patient!

  I made the call and spoke with a friendly woman who said she’d come for a consultation the following day. Delighted, I hung up, but realized I now had a bigger problem: how was I going to tell Dad? In his world, hospice meant the grim reaper was hanging just outside the door, scythe firmly in hand. And he had no intentions of letting that demon in anytime soon.

  Walking into his room, I saw he was awake.

  “Hi, Dad. I’m so glad to see you’re finally up.”

  Wiping the long wisps of white hair away from his eyes, I tried to summon the courage to tell him about my brilliant idea. Instead, I asked, “Want to hear your music while I get your breakfast ready?”

  At his nod, I turned on his favorite CD and ran out the door. Enemi arrived shortly after and for the next few hours I found any and every excuse to avoid the conversation: folding laundry, taking the dog for a walk, watching reruns of Law and Order SUV, looking at my teeth in the mirror.

  At lunchtime, the perfect opportunity arrived. He was now in his chair. Taking a bite of a soft-boiled egg sandwich, he got a look of annoyance and said, “You know honey, I’ve been thinking. I don’t ever want to go back to another doctor again. I’m glad the cancer’s gone, but no more doctors.”

  Oh my! This is the perfect segue!

  Taking my seat next to his chair, I spouted my brilliant idea.

  “Guess what! You don’t have to. I have a new plan.”

  Putting down his sandwich, he waited.

  “I’ve organized for a hospice service to help us,” I announced, sounding as if I’d just invented some miracle cream for all the new wrinkles on my face.

  As I waited for what I hoped would be a happy response, I noticed his face turn to stone. Silence didn’t just waft in the air but caused the entire room to stand still. Then, with the fury of a tornado, he cried, horrified, “Hospice! Am I dying? I don’t feel like I am.”

  Placing my hand on his, I smiled.

  “No, Dad. You’re not dying. It’s mostly for me. I just get a little nervous that I’m not caring for you properly.”

  Calming down, he poppe
d that last remaining bite into his mouth. “Well, I’m not ready to go, you know. I want to live to one hundred.”

  “And I’m not ready for you to leave,” I answered, actually meaning it.

  “I know my parents are waiting, your mother is waiting, my sister and brother are waiting, but I’m not going,” he announced again through a mouthful of food.

  Smiling over his intense desire to live, despite the fact that he lived in a world of nothing where no one came to visit, no movies were watched on TV, nor did he read one of the historical novels he loved so dearly. I gently glided my fingers over his rosy cheeks and guided his face in my direction. “I just want to take the best care of you I can, and these people will be just a phone call away. They come to us. We never need to leave the house.”

  “I never have to get in the car again? Or sit in a waiting room for hours?”

  “Nope, and you never have to pay for your diapers, medicine, or any of the other stuff we need to keep your skin clean. It’s all paid for through your Medicare.”

  “Medicare pays for everything?” he said, surprised. Always looking for ways to save money, he was now on board.

  “Yeah, Dad. The nurses and doctors will come to visit you, and it’s all provided under Medicare.”

  His eyes twinkled and a broad smile appeared on his face. He was utterly pleased. As he leaned his head back, settling into his pillows, he shouted, “Bring them on!”

  “This also means when you’re ready, you won’t die in a hospital. You’ll be here with me.”

  With an even bigger smile, he got comfortable and closed his eyes again for another long nap.

  The following day, the reserves arrived with all their ammunition, yanking this exhausted soldier out of her foxhole.

  “Your father’s in perfect health,” said Mary, a simple-looking nurse with a humongous cross hanging from her neck. Apparently she’d been a nun in another life but continued to wear her amulet, most likely to ward off the evil spirits that love to hang around the sick and dying. “He just might make it to one hundred.”

  “Great!” I smiled, thinking I just might make it too.