Which way?

Hmmm...maybe living in a retirement village, even temporarily, is having an effect on me. Though I am OBVIOUSLY the youngest person around, it doesn't mean I have the lucid facilities I may need to get out of here!

On Monday morning, I got on the elevator from Dad's apartment (where I am staying) on the tenth floor. I punched the "close door" button, but forgot to push which floor I wanted, so I just sat there quietly, up in the air, with the door closed. Finally I realized that I was not moving, and punched the 1st floor button, but as soon as I pushed it, I realized I had forgotten something in the apartment, and had to go back! I tried to decide if I should ride down to the first floor and then go back up, or punch some intermediary button, get off, and wait for another elevator to go back up, or was there a way to delete the first floor button I had initiated. While I was debating, the elevator actually stopped on the third floor and opened to two little ladies waiting there. "Never mind," they stated, "we made a mistake. We actually want to go up."

"I want to go up, too!" I exclaimed cheerfully, "but I can't figure out how to unpunch the down button."

"Oh no, there's no way to unpunch it, but we may as well ride along with you." So they piled on, and we rode down in a comradely way. When we got to the first floor, the door opened, and a grumpy old man was standing there.

"We're going up!" We announced happily.

He looked at us as if we were all crazy. "You're going DOWN!" He pronounced decidedly. He got in, and indeed, we went down to the garage level, as we abashedly and helplessly stood by. As he got off the elevator, he shook his head and muttered to me, "You're ready to live here, now."

A bit of trouble

On a lighter note, I got into a little trouble yesterday. My dad lives in a huge retirement village - there are individual "cottages",(where my sister, Joyce and husband, Jim live) independent apartments (where Dad lived until a week ago), assisted living facilities, and the health center where dad was staying while he finished his journey. I was on my way back from dinner, and passing through the health center, I came upon a tiny little old lady in a wheelchair, inching herself along with one foot. She wasn't getting anywhere very fast, so I thought I would be kind and offer to help. "I would actually appreciate your help," she answered with a grateful smile.

"That's fine, then," I cheerfully stated as I took stepped behind her wheelchair. I could delay my return to Dad's room long enough to help this feeble thing. "Where would you like to go?"

The answer was "up." So I wheeled her OUT of the health center and into the elevator. (If you are clever at all, you should have already said, "Uh oh!" The real question was, why wasn't I clever enough to think that? She was in the HEALTH CENTER for crying out loud! There are REASONS people are in the health center and not in independent living arrangements! However, I was sure I was being the good Samaritan and helping my less-advantaged neighbor. Other considerations didn't enter into my thinking...yet!)

Once we were on the elevator, I said, "OK - which floor?"

She paused a bit and then answered, "I think it's the second floor, or maybe the third. I'm not quite sure." OK. NOW I had a bit of an inkling that maybe this wasn't a good idea, but hopefully I could pull it off and get her delivered to the right spot. We got off at the second floor and I asked, "What's the room number?"

"I'm not sure. I think I've forgotten. You see, I just had a stroke and my memory is not very good." It was at THIS point that I should have just turned her right around, taken her back to the health center and asked some nurse or aid what was the best course of action! But NOOOOO....I persevered, though feeling more and more uncertain.

"OK," I thought, "The names are on the doors. Maybe we can find hers with very little problem." So I asked, "What's your name?"

"My name is Mary Goodman. But I'm looking for my brothers' room." Whew, I'm starting to feel a LITTLE less nervous. If I can deliver her to her brothers, then THEY can handle her and I'll be off the hook. "But I can't remember their room number. And they might be on the third floor. I'm just not sure." This is NOT a reassuring answer. But I trundled her off down the hall, very slowly, so we can read the names on the doors. It's a VERY LONG hallway, and there are NO "Goodmans" on any of the doors. Now SOME sense is coming back to my brain. ("It's about time," you mutter. "WHAT were you THINKING!?")

"I think perhaps we should go back down to the health center. What do you think?"

"Oh, no, please," she pleaded sweetly, "Couldn't we just try the information phone and see if they can give us the room number?" I was willing to do this, so we get down the hall to the information phone and I hand it to her. She says to me, "I hate taking up your time." But I assure her that I don't mind helping at all. ("Yes," you are thinking, but perhaps this ISN'T helpful!!!") She tries to explain to the person on the phone who she is, and what she wants, but she is very hesitant, can't answer some of the questions, tries to remember, and explains that she recently had a stroke.

While all of this is happening over several minutes, and I am waiting patiently for my next instructions, off pops a capable-looking Security Guard from the elevator, and I feebly and guiltily try to explain things to her while Mary is still staggering with the enormity of the questions from the other end of the phone. After a few minutes, Security Guard takes over the phone. "Yes, BOB," she says, "I'm here." and she tries to sort things out. "I am here by the elevators on the second floor with ..." (she gestures to the little lady who says, "Mary Goodman") "...with Mary Goodman. She's in a wheelchair with...(she gestures to me to give my name and I throw my hands up innocently and say, "visitor".) "...with some VISITOR and she's looking for her brother. OK, I'll hold." (Now there's the FIRST smart thing I've done since this incident started - I DIDN'T give my name!)

"BOB says there is no one named Goodman on the second floor."

"Well," I answered helpfully (??) "she said that perhaps he is on the third floor, she can't quite remember."

"Lawrence!" Mary exclaims, breathlessly. "I remember that my brother's name is Lawrence! L-A-R-W-E-N-C-E," she spells triumphantly, though incorrectly.'

"Lawrence," the security guard repeats into the phone. "Yes, I'll hold."

"Perhaps," I suggest timidly, "perhaps I should just take her on back down to the health center."

"No!" Security Guard states adamantly. "We've got BOB here on the line, and you have to do what BOB says to do, or you're in deep doodoo."

"OK, then," I answer, guiltily relieved, "I'll just leave this in your capable hands and go about my business." And I skedaddle away! Whew! Now I just have to avoid running into Security Guard the rest of my stay here! I DID see her once again, but I ducked into a nearby elevator before she spotted me!

My family was amazed at my stupidity. Jim Ellis says, "Well, remind me the next time I'm in a wheel chair to not let Kathy near me!" And now there is a culprit for anything that goes wrong. "Hah!" they say. "It must have been the VISITOR that did it!"

Daddy

This is a very remarkable fellow. My father passed at age 99 last night. He went because he was ready to go. When he decided to stop taking all his medications (for congestive heart failure) he was given three to five days, and I was called to come to Medford, Oregon to say good-bye. Sister Joyce already lives here, and sister Elizabeth was here helping to look after him while he was in the hospital. On the airplane over here, I was gearing myself up for a frail, feeble, sickly looking man who had just been transferred to the medical center in his retirement village to die. But, though he was thinner, he was sitting up in his favorite chair and greeted me with a smile. "You look great," he said. "Well, you're looking pretty good yourself, " I answered. "I can't help it," he joked.

As the medication wore off and he got weaker, he still kept his mental agility, and was joking up to the very last. When the nurse came in to check his vital signs, she took his temperature and blood pressure. Then she said, "I'd like to listen to your chest." He said, "Well, there'll be an extra charge for that."

One of the nursing assistants came in and was being very friendly. His chart says "Dr. Bushong", so she asked him what was his medical specialty.
"No," he said, "It's a PhD. And you know what that means, don't you?"

"Not really," the aide admitted.

"Well, first of all you get a B.S. Of course, you know what THAT means?"

"Yes, that means Bachelor of Science."

"No, dear, B.S. means Bull Shit. After that you get your M.S. That stands for More of the Same. Then, finally, you get your PhD which simply means, Piled Higher and Deeper. So that's what my degree is in."

After two days off his medication, he told Joyce, "I don't WANT to be 99."

"Too late," she answered. "You're already 99."

"Well, then, I don't want to be 100."

"OK - you won't." She assured him.

"You promise?"

He dreamed that it was all a joke, a cruel hoax and that he wasn't really dying. He was pretty angry with it all, so he asked Joyce if that was true. She answered that no, it WAS just a dream, and he WAS really dying. "Well, why aren't I dead yet, then? I'm supposed to be dying. How come I'm still alive?"
"Well," she reasoned, "You're just not ready yet."

"I am! I'm ready!"

"Well, your body isn't."

"I told it."

"Well apparently your body is just not listening." He looked down at his body and muttered, disgustedly, "The big prick!"

We talked about the memorial service and the kinds of things he wanted. At first he said, "I don't care cause I'm not gonna be there." But Elizabeth convinced him that he was going to be cremated and that therefore he actually WOULD be there - as ashes. Then the next day we wanted to talk about the memorial service some more and he said again, "I won't be there." Elizabeth said, "No, Daddy, remember yesterday we decided that you WOULD be there."

"I changed my mind." He muttered. Then he said, "OK, for the funeral the rules are - you can applaud if you want to. You don't have to stand to sing the hymns. And no spitting tobacco juice on the floor."

One day a woman came in and introduced herself. "Hi there, Mr. Bushong, I'm Joanne, the hospice worker, and I'm meeting you for the first time."

Dad says, "It's the last time, too."

He never admitted to being in pain, but as the medications wore off, he got weaker and weaker, and his body was not functioning the way he wanted it to. As he was confined to the bed, he lost the abilty to turn over, and to even move his arms and legs. He was a big man, and it took two aids (and often a daughter) to help turn him over. One time after one of the aids had to help him pee, he told her, "You may have to marry me." Between bouts of peaceful sleep he would be agitated and frustrated. "Oh boy." He would mutter, or "Oh dear." He was concerned that he was being a burden to us daughters, as we would not leave him in the room alone. We would talk to him and sing to him and try to soothe him and reasssure him that he was doing what he wanted to do and we were going to be fine. But he was still distressed. "Oh dear," he would exclaim. "Oh boy," and once, "Oh girl."

It was amazing to me that he was still so intelligent and quick-witted the whole time his body was succombing to death. His mind never faltered. Such an incredible man. He passed quietly in his sleep at 2:15 on Sunday morning the 25th of July. I will miss my daddy.