Letter to Dad

Hi, Dad!

I thought I'd drop a line, 'cause three different things made me think of you this weekend.

1. I was talking to a friend whose mother is in a long-term care facility in another state and has not been doing well. It reminded me of last January: my dread every time the phone rang; the exhaustion in Mom's voice; the guilt; long conversations with my siblings, filled with "if-then" scenarios. Oh, and more guilt.

Then the 3 AM departure for the airport. The long, icy drive down the rural roads. Tater-tot hot dish that Kathy Kohn made just for me. Slipping an Oreo into your sleeve during the visitation (Hey, you would have done the same for me!) (Mom was pissed when she found out! "Katherine Elizabeth! Is it true that you put an Oreo cookie in your father's casket?!?" Snnnrrrk...) Women - a long procession of women who have known me all my life - filling and refilling my coffee cup in the church basement. Packing china, washing walls. "Kids, if someone doesn't take these wool shirts, they're going in the Goodwill." And I was so frazzled that I walked out of the church where I was baptized, confirmed and married; walked out of the house I grew up in; drove my U-Haul down Highway 44 and out of Markesan for good without a backward look. Yeah, I know: where were the tearful good-byes? But there had been a big snowstorm the night before, and the roads were drifted. I was concentrating on drift-busting in my U-Haul. By the time I really had a chance to think, I was in DeMoines and too tired to give a shit.

Sorry, Dad. I digress. Why couldn't you have died in the summer? No drifting and blowing snow. And I could have lobbied to carry out our plan: launching your corpse into Hills Lake in a flaming canoe, Viking-style. Not the good canoe. One of the old ones.

OK, the other two things that made me thing of you were uprooted from the boxes of "inheritance" still awaiting my attention in the basement.

2. Ah, yes! I was rummaging and found your embroidered Goraly vest from Poland. I cooked Polish last night and thought, "If Dad were here, he would definitely have worn his vest." Like you have to every family celebration since you got it 20 years ago. I would wear it in your memory, but it's way too big.

3. (And this is HUGE, Dad!) I am sick to death of being cold in my house in the winter. In the same box as the Goraly vest I found my new best friend: your favorite Pendelton fisherman's sweater. You wore it constantly for years, until you shrunk it. Mom was throwing out your clothes and tossed it on the "out" pile. "Hey, can I have this?" "It's all shrunken!" "Yeah! It's a perfect fit!" And it IS! I have been toasty all day in your shrunken sweater. And to prevent wool-itch, I have one of your ratty duo-fold undershirts. Nice touch, sewing Velcro to the back bottom edge. I'm not sure, but I guess that somewhere in the world is a pair of long-john bottoms with the other half of the Velcro. As always, I admired your sewing skills. Perfect, regular stitches. Where did you learn to sew like that? Oh, yeah. Medical school.

Check it out! I'm a lucky girl!

I miss you Dad. Even your shop-worn jokes. Even your strange collections. Even the way you mortified me by crying every time you said the blessing. Even your ponderous "bum-bum-de-bum" hum. Even the way I couldn't whistle a tune without you drawing attention to it by joining in. Even the Oreo addiction.

It was pretty fun to call home, even in my middle age, and be greeted with, "It's KATE THE GREAT!" It was good, being great. Thanks for being my loyal fan. And thanks again for this sweater. Its the bomb!

Pooh Story?

As a sidebar:



When I got my MA in Linguistics, my intention was to teach English as a Second Language, and I have done this. However, I had a secret passion for the field of Sociolinguistics: regional variety; discourse analysis; language and gender; language change; all that stuff. The research shows that language change tends to originate in young girls, and after hearing some of the stuff my daughter and her friends say, I'm now convinced. From time to time, I'm going to post things I hear Sara and her BFFs say; then, I'd love to hear from anyone out there as to whether you hear girls in your area say the same things. Could be fun.



So, to start, my two for today are:



1. "Whatev's", which is a shortened version of "Whatever."



2. Many times, when Sara or her friends say something, especially, if (they think) it's funny or smart, they will repeat it, like this: "I cleaned my room! Yay me! I'm, like, 'I cleaned my room! Yay me!'" As a mother, I find this one a little annoying. I'm, like, "A little annoying."



*****

I spent today near the phone, hoping to hear good news about my dad. After his initial recovery from his first stroke, he has had a couple of other "stroke-like episodes" that now have him paralyzed on the right side. He still has language, but is having trouble speaking because of the facial paralysis. He has been at the University Hospital in Madison for a a few days, now. The plan after that is to move him into residential treatment: a sort of stroke therapy boot-camp. Mom is under some stress, as they were packing up to move when Dad had the stroke. They need to be out of the house where I grew up by March 1, so she's also taking care of final arrangements for their condo in Oshkosh. My sister is getting there tomorrow; then Mom will call me and let me know when she wants me to come. February, she says. She doesn't think I should travel yet, because of my recent surgery. She's probably onto something there. There are still some things I can't do, but will be able to do in a few weeks.



Friday was a good day. He talked a lot and was in a good mood. Yesterday, he slept a lot. Mom said he was discouraged at not being able to read easily. His Louis L'Amour novel was in his lap, but he is too weak to hold it up (I'm thinkin' "book stand"...).



Mom says, "Do you want me to read to you?"

"I can read."

"Yes, but you can't hold the book, so I could read to you if you like."

"Read me a Pooh story."



Mom was at a loss, not having an A. A. Milne collection to hand, or even remembering the stories very well.



I laughed when she told me this. A couple of visits ago, Dad and I sat on the stairs in their house and took turns reading A. A. Milne poems out loud to each other. They are pretty fun, and I read them to the kids all the time. One of our favorite things to do on a "sleep late" day is to pile into my bed and read "The Knight Whose Armor Didn't Squeak" or "King John's Christmas". My Pooh collection gathers no dust, that's for sure.


Mom and I decided it would be fun for me to get on the phone with Dad today and read him a Pooh story or poems or whatever he likes. The plan was that I would call his room at noon and she would put the phone to his ear.

She called me at 11:30, though, and told me that we should wait until another day. He was barely conscious. He looked terrible, she told me. She was afraid he was dying. She promised to call me if he got any clearer-headed, and that we would carry out our plan; but he did not improve. When she called me tonight, she seemed a little bit encouraged, having talked to his neurologist. I guess the sort of brain damage he has can affect his circadian rhythms, meaning that, as part of therapy, he'll need to be retaught his sleep patterns. I suggested to Mom the possibility that he may be depressed as well. She says that Dad doesn't tend to get depressed, but that he may find sleep to be a pretty good way to avoid the constant harassment of the nursing staff, etc...

I promised her that I would carry my Pooh books around in my briefcase for a few days. If he wanted a Pooh story, she could just call me up, even at school, and I could take a break to be his A. A. Milne request line. Luckily, the entire set is no bigger than a lunch box. Thank goodness he didn't request Winston Churchill or J. K. Rowling.

Red Jello

That's what my father gasped to my older brother in the hospital today, when Charles asked, "Can you say anything? What do you need?"

Dad had a fairly major stroke this morning in church, keeling over in the choir loft. Luckily, there were four EMTs in the congregation, according to my mother. Who were mainly useful in extracting him from between/under the pews, as he was completely paralyzed at that point. Ambulance to the hospital in Berlin (Markesan is a small town - the nearest hospital is about 20 miles), then LifeFlight to Oshkosh.

[Dad's sister called me this evening; and when I told her of the day's events, she said, "Do you suppose they interrupted the service? Well, goodness, I suppose so. What a blessing he wasn't home alone, but in church, where he could pass out..in front of...all those people..." I could tell she was thinking, "Please let me die alone at home! Please let me die alone at home!"]

Medical miracles never cease. I learned that the rush was because there is a clot-busting drug which, if administered promptly after a stroke, can mitigate the damage in one out of seven cases. Geeze, I thought, when Charles phoned from the hospital with the news, 14% of cases? Not impressive, really. However, Dad was one of the lucky ones. Within minutes of the drug being administered, his speech began to clear, paralysis abated, and he got very cranky. No, he wasn't going to raise his right arm or wriggle his toes any more. He wanted to be put in a real bed and he wanted to take a nap. He's in the ICU at this moment, napping in a real bed.

I am delighted that his number did not come up today. I do think, though, that if a man's last words were"red Jello"...wouldn't that reflect a life well lived? I suppose that depends on whether he actually got the Jello.