Mourning sometimes begins before death

Getting old can be such a cruel reward after a good life. My dad turns 78 this month. He lived an honest, descent life. He made a comfortable living that allowed Mom to stay home with my sister and me when we were growing up. He gave us a lot of love and plenty of nice things and experiences. He and Mom have been married 56 years.

Mom and Dad both have been suffering from neurological conditions; Parkinson’s disease and normal pressure hydrocephalus, respectively. Mom’s condition isn’t too bad yet. She has tremors on her right side, she has a stiff gait with a minor limp, she shows little facial expression, and all her movements are as if in slow motion. She’s a little forgetful. She’s comfortable, however, and at peace with her situation.

Dad, on the other hand, lost his ability to walk, had two surgeries, regained walking to a large extent, lost it again, and had another surgery that helped a little. His progress has been hampered by the degenerative bone disease in his lower back that two surgeries helped, but did not eliminate, a surgery on his right shoulder, and the need for similar surgery on his left shoulder.

Two weeks ago he had to have his fourth hydrocephalus surgery, this time to remove the shunt device that had once returned him to normalcy – it had become clogged and infected. Recently I had to admit him to a care facility for a month of IV antibiotics prior to one last attempt at the shunt. Meanwhile, he has lost the ability to even get out of bed on his own, he is in a constant state of confusion, and he has become angry and combative.

One of the few things he recalls clearly is that I put him there. At times he understands why, but mostly he just fumes about his confusion and his losses. Mom has visited, but it’s too upsetting to her. She gets confused and begins to have minor hallucinations. We’ve had to ask the care center to not allow Dad to call home.

I know that to many of you reading this, this scenario is not unique. Numerous stories are more tragic and more heartbreaking. But these are my parents and these are the two geriatric people that I have to deal with. And their age-related helplessness is breaking my heart.

Dad would rather be dead. Prior to losing his cognitive abilities these past two weeks, he’d confide his wish to die, if it weren’t for his need to care for Mom. Now he’s a liability to Mom. Now what would he think? What does he think? What can he think?

This man who did so much for me over the years can now only remember that I put him away – away from his home, his wife, his dog and cat. He cannot see or feel our hope that it’s a temporary necessity – and he is probably right. He may not recover even a small portion of what he has lost.

Oh, it hurts – thinking of him there. It’s so scary, too, thinking of the possibility of my being in his shoes some day. I know that I’d rather die.

He had a good and comfortable life. He took too good care of himself to die of the diabetes and heart disease that killed his father and brother. He’s too good a man to suffer the way he is right now. But life doesn’t let you choose. It doesn’t let you choose lots of things – the circumstances you are born into, the breaks that come your way, the disasters that may befall.

So here it is, near the end, and life is more out of his control than it ever has been. As with cancer. As with Alzheimer’s disease. As with other old-age, tortuous, lingering ends. Even dignity is being denied him. Those at the care center who must deal with him now never knew him before and cannot understand that the man he is now is so unlike the man he was for most of his 78 years.

I mourn the loss of the man I grew up loving and admiring, as if he were already dead. But even more, I mourn the shell that is forced to remain, and the pain he must feel in those fewer and fewer lucid moments he has to look at himself in.

In a theological context, Paul in the New Testament writes “O death, where is thy sting?” In the context of the flow of life and it’s uncontrollable circumstances, I think of Dad and wonder the same thing. For Dad, and the body that has failed him, I can’t believe that there would be a sting, but only blessed relief.