From my journal, nine months ago...

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"How quickly things change...On June 30th, Mom and Dad called. Mom scared. Took Dad to ER. Had heart attack. Released after testing July 4th. On July 13th, second bad attack. This time, the Cardiologist, Dr. Evans, did an angiogram, angioplasty, and echocardiogram. Dad is in ICU with breathing tube, IV feeding him, catheterized, with a blood pump. Also had to have dialysis for awhile. By July 16th, breathing tube removed. Two days now has has slept, moving around and trying to turn this way and that. Who knows what dreams he dreams?

"Mom cried when Chris and I drove to the hospital. 'No more Hawkeye and Chingascook...' was all she could say, over and over. In ER, Dad motioned us over to his bedside, saying if he doesn't come out of this, he knows he'll see us on the other side. I'm so glad I took their photos on Saturday, July 7th, as I did. Images of them kidding with each other, smiling at each other, goofing off, holding hands, kissing, or just gazing into the camera naturally.

"As I write this, I am alone in the ICU waiting room except for one solitary woman, and Mom. Mom plays solitaire quietly, across the room on the coffee table. She keeps asking me, when I go over to her, why she's paying two months' rent for the old apartment. I explain we're late this month and we need to give notice. Where are we moving to, she asks. I tell her, but a few moments later, she has forgotten and asks again. 'Oh yes,...where Dad needs to go...' I smile inwardly as the solitar woman leaves us alone.

"Mom remembers enough of a conversation a few days before when we told her and Dad they had to move to a nursing home. Then, I could see Dad's face become relaxed and visibly relieved, knowing finally that someone could be there to help them.

"My ears notice that Mom is whistling as she plays cards. Cards and whistling - how appropriate. Two things burned into my mind from my earliest memories that I associate with Mom.

"I hear Mom moan...she says she has eaten too much, and decides to quit playing cards, and lay down for awhile.

"Sharon and Bill, arriving in the afternoon, are with Bill and Betty running errands.

"The hours as this goes by seem surreal. Time passes differently. You don't acknowledge it. Instead, you ignore it, withdrawing into a safe, emotional cocoon. At one and the same time, you reflect superficially on memories that surface unbidden but don't surprise you, but you never let them manipulate you into giving way to any emotional release. This is your way, you say. Maybe so. Maybe it's just your defense against facing mortality head on instead of intellectually, the way most of us most of the time deal with it, if we deal with it at all..."

When we think of grief, we generally think of the process and feelings we experience after someone dies. In reality we begin this process on the day someone we love is diagnosed with a life threatening illness. This process of mourning before someone we love has died is called anticipatory grief.

Remembering how it was with Dad, I definitely felt this...I know Mom did, too...she openly talked about it for years. It's like when Sunday hits, and it's still the weekend, but you feel the pressure of work already coming back...

Mom's physical was last week. Results are in: BP 118/62, Hemoglobin 13, blood sugar 92, thyroid levels good at 4.6, urine normal, etc., etc.

She's still sleeping too much. Today, she was asleep when I came to visit her at 5pm. Once again she was laying around in bed most of the day, in and out of sleep, admitting that she was dreaming about Dad again. I hope to encourage her to be more active and enjoy her life now as it is. I am looking into getting help with that since she's not motivated much by my words alone...

After talking with Mom last night, I'm coming to a personal conclusion that her sadness concerning Dad that seems to come and go is just that - something that is deep within her but only surfaces at moments when something brings him to mind, something that can be overwhelming in the retching sense of loss at those times, but also something that ebbs like the tide.

Mom has shared with me that she's unhappy, sometimes angry - very sad all the time as an undercurrent - but is being patient as she can be, abiding her time in God until he sees fit to take her home, as she puts it.

Until then, we'll ensure her health is taken care of and all those necessary everyday things, as well as being there for her, loving her, and enjoying our opportunities to get to know her better. I think that's the most important thing of all...

An online chat today with my daughter...

Eva/Nirgaz says:
Tell grandma hello for me, is she using the internet?
Trish says:
Yes, she does use the internet sometimes, but she's not consistent...she forgets to check sometimes...but yes, give it a shot...I will tell her hello, definitely...she always says she has a special place in her heart for you and daniel since we lived with her and grandpa.
Eva/Nirgaz says:
I think I will make some roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and buttered carrots tomorrow.
Trish says:
Nummy!
Eva/Nirgaz says:
I have a special place for her too. Make sure you let her know that if I lived up there I would be at her place a lot. But as things are, i am thinking of her often. Tell her that I am there in spirit at least.
Trish says:
i sure will, honey!

What Mom has been saying over and over, during the the past 8 months since Dad passed away:

"I have nothing to live for."

"That's a mistake God made, letting one die and the other live on; when one dies, both should die."

"Gordon had his wish. He always said he hoped he would go first, that he didn't think he would be strong enough to go on alone."

From Dolci Deleria:

"My father died when I was 18, seven years ago, when I was a freshman in college. That's when the dementia had destroyed enough of his brain to destroy the man I knew as my father...

"...I am angry at the dementia, but I can't scream at it, I can't reason with it, and I can't ignore it. It's just there, self-satisfied and taking up the entire living room like some monster-cat on steroids, impervious to temper tantrums and contentedly shedding fur to be tracked through the rest of the house. I hate it for killing Dad, for aging Mom, for having an immediate impact on the lives and bodies of people it doesn't inhabit. I hate it for moving so slowly. I hate how much of my life will be lost by the time it's done and how much my family has already lost. I hate that I want to postpone any children I might have until after the funeral, since what's left of my father will never understand and since I would rather my children grow up with stories of how their grandfather was instead of memories of how he is now.

"I am angry, but there is nothing for me to yell at that would make any difference."