One day, back in 1996, my beloved little car was stolen from the Washington Square parking lot while I took a few hours out of my busy life to spend too much money on clothes that were ill suited to me in yet another desperate, knee jerk attempt to better my life. Not the first ill fated move on my part. I've done lots of things in my life that worked, and more than a few that didn't.
The sad side of this story is I loved my little Honda and was shocked and devastated someone could in one simple move, take my mostly well ordered life and ding it up quite badly along with my car. My little burgundy hatch back was later recovered across town, trashed and much worse for the wear of a very long joy ride. Somewhat guiltily, since I'd loved my little car so much, I took the insurance settlement and sent the little Honda to public auction, It felt like a betrayal of a family member, but it had to be done.
The upside to this event was I bought with the insurance settlement and the meager gain we'd recently had in our savings account, a bigger, gently used, more comfortable car. A much needed improvement. For years I'd been driving my dad, now in his eighties, to a lovely adult daycare program where he was able to make friends, sing songs that were familiar, join in group activities that fit even his stroke addled brain, and where he could have a little independence for a few hours a week.
I really wanted this program to continue to be available to my dad as he loved going so much, and the local lift bus was not well matched to his infirmities. Twice a week, I drove from my home in Southwest Portland to the apartment he shared with my mother in another part of town, helped my strapping, but disabled dad into my tiny car, and drove to Trinity Episcopal Church in Northwest Portland where the adult daycare program was offered.
Once there, I pushed, pulled, coaxed him out of the car and up the steps into the building, returning four hours later to do the whole thing in reverse. Just as I made the switch to the slightly used, but much more comfortable car, my sisters and I came to the conclusion we could no longer keep up the grueling schedule that made my dad's trips to adult daycare possible. For our own sakes, we sadly admitted that while the program was good for both my parents, our own lives were suffering too much in the process. It was one of those difficult decisions we all have to make eventually.
The new car did, however make it possible for me to transport my dad to a nursing home near my own home for periods of respite for my mother, who was also showing the signs of wear and tear so often associated with spousal caregivers who themselves are of advancing age. I was devastated to see my once physically strong, mentally sharp father, medicated and confused, receiving mediocre care in what was supposed to be a top notch facility, while we struggled to make better arrangements for him.
My sisters all contributed to the effort, varying amounts at varying times, according to what we could each give at the time. I made almost daily visits to his temporary digs in an effort to ease his suffering, since he was by this time quite demented and unable to do
much for himself. I was, along with my sisters, determined to find a better arrangement for my dad, and eventually we did.
But before we reached that eventuality, I started to be a casualty myself. Years of balancing home, career, being a parent, keeping a marriage afloat, along with care for my aging parents was taking a toll. This new arrangement, although far from perfect, did however get us through another phase of my dad's declining health. In 1999, when my father was in the final stage of a very long and productive life, it became clear he needed the kind of care that could be provided only by moving full time to a nursing home.
By then I'd really had it, and that's when the panic attacks of which I've spoken in this column began. Fortunately, shortly thereafter, my dad was moved to a nursing home where he could get the proper care he needed, my sisters and I could focus more attention on our mother who was now in need of a lot of support as well, and I could get help for what had become debilitating panic attacks.
You know, looking back on that time, what's happening in my life now, the current challenges I'm facing, don't seem all that bad. I am mostly only responsible for myself now. I have some money worries, and I've had some medical issues to deal with lately. But compared to managing the life I had ten years ago, this is much easier. It's important to remember that. Especially as I lay here with a heating pad on my back, wondering how I'm going to make things work out for myself.
I've got a ways to go before I reach the age my parents were when they really started to decline. I'm still able bodied, most of the time. I still have my full mental faculties, most of the time. I have a couple of gripe groups with beer associated where I can vent and laugh. I live in a beautiful place. For now I have money in the bank and food on the table. And I have wonderful friends. My folks were family rich and I am too, but they didn't focus so much on friendships. For me, if I need help, I'll have the benefit of a combination of family and friends. And that's good. Heck, it's more than good, it's friggin great. How lucky am I? Life is good.
© M.E. Rollins
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