When Dad first broke his hip in April 2023, I optimistically thought that with recovery time and therapy, he’d walk again. Fast forward three and a half years and he’s further from that goal than before.
A myriad of factors come into play: advanced age, PTSD, Agent Orange exposure, Alzheimer’s, chronic fatigue.
Each time Dad re-enters rehab, the experience zaps his energy, resetting the mobility goal even further back. On the other hand, Mom’s energy and quality of life improves when Dad is out of the house.
Although Mom is loathe to admit it, she’s much better rested with Dad out of the house. Unlike before, she no longer spends long hours with Dad when he’s in the hospital or in rehab. She’s learned to balance her day better, prioritizing rest.
The last time Dad was home, Mom had made an effort to take a daily nap, which I’d advised her to do years ago. Previously, she made excuses as to why she had to work herself like a machine and not include rest/naps as part of her to-do list.
Now, with Dad in rehab, she sleeps later and is in much better spirits. Contrast her sheer unhappiness when she confessed to one of my friends who’d arrived to pick me up to attend an event. Mom declared with despair in her eyes that she thought her life would be much different if she was blessed to live this long.
My parents’ relationship has been a romantic saga, spanning 65 years of marriage. Mom reminisces about when they bought our present house, how they were both healthy and able to walk the three flights of stairs that now challenges Mom and defeats Dad without the help of an electric chair and assistance from someone else.
Even with a mostly reliable caregiver service, Dad’s home care is an all-consuming activity where we have to coordinate schedules to make sure that someone’s home with him at all times even though he mostly sleeps throughout the day.
The hardest transition to witness is Dad’s vibrancy slipping away in stages. Rehab keeps him alive, but his quality and participation in life have dwindled. He no longer pines to return home nor cares whether the TV is on at rehab.
When we say “rest in peace,” we imagine some place where both body and mind are at rest, the atmosphere is calm, the temperature is comfortable and one is virtually out of touch with the worldly grind. That’s where Dad is now.
Although I remain upbeat when I visit Dad, in my heart, I feel that many in that facility are humanely waiting to die. Isn’t that a dream come true? To live a full life and in the end to go peacefully in one’s sleep. At the end of my visits with Dad, I make sure to kiss him on the forehead or cheek and tell him I love him, never knowing if it’ll be the last time.