Freedom St

The house on Freedom Street was my parents house for, I don't know, not twenty years. But I think over fifteen. But as I realized a few weeks ago, it was not my house. It was not the house I grew up in. It was not full of secret childhood memories. I did not get to peek into old corners and discover any surprising secrets about myself. And, I had already been through all the old boxes and stuff in the basement. This house was a small, one-story functional, practical little place that was dark in the middle and way too quite for my tastes. Because it was just me. Both my parents were gone, and it was highly unlikely, I realized, that either of them would ever see Freedom Street again.

When my dad got too sick, they had to put my mom in the nursing home, as he could no longer take care of her. For awhile (a few days? A week?) he was home alone with nothing to do but try and fix his situation. He wasn't quite sick enough be with my mom, yet. But he was getting so sick that he was losing his independence. He had colon cancer, liver cancer, lymphatic cancer and he was having trouble just getting himself from the couch to the refrigerator. The doctors did not recommend this procedure, but they could go in and take a look. Since his systems were shutting down, they might be able to bypass some of them, and give him a few extra days. He was thinking with a few baggies strapped to him, and some surgical tape, he might have a few more weeks to either be with my mom in the nursing home, or, be well enough to take care of her again.

When I got out there stuff was a mess. Once they opened him up, they found bad stuff. He got an infection. They did some emergency surgery, but he was not doing so well.

But this dark house. The first day or so, I had to keep positive. And all his stuff was there as if his day-to-day life was still happening.

Two bananas on the counter.
His Looking Good, Bob glass, and my mom's Happy Birthday coffee mug in the sink.
One half of a two pack of double chocolate chip muffins with St. Patty's Day icing. (a gift, I think, from one of his househelpers).
His pants, socks, and shirt laid out on his bed.
His little bed (the one I slept in as a child) made, as always, perfectly (Air Force training).
Trash, ready to go out.
Pile of newspapers, ready to go out.
A bag of donettes by his bed.
The lawn car guys showing up.
12 packs of Genny Cream Ale and Labatt's Blue.
His glasses.

And his last grocery list.

Freedom

In the nursing home (I don't think this is the right word for this anymore) my mom and dad share the same room while my dad recovers from surgery. It turns out his news is not as good as I thought the last time I wrote, and his cancer (his cancer) has spread. At 81, this is...what? Bad doesn't seem to cover it. Complicated is a better word, still, not exactly right. At some point, it seems like our lives become one long session of packing up our stuff and getting ready to go.

I am sure I am just naive at the moment, but how come we all don't get to go quickly? I do not see the point of having to be sick for long periods of time. I think we should get a notification in the mail that our time is up, get a week to put our affairs in order and then pop out with the teeniest display of sparks and bacony-smelling smoke. Forget leaving the stinking body behind.

Then again, maybe I do get it. We get forced to slow down with sickness so we can reflect upon our lives or the earth or whatever. The pain and indignity are gifts of some sort and we should be thankful.

And thank you doctors and technology. We can prolong life, but can we guarantee any sort of quality? Does it matter? I'm not sure. I do not know how scary death is, or upcoming death. When we get to a certain point do we want to be alive no matter what? My parents (maybe everybody's) are not, I suspect, too worried about dying, it is, however, this odd time in between that seems like such a hassle.

My parents are locked into each other's existence like no two other people I've ever known. When I was growing up they seemed to have a few good friends. My mom seemed to have one good friend and my dad had three that I can think of. Two of them died before they were forty, even earlier. As friends died off or moved away, they did not seem to take on any new ones, nor did they seem interested. My guess is that they were fine with each other's company. They seemed to be, off and on, now and again, once in awhile....

Here is the thing. I don't know if they are both ready to go, or what. But I know that the thing with them is that neither of them wants to leave the other behind. I think this must be the way it is for many older couples, but my mom's immobility makes it much more urgent.

All of these complications. I have been able to feel for my dad in that I've tried to imagine what it is like to get this kind of news. It's really happening. I know that where he is he is not able to make the most of his time like he would at home. Someone else is taking care of my mom, and he doesn't have a good enough internet connection to do the type of study of his own condition and his possibilities. So, I know he's had time to think about all of this. But I think that, so far, the answers must be pretty unsatisfactory. I have not been able to think about what the loss of my dad might mean beyond the usual loss of dad stuff. I don't even know what that means, or what I'm talking about.

I feel like I'm nailing the coffin lid on him, sorry dad. I mean, he may take the stuff and maybe he'll be all right. But that is not the stuff we have to prepare for.