No Regrets!

“You need to mind your own business!“ My brother’s words hit me as I entered our parent’s home. It was not a surprise attack; I knew it was coming as this was the first time we had been together since his last trip to the hospital. “How can I mind my own business when your doctor told me that the one lung you have left was tissue thin and once it tore you’d be dead before you hit the floor?!” The anger in him could be seen pacing back and forth behind his brown eyes. End stage COPD leaves little room for extreme emotions without a violent reaction, and, true to form, his coughing began. My brother, Paul, got up from the couch with his breathing machine in tow and headed out to patio to smoke and to calm down. He was angry that I had the nerve to discuss his ability to drive with his doctor. My position, if he could drop dead any moment was it safe for him to drive a vehicle. The doctor said no and then explained that they would be turning in the appropriate forms to notify the DMV. My brother never got over blaming me for taking his driving privileges away. He would tell me later that he needed time to himself and driving was the only respite he got from being around my parents 24/7. “Do you know what it’s like being a grown man living with your parents; you know I'll be looking for a place for me and Carol, how am I going to look for a place if I can't drive?!” The correction that I wanted to make, but wrestled to the ground before saying it, was, “You’re dying!!!!! It’s not like you had a bad run of things and are living here until you can rebuild your life; this is the END!!!!” But I sat on that statement until it cried Uncle and clenched my jaw shut as tight as I could. My brother's denial of his immanent condition, even though he was a hospice patient, was something no one could make him face.

Paul had been as steady a patient in the Florida Hospital ER as he was a patron at the Kangaroo Gas Station on the corner of Palm Coast Parkway and Belle Terre, his go to place for cheap cigars. With losing his driving privileges, my sister and I took turns taking him wherever he needed to go. In my case, we always ended up at the Kangaroo for him to score his filter-free brown coffin nails. It rattled me each time he prepared for the slow walk from my car into the store. Paul would always ask that I get as close to the door as possible but no matter my attempts, it was never close enough. At 6’6 and 130 pounds, he labored to go the distance from car door to counter. Each trip left me feeling guilty for being an accomplice in feeding his addiction. The angle of my car gave the perfect view of his frail frame barely able to stand holding his breathing machine in one hand and buying his death with the other; the stares he got bore through me like molten lava and I wanted to barge in with all my might and rip the judgment right off those nameless faces, but, that would require parking and possibly bond money--neither were appropriate under the circumstances. I've tried to wash that image of him at the Kangaroo off the walls of my mind and repaint something kinder and gentler, but I can’t so I avoid that intersection whenever possible.

He would tell the doctors that he quit smoking with each ER visit and just out of his vision I would shake my head, no he hasn’t. To his credit, Paul did try; his addiction just grew stronger the weaker his body became and he grew tired of dad having to call the ambulance every week. One morning Paul called wanting to know what time I would be over to mom and dads. When I asked him why he said he was having breathing issues and might need a ride to the hospital. Since he always had breathing issues, and he didn’t sound panicked; I felt no need to rush. Not even a second later I remembered that his last attack landed him on a ventilator for the first time. I called him right back, “Hey, do you mean I need to come right now?” Nonchalantly he said, “That would be a good idea.”



Pulling into the driveway I can still see him coming out of the front door with my dad behind him. “He needs an ambulance!” My dad insisted as Paul opened the door. The look on dad’s face should have been enough for me to turn off the car and call an ambulance but Paul waved him off and we drove away. Even before getting off my parent’s road, my brother’s breathing became erratic. He tried to say something but couldn’t. The sweat dripped off his forehead like a leaky faucet into a handkerchief he was thoughtful enough to bring. It was when he lost all color in his face that I started to lose it. Cars whizzed past us like bullets as my right foot pressed as hard as it could racing us to the ER. Fortunately, I remembered a friend’s presentation where she told the story about one of our Social Workers who witnessed something similar. The Social Worker slowed her own breathing down and calmly talked to the patient. It was all I could do to calm myself as the look on Paul’s face was so traumatic. My hands were white knuckling the steering wheel, I eased off the gas and began to slow my breathing as I spoke to Paul calmly. In that moment I thought my brother was going to die in my car before I could get him to the hospital.

Paul didn’t die that day but when he regained his color and the ability to breathe on his own, I marched into the ER room with my adrenalin still in full tilt about the horrifically selfish position he put me in. “NEVER call me again to take you to the ER!!!!” I said, daring him to challenge me. Instead, he admitted, softly (and with a greater awareness of his condition) that he didn’t think he was going to make it either. Sometimes when I’m driving alone, out of the blue, I’ll look over to my passenger seat and see him fighting for his life; my whole being reliving that tragic moment. That memory will be tucked into the glove compartment of my Kia when I trade it in; my hope is that it stays with the car as I've never had that memory come back anywhere else.

Paul came back into the living room from the patio and parked himself on the couch. He began texting his girlfriend when I decided to speak up. “I know you’re mad at me and think that your driving is none of my business but it IS my business! My family and friends are sharing the road with you. Your doctor said when that lung tears, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground. What if that lung tears and you drop dead behind the wheel and crash into another car killing innocent people? What if one of those innocent people where a family member or close friend? You’re being selfish! Stay mad at me as along as want; it will not change my mind. YOU DO NOT NEED TO BE DRIVING!” Paul didn’t look up from his phone but I refused to leave the room until he said something. “YOU WIN!” He said sternly. “You get what you want!” Again, his words tense with emotion. “I’m sentenced to this &^%$# house with no escape or peace from our parents, are you HAPPY now?!” His selfishness twisted around the axils in my mind and I struggled to remain calm. Paul clearly saw himself as my victim and made no attempt to understand the logic of what could happen. “It’s not about me winning, it’s about doing the right thing and I’m confident that I DID, but I'm sorry it makes you feel this way!” With that I got up from the recliner and went into my mom’s room to visit with her. Although I no longer engaged with him about the driving issues, Paul reminded me often about how my "thoughtless" decision impacted the quality of his life. There’s a part of me that remains sorry for the restrictions I placed on him just weeks before he died, but, my responsibility outweighed his person privilege.

It was October 17^th 2016 in the early part of morning when I walked into the bedroom. Paul was curled up on the floor in a fetal position, eyes closed and mouth closed. Cindy was laying in the hallway on her stomach cupping his head; her tears free falling into the floor with a few landing in Paul’s hair. She was upset about trying to lift his head to put a pillow under it---he was too stiff to move. “He’s not going to know.” I said, without thinking. “I just want his head on the pillow and not on the floor, it shouldn’t be on the floor.” Her words still wet walked slowly through my heart until I noticed what they were really saying; she was his big sister and still trying to comfort him even in his death. I suggested we attempt it one more time but we still failed to get the pillow under his head. Paul had been dead for hours. From what I can piece together of his last moments he got up out of bed for some reason and passed out just like the doctor said he would. He hit his head against the doorframe; when I moved his face there was blood and an obvious impact to the right side of his head. Cindy and I sat on the floor with our brother as dad paced around the house not knowing what to do with himself. He kept wanting to explain that Paul was supposed to blow the horn he had given him to alert dad that he needed help. “Why didn’t he blow the horn, WHY?” No matter Cindy’s attempts to explain to dad that it happened too quickly for Paul to even know what happed, dad’s guilt could be seen crawling all over him like a million baby spiders he could not shake.

Why am I sharing this very private story about me and my brother? It's to ask you to consider the people that you know who need to surrender their driver's license. We were fortunate that Paul died at home. Looking back over the headache and heartache this cost me; I have no regrets. Had my brother been behind the wheel when he died it is highly probable, since he drove I95 often, that he would have taken innocent lives with him. It feels important to me to spread the word. No one likes to lose their independence, but, even fewer like to lose a loved one over someone's inability to face the truth.

Feel free to share my blog if you think this information would be beneficial to others.

Mona McPherson

 

With Sympathy ... Happy Birthday

Last night I was putting away sympathy cards and commented to a friend how direly odd it was as mixed with them were birthday cards to me; my mom died the day before my birthday. The cards all stacked several rows deep covered my entire table with an array of colorful happy – sad scribblings. The odd mixture of birthday wishes clashing with sympathy expressions disturbed my heart so much that I gathered them all up blindly and promised myself to properly segregate them in the future. Honestly, I’ve not been able to read any of them. I’ve barely been able to not see my mom laying in the hospital bed in my front room when I pass it. The furniture has been moved around to block the straight shot of this illusionary view, yet, draped across my heart last night was the tender cloth of realization; this was my first birthday without my mom. It was odd to say that out loud to my friend and even odder to watch how long it hung like smoke in my mind. Mom’s cards to me were always thoughtful except for the times my birthday fell during one of our disagreements, and, then, the word daughter was oddly omitted and replaced with a generic wish—it was funnier to me than she wished it were but that was just the nature of our relationship and I never took her slights serious, or, perhaps, decided not to.

It’s been just over a month since mom died and I’m not sure how thick this sheet of ice is that I’m trying to walk across most days. What I know is that it’s hard to adjust from going to those nights from work to her house for our nightly routine. All of that is put away along with the boxes of leftover supplies. It was a surprise to know that the humane society is appreciative of having the adult diapers and chucks (absorbent pads) for their babies and sick animals. Wayne was gracious enough to take what we had leftover to them leaving me with one less thing to do right now. I’ve still not changed the contact name in my phone to read –dad calling, instead, of mom. When my dad calls me there is a false moment that takes me back to those random calls of hers when I would roll my eyes knowing that I had to answer or call back later (we all know what I mean); I need to change the name in my phone but not just yet.  

I’m not as relieved as I thought I would be that mom made her transition; the, wise, Monday Night quarterback in me is still replying the end of the game. Twice within a week’s period I’ve met complete strangers who are going through the same nightmares that I have. This morphine thing?! If you know what I’m talking about, please, private message me with your story.

The cards are put away and mom now resides in a beautiful urn on a table next to dad’s bed. When I asked him if he were still okay to be in the house alone he said, “Yes, I talk to mom every day and find things to do outside.” I’ve left the invitation open for my dad to move in (Cindy has too) if he does not want to live alone but for now I think he is managing well. We’ve not reached a new normal---but coming from an abnormal family, well; I think dad, Cindy and I will continue to do the best we can.

Mona McPherson

Mikka-Mine

Do you remember, that night? I’ve thought of it often since learning of your pregnancy with Zeke. I sat across from you, the silence crawling into each empty space as the conversation began. Daddy was gone on one of his long excursions into whatever new thing needed to be learned with his job, yet, there we were. That small bedroom in that small town with you holding more information than a 15 year old should ever need to. You were crying in a way I’ve never been able to eras...e from my mind—it was as if you doubted our love for you could be unconditional. That Decmeber night was cold, yet, warmed by my need to comfort whatever you had to say. Of course, I was thinking it was one of those overrated teenager moments that get tossed in the closet under dirty clothes and forgotten homework. It wasn’t’! It was a life changing moment! I learned that night that you were pregnant.

Do you remember? All I saw was this giant empty place of not knowing what your news would mean for you. That being said, I KNEW YOU! I KNEW you would have all the people in place to support you no matter what, or, they would be removed from our lives. I actually had those conversations.


Can you imagine me now?! Looking back on your life and this place you have created with a man that we truly adore and raising a granddaughter that has, possibly, more spunk and determination than you and me combined?! LOL... The day you came home from the hospital with Layla, I took her outside on the back porch, she was crying and you needed to rest. I paced with her in my arms promising her that she would have a fortress of love and support her whole life from me and Poppy. I CANNOT wait to have the same conversation with my little Zeke.




I LOVE YOU Mikka-Mine. I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that I’m a little afraid for all of the unkown things we face, but, as always: you will never walk through any door of your life alone. We will face it together as the family we’ve always been.




Mona McPherson

Ticket to Change

She settled into the chair across from my desk and we began our conversation. There was nothing particularly extraordinary about her except a brilliant smile that took up all the empty space in my office. One of the questions that I ask when interviewing potential volunteers is a simple one, yet, it’s the kind of question that opens the shades to some very deep windows, if you have them. “Can you tell me about a significant loss in your life?” The goal is to see if the individual is far enough away from a death in their own life to be emotionally ready to work with those in end of life care. My words barley cleared the air between us when she said that it was her father. “He was the loss of my life!” Her tears came out of hiding; they glistened like stained glass windows dripping colors across the memory that I now felt in the room with us.

Witnesses would tell her that 4 high school students that didn’t want to pay to get into a football game began to harass her father who was selling tickets. When things didn’t go their way, it got physical. The witnesses said that one of the teens pulled out an iron pipe and in a random act of violence landed a decisive blow to the back of her father’s head. This beautiful African American woman with buttery skin and a well-seasoned vocabulary went on to tell me about one of the most fascinating men that I will never know. She spoke with careful words about how wise her father was and that he took time to discuss what truly mattered most to him with each of his 5 children; she was his third child and first daughter which created an especially close bond with him. That night at the gate he was left brain damaged. Her pain seized me with a riveted attention. Instantly, the family went from a financially comfortable living to barely scraping by on one income. Her father was in the hospital for a year before being placed in a facility and would die three years later never to regain control of his mind or body again.

Although it had been decades ago, I found myself gently tracing the well-worn labyrinth of pain she had walked for years. Her tone softened as she went on to tell me that it was her last weeks of college when her father passed. Her mom fearing that the end of his life was near called all of the children home, all except her. She adjusted herself in the chair, took a deep breath and tightly clutched the purse laying across her lap. Looking passed me to the window she said, “They all got to say goodbye to my dad and have those last important words but I didn’t.” Her mom had decided that interrupting the last weeks of college might impede her graduating. Forgiving her mom had been a steep slow hill for her to climb the years following her father’s death, and judging from the anguish entangling her words of regret; I felt myself understanding the few years of estrangement she took from her mom. The relationship would be repaired with much work and time. Today they enjoy weekly visits and she fully expects to care for her mom when she reaches the point of decline but at 85 seems to be going strong.

She regained her composure after the unexpected question and I asked, “What was the greatest lesson you learned from losing your father?” She said that it was the blessing and gift of his sharing what mattered to him. At each moment in her life when she found herself backed into hardship’s corner, she would hear the wisdom of her father’s words from long ago applying, still, to her life circumstances. It renewed her hope and belief that she could make it through her problems. On occasion, she confessed, “I’ve felt his presence so close to me that it moved me to tears.” With that, her brilliant smile; in a wave of optimistic candor, rushed back into the room and pulled mine across my face as well as she said, “I’m never really alone!”

I wasn’t expecting this mild ordinary looking woman to shake me so thoroughly, but, propped up on thick sturdy legs in this woman is a story worn with a blue-collar understanding; at any given moment life can come off its axis. Her father left her a treasure chest of wisdom for those occasions.


She is going to make an amazing volunteer for our patients in end of life care.

Mona McPherson