The family collected their favorite stories about the incidents during O. J.'s illness. We all were aware of hallucinations he'd experienced.
One evening as I was washing supper dishes, he called from the bedroom. He wanted me to see the show. Expecting to see a television show, I found him sitting upright in bed. The room was silent.
"It's Jimmy Rodgers' Band, " he said.
"I don't see anything"
"They are right there" he pointed to the double doors of the closet. " They are playing You are My Sunshine."
"My uncle Johnny is playing the banjo. Robert has a Jew's Harp".
I sat in the silence as he described a concert he had been to in Meridian, Mississippi when he was a teen. For almost an hour he described singer, songs, and instruments." His enjoyment was obvious as well as his annoyance at my not seeing it.
When it faded, he lay down and went to sleep. I never saw or heard anything, but had no doubt about the pleasure he had in reliving a memory.
The worse time was before he was wheelchair bound.
One night I wakened to find something uncomfortably hard at my side. I turned on the bedside lamp and found a very sharp 15 inch hunting knife. I reached over and shook O. J. and asked him about the knife.
He had wakened earlier he said and in the dim light from the bathroom saw a monster making a lot of noise. He found the knife and brought it to the bed only to find me sleeping. He put the knife there in case the monster came back.
The next morning I gave the knife to my son in law and purchased supplies to stop my snoring.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Which one has Alzheimer's?
During the time O. J. was in a wheelchair I was often rushed and disorganized. One Good Friday morning he had an appointment with the doctor at 8 am for tests and consultation later. Because it was a school holiday, Misty had five girls spending the night with us. We left them sleeping at home and drove to Tuscaloosa under threatening skies. The radio said there was a tornado watch for Pickens County less than 5 miles from our house.
A sprinkling rain began as we drove into the parking lot and thunder roared in the background. I jumped out of the car, pulled out the wheelchair, opened it, and rushed to O. J.’s passenger’s door. O. J. sat calmly in his freshly ironed shirt and dress slacks with his hat on his head. I had carefully shaved and dressed him and he was neat as he’d always been.
I scooted the chair as close to the opening as possible, bent down to help him out of the seat. His hat was in the way. He took the hat off and placed it on my head sidewise. I moved his legs around and put his feet on the ground. He put his arms around my neck and I reached around and clasped his belt from behind to lift him to a standing position. When he was upright, I hugged him and turned him so he could sit down in the wheelchair.
The rain was harder. I unlocked the wheel and we rolled through the door and to the reception desk where several nurses were standing. I greeted them, filled out the necessary forms, then rolled O. J. to a place he could wait to go to the lab.
I drew a relieved breath and went back to the west facing glass entrance door concerned about the teenagers 15 miles due west. The rolling clouds were so dark the door served as a mirror and I saw my reflection. A man’s hat sat sidewise on my head, my blouse was misbuttoned, my slip showed beneath my skirt, and I was wearing a brown pump and a black wedgie.
One of the nurses behind me said, “Which one did you say has Alzheimer’s?”
A sprinkling rain began as we drove into the parking lot and thunder roared in the background. I jumped out of the car, pulled out the wheelchair, opened it, and rushed to O. J.’s passenger’s door. O. J. sat calmly in his freshly ironed shirt and dress slacks with his hat on his head. I had carefully shaved and dressed him and he was neat as he’d always been.
I scooted the chair as close to the opening as possible, bent down to help him out of the seat. His hat was in the way. He took the hat off and placed it on my head sidewise. I moved his legs around and put his feet on the ground. He put his arms around my neck and I reached around and clasped his belt from behind to lift him to a standing position. When he was upright, I hugged him and turned him so he could sit down in the wheelchair.
The rain was harder. I unlocked the wheel and we rolled through the door and to the reception desk where several nurses were standing. I greeted them, filled out the necessary forms, then rolled O. J. to a place he could wait to go to the lab.
I drew a relieved breath and went back to the west facing glass entrance door concerned about the teenagers 15 miles due west. The rolling clouds were so dark the door served as a mirror and I saw my reflection. A man’s hat sat sidewise on my head, my blouse was misbuttoned, my slip showed beneath my skirt, and I was wearing a brown pump and a black wedgie.
One of the nurses behind me said, “Which one did you say has Alzheimer’s?”
Sunday, May 23, 2010
I stand here in the second row of our little country church looking at the gray steet casket heaped with beautiful flowers and my eyes are dry...
I cried when I saw my husband paralyzed by his first stroke when only his eyes could move, and the terror in them showed his horror at being entombed in uncooperative flesh.
I cried in the months he spent struggling to learn to walk and talk again and found profanity the all purpose language easiest to communicate.
I cried when his arthritic knees worn by 35 years of bending, stooping, and lifting in an industrial plant hurt him so much he could hardly walk.
I hid my tears when the man who could repair anything but a broken heart took a simple blender apart down to the smallest elements to fix a twisted belt, then realized he was too tired to put it back together again (as if anyone could by then).
I cried when he got lost coming home from Clanton and wandered 14 hours through Selma and Montgomery before finding his way home to Tuscaloosa, and Romulus and to me.
I cried when grown men remembering his strength turned their faces away from him.
I cried the Saturday he reached for his coffee cup and missed by 15 inches and we looked in each others’ eyes and knew he’d had another stroke.
I cried when the doctors agreed he probably would not live through the night and I begged the Lord to leave him just a little longer.
I cried when I knew he’d had a heart attack 24 hours before the lab confirmed it.
I cried that Thanksgiving evening when he hurt so bad we went to the emergency room and the MRI found a 4 centimeter aneurysm behind his belly and the prognosis was three to six months.
I cried two years later when the CAT scan said the aneurysm was 6 centimeters and you could watch it pulse in his belly from 20 feet away.
I cried when he sat in his old blue recliner in the house where we had lived for 30 years and begged to go home.
I cried the times he got lost in our own home and a three year old grandson helped him find his way.
I cried when he called “Dorothy “ 100 times an hour and did not recognise me when I answered.
I cried when he called me Mama and meant his mama.
I cried when he asked me who I was and I said “Dorothy”, and he said, ” I was married to Dorothy, but she was young and pretty.”
I cried when he lost all sight except the sliver of light you might glimpse between fingers standing tight together in front of your face.
I cried when I walked out of Walmart and found a circle of strangers where he had climbed out of the car and fallen in the parking lot with a broken hip.
I cried when he lay blind and crippled and confused and held on to my hand and smiled when he heard my voice.
I cried when the swallowing that had become so difficult stopped, and his food became formula I pumped through a tube into his stomach.
I cried when he begged for a drink of cold water and a few swallows would have drowned him..
I cried when I took him to the hospital because we both knew he was dying and I could no longer care for all his needs.
I cried when the doctors said advanced Parkinson’s Disease and no one had told us so we might treat it.
I cried in the hundreds of hours by his bed just talking so he could find peace in the sound of a familiar voice.
I cried the day while bathing him I noticed that his brown calloused hand that could fix anything but a broken heart had become soft and pink and smooth like an infant‘s.
I cried when his family gathered around his hospital bed and told him goodbye and how much they loved him and honored him and would miss him and the nurses came in and told us to go home and scolded us for overreacting,
but we knew and he knew....
I cried when his labored breathing stopped and his loved ones watched the pulse in the hollow of his throat slow to a stop as we each gently touched him and told him “Godspeed”.
In front of his grey steel coffin with the flowers there is a picture of him taken when his face was filled with pride and joy and love of life on his grandson’s wedding day .
His glasses rest half opened on his worn bible reminding, ”I once was blind...”
And I know sees us from a loftier post.
No longer bound by time and space, years and pounds, and serial numbers,
his existance is light, and beauty and life unfathomable to our human eyes.
Though my eyes are damp, my head is high in pride in the life my husband lived so well and joy that he is face to face with our Lord.
There is peace in knowing we shared life from its heights to the depth and there is hope when I regard the fine young people he fathered and know the world is a better place because he taught four generations about living.
Our children stand straight and true, solid reminders that a man passed this way and in his humble way loved and laughed and cried and-- sometimes cursed-.
and left a precious legacy to those touched by his presence.
I’m not crying anymore..
Besides, he never liked to see me cry.
I cried when I saw my husband paralyzed by his first stroke when only his eyes could move, and the terror in them showed his horror at being entombed in uncooperative flesh.
I cried in the months he spent struggling to learn to walk and talk again and found profanity the all purpose language easiest to communicate.
I cried when his arthritic knees worn by 35 years of bending, stooping, and lifting in an industrial plant hurt him so much he could hardly walk.
I hid my tears when the man who could repair anything but a broken heart took a simple blender apart down to the smallest elements to fix a twisted belt, then realized he was too tired to put it back together again (as if anyone could by then).
I cried when he got lost coming home from Clanton and wandered 14 hours through Selma and Montgomery before finding his way home to Tuscaloosa, and Romulus and to me.
I cried when grown men remembering his strength turned their faces away from him.
I cried the Saturday he reached for his coffee cup and missed by 15 inches and we looked in each others’ eyes and knew he’d had another stroke.
I cried when the doctors agreed he probably would not live through the night and I begged the Lord to leave him just a little longer.
I cried when I knew he’d had a heart attack 24 hours before the lab confirmed it.
I cried that Thanksgiving evening when he hurt so bad we went to the emergency room and the MRI found a 4 centimeter aneurysm behind his belly and the prognosis was three to six months.
I cried two years later when the CAT scan said the aneurysm was 6 centimeters and you could watch it pulse in his belly from 20 feet away.
I cried when he sat in his old blue recliner in the house where we had lived for 30 years and begged to go home.
I cried the times he got lost in our own home and a three year old grandson helped him find his way.
I cried when he called “Dorothy “ 100 times an hour and did not recognise me when I answered.
I cried when he called me Mama and meant his mama.
I cried when he asked me who I was and I said “Dorothy”, and he said, ” I was married to Dorothy, but she was young and pretty.”
I cried when he lost all sight except the sliver of light you might glimpse between fingers standing tight together in front of your face.
I cried when I walked out of Walmart and found a circle of strangers where he had climbed out of the car and fallen in the parking lot with a broken hip.
I cried when he lay blind and crippled and confused and held on to my hand and smiled when he heard my voice.
I cried when the swallowing that had become so difficult stopped, and his food became formula I pumped through a tube into his stomach.
I cried when he begged for a drink of cold water and a few swallows would have drowned him..
I cried when I took him to the hospital because we both knew he was dying and I could no longer care for all his needs.
I cried when the doctors said advanced Parkinson’s Disease and no one had told us so we might treat it.
I cried in the hundreds of hours by his bed just talking so he could find peace in the sound of a familiar voice.
I cried the day while bathing him I noticed that his brown calloused hand that could fix anything but a broken heart had become soft and pink and smooth like an infant‘s.
I cried when his family gathered around his hospital bed and told him goodbye and how much they loved him and honored him and would miss him and the nurses came in and told us to go home and scolded us for overreacting,
but we knew and he knew....
I cried when his labored breathing stopped and his loved ones watched the pulse in the hollow of his throat slow to a stop as we each gently touched him and told him “Godspeed”.
In front of his grey steel coffin with the flowers there is a picture of him taken when his face was filled with pride and joy and love of life on his grandson’s wedding day .
His glasses rest half opened on his worn bible reminding, ”I once was blind...”
And I know sees us from a loftier post.
No longer bound by time and space, years and pounds, and serial numbers,
his existance is light, and beauty and life unfathomable to our human eyes.
Though my eyes are damp, my head is high in pride in the life my husband lived so well and joy that he is face to face with our Lord.
There is peace in knowing we shared life from its heights to the depth and there is hope when I regard the fine young people he fathered and know the world is a better place because he taught four generations about living.
Our children stand straight and true, solid reminders that a man passed this way and in his humble way loved and laughed and cried and-- sometimes cursed-.
and left a precious legacy to those touched by his presence.
I’m not crying anymore..
Besides, he never liked to see me cry.
Ann's letter
The ice storm was over. After spending nearly 60 days in various hospitals, O. J. and I were home. In three years my husband had suffered major health threats; strokes that left him almost blind, surgery for cancer twice, a heart attack, and an aneurysm of the aorta so large his shirt moved with its pulsing. For months I had cared for him like an infant.
Worst than the physical problems was the loss of wisdom and humor . Tucking the shocking pink sheets around him, I found it hard to recognize the gaunt features. If only I could think of him as he used to be, The illness had robbed him of so much, but it had also robbed his family of the person we knew. We disputed the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s because of the brief glimpses of rational thought he occasionally displayed. Sometimes he would be lucid for almost an hour and could grasp new information and answer our questions. But it might be days before it happened again.
“Lord, please give us our memories back. We’re losing him, but we know that You will keep him safe. His children and I have lost the sense of who he is. This shrunken old man who seldom recognizes anyone has no resemblance to the solid, friendly man who could fix ‘anything but a broken heart’ as he often bragged.”
That morning I had written in my journal,
“Often I feel helpless about the continuing disintegration of personality and body of my beloved . My feelings cover a wide range of emotions from tender love, frustration, glimpses of hope, and sometimes bitterness. Sometimes I feel trapped in an unrelenting 24 hour schedule that means I am reminded of the hopelessness of the situation every waking moment. So where’s the fear? In my gut, in the lump in my throat, in the tightness around my chest when he has pain, I register the fact that he might die today.
There had been no mail for 5 days, so when we heard the mailman stop I hurried down the icy driveway to see what he had brought. In the stack of letters there was a hand addressed letter for O. J. Gast at an address about 20 years old. It was from London, England. As soon as I got back into the house handed it to him and let him feel it.
Did he want me to open and read it?.
The letter stated that the writer was the daughter of O. J. Gast, born in London, England in 1945, that she had tried to get in touch with him over the years through the U. S. Army, but had been told that he was dead.. A recent television program in England had given information about locating long lost family members so she had tried again, writing to the last address in the army file.
She stated that she had a twelve year old son that wanted information about his deceased American grandfather and asked if the family would just send a photograph or some information about him. The letter ended by stating that the writer did not wish to cause trouble, discord, or scandal and to disregard the request if it might do so.
When I finished reading the letter to O. J., tears were rolling down his checks, I asked if he were angry, no, upset, no. Then I asked him if I could read the letter to our children. He nodded. I called our son David and asked him to come down immediately. Within one minute he had ran the 200 yards to our house and was in the bedroom concerned that there was a medical emergency. He read the letter and looked at me quizzically.
‘What do you know about this?” he asked.
“Your dad told me about this before we married. He talked about going to England to find her years ago, but we did not know where to start” .
“O. J. Were you surprised to get this.?” David asked.. O. J. nodded. Talking had become increasingly difficult during the last weeks of hospitalization.
“Ma, have you told anyone else about this?
“Just got it. I’ll call Martha. Should be able to reach her at the office.”
When she answered “ What’s wrong? “
“I’ve got something to read to you.” I read the letter.
“Oh, my God, it’s Enda’s child. When did you get this?” my stepdaughter asked.
“Just about 10 minutes ago. What do you know about it?
“Mother had told me about a child born after he left London. The mother, Enda Curran, had written about 1946 when mother was pregnant with the son who was stillborn. They had a big blowup over it and evidently he agreed to have nothing to do with the child. Mother said it was a girl and her name was Ann and there had been trouble when he named me Martha Ann.”
“Does the letter sound authentic?” I asked.
“Sounds about like Mother described. Is there a phone number or information enough to place a phone call?”
I gave her all the information in the letter and she and David began trying to establish connection by phone on their phones while I called the other daughters.
O. J. had drifted off to sleep,wearied by the excitment. This was the most alert he had been in days. The confusion had lifted for a few minutes and he seemed to understand the letter and its import.
As I called each of the other three daughters and found much the same response. Surprise, then excitement and a wish to find out more. All expressed the thought that Ann needed to come immediately to see O. J. since his health was extremely fragile and the possibility of death eminent. All offered to help raise the money to pay her flight to the USA if she needed the money.
I immediately wrote a letter to Ann explaining that her father was still alive, but in precarious condition and that I had read the letter to him. The family was happy and could not wait to meet her. Enclosing photos and a brief family history, I explained that there were two half sisters, two step sisters, a half brother, various in-laws, 13 nieces and nephews, and 3 about to be 6 grand nieces and nephews. Also included a brief description of his strokes, dementia, and continuing medical emergencies.
A week later I answered the phone to a distinctive British voice. “ Hello, this is Ann. May I speak to Dorothy?’ After a brief talk I put the phone to O. J.’s ear and he listened. He tried to say a few words, but had to give up and hand the phone back to me and I talked for him.
I got Ann’s phone number and made arrangements to call back with conference calls so that other members of the family could share the calls. I set up the calls and each of us got to visit by phone. Evidently the pictures and letter had been studied carefully, for the questions were very apt. A flurry of letters and calls went back and forth over the Atlantic. Plans were made for Ann, her husband Reg, and their son, Steven to come to the states when school was out. They refused to accept financial help from their new relatives.
Before O. J. died on April 17, 1996, he signed legal documents acknowledging Ann, preparing the way for her to obtain dual citizenship in her father’s country.
The family celebrated his life with a upbeat funeral in accordance with his wishes. There was a celebration of his life filled with warm memories and funny stories. The congregation sang Amazing Grace and It is Well With My Soul and poems by members of his family were read. His picture, his bible, and his glasses were on a table beside the casket. After the service the family received friends and visited in the church fellowship hall with the country luncheon he had asked for.
Because of her teaching schedule, Ann could not be there, but was kept informed and sent clippings and documents. During school holidays, She, her husband Reg, and son Steven came to visit for two weeks. After a few minutes, it was as if we’d been family always. We keep in touch by phone and mail.
In sharing our memories with Ann, the rest of the family found our happy memories restored. . O. J.’s stories of his stay in England became more real to all as Ann identified Picadilly Circus, the Thames, and Big Ben. The double decker bus Reg drives now is like ones we’d heard described.
My prayer for renewal of my memories was abundantly answered as family members pored over photos and videos and told stories from their growing up years. The experiences became a collage of family life we all could share.
Worst than the physical problems was the loss of wisdom and humor . Tucking the shocking pink sheets around him, I found it hard to recognize the gaunt features. If only I could think of him as he used to be, The illness had robbed him of so much, but it had also robbed his family of the person we knew. We disputed the diagnosis of Alzheimer’s because of the brief glimpses of rational thought he occasionally displayed. Sometimes he would be lucid for almost an hour and could grasp new information and answer our questions. But it might be days before it happened again.
“Lord, please give us our memories back. We’re losing him, but we know that You will keep him safe. His children and I have lost the sense of who he is. This shrunken old man who seldom recognizes anyone has no resemblance to the solid, friendly man who could fix ‘anything but a broken heart’ as he often bragged.”
That morning I had written in my journal,
“Often I feel helpless about the continuing disintegration of personality and body of my beloved . My feelings cover a wide range of emotions from tender love, frustration, glimpses of hope, and sometimes bitterness. Sometimes I feel trapped in an unrelenting 24 hour schedule that means I am reminded of the hopelessness of the situation every waking moment. So where’s the fear? In my gut, in the lump in my throat, in the tightness around my chest when he has pain, I register the fact that he might die today.
There had been no mail for 5 days, so when we heard the mailman stop I hurried down the icy driveway to see what he had brought. In the stack of letters there was a hand addressed letter for O. J. Gast at an address about 20 years old. It was from London, England. As soon as I got back into the house handed it to him and let him feel it.
Did he want me to open and read it?.
The letter stated that the writer was the daughter of O. J. Gast, born in London, England in 1945, that she had tried to get in touch with him over the years through the U. S. Army, but had been told that he was dead.. A recent television program in England had given information about locating long lost family members so she had tried again, writing to the last address in the army file.
She stated that she had a twelve year old son that wanted information about his deceased American grandfather and asked if the family would just send a photograph or some information about him. The letter ended by stating that the writer did not wish to cause trouble, discord, or scandal and to disregard the request if it might do so.
When I finished reading the letter to O. J., tears were rolling down his checks, I asked if he were angry, no, upset, no. Then I asked him if I could read the letter to our children. He nodded. I called our son David and asked him to come down immediately. Within one minute he had ran the 200 yards to our house and was in the bedroom concerned that there was a medical emergency. He read the letter and looked at me quizzically.
‘What do you know about this?” he asked.
“Your dad told me about this before we married. He talked about going to England to find her years ago, but we did not know where to start” .
“O. J. Were you surprised to get this.?” David asked.. O. J. nodded. Talking had become increasingly difficult during the last weeks of hospitalization.
“Ma, have you told anyone else about this?
“Just got it. I’ll call Martha. Should be able to reach her at the office.”
When she answered “ What’s wrong? “
“I’ve got something to read to you.” I read the letter.
“Oh, my God, it’s Enda’s child. When did you get this?” my stepdaughter asked.
“Just about 10 minutes ago. What do you know about it?
“Mother had told me about a child born after he left London. The mother, Enda Curran, had written about 1946 when mother was pregnant with the son who was stillborn. They had a big blowup over it and evidently he agreed to have nothing to do with the child. Mother said it was a girl and her name was Ann and there had been trouble when he named me Martha Ann.”
“Does the letter sound authentic?” I asked.
“Sounds about like Mother described. Is there a phone number or information enough to place a phone call?”
I gave her all the information in the letter and she and David began trying to establish connection by phone on their phones while I called the other daughters.
O. J. had drifted off to sleep,wearied by the excitment. This was the most alert he had been in days. The confusion had lifted for a few minutes and he seemed to understand the letter and its import.
As I called each of the other three daughters and found much the same response. Surprise, then excitement and a wish to find out more. All expressed the thought that Ann needed to come immediately to see O. J. since his health was extremely fragile and the possibility of death eminent. All offered to help raise the money to pay her flight to the USA if she needed the money.
I immediately wrote a letter to Ann explaining that her father was still alive, but in precarious condition and that I had read the letter to him. The family was happy and could not wait to meet her. Enclosing photos and a brief family history, I explained that there were two half sisters, two step sisters, a half brother, various in-laws, 13 nieces and nephews, and 3 about to be 6 grand nieces and nephews. Also included a brief description of his strokes, dementia, and continuing medical emergencies.
A week later I answered the phone to a distinctive British voice. “ Hello, this is Ann. May I speak to Dorothy?’ After a brief talk I put the phone to O. J.’s ear and he listened. He tried to say a few words, but had to give up and hand the phone back to me and I talked for him.
I got Ann’s phone number and made arrangements to call back with conference calls so that other members of the family could share the calls. I set up the calls and each of us got to visit by phone. Evidently the pictures and letter had been studied carefully, for the questions were very apt. A flurry of letters and calls went back and forth over the Atlantic. Plans were made for Ann, her husband Reg, and their son, Steven to come to the states when school was out. They refused to accept financial help from their new relatives.
Before O. J. died on April 17, 1996, he signed legal documents acknowledging Ann, preparing the way for her to obtain dual citizenship in her father’s country.
The family celebrated his life with a upbeat funeral in accordance with his wishes. There was a celebration of his life filled with warm memories and funny stories. The congregation sang Amazing Grace and It is Well With My Soul and poems by members of his family were read. His picture, his bible, and his glasses were on a table beside the casket. After the service the family received friends and visited in the church fellowship hall with the country luncheon he had asked for.
Because of her teaching schedule, Ann could not be there, but was kept informed and sent clippings and documents. During school holidays, She, her husband Reg, and son Steven came to visit for two weeks. After a few minutes, it was as if we’d been family always. We keep in touch by phone and mail.
In sharing our memories with Ann, the rest of the family found our happy memories restored. . O. J.’s stories of his stay in England became more real to all as Ann identified Picadilly Circus, the Thames, and Big Ben. The double decker bus Reg drives now is like ones we’d heard described.
My prayer for renewal of my memories was abundantly answered as family members pored over photos and videos and told stories from their growing up years. The experiences became a collage of family life we all could share.
O. J. was very weak after we returned from the rehab for his hip. It was hard for him to swallow and when he did He choked and coughed. He was admitted to Northport Hospital. The doctors said he must be put on a feeding tube or he would starve or drown if we gave him liquids.
O. J. kept saying "No, let me die. I don't want a stomach tube. I'm not hurting now, I'm not hungry. Just let me die."
I was so frightened. It was an impossible choice. Did O. J. understand at that time what he was saying? Could we just watch him starve or was there a possibility that he might regain the ability to swallow? Even though he sounded lucid, the family over ruled his living will and gave permission for the feeding tube.
Voncile and Albert Styres came to visit while we were struggling with the decision. I knew the excellent care Voncile, Albert, and David had given Voncile's mother during the years she was bedridden. They assured me that it could be handled at home and gave me tips about handling it.
The next day after the insertion of the tube we were told his time was up and he would have to leave the hospital. The same hour warnings of a winter storm were on radio and television. The storm arrival would be before time for him to leave. How could I take him home with the possibility of no heat and no electricity? My pleas for him to stay until the storm was over was denied by the doctor and hospital.
I rented a vacant room to stay as a visitor, had him moved into the room and we rented equipment from JM drugstore to use in the rented hospital room. Some of the staff sympathic to our plight, would come on their breaks to check on him to see if I were handling the equipment properly.
The cafeteria was at the end of our hall, so I went down for my meals. Since the ice storm had staff locked in, too, the was a spirit of cooperation between staff and others. Finally the highays were open and an ambulance moved O. J. and his equipment to Romulus.
O. J. kept saying "No, let me die. I don't want a stomach tube. I'm not hurting now, I'm not hungry. Just let me die."
I was so frightened. It was an impossible choice. Did O. J. understand at that time what he was saying? Could we just watch him starve or was there a possibility that he might regain the ability to swallow? Even though he sounded lucid, the family over ruled his living will and gave permission for the feeding tube.
Voncile and Albert Styres came to visit while we were struggling with the decision. I knew the excellent care Voncile, Albert, and David had given Voncile's mother during the years she was bedridden. They assured me that it could be handled at home and gave me tips about handling it.
The next day after the insertion of the tube we were told his time was up and he would have to leave the hospital. The same hour warnings of a winter storm were on radio and television. The storm arrival would be before time for him to leave. How could I take him home with the possibility of no heat and no electricity? My pleas for him to stay until the storm was over was denied by the doctor and hospital.
I rented a vacant room to stay as a visitor, had him moved into the room and we rented equipment from JM drugstore to use in the rented hospital room. Some of the staff sympathic to our plight, would come on their breaks to check on him to see if I were handling the equipment properly.
The cafeteria was at the end of our hall, so I went down for my meals. Since the ice storm had staff locked in, too, the was a spirit of cooperation between staff and others. Finally the highays were open and an ambulance moved O. J. and his equipment to Romulus.
Broken Hip
On Sunday, December 3, I went to church while David stayed with O. J. After church we decided to go to Martha’s for lunch so we could mail the Christmas letters finished the night before. O. J. wanted fried chicken from Walmart so I parked between Walmart and Sam’s in the handicapped space, set the emergency brake, turned on the stereo on and left O. J. sitting in the car while I went in for chicken.
There was a line and I had to wait while more chicken was cooked. I picked up a pie and some salad and phoned Martha that we were bringing chicken for lunch with her family. The wait for chicken was longer than usual. After about 20 minutes I went through the check out line and through the front door. A crowd had circled in the area near my car. I hurried over. A man was lying across the striped lines marking handicapped parking. It was O. J.
I knelt beside him and asked what happened. “I was coming to find you,” he said. . A man said that an ambulance had been called. Because O. J. could not see he had not known where he was going. Wheelchair bound for months, he had opened the door, pulled himself to a standing position by the door, turned and tried to walk toward Walmart. Witnesses had seen him turn loose of the car, take two steps and fall.
A man had come at once putting his folded coat under O. J.’s head. Others had gathered and were watching over him until I arrived. He had not been able to tell them who he was or who I was. There was relief that I came before the ambulance.
While he was loaded into the ambulance, I made some phone calls to family and beat the ambulance to the hospital emergency room. Wewaited as usual for the doctors diagnosis. The x-rays showed a broken hip and surgery was scheduled for the next day. I slept in the recliner beside his bed as I always did when he was in the hospital.
The break in the hip was clean and the surgery was successful with less difficulty than expected. We were on seventh floor until being transferred to rehabilitation services in the next building. He was a patient there until the last of December. On Christmas he was given a 4 hour pass to go home with his family. He was so frail that the family knew he did not have much longer with us.
When he was finally released, Seton Home Health care came to care for him. There were nurses, LPNs, therapists, and chaplains. It was still a 24 hour battle, but there was help a couple of hours a day.
On January 3, toothache pain sent me to the dentist and David stayed with O. J. When I returned David showed me the song he had written and sang for his father. It was beautiful. As I heard it I thought of other words so I added them to make a poem. That night I included poem and song in letters to a first cousin and another to a friend. Within days letter and poem was published in two different publications. Since then I have given away thousands of copies and used them as basis for devotional talks.
There was a line and I had to wait while more chicken was cooked. I picked up a pie and some salad and phoned Martha that we were bringing chicken for lunch with her family. The wait for chicken was longer than usual. After about 20 minutes I went through the check out line and through the front door. A crowd had circled in the area near my car. I hurried over. A man was lying across the striped lines marking handicapped parking. It was O. J.
I knelt beside him and asked what happened. “I was coming to find you,” he said. . A man said that an ambulance had been called. Because O. J. could not see he had not known where he was going. Wheelchair bound for months, he had opened the door, pulled himself to a standing position by the door, turned and tried to walk toward Walmart. Witnesses had seen him turn loose of the car, take two steps and fall.
A man had come at once putting his folded coat under O. J.’s head. Others had gathered and were watching over him until I arrived. He had not been able to tell them who he was or who I was. There was relief that I came before the ambulance.
While he was loaded into the ambulance, I made some phone calls to family and beat the ambulance to the hospital emergency room. Wewaited as usual for the doctors diagnosis. The x-rays showed a broken hip and surgery was scheduled for the next day. I slept in the recliner beside his bed as I always did when he was in the hospital.
The break in the hip was clean and the surgery was successful with less difficulty than expected. We were on seventh floor until being transferred to rehabilitation services in the next building. He was a patient there until the last of December. On Christmas he was given a 4 hour pass to go home with his family. He was so frail that the family knew he did not have much longer with us.
When he was finally released, Seton Home Health care came to care for him. There were nurses, LPNs, therapists, and chaplains. It was still a 24 hour battle, but there was help a couple of hours a day.
On January 3, toothache pain sent me to the dentist and David stayed with O. J. When I returned David showed me the song he had written and sang for his father. It was beautiful. As I heard it I thought of other words so I added them to make a poem. That night I included poem and song in letters to a first cousin and another to a friend. Within days letter and poem was published in two different publications. Since then I have given away thousands of copies and used them as basis for devotional talks.
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