January 20, 2012 · 10:53 am

Reflecting on my dad’s death, one month later

Today is the one month anniversary of my father’s death. Frankly, with all that is happened in such a short amount of time, it’s hard to believe that only one month has passed since I received that fateful call.

The last photograph of dad and I together, July 2011.

There’s of course a lot of memories and feelings associated with that day. One thing I cannot forget, and wish I could, is what exactly I was doing when I received the call that my father had gone into cardiac arrest and died at the assisted living facility he was at in Albuquerque. His official time of death was 10:10 a.m. MST on Tuesday, December 20, 2011. Here in Atlanta, I received the frantic, sob-filled call from my mom at 12:12 p.m. I was at work.

Photo: KimKardashian.com

And what was I doing at the moment my dad was passing away, halfway across the country? Well, I work in entertainment news, and was assigned to cover holiday content online, so I had just written a blog post about the Kardsashian family Christmas card. It’s the kind of fluff that is considered to be “page view gold” in this business. I was just about to post a tweet on it, when my cell phone lit up with my mom’s phone number.

And then my world shifted to a grinding halt. A death of a family member is like any other high-profile event. You always remember where you were and what you were doing when you received the news. So sadly, America’s most over-exposed family, the Kardashians, will forever be associated in my mind with my father’s death.

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January 19, 2012 · 12:32 pm

How family relationships come full circle

After a 2-week long hospital stay in November 2010, and with my dad rapidly declining due to his dementia, he was deemed by medical staff to be too fragile to come back home, so he was placed in an assisted living facility. The cost of those facilities is staggering, and many people find themselves being blindsided by all of the bills associated with such care, and how much Medicare does not cover. I know we were.

What was even more surprising was what that $4000 per month fee didn’t cover. We were charged for transit to and from doctor’s appointments. We were charged for hair cuts and manicures/pedicures. We had to pay for the adult diapers and Ensure drinks separately. At home, my dad had only needed to wear a diaper at night, because he was still ambulatory and could still attend to his own toileting needs (usually.) But once he was at the assisted living facility, he was in diapers full-time. It seemed more and more often, we would get that call from the facility, “Patrick is almost of out diapers.” At one point, I called and asked just how many they were going through a day. “Oh, at least a dozen or more.” I thought I was going to have to take a second job just to cover the costs.

At first my mom was trying to handle buying the diapers and taking them to the care center herself, but that was too much of a burden so I offered to research online and find the best deal, then have them shipped directly to the facility. It’s both humbling and depressing to spend many nights on the couch, surfing Amazon.com looking for great deals on diapers for your 78-year-old father. Briefs or pull-ups? I learn the pros and cons of the various brands: Depends, Attends, Abena, Molicare, TENA, etc. I spent hours reading the sometimes sad, sometimes humorous accounts of adults with incontinence problems and their personal reviews of these products.

My mom had another take on this task that I did for my dad. “When you were a baby and your father would come home from work late at night, and I would tell him you’d run out of Pampers, he would say, ‘Well, Joy has to have her diapers’ and would get right back in the car to pick some up. He never complained.”

When I went back home just after my father passed away, I was greeted in the spare bedroom by stacks and stacks of adult diapers that were left over from one of the orders I had placed. In a plastic grocery bag atop the tower of diapers were unused medications that had been prescribed to my dad. These things, a few clothes and one lone studio portrait of me as a chubby-cheeked two-year-old were all of the belongings my dad had with him at the end of his life. It’s a sobering thought for our materialism-driven society.

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January 18, 2012 · 1:28 pm

My dad’s near-death experience

Decades before my father passed away, he almost died after eating an apple. From what I gather after hearing the story being told repeatedly is that my dad suffered an intestinal obstruction. He had to have emergency surgery performed on him, and while he pulled through the procedure just fine, he ended up contracting an infection while recuperating in the hospital and it’s the infection that almost killed him.

The priest came to perform last rites, as the hospital staff thought he could die at any moment. But somehow, someway, he survived this close call and stayed in relatively good health until his mental and physical decline brought on by Alzheimer’s over the last few years of his life. I say relatively because he ended up with adhesions, a common post-surgery complication. The doctor told him that if he ever contracted food poisoning or the stomach flu, it would be much worse for him than for the average person.

I don’t know how much scientific evidence there was to support the doctor’s claim, but my dad did make multiple trips to the ER during my childhood, suffering from profuse vomiting and severe stomach pain. It would usually come on suddenly, and my mom and I would grow quiet as we heard and saw my dad suffering. My mom didn’t drive so my dad would have to drive himself to the ER, while doubled over in pain. There, they would give him the usual anti-nausea and painkiller cocktail, and send him on his way. He would return home, pale and weak, and we would always breathe a sigh of relief when he was finally able to fall asleep. He would usually recover pretty quickly, and then the incident would be forgotten until the next episode, which could be weeks or months away.

I often did not think of my dad as a particularly strong man, but remembering how he would drive himself to the ER, or insist on going to his manual labor job, while grimacing with stomach cramps, I see now that he had much more inner strength than I ever gave him credit for.

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January 17, 2012 · 10:53 am

Dad’s trouble with the shower

My mom possibly fractured some ribs getting out of the bath the other day. It’s so easy to slip and fall, especially when you are older. My mom is extra careful, because she’s still nursing a broken shoulder from a year ago. The doctor checked her out and she should heal with rehab, but I couldn’t help but think of the irony here. Our family seems to have trouble with baths and showers.

Dad’s last moments alive were spent in the shower. The assistants at the care center he was at were helping him get a shower when he slumped to the floor, most likely from a cardiac arrest. He passed away just minutes later.

Photo by Scott Adams, http://www.vulchinteractive.com/

I also think back on how dad began to lose his ability to groom himself, as the dementia took a tighter hold on him. My mom would have to assist him in the shower, which must have been terribly difficult considering their impossibly small bathroom. I remember my mom telling me how she instructed dad to put shampoo on his hands and then lather up his head. He did so dutifully, then turned to her with a mountain full of suds atop his head. “Now what,” he asked, like a lost child who had never completed this task before.

But there are happier memories I have of bath time. I remember my dad singing in the shower, usually a medley of Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby tunes with some Irish favorites mixed in for good measure. I remember loving the bright color of soap he used, which sometimes was Irish Spring, sometimes Dial. I remember racing into the bathroom after my dad had showered and swirling around in the steamy mist and breathing in the clean soap scent.

I’m also going to be extra careful in the shower myself from now on in an attempt to avoid this unusual family curse.

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January 16, 2012 · 10:12 am

Remembering dad’s descent into dementia

For those that have watched a loved one’s memory falter as dementia engulfs them, it’s usually difficult to pick an exact moment when you realized that there was something wrong. While certain forms of dementia may manifest more suddenly, it seems that with many Alzheimer’s patients, it’s a gradual decline that can sometimes take years until it’s to the point where that person needs help.

For my dad, there was one incident in particular that stands out in my mind as being a huge warning flag. I call it the burrito incident.

My mom would send my dad out on errands, which included things like getting money orders and mailing out bills, picking up a few groceries at the convenience store and buying lottery tickets. Mom always wrote everything out in detail on a sticky note. This one time, as we saw signs of dementia become more apparent, everything went wrong.

He was still driving at the time, so he pulled into the convenience store parking lot. He picked up a couple of burritos for dinner as was on the note and picked out the lottery tickets that my mom wanted. Then he walked out without paying for anything. The clerk made a big scene and yelled for my dad to return and pay for everything. He thought he had and an argument ensued. At this point, dad was in denial that there was anything wrong with him so it must have been a humiliating experience, as he was always a very honest person.

My mom was called and the order was paid for properly. Dad came home with the burritos, not that either one of them was hungry anymore. And the lottery tickets? That night, dad couldn’t remember where he put them. The next day, he found the tickets … in the trunk of the car.

It’s small incidents like these that illustrate how dementia steadily chips away at the mind until you hardly recognize the person left behind.

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January 15, 2012 · 1:28 pm

Dad’s love of books and libraries

The most time I ever spent with my dad one-on-one was as the library. We practically lived there every Saturday, arriving in the early afternoon and staying until closing. All of the librarians knew my dad by name, and didn’t mind special-ordering books that he requested.

Photo credit: City of Downey, Calif.

Visits to the library evoke good memories for me. When I was younger, dad and I would go our separate ways upon arrival. I would head to the children’s section and dad would head to the periodicals, where he liked to peruse newspapers from around the country and the world. As I got older, I joined him on the adult side of the library, and would often bring homework or research projects with me to complete in the quiet, peaceful atmosphere that the library offered.

I also remember my dad and I collaborating at the library to find a way to ease mom’s nerves as she battled menopause. There was a gift shop in the library, and my dad would give me money to go buy her a trinket. We’d also agree to tell her how good dinner was multiple times that night when we got home. Our plan usually worked, much to our relief, as both of us shied away from emotional outbursts.

Those lazy Saturday afternoons spent in that soothing hush, and bringing home a tall stack of books to devour at my leisure, those weekly library trips are a treasured memory for me. I think they were for my dad as well. In fact, at my parents’ home, two books still reside on my father’s nightstand, gathering dust, awaiting to be read.

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January 14, 2012 · 1:28 pm

Memories of weekend outings with my dad

One of my earlier memories of an outing with dad was going to get gas on our assigned day during the gas shortage crisis of the late 1970’s. We would putter down the road in our boat of a car, which I believe at the time was the emerald green LTD. Then we would wait in a long line of frustrated motorists to fill ‘er up. If I was a good girl, dad would buy me an Orange Crush soda.

As I got older, I remember my dad having this odd habit of only filling up the gas tank by a quarter or half a tank. I never quite understood the logic behind this, I just assumed he was trying to pinch pennies, though we were never so bad off that we couldn’t afford a full tank of gasoline. Maybe he had been permanently scarred by the gas shortage.

Michael Brown/Critiki.com

We would also go see the waterfall at a place called the Tahitian Village. It was a kitschy Tiki-themed mini-resort, with a hotel, lounge, restaurant and coffee shop all rolled into one. I guess it was kind of a poor man’s version of Trader Vic’s. The over-the-top decor could be found on the exterior as well, and that’s where I remember walking on a bridge while holding my dad’s hand, to see a waterfall. It was especially refreshing on a hot summer day. Tahitian Village had its heyday in the 1960’s-1970’s and has long since been torn down.

Looking for photos of the Tahitian Village led me to a whole collection of photos of my hometown, Downey, Calif. on Flickr, that really brought back a lot of memories. So many places that I associate with my childhood have either been torn down or are on the chopping block, all to make way for another strip mall. It should be of no great surprise, as not many small businesses survive 30 years or more in this world anymore. Still, it’s a bit sad to see that all I have remaining of my childhood landmarks are captured in photos or in my memories.

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January 13, 2012 · 8:45 am

Remembering dad’s voice impressions

As a child, I can remember my dad keeping me entertained by doing spot-on impressions of Woody Woodpecker and Donald Duck. I remember having giggling fits over his quacking ability. It was these moments that made me close to my dad when I was a small girl, but at some point we drifted apart. For the life of me, I can’t remember around what point that began. I think it was gradual, perhaps a girl bonding more with her mother as she approaches adolescence. At least I can still remember these warm moments with my father from my childhood before my dad drifted away in another sense as Alzheimer’s consumed his mind.

As his dementia progressed, there was one more impression he did that sticks in my mind in a bittersweet way. He was at the point where he could still communicate, if not always coherently. But he was trying desperately to hold on to his sense of humor, that core of his personality that made him human. So he mentioned something about Johnny Carson, and how much he had loved him. (That part was true. He always worked the swing shift and would get home in time to enjoy a late dinner, a beer and some late-night television.) He then began doing an impression of Ed McMahon’s famous introduction: “Heeere’s Johnny!” As repetition is common with Alzheimer’s patients, he continued to repeat this refrain throughout the evening, in inappropriate moments while we were out in public. My mom would try to hush him but I could see a look of delight light up his face that both pained and warmed my heart.

About two months later, my dad had a medical emergency that sent him to the hospital for two weeks. During that time, his life was saved, but his sense of humor, along with the rest of his personality, was extinguished. He never returned home after that, and was on a series of medications at the nursing home that sapped any remaining vitality out of him.

So I hold on to these precious memories of my dad. Alzheimer’s can claim so much of a person, but it can’t take their past, because that was also experienced by their loved ones.

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January 12, 2012 · 6:09 am

Dad’s final trip back to Ireland

As I write this, part of my dad’s ashes are soaring across the pond, headed to Belfast, Northern Ireland. He never made it back for a final trip to his homeland, so this will have to suffice.

Dad with his sister and nephew in Ireland, circa late 1960's.

His last trip back to Ireland was well before I was born. He was recuperating from a life-threatening illness. It was the last time he saw his mother alive and I know he was happy he made the trip back for that reason alone. I’m sure he talked about this trip in detail many times as I was growing up, but the specifics are hazy for me now. I wish I could remember more details, where he went, who he visited and what he thought of his homeland after he had spent time living in New York City and Los Angeles.

He always talked about going home when I was growing up, but he never made it back. He hated flying, and the expense of the trip was daunting.

I did find this photograph of my dad as an adult in Ireland, standing along the coast, with his sister and her young son. He looks happy, confident and at home. I hope he feels that way now.

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January 11, 2012 · 8:01 am

My dad’s love of ‘The Three Stooges’

Yesterday was a dreary, rainy day, so I put on my ‘Three Stooges’ hoodie as I headed to work. It was the first time I’d worn it to work since I had received that fateful phone call from mom during the middle of my shift, telling me through tears that my father had died. So I couldn’t help but think about dad and how “The Three Stooges” was another bonding moment for us, much like those college bowl games were, but this bond was deeper and longer-lasting.

Every Sunday afternoon, “The Three Stooges” would air shorts for an hour on a local network affiliate in L.A. It just so happened that it was the time my dad would sit down for a cup of coffee before heading out to church. I don’t remember how it started, all I remember is that for years, watching “The Three Stooges” together was a Sunday ritual that had more meaning to me than any church service.

As a kid, I enjoyed the zany hijinks of Moe, Larry and Curly. They are like children who never grew up. For dad, they held a key to a bittersweet time in his childhood. Having been born and raised in Belfast, Northern Ireland, he was subjected to the aerial bombings delivered by the Nazis before he was a teenager. He remembered running to the bomb shelter with his family. And in between the fear of another bombing and the fear of another lashing across the hands from the ruler in Sister Mary’s iron fist, he and his school pals would escape their miserable childhood by going to the movie theatre. There, they would watch all of the movies that we consider American classics today. But each film would start with a ‘Three Stooges’ short, and I think that may have been the kids’ favorite part.

My love of the Stooges has not dissipated as I have become an adult, if anything, I appreciate their comedic talent more than ever. I’ve been watching the shorts over the past couple of months, as dad declined and passed away, and they offered me much needed levity and made me feel close to my father. Maybe dad is enjoying a few good “nyuk, nyuk, nyuks” and pies to the face with the Stooges wherever he is now.

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