I bet we’ve all heard, and probably experienced, the truth
of the adage that it takes a village to raise a child. Well you know what? In
my experience, the same is true for caring for an aging parent.
Until recently, I’ve been in the rather unusual situation
with both my parents that whatever care I could provide, was via long distance
support and involvement over the phone and Skype and occasional trips since
they were both more than 6,000 miles away in their later years. My dad, bless
his heart, decided at the age of 83, with early onset of Parkinson’s, and
despite my impassioned pleas to the contrary, to sell his beautiful home a
short drive from where I live, leave behind his friends and family and the life
he had built here since retiring from his worldwide travels as a plant manager
for Goodyear, move with his wife to Italy and turn an old ruin in an isolated
village into their dream home. Sadly, although they did manage to build their
dream home, my dad’s health deteriorated rather rapidly, my step mom went
through a rough patch with her own health, and her kids, who live in her native
Sweden (well, actually she was born in Denmark), had to rescue them and help
them get set up to live in Sweden, where they had access to much needed medical
care and support services.
So I spent a lot of time on the phone with my Swedish
siblings during those years – strategizing, decision making, dealing with
financial and practical matters, doing what I could on this end, knowing they
were bearing the brunt of my dad’s care and needs for support. I am so deeply
grateful to my Swedish family for all the love and care they provided to my dad
in his last years… and of course it was
hard having him so far away, and not being there. My one trip to Italy and my
several to Sweden were bittersweet, lovely to spend time with him and so sad to
see his health and mind deteriorate from the ravages of Parkinson’s.
When he passed almost 2 and half years ago, I felt like I
had been saying goodbye for the previous 5 years.. as his Parkinson’s affected
his vocal chords, I strained to hear him over the telephone, mostly
undecipherable whispers on his end, so I learned to have “yes” and “no”
conversations with him, and to do a lot of chatting on my end. Email became
mostly unintelligible from his end. I was blessed to spend two weeks with him
just before he passed, and he would hold my hand, I’d feed him chocolate ice
cream, and I played Sinatra for him on my iPad. It was summer in Sweden, and I
remember the birds singing outside his open window. My stepmom, when she called
me to break the news of his passing once I was back home in California, told me
they had flown away the day he died.
I was going to write about caring for my mum, but somehow
this is where I ended up. I guess this piece of my story with my dad needed to
be told, for today’s story with my mum is woven into yesterday’s story with my
dad…. A different ending, as this time I am the sibling on the ground, bearing
the burden of care, but way more importantly, enjoying the blessing and
privilege of midwifing her through the end phase of her journey, with the help
of my California tribe.
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