Reversal of Roles

Last Friday morning, I received a phone call from one of "V"s other caregivers asking if I could come in a bit early... as early as possible.  She had been there for well over forty hours straight, as the Hudson Valley Region (which really is beautiful most of the year) had been hit with yet another crippling snow storm.

Thanks to My Son, Peter, for Finding My Car!

Of course, this was no problem for me.  A welcome any additional time I am able to spend with "V", would had just celebrated her ninety-sixth birthday.

 

Shortly after that phone call, I received a very different call.  The Social Worker at my Dad's Hospice wanted to inform me in advance that a decision had been made to unplug the heart machine that had been keeping my father alive for the past seven years.  He was no longer cognizant, many of his body systems were shutting down, and the heart pump itself was failing.  Once unplugged, the Social Worker compassionately explained, my Dad's heart would stop and he would finally be at peace.

 

"When will the machine be unplugged?" I asked her shakily.

 

"I don't know, Honey, but it will be sometime today," the Social Worker replied kindly.

 

"Will you let me know when it happens?" I asked again, holding back tears.

 

"Absolutely," she promised. 

 

She was true to her word.  Two hours after I arrived at "V"s, I received a phone call informing me that my father's heart pump had been unplugged, and his heart had subsequently stopped beating. 

 

"Your Daddy is at peace now, Honey," the Social Worker told me.  I asked her for the exact time of death, and was informed that it was about five minutes before her call. 

 

The situation felt surreal in a way.  For one thing, I am probably twice the Social Worker's age, and yet she was calling me "Honey."  Secondly, I was sitting in the living room of a  woman, who was almost twice my age, whom I would be providing care for during the next two days.  I would really need to pull myself together.

 

Or maybe not.

 

When I arrived at "V"s, I decided to tell her exactly what was going on with my Dad.  She is a keenly alert and highly aware woman, and I knew she would detect any change in my emotion or behavior.  It seemed like the right thing to include her in information that could cause me to start weeping at any given moment.  If anyone knew about loss, it was "V".  When you live to see ninety-six, it is not at all surprising that you have also experienced much sorrow over the course of those years.

 

"Just so you know," I explained to "V" shortly after the previous caregiver had gone, "I may be making and receiving a bunch of phone calls over the next few days."

 

Without asking why, "V" told me that it was okay.  I believe she had every confidence that I would still do my utmost to provide the best care for her during my shift.  She probably had more faith in my ability than me!

 

I briefly wondered why she hadn't asked why, but the answer became instantly clear.

 

She didn't need to.  She already knew that my father was dying.  I had just taken a week to drive down to Florida and back with my son and nephew so that they could say goodbye to their Grandpa.  I had even sent "V" photos of our journey along the way, which her daytime caregiver shared with her so that she would know we were safe and sound.  In response, I received inspirational texts telling me to "Drive safely" and that "Our thoughts and prayers are with you."

 

You see, "V" and I have become friends.  Real friends.  Perhaps it's simply a function of my role as an at-home caregiver, as you really get to know a person when you spend forty straight hours in their company week after week. 

 

But with "V", it was more than that.  Unlike my relationship with "M", who was in the devastating grips of Dementia, "V" is mentally sharp as a tack.  Sharper, actually!  She can pick up on intonations and body language with the best of them!

 

Plus the nature of our relationship was completely different.  With "M", I took great pleasure in bringing her out to places that would trigger her long-term memory, frequently leading to delightful trips down her unique memory lane. 

 

"V" and I, on the other hand, spent most of our time in her home... sharing meals, movies, and much conversation.  We had established this as the basis for our relationship even before we had become snowbound most of the time!  Companionship.  The main reason, really, that I am there in the first place, even though providing safety and oversight are supposed to be the key components of my role. 

 

In fact, I consider "V" to be one of my closest friends.  We talk to each other about everything, from sharing funny stories about our pasts to much deeper conversation that delve into our feelings and beliefs.  It is a unique relationship.  And very special.  It is the type of bond that perhaps can only be understood by fellow caregivers.

 

So, quite naturally, after I received the phone call that confirmed my father's passing, "V" waited a few moments before gently asking me if I was okay.

 

"Yes.  Thank you," I replied, sniffling into a tissue.  Even though the news had been a long time in the making, it was nevertheless painful to hear.   Death.  No more phone chats.  Or visits, infrequent though they were.  No future opportunities to say to my father, face-to-face, "I'm sorry for..." or "I really do love you in spite of..." or "Thank you for the time that you..."  At least no chance to do so in person.   I've already planned to take the time to have these discussions with my Dad more often, even though his body has been laid to rest.

 

If anyone understood how I was feeling after hanging up the phone (and believe me, I certainly didn't), it was "V".  She, more than anyone I've ever met, knew about loss, grief, and later on, after the pain has subsided, acceptance.  How many treasured friends, family members, co-workers, acquaintances she must have lost over her many years.  

 

"I'm sorry," I snorted a few tissues later.  I found myself feeling guilty for experiencing sadness in front of her, a woman who had just celebrated a birthday which commemorated yet another year of living beyond most of the people who were her peers.

 

"It's okay," she said softly.  "How odd," I thought, then spoke.  "Here we are reversing roles, and I'm the one who is supposed to provide you with support!"

 

I looked over at her for the first time since receiving the news about my Dad.  The expression on her face was remarkable.  Despite all her losses, she looked so calm and content, perhaps knowing that sometime soon (hopefully not too soon!), she would maybe meet my father in a more peaceful place...  Joining her beloved husband, siblings, parents, friends, other extended family members, co-workers, acquaintances, and a long lifetime's worth of people who had touched her life in some way and then departed from this world, leaving behind their essence as a human being.  Their spirits.

 

It was time for "V" to watch the local news on TV, which, not surprisingly, was chock-full of weather related stories.  Roofs collapsing.  Cars colliding.  Traffic not flowing.  Trains delayed.  Flights cancelled.  Homes without heat or water.  People without food or shelter.   And inevitably, a very sad story or two about someone who had tragically lost their life in a snow-related tragedy.  

 

"Maybe these unfortunate folks will meet my Dad," I wondered as I began preparing for dinner.

 

My weekend with "V" turned out to be as wonderful as usual.  We talked a lot about our fathers, and whenever I began to get a little glum, all I had to do was look around "V"s dining room, filled with an extremely colorful and vast array flowers she had received during the week for her birthday.

 

And Valentine's Day!  I had completely forgotten about it until "V" offered me some of her exquisite chocolates. 
 

My Dad had passed away on Valentine's Day.  A day dedicated to love and friendship and telling the people who mean a lot to you that they mean a lot to you!

 

Before I finished my shift, I made sure that I told "V" that she was one of those people.  I thanked her sincerely for sharing Valentine's Day with me, (not that she really had a choice in the matter), and for comforting me as I grieved the loss of my Dad. 

 

"It's okay," she responded with a smile, that same calm and content expression again on her face.

 

"I'll see you next week!" I said definitively as I exited into a blindingly white winter wonderland.

But nothing is certain.  Each moment we live is a blessing, as we never truly know if it will be our last.  That's why it's so important to take comfort in your family and friends, or whoever is in your life at any given time. 

How grateful I am to have "V" in my life at this particular point in time.  And how privileged I feel to know her as not only a person that I provide safety and oversight for, but also as a treasured friend... a relationship that requires no role reversals.

My Dad would have liked her!  And vice versa!  Maybe they will meet one day...