One day at a time

 

I have learned through this journey, that the best thing for my mental health is to take it all, one day at a time.  I can not worry about tomorrow and I can’t go back to yesterday.  Which in return helps me find the silver linings each day.  I have a quote board hanging in my office.  I usually try and find a funny quote appropriate for work or something that is motivational.  But a few months ago when I was having a rough day and felt the weight of the world crashing down on me, I put the words “one day at a time” up on the board.  This has provided me with some peace especially on those really rough days.

 

It feels that the last 3 months have had more frustrating days than good.  And to be brutally honest, some days it is very hard to find a silver lining.  And this visit proved that to be true.  Dad was not himself.  He hasn’t been for several weeks.  He seems more agitated than normal, sad, and/or very tired.  I do believe this has to do with his blood sugars and we are actively working on that with the nursing home and my hope is that when he moves, we can get him re-evaluated and back on track. 

 

Dad didn’t talk much at all.  And when he did, it was not very pleasant.  He was convinced he needed to wash his hands several times.  After walking with him up and down the hall way with him trying to find a sink, I tried to guide him back to the common area where there is a sink that I knew he could use.  He was not having any of it.  He couldn’t understand why I wanted him to go in that direction and why I was telling him what to do.  He grudgingly moved with me but not without a snarky remark that I was not his boss.  I just smiled and told him I understood. 

 

Dinner was another obstacle.  He would not sit down.  The aides kept asking him to sit, but he just kept repeating that he had to go.  Where he had to go to, I have no idea. But he was not going to sit down at that table for nothing.  Food was served and he still wouldn’t sit.  One of the aides even grabbed a spoonful of noodles and held it up to his mouth mentioning that it was time for dinner.  But he didn’t care, he had somewhere to go.  So he started to walk towards an area right next to the dinner tables.  It is designed to look like an office.  There is a large, fancy desk, some chairs, and a book case.  I was told that it was to provide familiarity to some of the residents who had previously worked in an office setting.  (I love that!)  Dad sat down in the big leather chair.  I watched him for a minute and then took his food over to where he sat.  As I approached him, I asked him how work was going and he said “just fine.”  I sat down beside him as he picked at his food, but he managed to eat a few bites here and there. 

 

After dinner, a pastor and his wife from a local church stopped by and provided a sermon and music for the residents.  I walked dad to the front sitting room and we took a seat on the couch.  I listened attentively to what the pastor was saying.  He was telling the story of Jesus’s disciples.  He went through all 12 of them and explained how they were impacted by Jesus.  I couldn’t help but chuckle when the pastor looked around and jokingly said he was going to make his sermon short because there were a lot of tired looking sweet souls sitting in the crowd.  I looks around, and almost everyone including dad was sound asleep.  As he was closing his sermon, he said that the reason Jesus picked these disciples was because of their strength.  He said that they refused to give up and surrender.  This struck me like a lightning bolt.  Just earlier that day, I had questioned how much more I could handle?  How much more could I give in a day to others when I am barely keeping my head above water?  How much more was I willing to be there for others when I felt so alone most days?

 

The pastor’s wife ended with a song.  The song was called, “One day at a time.”  I sat there in the middle of a group of people and cried.  I cried harder than I had cried in a long time.  I let all the pent up anger that I had built up go.  When the song ended, I kissed dad on the top of his head and walked out to my car.  I don’t recall all of the things that went through my mind on the way home, but I do recall telling myself that there was no way I was going to give up.  I  will keep fighting the good fight one day at a time.  And I felt strong and refreshed.  (silver lining). 

 

Sign from above

I sat in my car during my lunch hour to try and get some rest.  I haven’t been sleeping well and it seems as if I have started to grow anxious on days I plan to visit with dad.  I think it is a mixture of just being frustrated with the whole process and worrying about how dad is going to be.  Lately things have changed with his blood sugar levels and he is not his usual, cheery self. 

 

I found myself not being able to close my eyes and rest because dad kept popping into my mind.  Is he ok?  Is he sad?  Is his blood sugar ok today?  Does he get lonely?  Is there any time through out the day where is memory is clear?  Does he know I love him?  Does he know I am sorry he is going through this?  And then the tears started.  I sat for a little while longer asking myself over and over again these questions.  Then I looked up to Heaven and I asked God out loud to give me a sign.  To give me a sign that dad is ok.  Then the thought of an owl came to me and I asked God to show me an owl.  I told myself I needed to see an owl to feel deep in my heart and secure that dad was going to be ok.  I cleaned my smeared mascara off my cheeks and walked back into work and didn’t think another thing about it.

 

After work, as I was driving to see dad, I again asked God if he would show me an owl.  I explained that I understood that knowing ahead of time what the future holds is not something I can have.  I explained that I understood that I have nothing to do with the timing of things.  I said that I believe that the plan he has for us is much greater than I could ever understand in this moment. I explained that I wasn’t asking for any explanations.  I simply needed a sign that all was going to be ok with dad.  And if I could have this sign, I would be able to keep pushing forward and being strong for my parents, my family, and myself. 

 

When I arrived, dad was sitting at the dinner table.  When I approached the table he smiled and he said, “well there she is!”.  The gentleman sitting with dad asked who I was and dad responded with “This is my daughter.”  I asked dad if I could sit down with him and he said “of course.”  I noticed his place setting for dinner was on the other side of where he was sitting.  A nurse walked by and mentioned to me that he was supposed to sit on the other side.  I stood up and took his plate, silverware, and cup and placed it in front of him.  I figured it would be a much easier task to move the place setting than try and explain to dad he needed to play musical chairs.  As I am scooting my chair to the other side of dad, I glanced up to my left.  Against the wall is a row of built in book shelves.  I have seen them and looked at them and their contents every visit I have had.  They are nice shelves filled with puzzles and books, with a few knick knacks here and there.  Dad and I have stood there a few times while he has showed me some puzzles with locks (great for working on fine motor skills) and folded napkins (one day dad thought he was working in a restaurant). 

 

To the left at the very top of the shelf sat an owl.  It was made out of metal and painted different colors.  When I tell you, I couldn’t believe what I saw…I mean it.  I looked away, looked back and it was still there.  I even said out loud, “you’ve got to be kidding me.”  Noone seemed to notice me or my flabbergasted expression so I took my cell phone out of my pocket and snapped the picture.  Then I looked up to Heaven and whispered, “Thank you.” 

 

The rest of the evening went on with short conversations here and there, a lot of nodding off into sleep (dad of course), and a whole lot of thankfulness.  It still hurts, the reality of all of this still stings, and the process is frustrating, but I can find peace in knowing that my dad is going to be ok.  We are all going to be ok.  (Silver lining).