The Right Thing To Do

I walked into the Marquette Manor nursing home not expecting Dad to be in his room. I decided to check his room before I went down stairs. After all, it is ten in the morning. I suspect he will have had his breakfast and will be down stairs in physical therapy. Much to my dismay he was lying on his bed asleep in what appeared to be a very uncomfortable position. His Television was tuned to a television preacher. I turned around from the television and surveyed the room. I was trying to come to a decision if Dad had been out of bed today. I placed a vase of flowers I had brought on his bed side table. The flowers were a gift from the McCoy’s. Monica and Larry had placed flowers in a vase and had taped miniature Three Musketeer candy bars to small wooden rods rising out of the flowers.

As I was standing at the foot of Dad’s bed. A nurse’s attendant walked in the room and woke Dad up. She told him it was time for him to get up.

“For What?” He barked.

Dad then noticed I was in the room, at the end of his bed. I am thinking to myself. Who noticed me come into the building and who told this nurse’s aid to get her rear-end down to Mr. Duncan room and get him out of bed? The evil son just came into the building? The nurse’s aid wants to change Dad’s personal under clothing before she helps him into a wheel chair. I leave the room to be respectful.  

As I am standing out side his room in the hall waiting for dad to be changed and placed into a wheel chair, I am invited into a side office for a quick private conversation. The conversation goes like this.

“Steve when you had the meeting with the staff back in March, you hit the nail on the head. Marquette wants to keep your dad here and move him up stairs, on the second floor into long term care. Marquette is not interested in getting your Dad back home. Marquette wants to keep your dad and move him in to long term care. When the Medicare money runs out at the end of 100 days, your bill here at Marquette will jump to three hundred dollars a day. You need to think about getting him someplace that will help him get back on his feet and encourage him to focus on going home. This place doesn’t have that goal.”  

I did the mental math. Three hundred dollars a day… times thirty days in a month… three times three equals nine. Is this well meaning person telling me it will cost nine thousand dollars a month for Dad to stay at Marquette? My mind reviewed another conversation I had with another staff member. I was told Marquette will want five thousand dollars up front to go upstairs. My personal and very close friend in
Tacoma Washington, Jack, called one night and told me to plan on a monthly bill of at least three thousand a month.

I was standing in the hall again, my head swimming with information. Money aside, I still have a problem with the goals Marquette Manor has for Dad. The Marquette Manor long term goal seemed to be… let’s get Dad upstairs into long term care. I was thinking as I was standing there in the hall. I have been in and out of this building several times this week. I don’t think Dad has been in physical therapy at all. I can’t be sure. I could be wrong, but, I am getting a funny feeling Dad is or might be refusing physical therapy and they, staff, are not going to fight him.

Come on Duncan think about it… what is easier for the staff? Leave this grumpy old man alone in his room and move on to other things that have got to be done… or take extra time to encourage Dad to get out of bed into a wheel chair then encourage him to go down stairs and make him feel positive about embracing pain in physical therapy?  

I even asked Dad earlier this week if he had been to physical therapy. He hesitated and stumbled answering my question.

“Yes… yes… I have.”  

I didn’t get a real warm feeling he wanted to answer that question or he did not want to tell me he has been refusing to attend physical therapy.  

I had a frank discussion with one of the nurses in the hall about 3 weeks ago. I was informed, “Your dad has the right to refuse physical therapy if he doesn’t want to do it you know. Your Dad has the right to not eat if he doesn’t want to eat. It is not up to you what your dad does or doesn’t do… he has rights you know!”

Oh yes, I felt the stinging tongue of this informed and legally educated nurse. I get it! I am the bad guy. I am the pain inflictor. I am “Lording my power” over this defenseless, kind, old man. I got it!

I guess I need to ask some real hard questions of myself… what is the right thing for this son to do for his father? Do I as his son, let Dad have total control over what life he has left? If he doesn’t want to get out of bed, or sit in a chair or sit in his wheel chair or go to physical therapy or go to the dinning room to eat, then should I buy into that program? If he wants to keep the window curtains closed and the room door shut all the time and doesn’t want to talk to anyone anymore… is that normal? Is that to be expected? Dad used to be a social animal and now he is a recluse. Is this what I should let him do? Should I just buy into the idea Dad will be spending the rest of his life in a bed in a nursing home?

Or, should I believe he has lot of living left to do before it’s his time? I say to my self… Think about it! What do I know for sure? I know while he was in the hospital we were reassured he has no cancer. Dad’s heart is sound as a dollar. His knees hurt and he has arthritis in his left shoulder. Before he went into the hospital on February the twelfth, Dad was living alone. Dad was able to stand in the kitchen and put his own bacon in the microwave. He was able to use the bathroom by him self and shower by him self. Dad was able to get in and out of the Buick by him self. Dad wanted to stand in his church pew on Sunday morning by him self. Dad was also able to slide himself into a booth at his favorite restaurant. Dad laughed and sang and enjoyed the company of other people too.

So… what do I do? 

I walked into his room. He was sitting in a wheel chair. He had on sweat pants and a sweat shirt. White socks with no shoes. His hair looked dirty. The nurse’s aid must have combed his hair putting a part in his hair. Dad looked tired. I walked into his room and pulled up a chair. I looked down at the floor. I was not sure I wanted to tell Dad what I had been talking about. I decided to keep the conversations to myself, at least for now. Dad informed me he went through all the mail I brought him to review and I should take some of the mail back home and file it. I looked over at the mail on the floor. There was a pile of unwanted magazines and junk mail on the floor. It looked to me there were only a couple of letter to go back home. No bills to be paid this time.

I was bent over with my elbows on my knees. I looked up into his face. I did not know what to say. I was speechless. I placed my hand on knee.

“I love you Dad.” 

Dad has never told me he loves me. He grew up in a different time. I have come to know It is hard for this man, my dad, to cry, to express love. He just sat there looking at me. I smiled and sat up as I placed my hand on his back and gave him a gentle rub.  

He wanted to know if I had been praying for him? I told him “Yes.” He told me he had been asking the wrong prayer of God. And began to explain how he should be praying and what he should be expecting from God when he prays. He became alive and almost passionate talking with me. I became the student, and he was the wise teacher. He continued his sermon for a few minutes and I listened and watched him become focused and ardent about his teaching. He believes strongly in his Lord.

We sat still for a few minutes… I placed my hand on his knee again. He then said in a soft voice… I don’t mean to be mean… but your breath is bad.  

I stood up, went over to pick up the discarded mail lying on the floor and placed it in the waste basket sitting against the wall. I then retrieved my digital camera and the mail he wanted filed. I studied him again. Do I tell him? Do I need to tell him right now I am thinking about moving him to another health care provider? The answer was pretty clear in my head; you don’t know what you are going to do. You don’t know where he would go next if you were going to move him. There is nothing to say to him just yet… Duncan… You don’t know anything yet… no need to say anything at this moment. 

“My back hurts I am calling the nurse… I want to get back into bed” He said…  

I walked slowly down the long hallway toward the parking lot. I looked at the individual rooms on each side of the carpeted hall, beds with so many sick people in them. I stopped and looked back at the long hall I had just walked.

Again, I said to myself… What is the right thing for this son to do for his dad?