The Fight for My Father
I have been my dad’s caregiver for over 16 years. He will be 92 this year, and I will be 62. For most of that time, it was manageable. But when COVID hit, everything changed.
Caregiving escalated. The level of care, the urgency, the battles — all of it intensified. And for the last seven years, as his various declines set in, I have fought against the inevitable.
I have battled setbacks. And time and time again, I have won.
Today, my dad has improved.
I managed to get him over this last decline hump. It was — and still is — a lot of work. But I did it.
He is eating again. He has gained weight. I am not tooting my own horn here — just stating reality.
I am the reason he is still alive. This time, and many times before, over these last seven years.
For these past years, I have fought for him. I have rebounded him over and over. If I had listened to others — doctors, nurses, and even some caregivers — he would not be here now. They don’t see the full picture. They think his recoveries are just inexplicable rebounds. But they are not.
If I had taken him to the ER every time they suggested, he would have spent days in a hospital bed, declining from lack of movement, from isolation, from neglect — not intentional neglect, but neglect nonetheless. Because hospitals are not trained for dementia. They focus on treating one issue while missing the bigger picture.
A week in a hospital bed? He loses everything. His routine. His place. His connection to the world. And then it takes me weeks — months — to rebuild.
The Never-Ending Battle
After every hospital visit, they recommend a nursing home for physical rehab. But I know better. I’ve seen what happens in nursing homes — patients left in bed, alone, disconnected. That would destroy him.
So I always say no. I bring him home.
Instead of relying on their systems, I become the system. The VA sends physical therapists twice a week for twenty minutes, for about six weeks — and after that, it’s up to me.
I pick up the rest. I rebuild his strength. I rebuild his life.
I make him get out of bed. Without that push, he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t drink. But once he’s up — once he’s reconnected — he becomes himself again. Coffee. Food. Engagement.
I make sure he showers every single day.
I make sure he eats enough, supplementing with Ensure Plus when needed.
I make sure he takes his medications on time.
I battle his hydration struggles, sometimes feeding him water with a turkey baster when he refuses to drink.
It’s either that, or the ER. And we know what happens there.
Against the Odds, Against the Apathy
Dad has infections — UTIs, mostly from his catheter. Antibiotics no longer seem to work, or they're using the wrong ones. The urine is still dark, still pungent. Something is still wrong. But what?
So I fight that, too. I push for answers. I push for care. I battle every single day.
And I battle those who try to talk me down.
The caregivers who say, “Just let him sleep.”
The ones who say, “He doesn’t need a full shower today.”
The ones who say, “You should treat him like an adult.”
If I followed their advice, my dad would be long gone.
I don’t let “nature take its course.” Not yet. Because he is not ready to go.
If he ever tells me — truly tells me — he’s ready, I will listen. I will let him go. But not yet. Not while that spark is still in his eyes, in his voice.
I fight for him.
I fight for me.
I am always exhausted. But I continue.
Because caregiving is a war I cannot win.
But I will win all the skirmishes.
I will win all the battles.
For my father.
For myself.
The Small Victories
Today, the physical therapist — Mike — came to assess my dad again.
He’s seen him before.
He discharged him back in May.
He knows how bad things can get.
And today, he looked at me in shock.
“I cannot believe he is doing so good. He is much better than I expected.”
I smiled. “It took a lot of work, but we got him back up and running.”
Mike shook his head. “I am very surprised by him today.”
This is why I fight.
The Reality of Caregiving
People don’t understand what real family caregiving is.
It is 16 years of dedication, seven years of decline, and a never-ending battle against things that can kill our loved ones.
Common colds, dehydration, infections that can turn into sepsis.
Bed-apathy, hygiene struggles, nutrition deficiencies.
It is a battle for their life.
And a battle for ourselves.
I am always exhausted. But I continue.
Because caregiving is a war I cannot win.
I know this.
But I will win all the skirmishes.
I will win all the battles.
For my father.
For myself.
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Bed-Apathy: (Not an official medical term as of now, but a term I created and use). A state in which an individual, often an elderly or ill person, experiences a profound lack of motivation to move, eat, drink, or engage while remaining in bed. However, once they are encouraged to get up, dressed, reconnected with their surroundings, the apathy fades, and they regain their awareness, appetite, and engagement with life.
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