I’m trying to plan a trip for us to see his son and my sister and brother-in-law. Chris wants to go because it’s probably the last time I’ll get to see everyone.
I’d like to honour this wish, but there are issues. To do so we’d be changing flights in two large airports, flight changes involving wheelchairs and luggage and food appropriate to his diet.
And once we get to either of the two destinations he’ll need time to recuperate; days that he will want to spend in bed. There will be no bath bench, and it’s unlikely there will be six extra pillows to keep him fairly upright at night, and or chairs with arms to help him hoist himself up.
These are younger people we’ll be visiting—healthy jogging, hiking types. The homes will not be geared to the needs of a person with mobility issues.
And then there’s the airfare. In his condition, he does not qualify for travel insurance, and because of his condition, since I am travelling with him, neither do I.
And if he has another heart attack or what the medical professionals refer to as ‘an event’, the trip will be off and we’ll be out that money.
Taking all this in, he has a suggestion. Let’s drive down.
To Arizona and California from our Vancouver, BC home?
This is a man who no longer has the energy to drive to his favourite nearby US location, Tulalip, Washington. It’s a two hour drive one way, and last time we went? He turned around half way there because he was so tired, he just wanted to come home to bed.
So now we’re going to make it to San Diego or Phoenix?
I think his son has to come here, and my sister and her husband, too. I think I should ask them. So he can say his goodbyes.
The doctor repeatedly tells Chris he must walk. Chris won’t. This is a caregiver’s dilemma.
Because I know he should exercise? But I also know how precarious his health is.
He could keel over any moment. He could die anywhere. In bed for instance. He could die while out and about. He could die in the kitchen getting a sandwich.
But he looks strong. Like his father, he has a big chest and thick rounded shoulders, a brute of a back.
Although his illness has reduced his size somewhat, it has not diminished the man.
His sense of humour is still keen, and he still has enough of a temper to direct a spate of comments at another driver, or people on TV–a politician or a football coach.
Keeping that powerful inner man intact concerns me more than his physical health. Do other caregivers feel that way about their ailing charges? Or is it just me?
After all, if the best cardiologists, and his cardiologist is one of the best, cannot cure him, then far be it from me to try. So I feed him carefully, help him keep his appointments and encourage him to stay calm and keep moving.
Which is why, when I am perfectly capable? If he offers, I will lie in bed and let him get me a cup of tea. Or make myself stay at the computer when I hear him hobbling around in the kitchen and let him get his own sandwich.
The risk I take when I force him to move like this? Is that it could be the moment in which his body succumbs.
There is a horrible guilt associated with even the possibility of this. But he does need to move. And because of the pain, he won’t unless hunger or need drives him.
Should he succumb? The only comfort I would have to offer myself is this: probably he could have been asleep and it would have happened anyway.
I have to believe that. Or I would never let him leave the bed.
Yours truly,
Margaret Jean.
This Caregiver’s Journal began in August of 2014. Although the first blog article was actually written on New Year’s Day, 2015, the rest are in chronological order from August 5th, 2014. What is written here has gone before.
Caregiver Me 