So Many Questions, So Little Time…

My dad started having strokes about four years before he died. The first big one damaged his eyesight but he could still read what was on TV (across the room) without glasses whereas I could barely make out that there was a TV without my glasses, no stroke necessary. Even without his full faculties, he was still the guy in charge. 

Alas, another stroke a year later took his ability to reason, but somehow made him quite cheerful; jovial even. But it also opened the doors to all the questions he’d always wanted to ask, or felt compelled to ask.  Sometimes over and over and over. I told my brother that Dad didn’t have dementia. He just had a lot of questions.

I can relate. My first few years on earth felt like that. I could not figure out what was going on at my deeply dysfunctional home…and nobody else seemed to know either. I felt I should be doing something to make things feel better, safer; blaming myself for everything as children do. So I asked a lot of questions:

“Why is Mommy crying?”

“Why is the kitten laying so still after I gave it a bath?”

“Why is Daddy hitting my Bubba?” 

“Where is my Mommy?”

“Why is Nanny touching me like that?”

I got no answers. Shushed at best, slapped or threatened more likely. Or ignored. I certainly had no voice. I’m sure lots of kids feel like that at some level. But there was danger at my house if you didn’t know what was going on. So questions helped distract me and, on occasion, the perpetrators. 

I saw that in my dad toward the end as he strove to figure out what was going on.

His efforts to question everything seemed to be focused on “Don’t notice that I’m dying…” but I wouldn’t let him off the hook. I talked to him about dying. It’s who I am. I talk to everybody about it.

So there he was, my big, strong Daddy. Unable to take care of himself, or as he had once said to me, “I never thought I’d be unable to take care of myself…and you.” We had become friends in later years. I knew he loved me and wanted to make the world better for me. His way of making amends.

And his lovely, cheerful demeanor toward the end was nice, too. For the first time ever, he allowed others to take care of his needs. He was, finally, the beloved child in that role. My cousin, my aunt, the staff at the nursing home and the hospice angels…they took good care of him, even if they were smiling at his antics. Or frowning at the perpetual questions.

He didn’t stop. He asked questions until the last moment.

I, on the other hand, learned to stop questioning, just to be silent and as invisible as possible. It was a survival technique when I was a child. In the Twelve-Step Program of Adult Children of Alcoholics (and other resources), that’s known as being the Lost Child. It’s a role I used to stay safe, or at least as safe as I could under the circumstances of my young life.

As with many challenges, of course, it also was a gift. I learned the value of solitude, which allowed me to blossom as a writer. I use that mechanism to ask myself – and the Universe – questions. And more often than not, I find answers on the paper, or through the keyboard.

I have fewer questions now. Not that I know all the answers; just that I’ve reached the point in life where all the answers seem to be: …and so it is.

By living the best life I can, being helpful where possible while maintaining self-care, I’m almost certain that I will have far fewer questions at the end of life than my dad did. I wish the same for us all.

10/25/2014 11:48:00 AM Darby named Hospice of the Pines Hometown Hero

Deb Darby receives the plaque for the Hometown Hero award. By Julie Keeney This month's Hometown Hero award goes to Deb Darby for her long-term efforts in bringing awareness of the need for end-of-life planning. Deb has been an advocate for seniors and for hospice in our community along with being a volunteer for several years with various organizations to help our seniors with life-changing issues. Deb stated, "Hospice is the part of the healthcare system that gets it right." She is committed to helping anyone facing end-of-life decisions and planning. When asked why she does the work with death and dying, Deb's answer was, "Death was part of my life early. I lost numerous friends within 10 years after high school for various reasons and it was a real eye opener." Deb knew even then that talking about death was critical to overcoming fears and facing the fact that all of us, young or old, will eventually die. That's how she began her journey as an advocate and voice for people of all ages facing end-of-life issues. Deborah volunteers for a group called Compassion & Choices, which supports Death with Dignity, serving as president of the Sedona chapter for eight years. Deb has a blog online at letsdiscussdeath.blogspot.com where she has posted several articles on the subject of death and dying. One of Deb's most read articles is "It Won't Kill You to Talk About Death." Deb says, "After many years of advocacy and activism, we are finally seeing more and more people who have become willing to talk about death. One of my personal missions is to make sure people prepare their advance directives, putting their end-of-life wishes in writing, for example completing the '5 Wishes' document." Deb has lived in the Verde Valley for more than two decades and loves the area. About 22 years ago while living in Texas, she visited the Verde Valley and fell in love with Cottonwood. She says she knew instantly that Cottonwood would be her home forever! Deb is currently employed by Verde Valley Manor, an Independent Living Apartment complex for low-income seniors where she serves as resource coordinator. In addition, she also has her own business, WordCraft, where she a freelance writer specializing in business copywriting and public relations. Deb is no stranger to researching and writing news/feature articles on topics ranging from business to healthcare concerns. In her work she often does brochures and ads to raise awareness for clients and for worthy charitable causes. In the past she has worked in many areas in the Verde Valley including the Yavapai College as well the hospital when it was still named Marcus J. Lawrence Hospital. Deb told me that she plans on working for about another 10 years and then she plans to move into the Verde Valley Manor for her retirement. I asked Deb to describe what the beauty of death and dying means to her. Deb's response was, "At the bedside, I've witnessed many people accept that this life is over and literally surrender to the next life. I want to empower people to be independent and proactive about taking care of their end-of-life needs, which includes living every moment to the best of their ability." I was curious to know what would be the one thing she would like people to know about her, and her response was, "The Verde Valley is the Love of my Life." I lastly asked what her vision is for our community. The response was "...that death becomes dinner-table conversation. We plan for babies being born, weddings and anniversaries but we don't plan for death. We can't plan until we start talking about it." Please join me in congratulating Deborah Darby on her commitment to our seniors and helping our community to be more proactive about making end-of-life decisions, and for the many wonderful things she does in the Verde Valley! For more information regarding Deb's services, please contact her at wordcraft@q.com. Lik: http://verdenews.com/main.asp?Search=1&ArticleID=62984&SectionID=102&SubSectionID=163&S=1

Elvira

My friend Elvira died this morning. I had talked to her a couple of weeks ago and could tell that she was much sicker than before, although I wasn’t sure if radiation was causing her to be out of it, or if, in fact, the cancer – now metastasized into her brain – was the cause.

She was a classmate from Texas. We had attended the same small school for all twelve years. Her school photo is on the first page of my high-school scrapbook. I hadn’t looked at the scrapbook in years, but pulled it out to share it with her during a recent visit. We laughed that day. Her husband drove us up to the scenic overlook at the top of Oak Creek Canyon, snapping photos all along the way. We had fun and her energy was unflagging.

She’d been undergoing treatment in Phoenix at the Cancer Treatment Centers of America. By the time she got there, it was clear that her various cancers were going to kill her, but she wanted to stay alive long enough to see her son get married. It wasn’t her stated goal to live until then, but within a few days of returning from his wedding, she had to be hospitalized for various ills. Dehydration. Exhaustion. She attributed everything to causes that were not cancer related. And I believed her.

But then she called to let me know she was having radiation. The cancer had spread to her brain. The chemo that had held things in abeyance for about a year had given up. She was literally playing tennis until two months ago when she broke a bone in her leg. That sounded ominous to me, but again, she blamed it on, well, everything but the cancer.

I visited with her during one of her chemo sessions in Phoenix. She was a huge fan of CTCA where, if you have the right kind of insurance, you can be treated with the latest methodologies by people who do, in fact, really seem to care. It’s more like a spa than a hospital, part of their appeal – and no doubt a therapeutic modality as well. For more than a year she visited routinely, and for much of that time, the cancer was cooperating.

But the time came. Her son told us they had put her into hospice yesterday. And, yes, she and I had talked at some length about hospice along the way. She was sure that was what she wanted. Only a few hours in the program and she was gone. Her dear son wrote, “It was truly the hardest thing I had to do was see my beloved mother slowly pass.”

It is, in fact, one of the hardest things we ever do, whether we are children or adults. Seeing our parents die. It’s a fact of nature, but that doesn’t make it any easier. Being prepared can help ameliorate the process, but it’s going to hurt. As well it should.

Elvira had made arrangements, including an early DNR (do not resuscitate) once she got the diagnosis even though she was still working, driving and playing tennis. She did what was expected of her – the year of chemo and a few sessions of radiology – and refused to discuss the disease in any depth. Her husband referred to it as the “ignorance is bliss” approach to cancer treatment. But she was prepared for the end result.

We can make the process go more smoothly by being prepared. 

This blog is about talking to your family, friends, doctors and significant others about what you want – and don’t want – at the end of life. 

It will never be easy to let go of those we love, either because we are dying or because they are, but we can become informed to the extent that we overcome much of the fear. She had done that. When I last spoke to her and commented that radiation sounded pretty scary she said, “What else can I do, Deb?” She didn’t sound the least bit hopeless. She was just following the rules. I replied, “Do whatever feels right to you, Elvira.”

That was less than two weeks ago. It was her time. She fought for as long as she wanted (although her family and friends wanted her to “keep fighting” per a post I saw on her Facebook page last week)…and she closed her eyes to this world.

A devout Catholic, she’s on her way to that version of heaven. She was a lovely person who lived life well and with great integrity. I’m sorry for her husband, her son and her dozens of other family members. And I’m happy that I knew her. Rest in Peace, pretty lady.