A Healthy Dose of Dwelling

I don't want to spend a lot of time on this subject, because first of all, it's my dad's business and not mine, but secondly, I don't think dwelling on it is good for anyone. But who cares! Let's dwell just a little because to not dwell is to not acknowledge how gross some people are in this world and miss the opportunity for the rest of us to reassuringly think to ourselves, "at least I'm not that big of an ass. Jeez, how did you become so horrible? If I were you I'd hate myself."

As my last post alluded to, my father was treated with very little respect by his company and he chose to handle it with the same level of integrity and self respect with which he handles everything. He graciously said goodbye and walked away. I, on the other hand, totally lost my shit and wrote that thank you letter. 

He's been retired for two weeks and he's OK. He promises. I've sworn to stop nagging him about it, so I'm just going to have to take him at his word. To be honest, he actually does seem pretty OK. I think being able to focus on my mom and himself, rather than feeling as though his soul is slowly being squeezed in a vise by a bunch of spineless lemmings who probably have the combined brain cells of a half-dead starfish* that's been surviving off of biohazardous waste left behind by cruise ships is good for him. (Dwelling.) And honestly, there's something to be said for waking up every morning and NOT having to walk into a steamy cage of mutinous vultures** who wreak of rotting integrity and ruthless desperation that only rivals a medieval prisoner captured, caged and left to die in his own filth. I mean, really. It's gotta feel good to not be there. (More dwelling. It feels so good, doesn't it?)

So now you're probably thinking to yourself, "what now?" Well folks, that's an excellent question. What I/we know right now is that my mom is continuing to improve. She continues to get better at cheating during speech and occupational therapy. "This maze doesn't make any sense. This bird is too big to fit through there. He should just go this way." (Draws line around the maze to the end point.) Smooth. And she's also been getting a lot stronger. She's even started walking a little bit without assistance....I haven't seen it myself and mom refuses to tell me about it, but both dad and Dee have seen it with their own two eyes. Because of the continued progress, rehab has been extended until mid-July. We don't know if they'll keep extending, but if they do then obviously staying in Chicago is a priority. Now, let's say that they don't continue to extend the rehab which doesn't result in me throwing an enormous fit and causing a scene because not extending the rehab would be an absolute injustice....if that happens then we pack things up, give the decomposing starfish and shameless birds of prey a good wave goodbye and head for the sunshine state. 

* I have nothing against starfish and in fact I feel badly equating any creatures intelligence to that of my fathers ex-coworkers. 

** I would like to call particular attention to the vulture reference here as this animal is known to purposely defecate on it's own feet as well as projectile vomit up to 10 feet when defending themselves against predators. I know, right?

Dear CBOE, Thank you.

Because I was taught to always send a thank you note...

To whom it may concern at the Chicago Board Options Exchange,

My name is Barrie. I'm the daughter of Stan. Apologies for the intrusive and unexpected note. You see, I just simply couldn't miss the opportunity to share my gratitude with you for setting my father free last week. 

As you know my mom almost died 11 months ago. One day she was great, the next day BOOM, she was knocking on death's door. I'll never forget what she looked like when I saw her that night - tubes everywhere, shaved head, a face so swollen she wouldn't be able to open her eyes even if she tried. I'm sure you also know that over the time of her recovery she has stayed at 4 different facilities in total, each one reflective of her needs and abilities as her health improved. She's home now and doing outpatient rehab. They think she may even be able to walk again! We never even thought she would be alive, so I'm sure you can appreciate how exciting this news is. Sadly, because of the circumstances, she most likely won't be able to continue with the rehabilitation. Such a shame. 

Anyhow, I digress, back to my gratitude. My dad has been spread so thin. Trying to make sure he gets up 3 hours early to get my mom ready and then make it to work is exhausting. And then making sure he gets home in time to have dinner with her and put her to bed while leaving some time to work at night. But that's no longer a concern. So thank you.

Also, as an only child you can imagine how hard it's been to have to share him over the last 20 years....during dinner, over weekends, during vacation....even if he wasn't emailing or calling, he was still distracted because he knew any minute he would have to be doing one or the other, or both. But not anymore. I don't have to share him with you. Thank you again. 

Lastly, you've reminded me of a very important life lesson, one that I've been reticent to accept as I'm unfortunately slapped across the face with the realities of adulthood - loyalty is a childish ideal. Loyalty is a personal choice and something you should only pursue for the sake of your own integrity. Alas, life is not a fairytale and loyalty is not a two way street. If it weren't for you, I would've forgotten. Thanks again!

I hope that you have wonderful lives and God forbid anything ever happens to yourself or anyone in your family, I truly hope that someone does you the same favor of setting you free. 

One final note. Given the lack of compassion with which you have treated my father, and therefore my mother and I, I feel compelled to make one thing clear - this note is completely satirical. I have racked my brain trying to imagine how you could possibly treat another human, especially one of such quality as my father, the way you have. There has never been a more appropriate time to use the words "despicable" and disgusting" than as this moment. 

Sincerely yours,

Barrie Wilhelmi

Missing The Intangibles

Hi guys. It's me. Been a while, right?

No good excuse really. Just pure avoidance and procrastination. I've been battling the persona I seemed to have built for you all. The 'strong' and 'courageous' daughter. And lord knows I want to be that person. Badly. But I've decided that there's something to be said for finding strength and courage in honesty. I can't pretend that things are ok or that we're just working our way back to the old normal. I think the acceptance of the new normal is our goal. Accepting the harsh reality that she isn't Pam who just happens to be in a wheelchair with a shitty left arm and a wobbly left leg. She's witty in a wheelchair. She's driven in a wheelchair. She's whip-smart in a wheelchair. And although she's kept a lot, she's lost a lot too. Some of the missing pieces are tangible - things like attention span and impulse control (two things she already struggled with anyhow, so that's fairly manageable). But there is also the intangible, which is something that I don't know I can define. And that's the thing that I miss the most. It's the piece I cry about. The piece I can pretend is still there if I don't call for a few days ...The woman who gave me life 34 years ago and has given me unwavering amounts of love. The person who taught me how to be a woman, how to be a friend, how to be a wife, how to be a human. The giver of endless amounts of lessons. The person I strive to replicate. 

But I pay for that blissful ignorance because there are those moments, things like Mothers Day (a hard slap in the face). Or when she calls to ask me to use my two hands to find a phone number because she can't find it with her one. Or when she calls and then quickly and unceremoniously hangs up on me because her hand is too greasy from popcorn to hold the phone. Sometimes my dad and I laugh, because what else can you do? But it sure as shit isn't funny. It's infuriating. 

I/we should be happy, right? I mean, she wasn't supposed to live? And she surely wasn't supposed to have made it this far in recovery. And I AM happy. I'm thrilled that I still have my mom. And absolutely elated that my dad still has his wife. And over the moon that Dee has her sister and Rick has his cousin. At least I'm happier than I would be if she...you know. But here's the thing, being "happier than" isn't as good as being happy. Especially because as her daughter my happy was awesome. Something that I suppose I should be happy about. Damn.

Where Are The Flowers, Stanley?

I've started this entry multiple times. Not having news feels good and bad. No news is better than bad news. Clearly. But no news feels like stasis. I won't lie, it's still not easy. Sometimes I just cry....and not in private. It sneaks up on me. Like on the subway ride home. "Don't mind me, I'm just going to sit here and have a very personal moment in a public space that is enclosed so sorry strangers, you can't get away from me." Thank you New Yorkers for pretending you don't notice what's right in front of you. 

Anyhow. I think we're all getting used to life more every day. Mom goes to out patient rehab for half-days three days a week. Mom and dad go to dinner together. They get manicures at their favorite neighborhood salon. They call me on speaker phone and banter back and forth while I listen. Just like old times. Mom lovingly giving my dad shit, dad pretending to be hurt by it etc. 

She called me the other day to ask me to call my dad for her...

"Barrie. Can you call your dad and ask him what time dinner is and if he is picking up flowers on the way home?"

"Dad. Mom asked me to call you and ask you about dinner and flowers."

"What, are you her assistant now?"

"Just call her back."

She called a few hours later to see which one of us had failed to follow instructions. Turns out dad came home without flowers. But why didn't she just call herself? Well because the caretaker made it clear that she "shouldn't bother Mister Stanley at work." You know who she didn't say that to? Me. Classic Pam. 

No One Ever Feels Ready, Right?

Many of you have asked how she's doing at home and I've been struggling with an answer. The simple answer is that she's fine. I think she's happy to be home. Happy to have her bed. Happy to have her closet. Happy to go to sleep and wake up in a familiar place. Nothing surprising there.

I don't think it's easy. It will take a while for my dad to get into a routine that feels natural for both of them. She has two different caretakers - Elma and Solome - who my dad says are lovely and mom likes them both. Patty has been with my dad since Wednesday and in his words, she has been a "real blessing." Nothing surprising there either. 

All of this feels like great news. Predictable and promising. So why don't I feel excited? 

Fear.

Mom likened it to the moment you bring your baby from the hospital for the first time. "Shit. What do we do now?" You're on your own. It's time to figure it out. But on top of that terrifying scenario there's the other piece that is nagging me. Essentially the last 7 months has been a bit of an alternate reality. To me, she hasn't been my mom, she has been my mom in the hospital. The collision of the old world and the new world is at a head and the two may take a bit to blend into a distinguishable vision and the vision is ours to create. No pressure or anything.

Home, Sweet Home

Only Pam would have one large suitcase and two extra large shopping bags worth of stuff in her hospital room. It almost didn't fit it in the car. But we both agreed it was poor form to say goodbye and then come back several times to pick things up. There was so much stuff that there were many "oh-right-I-forgot-I-had-this-cute-top" moments.

When dad and I got there this morning the ICU angels were visiting. They finally got to meet the legend they helped us save. The perfect amount of magic to begin our grand send off. I rolled mom through the halls so she could say her goodbyes. There were tears. Lots of laughter. She thanked Claudette and Nadine for all of their help and told them how much she would miss them. We stopped to talk to Deborah - her first friend at the stroke unit. "Bye Deborah. I'm leaving today. If you want out of here, you need to be more of a nuisance. I had two alarms. If they don't put alarms on you, you're not doing it right." And after imparting that wisdom, we wished her luck and went on our merry way.

So what now?

Well, there's no rest for the weary. Out-patient rehab at RIC starts tomorrow. Six hours, 3 days a week. Each Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday she will be picked up at 7:15 with a packed lunch, ready to do 2 hours of PT, 2 hours of OT and 2 hours of speech. She's been clear that she has no intention of participating in speech, but I'm pretty sure that's not going to fly. Her caregiver starts tomorrow and will spend every day with her. She's already told me that she's going to miss the ruckus of the hospital. There was always someone to talk to there, so visitor's welcome. Nap time is usually 1ish-3ish. Sense of humor required.

I leave in a few hours to go back to New York. It's definitely going to be hard, it will be the first time in 7 months that both my mom and dad will see me off which will make it easier.

It's Been 175 Days

July 15th was 175 days ago. I'm sitting exactly where I was sitting that day. That day I had missed a call from my mom and tried to call her back. She didn't answer. So I texted "just called you back" to prove her wrong that although I may never answer my phone, I DO call her back. Didn't hear back. Not surprised. She probably answered her own question or called DM to ask him the technology question. But that's when my dad called. And when dad calls in the middle of the day, it can't be good.

"Hi, what's going on?"
"Your mother..." and then tears.

Then just panic. I remember the car home. I remember sitting in my living room talking outloud to my grandmother and Aunt Virgie. I remember pleading with them to tell my mom to turn the hell around and go back to earth. (Thanks by the way ladies.) I remember being at the airport. I remember crying across from Auntie Anne's. I remember people staring at me. I remember not caring. I remember all the voices on the other end of the phone. Every. Single. One. I remember the announcement that my flight might not leave. I remember crying to the man at the desk. "I have to get to Chicago, my mom is in the ICU. I can't miss her." I remember apologizing for sounding angry with him. I remember the stars in the sky on the way to the ICU. I remember hoping I'd make it to say goodbye. I remember walking into her room. I remember her bruises, her swelling, her bandages, her machines. I remember her breathing.

Fast forward 175 days. In the last week she has stood up on her own...TWICE. In the last week she has walked the hallway four times with just a cane and her therapist's oversight. And in this last week she moved her left leg on her own. So all of those memories which could have been painful. They're worth it.