day as I checked on my parents and tried to find doctors. Wherever I was, I should have been somewhere else. I needed some magic, a clone or even a sibling to share the load.
The human heart feels things that eyes cannot see, and knows what the mind cannot understand.
− Robert Valett
…
Reflection
Making Decisions
Some people seem to make decisions with ease and confidence. It may even appear that they don’t have to invest much thought in the process before deciding. Others agonize over the tiniest detail and procrastinate as they torture themselves with possible outcomes.
Do you see yourself as one of these decision makers or are you somewhere in the middle? During my own caregiving journey, I tended to be the agonizer—trying to figure out all the ramifications of a decision before actually making it. As time passed and decisions stacked up, I grew to be more comfortable with the process and outcomes.
When you assume the role of caregiver, you will encounter numerous decisions you must make. Some decisions carry little consequence while others may be life altering. How will you ever make the right decision? If you have the luxury of time, gather information and make the best choice that you can with the information that you have. If time is short you may have to make a decision and hope for the best.
Decision making is rarely easy, but it comes with the caregiving territory. Humans are not omniscient, so none of us can know all the possible outcomes resulting from our decisions. Someone once told me, "A decision made at a given time is the right one for that moment." Read those words again and if you have difficulty remembering them, write them on sticky notes and plaster them around yourself.
Go ahead and make the decision. Rest in knowing that it’s the right one for now.
…
Chapter 9
The File Cabinet
I left the hospital briefly, because I realized that I needed to locate the paperwork my parents created the previous summer. Entering my parents' home, I was greeted by their two lonely cats who nearly tripped me as they wound through my legs. I walked into my dad's office and for the first time in my life, approached his off-limits file cabinet. It was Dad's private space where no one, not even Mom, would venture. Thumbing through files, I thought about the way my dad overpowered me with his decision that I, alone, was to have legal responsibility for them, regardless of my hesitance. When Dad made a decision of such importance, his unspoken rule of compliance became effective and I was clearly not allowed to refuse. As a sigh of surrender left my body, I kept looking.
Continuing my hunt for the papers, I wondered why the file cabinet was off limits. Dad never verbally said so. It just was. Many months later, when I had time, I discovered that Dad’s file cabinet housed valuable parts of his life, along with reams of unnecessary papers kept for reasons known only to him. I found countless written prayers and copies of sermons from church services, receipts for every car he purchased and carbon copies of dozens of letters he had written, randomly mixed among files containing legal and vital papers.
Gratitude overwhelmed me when I discovered several carefully constructed folders containing documents with Mom and Dad’s wishes along with the power of attorney that proved I had authority to be their advocate and make decisions on their behalf. Tucked in beside the paperwork I was relieved to find the checkbook to which we had added my imprinted name and signature. I stuck the checkbook in the folder of paperwork and wondered what else I might need.
I glanced in the bedroom and noticed Dad's wallet on the dresser. Something beckoned me to open it and there I found Mom and Dad's insurance and Medicare cards. Beside his dollar bills I noticed the car wash coupons that I had given him for his ninetieth birthday, just days before he entered the hospital. Sifting through random notes in Dad’s wallet, I wondered if we had celebrated his last birthday.
Tears suddenly welled up. But this was not the time to cry or sit with my head in my hands, even though the little girl inside me begged to do so. She had to wait as details at the hospital demanded my attention.
…
Reflection
Papers
Papers are a necessity, but they can take over your life. Papers can be neatly filed or just stacked up until they spill into chaos. Depending on the writer, papers may carry condemnation or permission.
Certain papers are essential for a caregiver. Financial and health care powers of attorney fall into this category. Without them, your ability to advocate on behalf of someone is quite limited. Also, be sure that you know where those papers are located, who created them and how much power they give you. You might consider seeking a second opinion regarding the strength of the paperwork. You can never have too much information regarding protection of your family member or yourself. The original papers need to be kept in a safe place and copies carried with you in your snazzy organizer.
If your family member has a trust or will (or both), you need to know the location of the original documents and have copies in your organizer. Dealing with government agencies, insurance companies and financial advisers often requires that you have copies of certain pages.
In addition to keeping track of legal papers, lots of other paperwork will arrive in the mail. If you can stay organized, you may feel less pressure as time goes by. And if you can't deal with the onslaught of papers, put them somewhere so you can eventually deal with them.
Sometimes, the paperwork has to wait.
I have so much paperwork, I’m afraid my paperwork has paperwork.
− Gabrielle Zerin
…
Chapter 10
Second Floor
My parents’ stay in the hospital stretched into the fourth day. By Tuesday, the nurses and doctors decided that Dad had stabilized enough to be moved out of the Medical Intensive Care Unit. The staff located a room where Mom and Dad could be together in adjoining beds. Once Mom could see my dad and hold his hand, she relaxed. Her disorientation (commonly called Sundowners Syndrome) continued at night but daylight usually brought her back to reality.
I learned to travel with all legal paperwork and a notebook in an aqua colored plastic envelope, my constant companion. It housed the expanding accumulation of papers and notes from conversations with the social worker, doctors and the care-coordinator nurse, the most valuable resource of all. That special nurse kept tabs on everything happening in the second floor room where my parents rested. Rarely had she seen an elderly couple in the hospital as patients at the same time and her genuine concern was reassuring. As my parents’ uncertain condition confused me, the care-coordinator explained terminology and calmed my growing fear.
By Wednesday, Exhausted Teresa and Weak Wanda (my sister who played dumb and incapable in order to escape any family responsibility) arrived. The shock of seeing our parents forced them from their imaginary worlds where everything would be okay and Mom and Dad would live happily ever after. I had been coping with so many extraordinary events that I never
