Ouch. Guilt.

Today I was around the house ... making sure some things that mom had mentioned got done. I decided to even make something to eat cause I thought it'd be nice to have something done.

Well, she cried. Its all still too fresh. She mentioned how nice it was to have someone meet her at home. Which makes me feel guilty cause I can't. And I love this lady a lot ... a lot.

Didn't help that when she got home on the service bus, she introduced me to the bus driver. She said "Oh, I know ... he looks like his father."

I made dinner for the two of us. Some black beans and rice (bacon added for flavor) and some leftover pork. 

Later last night, we did the night prayers she so loves. Even with yawning as much as she did, cause she is exhausted after work, we got through it all.

She loves to give and not think about things. But once in a while something breaks through. Its still fresh. Its been what? Almost 7 months?

And something did.

Her emotions affect her much more than she'd admit. She woke up feeling bad this morning.

Which makes me feel bad for her. So many little things to do around the house. I want to do them and help her. But I don't want to leave her alone.

Guilt is oh so much fun.

Six months ... and baseball.

Its been six months since dad died. I will say that it hasn't been the toughest but, there are times ... like waves ... they come ... the feelings, the lump in the throat, the watery eyes ... when I do miss him.

And I do miss him.

I miss being able to talk baseball with him. With A-Rod doing all his crazy stuff ... Oh, dad and I would have eaten that up.

I miss sharing all the good things that have happened to me ... the trip to Seattle, the leadership at school. I know Dad would be proud. And I need to hear that or feel that once in a while, specially my dad's.

I miss hearing him cough ... although lately when I cough I hear him. I miss hearing his sneezes, he had the LOUDEST sneezes anywhere.

A few weeks ago, I was listening to NPR, as I do every morning to wake me up, and they started talking about the World Series and who would go, what the teams were like ... and I lost track of what else because the lump in my throat got to be a bit tough to just swallow it down and move on.

Is it possible to feel someone who's moved on by you? Well, I did. My dad was next to me. My dad was right there next to me. I felt his presence just next to my shoulder.

I really wished I could have talked with him about it. About the teams, why the Yankees did not do well this year, what the hell is up with A-Rod ... and I know he would have had some amazing words about all of it. Dad had the history down, he knew all the facts and the reasons for things.

I know not many people think of baseball as America's sport. Others think it slow and boring. Others think it needs to taken out to pasture.

Not me. It reminds me of my dad, of a slow and careful pace, of a life full of wisdom and care ... of a man who, in his own way, taught me how to be a man, a mechanic, a team player ... so much.

I miss you dad.

Guilt

I love visiting my family. Hell, if it wasn't for them, I would really have no reason to come to this town ... or even state. To me Oklahoma is just a weird little state above Texas. That sucks. Which prevents Texas from falling into the gulf. Old college joke.

I enjoy seeing my parents. I have no guilt about not spending enough time with them, or calling them more often, or being present for them while here. I really don't.

The guilt comes in from them wanting to make me happy.

And it doesn't.

I just feel guilty.

Let me explain. We go to the Walmart, which seems to be a great place for them, and I see let's say some cheese I like. I mention I like this cheese, that its really good.

"Get it. We'll pay for it."
"No really, its ok, its too much and I'm leaving *soon* (tomorrow, day after, etc)"
"We'll eat it. Its ok"

So we get it.
And we eat some, not all.
There's a chuck left in the fridge.

And I leave.

And I come back.
And the cheese is still there.
The whole chuck that was left after we ate some.
Only now its green.

Guilt sweeps in, smiles and lets me enjoy the moment.

Its Easter.
"Let me buy you some stuff. I want you to look good."
"No, mom, its ok. I brought some clothes."
"No, really, let us. We'll enjoy giving you these"
"Fine, but we go discount"

They bought the boots. At a discount. I made sure.

Now for some shirts and pants oh and a tie ... don't forget the tie. They bought the pants and shirt. I bought the tie and a belt for these new pants. They paid more than I did, take my word for it.

Its my only way to not feel guilty.

I am not bragging.
I am not wanting to do this.
I am not enjoying this.

THEY are on a fixed income.
THEY are always needing money.
THEY are old and have plenty of illnesses.
THEY don't need to be paying for my stuff.

So I feel guilty.

Drive to the liquor store to get some wine for tomorrow.
"And get some beer you like."

Why? because I am here? Because they feel guilty for me that I am alone? (although at times a bit lonely, I honestly do not mind it).

When I come visit, its like the second coming, I am hugged and loved and oh so good you are here every twenty minutes and squeeze my hand while driving and so glad you are here and .... I am just a freaking human being. I am not doing anything outside of what I expect myself to do for them. I am not doing some horrendous sacrifice (although the trip is a bit long, its no biggie ... rest stops and such help).

I feel guilty.

I feel bad.

And then I just let them do it.
It makes them happy.
They smile when they do it.
They enjoy taking care of me.

It seems to hurt them when I don't.

So I pay for a few things and they pay for a few things.

And my guilt secedes.

Some.

Funny how life goes on.

Great grandchildren and dad at the hospital.

Its amazing how the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Funny.

Hysterical even.

Dad's out of the hospital and walking around. He has a couple of therapists that come once or twice a week to check on him. This exercising has made quite an improvement on him. Who knew walking around would help him? Well, everyone did except dad ... and mom.

Dad went home from the hospital a few weeks ago, complete with party favors: two oxygen tanks (for the outside walks), one oxygen machine (for inside the house) and one c-pap for when he sleeps.

Lately his oxygen level has been quite high and normal, which means no oxygen machine, unless he needs the extra, but definitely he must use the c-pap for sleep.

His appetite is great ... things are great ... even baseball is back in dad's life.

Dad is SO alert, in fact, that he wants to do more around the computer, around the house, anywhere. Not that mom will allow this. No, not gonna happen. Mom is in charge and she makes sure it is understood that way.

How dad watched the baseball game.

When it comes to the computer, dad loves sitting and reading ... first email, then Cuba, then church, then whatever comes his way.

"¡Ignacio! ¡Tata! Ven acá" (Come here)
"Yeah, dad?"
"¿Sabías que ...?"
"No, papi, I didn't."
"¿Qué piensas tú de eso?" (What do you think about that?)

Considering that this will probably be the first time I hear about whatever it is he read that made him so interested, I will have little to say about it. But this answer does not satisfy him.

He needs my answer.

So he makes me read whatever he read and the talk about it.

Other times, he wants something done on the computer and he doesn't know how it is done.

But he doesn't really know what it is he wants done. He just knows he read abut something like it or saw something in a letter about it or even looked it over somewhere and wants me to get it done.

I hear Mighty Mouse ... 'Here I come to save the day ...'

And I do. And he gets confused. And I get confused. And he tries again. And I have no idea what he wants. And he can't explain. And he tells me something else. And he repeats himself. And I have no idea any more.

And mom comes in and tells us both to stop, we don't need this, why are you even doing this, its not important, go back to something else.

"Ay, Manolín"

Funny how this works. A few weeks ago, I was worried, and concerned, and whatever else you want to say, about dad being in the hospital. And what would happen. And how or if he would get better.

You know how it goes, when things are not great, well, patience kicks in and we must be nice and patient with the patient.

Then, he gets better.

And he starts to do more things.

And he starts to get back to some of his old ways.

And he gets on my nerves.

Funny how that happens.

Hysterical even.

Have you met fear?

Fear's been coming by and visiting me. Seems that I make a pretty good target. And why not? I mean, my mom and dad may be on their last legs ... so to speak. I already have had an innate fear of death since I was little. And now I have to face it with my parents.

Eventually I have to face it for me. But I'd rather avoid thinking about it.

Anyway.

I came to see mom and dad last week. Dad had to be taken to the hospital. His prostate cancer was wrecking his ADH which was in turn making him retain fluids which made his sodium levels extremely low. He was barely conscious.

By the time I came to see them, he was getting ready to leave the hospital. He seemed much better.

He started on some meds to help him with retaining fluids, etc. Honestly, he seemed much better. He had some sort of appetite, paid attention to people around him, he even talked and sang in his sleep. Granted, that last one was just amusing but it reminded me of the old dad, the one that I grew up with who would whistle or sing (in his croacky voice) some sort of Spanish or Cuban song that seemed appropriate at the time.

Made me smile.

He would walk around the house and from time to time would break out into some silly Cuban song. "Ay, Mama Ine' Ay Mama Ine'. Todo' los negros tomamos café" He sounded terrible, or so I thought, cause he basically had little or no pitch. I'd want him to stop.

I wish I could see that man again.

He even started reading his newspapers online and asking my opinion on events that, to be honest, I had not read up on .... like the education system in Cuba.

He loves to discuss all kinds of topics and political situations anywhere. You better know your politics and have some opinions around my dad.

Made me smile.

But fear ... who does not let an opportunity like this slip by, came along and sat next to me for a few ... "Let's chat"

See, in my experience (limited as it is at times), I see "getting better while sick" as a sign that the worse is coming .... or the end is coming. Lelo, my grandfather, was wide awake on Father's day then slipped back into his coma. About a month later he died.

"Yup. Seems it is happening again. You better get ready."

Yes, I react very well to fear. I can't live in fear but there it is. Staring at me. Taunting me. "Guess what dude? It could happen again." I hate fear. Fear sucks.

I left mom and dad on Saturday. Dad was waking, well, if you call it walking. He was a bit shaky but nothing major. He seemed to be on the road again.

Sunday I get a message from my sister. Dad is doing worse ("See ... I told you this would happen"). He could not get up. He could barely stand ... if anything ... even with his walker.

I basically did some quick laundry, and repacked what I had unpacked.

So now, besides the sodium levels being low, his lungs have not been taking care of his CO2. This made him dizzy and unable to stay awake. Which made mom fear that he would be in a coma from then on.

There's that word again.

Fear.

Dad does have a hard time staying awake. He is on a respirator, of sorts, that basically makes him breathe deeply so his lungs can get rid of the CO2 in his system. His own body was working against him. To poison him. Now, between the respirator and the oxygen, he seems ok.

Then there's the pneumonia. One lung only ... according to mom ... and she can hide facts and information better than most. But its there.

I came into the room and looked at dad. It was a strange juxtaposition of my dad, the machine, mom ... my brain was trying hard to wrap around it. He also did not seem like old dad.

Who is that weak old man? Who is he? Where's my dad?

Mom's had to point out to him that I am in the room. He looked around and, I don't know what he sees but it may not be me, and eventually he looked in my direction. I do talk so he'll look at where the voice is coming from.

When the nurses came in for the physical therapy ... that was not dad. Not my dad. Not my old dad. This dad had a hard time understanding. He had a hard time focusing. He had a hard time just being present.

Where's my dad?

"You'll be there some day. You'll see. And you are alone."

Damned fear.

I'm sitting next to him. The machine shoving oxygen into his lungs. Making him take deep breaths. He has his eyes closed. He shakes and twitches from time to time. The All Star Game is on TV. Baseball will always remind me of Dad. Of taking me to see Los Cangrejeros del Santurce. Of talking baseball for a long time. He is quiet.

Lying in the hospital bed next to me.

His eyes are closed and here,

here ....

I fear ....

nothing.

My father.

Dad has glaucoma. Well, he's had it for a while now. I remember when I was finishing my certification he would ask me about the circle of light around the street light or around the moon. I couldn't see it. Turns out it was happening then.

Because of this he almost went blind. One eye really doesn't do much to help his sight by now. The other, the good eye, well, that one became infected last week. He almost went blind again.

When this first happened I was angry, I was furious. My father, who left everything behind in Cuba, who (even though college educated) could not continue his studies here because his studies didn't count, and ended working warehouses and such so that he could support his family, was going blind. What a fracking rotten joke.

This man has pride, real pride, not the silly thing that passes for pride today ... the "I am better than you" bravado that some men have. This man who never let his pride rise above who he was. This man who has a quiet and confident faith that will turn out as it should, this man was going blind. He deserved a good, relaxing and joy filled retirement damn it!

Things did eventually get better. He got eye sight, mostly on one eye, and after cataract surgery he could se better than most. He was a happy man ... he could read his newspapers in peace, he could read his books and watch his TV. You could feel his joy.

My father is quiet, reserved, full of opinions, and full of questions when it comes to this new technology. My father wants to know what happened in the world every day, he reads newspapers from all over the Latin American world. Ask him about what's going on ... go on, ask him ... he will tell you. He never lords his knowledge over you, and he never makes you feel inferior. He knows who he is, and he knows who you are.

My father had a trust and confidence in me that helped me have a trust and confidence in me few could have. He knew what I could do, he knew what I should do, he allowed me the freedom to choose, to make mistakes, to learn by those mistakes and to get up and go on.

I remember when it first hit me how he does things. I was in college. I was talking with dad about school, growing up and he mentioned Colegio San José, in Río Piedras, Puerto Rico. I went there for ninth grade. It was an all boys private school ran by the Holy Cross Brothers.

It was a unique experience to go there. Oh, I got bullied as usual (was used to it by then) but I also made some friends. Anyhow, one thing I did learn about was sex. I never realized how much porn there could be in a Catholic school. Then again, it WAS an all boys school.

So, back to the conversation about school. My father kept going on about the ceremonies there, the rosary we prayed in the courtyard as a school once ... and me, being my usual college arrogant punk, decide to say "yea, but dad, did you know that I found out about porn there? Do you know how much there was?" He looked at me and said "Yeah, I knew you were ready to face that one." And let it go at that.

Shocked? Yup. Surprised? Yup. A better person from the whole ninth grade experience? Absolutely. My father had confidence in me, that I would rise above it all. Wow. Still amazes me today.

Once, when I was a manipulating little punk (I've always been a punk, by the way), he knew I was trying to get him and mom divided on something I wanted. Candy or some other sort of stupid thing. Anyhow, he looked at me in the eyes and quietly informed me that I could never be more important to him than my mom, that she came first. And I understood. He loves me, Oh does he love me. I also understood, mom is the light of his life and I could never get between them.

I told that to a friend once. She said it was horrible. I said it made me so secure in my place, in my life, in my family. It made me feel reassured, confident. I don't know how or why. I can't explain but it just did.

My father is kind of like Yoda to me sometimes. He has a confident faith that all will happen as it should and we'll deal with it then. In retrospective I can see that he was the Ying to my mom's panicky Yang. When mom became distressed about things going bad, about debts, about whatever, dad was there quietly anchoring the ship so things would be fine. If it hadn't been for him, I think we would have fallen apart some days.

Oh, that last one opens up more memories and things. But this is long enough already.

Funny, this was going to be about mom and dad and their relationship right now. Got me sidetracked on dad.

My father.

The man I could only wish I could be.

Eye troubles

About a week os so ago my father got Endophthalmitis. It is an infection IN the eye. He could have easily lost his eye. The first 24 hours were crucial. Eyedrops and antibiotics every hour, continued for 24 hours. Then more of the same after visiting the doctor for an update. Surgery was always an option.

Saving the eye was the key here. Worry about the vision later. Save the eye.

Its been a week of praying, meds, doctor visits . . . crazy. Props go to my sister who has been taking them everywhere for the last week and making sure all was going well.

So I enter into the picture. According to mom, dad is is better spirits now. He seems to be grateful that I am here.

Dad lately gives me these hugs that I can only interpret as "this may be the last hug" hug. I understand. I do.

I hate it.

I do.

As I've mentioned before, their mortality reflects on my mortality which drives me crazy. Never been a fan of death. Not even when young. The finality of it all would hit me, heart rate would go up, and I'd have to walk around the house in the middle of the night to calm down or get it out of my mind.

Anyway, we went to the doctor today. As we are driving, mom is wondering why I'm not using the GPS in my phone.

"Where's your british girl?"

The accent on my GPS is a female that I can only describe as a Marilyn Monroe type.

"I know where I'm going"

OK, first the news. Dad is doing fine, everything seems to be working out. The infection is coming down. He still "sees" floaties in his eyes ... like submarines, he calls them ... but much better. Now the meds come down to every three hours.

His left eye has compensated to the point that he can actually see better out of that eye. His right eye, is improving.

Smiles all around.

Today's funny comes courtesy of dad, who manages to see very little.

On our way to the next stop, some eye glass place, mom thought we were lost. "Marilyn" was taking us, she knew.

Mom starts the funny: "This doesn't seem right"

Me, "What do you mean?"

Mom, "I don't remember this"

Dad, "Yes, this is right, it looks right"

Picture dad, in the back seat, eyes closed, when he says that.

Its a regular sitcom around here.

Its hard to adjust to coming every so often to take care or visit or hang out or go shopping, to what my sister does ... every day. She's quite the saint for that in my eyes.

This one's for you sis.

Enjoy your time off.

Love ya.