Illness
has a way of stripping away all the excess fat from your mind. Even
if you find yourself trapped there- inside your mind, that is- and
have difficulty relaying that information.
I've
found this to be true with Dad. Since he's no longer being drugged to
"keep him from being agitated", he's much more
communicative. My sisters and I have been able to discern that he is
cognizant most of the time. He's aware of what's happened to him.
Sometimes he's able to relay information very clearly. Mere moments
later, he's talking about gunpowder and making bullets and such. He's
also full of little factoids- as he always has been- and often they
are correct. Sometimes they get jumbled in that area of his mind that
makes communication difficult, and at times impossible.
We
talked a lot yesterday afternoon and night. A lot. Most of the time
we spoke pretty clearly, but as often as not, we spoke in metaphors.
See, I get that. A couple of years ago, I had a similar brain
dysfunction due to a combination of circumstances which have yet to
be explained to me. I was trapped inside my mind. I knew what I
wanted to say, but the words were beyond me. I had to try to relay
information in metaphors. That awful period in my life prepared me
for this. As hard as it has been seeing him in the hospital and rehab
and a rehab/nursing home, for the first time in our lives we are able
to communicate with each other. The language of metaphors has turned
out to be the language we needed all along to communicate.
We
spoke of illness in terms of battle. Of all the men in the valley
getting killed, trapped there. I asked him what the name of the
valley was. He said that was the thing- the valley had no name, and
not a man there knew what he was fighting for or where. Then he told
me I had a campaign to prepare for, and that I was well prepared. I
was a "valiant soldier", and I would win. None of that was
gibberish to me. He was referring to my MS, and various other
physical problems. He was telling me to stay strong, and that I had
been strong. And that he was proud of me. It was a long talk, but a
good one. He was very very pleased that I understood him. He rubbed
his hand up and down my arm, stroking it in much the same way I have
been doing to sooth him when he was agitated. When his mind hit on
the right words, he told me what a good talk we had had. I had teared
up during much of the talk- especially when he called me a valiant
soldier.
All
this time I never felt as if I had his respect. He's never been able
to deal with someone else's illnesses. It makes him extremely
uncomfortable. But the problems I've had with Multiple Sclerosis
prepared me to understand the ones he's had with diabetes and his
heart condition. I've dealt with near blindness, being unable to
walk, being unable to communicate. I understand how difficult it is
to have to ask for a ride from others over and over. To have the
people who so generously offered to haul you around gradually fade
into the woodwork. To have your independence ripped from you. To
have your psyche at once stripped bare and yet buried beneath medicine
and tests and the fears of family and friends who think you're not
really there- that you somehow don't understand what is going on. You
get talked about in the third person when you are sitting right
there.
We
talked about less heavy things too. About how the well water at our
home tasted so good in the summer when it bubbled up out of the hose.
It was probably unsanitary as heck, but who cared? It was ice cold
and good. Natural, with no chlorine smell.
We
talked about many things. Grave things. Silly things. Things that
have too long gone unsaid. He said he didn't want this to ruin our
lives. That he knew we loved him and we didn't have to be there all
the time. In the heart of him he truly wants us there, and sort of
loves the attention even under these awful circumstances, but he
wants us to have lives too. That he said very clearly.
I
kinda love this language of metaphors. It drops away senseless
verbiage and gets down to the root of the idea. This could be the last
such talk we ever have, or the first in a long line of talks- in his
condition we simply don't know.
For
now though, we have our special way of communicating , and that sorta
works for me.
Love
you daddy. Keep fighting in that unknown valley. You can win.
