The caretaker’s notes, translated…
The notebook was the one my older brother kept, of caretaking of my father as he’d fractured his hips, it’s a memo, and, it’d provided us with the connectedness of us, children; the art journal was made by me, of the days of caretaking of the nurse’s aide over dad, along with something to help me pass the time.
I’d thought optimistically, that my father who’d had a colorful life hiking all the top one-hundred mountains in Taiwan, raised dogs and gone fishing, my father who’s lived a full and colorful life, will pass through this bump in the roads, and recover swiftly, and got out of the hospital soon.
But I’d forgotten, that in the past, when there were, near-death and life-threatening moments my father had, my mother and younger sister were the ones right beside my father, showing him the emotional supports and told to me afterwards. And now, dad is elderly, his physiques no longer that well, his heart expanded, diagnosed with Parkinson’s, had a stroke, became demented, had a hip fracture, and, he’d become, a resident in the hospital, instead of, at home.
Sitting next to dad, I’d acted energetic, as I’d recalled the moments with him, drew out the plants, and quizzed dad.
When he was lucid, he’d spoken of the moments of the past, and, criticized my art, how I’d colored the pictures too light, how my drawings were way too small, that the colors green and red matched very well.
I’d given him a wipe down with hot water, he’d enjoyed it, squinted his eyes, told me, “I’m too thin now, I look so awful, the body given to me by my mother had, almost gotten returned back to her completely.”
As the dusk syndrome occurred, he’d hollered out, “one, two, three, four, attention, at ease, salute!”, but, he’d never, served in the army.
“Honey, help me! Someone, help me, untie this rope (the restraints), I want to go home!”, in the middle of the nights, my thin dad had, broken off the restraints, pulled off the oxygen tubes, taken off his diaper, the nurse’s said, if you keep on getting so loud, I’ll, send you to the terminal wards, then to the treatment rooms.
Later on, my biological clock couldn’t comply with my dad’s way of life I’d become, sleep deprived, stuffed up in my head, and, I was so shocked at seeing how after my dad’s surgeries, he couldn’t cough out the phlegm on his own, how painful he’d looked, having the phlegm drawn from his body with a tube.
I’d held my father who was struggling and screaming, recalled the surgeon’s advice, “The surgery was a success, but, hospital is not a good place to get better for someone with dementia, retuning to a place of familiarity, it may be, better, but, you’d needed to get the oxygen tanks, the machines to draw out the phlegm, and the caretaker needs to learn to use the machines to draw out the phlegm.”
I’d recalled, that very last morning, my pop’s eyes were so bright, as he’d held my hands and told me, “Honey, it’d not been easy for you, we should, part ways now.”
I’d replied to him with annoyance, “We’re in the hospital here, don’t say something so unlucky!”, and, shortly afterwards, all the machines showed straight lines.
Dad already went off with the Goddess of Mercy now, and, he’d left this note book, for me to miss him with.
So, this, is still someone’s experience of taking care of someone who was ill with dementia in his final days, and, this just shows, how important it is, for the elderly to be able to die in one’s own home, because that’s the place of familiarity, of comfort, and, if you’re able to die at home, you wouldn’t be faced with so much stressors and pains toward the very end.
Life, the Obstacle Course 