Are we the selfish ones (two)

I take you to see Dad every day. Sometimes twice a day. Even when we move him to the skilled nursing facility—you don’t know what that is…how about I call it a rehab center—you want to go there twice a day. It eats up hours of the day, my day. I have nothing to do while we’re there, and technically neither do you, and yet you seem to get something out of it that I don’t.

If I had to bet (and I mean that figuratively, because you’re allergic to anything I do that’s remotely related to gambling), I’d bet that you miss Dad. You hate it when he yells at you, doesn’t value you—let alone say ‘thank you,’ is mean to the person who holds the door open for him just a little bit too long.

But the moment he’s gone, you’re his knight in shining armor, a set of armor that always looks like it’s about to collapse and clang as the pieces fall to the floor.

“I really pray to God that He takes John home soon,” I hear you say, sometimes to me, sometimes to people over the phone.

But I don’t think you’re really ready for that. You certainly don’t seem ready, even at home.

One of the nights while Dad’s gone (I really can’t tell any of the nights apart anymore), I wake up to a loud ‘thud.’ It turns out you’ve fallen and somehow broken the toilet bowl so that it floods everywhere.

I want to be mad. I am mad, because you weren’t careful, because it’s the middle of the night. Just, because.

But all that leaks out of me is: “Whatever. I don’t really care. Please get out of the way.”

“What…what do you mean?” you ask.

Yes, that’s what you ask. Because of your own, how is it called, mild cognitive impairment, or maybe it’s that sleeping pill you probably took too much of, or maybe it’s something else, because of any of those things, you ask me this ridiculous question. What, what do you mean.

I asked you to please, get out of the way. What else could I possibly mean?

Instead, I just issue a simpler command. “Move.”

This, you seem to understand.

I shut off the water valve to the toilet and stem the flooding.

I want to ask you how you could possibly break the toilet. I don’t. I don’t think you actually know. Plus, you don’t seem hurt, so, whatever.

I wonder if I need to buy another toilet for you. And install it. I know how to do it in theory, I’ve seen videos of it online because I was trying to fix something else for you last year. I could expand my plumbing skills. Maybe it’d be fun.

And then I decide you know what, no. You figure out it out. You deal with it.

“I will. I will call somebody,” you say.

“Good.”

For some reason, I notice the sliding glass doors that cover the shower’s entrance. I suddenly imagine you, or Dad if he comes home, falling into them. They’d shatter into a million pieces while one of you falls, probably on top of the bed of spiky shards. If you survived that, well, that’s an image I don’t want to entertain any longer.

“Good night,” I declare and go back to my bed. I try to fall asleep. I don’t. Not for…I don’t know how long. Just like how it is many of these nights.

***

As you asked, I call the nursing home and make an appointment.

Technically, it’s an assisted-living center. But, it’s easier to call it a nursing home.

Roger and I both take you, together. We hope that with the two of us there, you’ll have a better impression of the place.

We’ve actually already been here before, but you seem to only have a faint memory of it. I don’t know if it’s because your memory is fading, or if it’s because you wanted to forget this place.

The people are nice. The lady who shows us around, she’s friendly, and very kind. Maybe that’s her job as a sales associate. Maybe she really is that way.

She shows us one of the available rooms. It’s completely empty, and so I imagine where all your furniture could go, where Dad’s couch would be and if he could sit there and comfortably watch TV all day (the answer is ‘yes’). This fills me with some anxiety, thinking of all the logistics of moving you here, but this is an understood problem, and I know I can figure out all the different combinations of how to solve it.

I notice your breathing quickens. I can hear it. Like you’re out of breath. Like you’re nervous, have thoughts swirling in your mind and you have something you want to say.

Roger hears it too. I think we both sense it.

“Jai,” you say in Chinese, to both of us. “I think I changed my mind.”

We share a glance. We both knew this was coming.

“Let me try to take care of Dad.”

Maybe you see our disappointed looks, or maybe you need to convince yourself, and so you just start rolling off supporting phrases as fast as you can.

“He was walking better at the rehab center. He will be better when he goes home. He’ll be fine. I can take care of him. Please? Let me try to take care of him. Okay?”

I don’t know why you say ‘please.’ You don’t need our permission.

After all, we both know that you’ve already made up your mind.

Still, for fun, I try to test you.

“You’re gonna make his coffee for him?” I ask.

“Yes, I can do it.”

“What happens if he falls?”

“He won’t fall. I will make sure he doesn’t fall.”

I cross my arms. “How are you going to take him to see the doctor? What about getting groceries? What happens when he starts wetting the bed or can’t brush his teeth or eat by himself or—”

I’m about to go on and on and on and on.

But Roger pulls me away.

“I don’t think you can reason with her,” he says quietly. “Honestly, I think the sooner you move out, the better. She probably needs to experience taking care of Dad herself, without you there.”

I know he’s right. This was my belief too, before Dad even went to the hospital. And so I agree with him.

You’ve already made up your mind. It’s time that we made ours.

***

When we finally do bring Dad home (you practically demanded that the rehab center let him go), you spring into action.

You seat Dad down on the couch (you know, the new one that I bought him), and ask him if he wants coffee. He nods.

You rush straight into the kitchen. It’s entirely quiet, except for the sounds you make awkwardly moving objects around and shuffling your feet. It’s kind of like a movie, you, in your light blue jeans and red sweater, making coffee for your seemingly inanimate husband.

You look at some instructions written on a large post-it before each step. Filling the water. Adding the coffee filter. How many spoons of coffee?

You have to check. There’s a post-it on top of the coffee jar.

While the coffee brews, you ask Dad how many teaspoons of creamer he wants.

He doesn’t understand you.

You bring over the Costco-sized jar of creamer for him to see. You ask again.

He uses his fingers. He wants two spoons. He doesn’t want to speak. Maybe he’s lazy. Maybe his throat muscles don’t work much anymore.

I wonder about this as I watch you perform each action. Apparently, one of the side effects of Alzheimer’s is a loss of control over some muscles, including the ones we use to swallow. Maybe those are the same ones we use to speak.

This is why you have to add thickener to the coffee. All liquids should be like nectar. Makes it easier to swallow, and not go down to his lungs. No wonder it’s so easy for the elderly to catch pneumonia, just like what Dad just recovered from.

I steal a glance at the coffee once it’s been brewed and you’ve thickened it. It’s gross; the texture is all wrong. But I guess this is the life. It seems like a poor way to live.

But life is always precious, a voice in my head reminds me.

I never said it wasn’t.

“Will you be home tomorrow night?” you suddenly ask me, interrupting this sweet and sultry movie I’ve been watching in front of my eyes.

“Why?” I ask.

“I need to know so I can go to church.”

“Do you have a ride?”

“Yes.”

“So then why does it matter if I’ll be home?” I try ask this gently, though I doubt I’m very good at covering my annoyance. Who knew being gentle took so much work.

“I don’t want your daddy to be home all by himself.”

I see. “No, I won’t be home.” It’s true. I already made plans.

“Then I guess I can’t go.”

I wince, and a pain stabs me in the chest.

What a beautiful scene. The story of an aging woman, who wants to do right by her even more aging husband. For rich and for poor, in sickness and in health.

What a nice saying.

It hurts. You won’t go to church because it means Dad will have to be alone, and he can’t be alone anymore.

It hurts me because it is at once beautiful, and beautifully depressing.

Because if this is a movie, this is just one scene, one scene in a film that’s preceded by the fact that, yes, you’ve taken care of him your whole life, but at a cost I’m not sure I can comprehend. You like to be needed. You need to be needed.

When you worked a professional job (and you were the family breadwinner), you used all your spare time at the church, at multiple churches. And when you couldn’t serve at one church, you simply moved on to the next one. I know this, because that’s why I grew up in multiple types of churches—you just brought me along with you.

When you retired you bought a minivan, just so you could drive as many people around as possible. Everyone called you a saint.

And when you couldn’t drive anymore, well, your husband became your latest crutch. In a way, him needing you has always been your crutch, the piece that seems to hold you all together. And he has always needed you, from the very beginning.

And when the person that needs you most disappears, well, you cease to be able to function. I’m not sure if that’s good. I’m not sure if that’s healthy.

I’m not sure, if that’s even love.

It’s funny, when I press you about not going to church, you say, “It’s okay. I can still worship God. He knows even if I don’t go.”

You never let me say anything like that. Even when I had comparable reasons to not go to church, and yet here you are. Willing to not go to church, to not go to your Bible studies, to lose most of your social life.

All because Dad probably can’t be alone anymore.

This is your choice.

“Awwww that’s so sweet…” a friend says when I relay the story to him. I hesitate and am about to push back, but he won’t have it. “No, Dan, it really is, that she’s committed to being with him even when he’s like that.”

I let him win. I have no energy to argue with him, and I don’t want to explain myself. I can understand his point of view.

But like always, my thoughts don’t go silently. They are ghosts that haunt me, and like the ghosts they are, I fear them.

I fear them, because I fear that maybe, maybe my friend is right.

Maybe your choice is the sweet, beautiful, loving choice, with no negatives or disadvantages the way I think of it.

And what does that say about me?

On the train home, I try to defend myself. Yes, you made your choice. Whether it was out of love, depression, something more sinister, or some weird combination of all the above, you made your choice.

The thing is, you’ll never know what I’ve done to support you in this choice. I already bought that new couch. I taught you how to use the coffee maker. I bought a new box spring for your bed so it’s easier—for you and Dad—to get in and out of. I rearranged the furniture in the house so that when Dad doesn’t want to use the walker (thank god that he is willing, for now), there will always be something stable for him to hold on to.

In a few days, Roger and I will remove the glass doors from the shower and replace it with a curtain so that that one nightmare scenario doesn’t happen. In a few days after that, I will install some grab bars in the shower. As the new year rolls around, I will, as I have been, continue to pay your bills, do your taxes, order some groceries and have them delivered, the list goes on and on.

I will fight off any and all the logistics, distractions, and surprises that come your way, all so that you can take care of Dad, the way you want to, to the best of your ability.

I do it begrudgingly. I do it because I am your son. I do it, because, well, I’m not really sure anymore.

Am I the selfish one?

Are you?

Are we both?

Maybe there aren’t any answers out there. Maybe I just don’t like them. Maybe the answers are irrelevant.

Still, I ask the questions, and I hope that that’s worth something, in and of itself.