My introduction to
what it means to be a Caregiver started by watching my Dad take on more responsibility
for my grandparents. My Grandpa had a stroke and my Grandma’s health was
deteriorating. He took over “the pills and bills”. Then my Grandma was
diagnosed with lung cancer and died. Hardly any time elapsed between the
doctors giving us the dreaded diagnosis, to the next memory of being in the
limo on the way to the funeral. Everyone
kept saying it was a blessing that it happened so fast. I did not know what they were talking about. My
father assumed care of my grandfather.
Then the unthinkable happened.
On August 9, 2007,
I arrived at my Dad’s home to see Grandpa in his wheelchair, at the dinner
table, and my Dad on the floor turning purple.
A small vial of nitroglycerin was on the table in front of him. I remember that distinctly. My Dad’s girlfriend and her daughter arrived
on the scene moments before I did and began CPR and called 9-1-1. I begged God for more time for my Dad. I begged my Dad to hang on. I begged the paramedics to keep going, trying
compressions, paddles, –anything. I was
so desperate. My Dad died that day and
his death was a horrible shock. Calling to tell people the sad news was
surreal. My father died and invariably they’d ask, “You mean your
grandfather?” No. When I look back,
things are fuzzy and grey. I remember it
was important to me for Grandpa to stay in familiar surroundings, to feel
comfortable, and to let him know he was wanted.
Moving Grandpa to a new home would be too unsettling. That was as far as I got in the deliberation
process when I decided I would take care of Grandpa.
The day my Dad
died, I assumed responsibility for caring for my then 88-year old Grandpa,
Philip (I call him “Gramps”). I did not
know the commitment I was making or for how long I would be in this new role,
but I do know it was my decision. A
Caregiver was born.
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