We Are Each Other’s Wholeness
The art of kintsugi; the whole of a life.
Whole: 1 : a complete amount or sum : a number, aggregate, or totality lacking no part, member, or element. 2 : something constituting a complex unity : a coherent system or organization of parts fitting or working together as one, in whole.
(Merriam-Webster, 2022)
Examining Room ~ Carol Milligan As I enter into this new space May I see and be seen. May I touch and be touched. May I speak and be spoken to. May I feel and be felt. May I experience and be experienced. That we may both become whole.
Dad has had a hard week.
Every time I think we take a step toward wellness, in mind and body, there is something that reminds us both that he is 84 years old, has Parkinson’s, Lewy dementia, and is very, very tired.
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A couple weeks ago, I mentioned we had follow-up appointments with his doctor in Yakima following the implementation of the new medicine (to counter edema—one of the symptoms of his congestive heart failure), the blood labs, and the results of the echo-cardiogram. We drive over to Yakima for these appointments—because we have to leave early, we take a more scenic route to avoid morning rush hour traffic on I-405. We drive through the farm valleys of Duvall and Carnation, up the foothills of the Cascades, adjacent to Snoqualmie Falls in Fall City, and through North Bend. Then on to I-90 to complete the rest of our 3 hour drive. I like this drive. It’s a very pretty drive. Dad and I can talk about random things as he and I, for 6 hours (to and from), are less than two feet apart in the car. He doesn’t take naps in the car—so I tell him to wake ME up when we get to the pass. He always chuckles. He thinks I’m joking. 😜
But most of the time, we simply enjoy the silence of each other. Even as SiriusXM plays classic country (or 80’s on 8, or The Bridge, or No Shoes Radio, or The Pulse…or…whatev) to counter the road noise.
The appointment with Dr. Lascar went very well. In just two weeks, Dad had lost 12 pounds—all from fluid retention (those extra toilet trips weren’t for nuttin!). The fluid in his lungs had cleared up; the edema swelling drastically reduced; his stamina to walk in our yard had increased without labored breathing; his blood oxygen saturation levels in the upper 90’s, right where they should be; his pulse, mid 70’s; his blood pressure was perfect as were his blood labs. “From the neck down”, for the most part, Dad is one very healthy man. Those numbers could have been my own had I taken those same tests. Even the echo-cardiogram, though confirming a mild form of congestive heart failure, was relatively positive and indicative of a very typical, but still strong, 84 year old heart. Physiologically, Dad’s body is of a man a decade or two younger than 84. But right now, in our present moment, THAT isn’t what matters.
It’s all about that “from the neck UP” part.
Because when the doctor had stepped out, after saying how proud he was of Dad’s continued health, I asked Dad “That’s good news, right Dad? You’re getting younger! You need to pay me more! Isn’t that great what the doctor said?”
Deep down I think I knew what his response was going to be, but the way he said it, and meant it, reminded me of where we still are right now on his journey home:
Dad: [shaking his head in disbelief and a whispered]: “Yes and no.”
And he was almost in tears.
Yep, I knew that was going to be his answer. Because I know that’s not how Dad feels.
Dang.
I think more than anything, Dad wanted confirmation of his feelings from the labs and tests and doctors. He really cannot believe the hard data. Every time we take his pulse and oxygen levels here, he shakes his head and says: “I can’t believe it.” I know he wants “the numbers” to confirm how he feels inside; he’s looking for them to serve as confirmational signposts that he is on the right dying highway and that the Exit off is right around the corner.
Turns out the Exit off this inter-state is further down the road than he was hoping.
Here’s a side note that has some relevancy to Dad:
Did you know that the medical professionals, upon a person’s death, have to attribute that death to some “thing” (e.g. disease, trauma, accident, malady, etc). They have to in order to complete the death certification process. But here’s the kicker—no one dies of old age!
Old age, in the eyes of the medical profession, is not an official cause of death!
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“Today doctors and coroners are pressed to specify a cause of death, so the terms “old age” and “natural causes” are rarely used. They are expected to list both the immediate and underlying cause of death. For instance, a person who had a heart attack and died may have their immediate cause of death listed as “cardiac arrest” and their underlying cause of death as “heart disease.” In the past, an elderly person who died in such a manner may have had their death classified as a “natural cause” or “old age,” but this is increasingly less common.
“However, professionals don’t always have an easy time identifying an underlying cause of death when the deceased has multiple underlying ailments simultaneously. As a Washington Post article states, “You know the cartoon where a character is driving an old car that suddenly falls apart, every bolt sprung, with the last hubcap rattling in a circle until it comes to rest? Some people die like that, too. The trouble is there’s not a good name for it.”
Eldering 101:
Dad’s disconnect lies in the difference between thoughts, feelings, and reality. I know he is tired—this is the dominant energy coming from his body. Living is hard work, period. Living when you are 84 years old, is very hard work.
Reality is what it is—we are doing what we can to “manage” that reality when necessary. That’s what the medicines and doctor visits are about. Same with diet and exercise and all the daily support.
Feelings are hard to change—I cannot tell Dad how to feel. Wouldn’t want to. He feels the way he feels and I simply do not want to diminish or down-play those feelings. He gets to have them so I affirm them; they are his reality. But…feelings come from thoughts.
So a large component of our daily interactions now center on his thinking. This is where I feel I have some efficacy. But, lately, I’ve been thinking myself it might be too late to bring about the change in his thought patterns and habits I initially envisioned—I knew we weren’t going to transform an Eeyore into a Tigger. But I was hoping for a little more Pooh (not literally!!!, “literaturely”—see what I did there?). He may no longer have the sustained brain capacity to help change his mind.
So Dad thinks he’s irreparably broken and that that is a horrible thing. Which is why he cannot understand the health data. He thinks the data should reflect how he feels inside so that the doctor can tell him: “Wally, it looks like this is the end now. You can go ahead and die. You have my permission.” Instead, the doctor set the next checkup six months out. “We just don’t need to see you until then. You are doing so well.” Our next scheduled doctor visit and blood lab work is in March of 2023.
Therein lies the rub—without his own Eldering, Dad is attempting to navigate his path home, but that path, to Dad, is uncharted. And therein lies the confusion. Dad isn’t catching on that his powerful thoughts of diminishment, of illness, of fragility…of brokenness, dictate how he is feeling about his living.
Dad is tired of living. Yes, life is very different from what it once was, but his thinking is making it a harder living then it need be. THIS, I think, is his Eldering lesson for us right now:
“Thinking makes it so.”
Back now to Carole Milligan’s poignant poem at the top.
Whereas Dad lived a life of wholeness through his independence, especially when mom was alive, he doesn’t realize it was a ‘facade’ way of living the entire time. We are never independent, never separate from anything—our wholeness always encompasses everything, just as the Merrium-Webster definition tells us. We are 100% interconnected with the whole of life which excludes absolutely nothing. We are a “complex unity,” an “organization of parts fitting and working together.” And THAT’s Dad’s wholeness right now—more then he’s ever thought he experienced in the past. His wholeness includes Kristin and Sammy; and Trevor and Kendra; and Clary and Gloria; and Pat; and Connor, Cassidy, Chris and Yasmeen; and Kym, and Dr. Lascar (and his nurses), and all the grandkids, and family, and you as readers…AND the Parkinson’s, and dementia, and congestive heart failure, and night terrors, and mom’s death; and lattes, and muffins, and rusty tow hitch balls, and even autographed Mariner baseballs with a splash of Blue Angels mixed in. And me.
When I enter Dad’s space, I’m very cognizant that I play a part in his wholeness. That entire poem is the only prayer right now in our lives. The poem’s subject, the “I,” is me. AND it is Dad. But the poem’s deepest poignancy lies in the fact that that “I” the poet speaks of…is each of us. Every time we enter “this new space.”
Especially when we enter it together.
Dad had a hard week this past week. We talked again about how HE is praying that “the good Lord takes me.” It was a tearful and hard thing to talk about—in fact, so tearful that he attempted to mime the words to me (hands in prayer, thumb out as if asking God for a hitchhike, pointing to heaven). To bring about wholeness in that moment, all I could really offer was my silence, my presence, my affirmation, my touch, and my love. I asked him again if he was scared. I asked him if he was worried about anything. I reminded him that, when that time does come, he won’t be alone, he’ll be safe, he will be with family, he will be here. And that although his body isn’t quite there yet, when the time does comes to let go, he can let go knowing we will be okay; that he won’t be forgotten. And in that “new space,” there will only be Love…
…Illuminating his Wholeness.
And in that Wholeness—a way of being that includes all the glorious brokenness, illness, exhaustion, and imperfection—a perfection personified in the life and Elder that is my Dad.
An original, now re-imagined as an Eldering from Dad:
kintsukuroi oh, the added pain we cause ourselves when we tend to want to mend our brokenness— the scars and pain, and heartache, and suffering. or worse, try to hide them all from all so that we can imagine they never existed in the first place. so futile. those who care enough can see our brokenness even when we try to hide it from ourselves. and it happens to all of us, every one— the pain and the hiding. because it goes by a very special name: life. better to allow the brokenness to exist; better yet, to celebrate it, and the scars. to tell the whole world: “this happened to me! all this is me now. see, it is here where my pain lies, and here. you can see where i am broken because i have painted it the golden hue of healing light so that you can share my burden, and see that i am like you: hurting, and broken, and yet whole. just not in one piece. and extraordinary. it is my gift to you, this chance to share your compassion with me.” if you allow this to happen, or have the vulnerable courage, it will become your greatest work of art. and our greatest source of inspiration and admiration. this beautiful broken life of yours.
T plus 82 days… and counting. Mending all the broken places with gold; showcasing an extraordinary life. Creating wholeness.
“With hands in prayer, thumb out as if asking God for a hitchhike, pointing to heaven.” Seems to me that Wally’s way of thinking is very clear.