A New Kind of Good Day

One thing that I learned during the time that Dad was sick is that whether a day is a Good Day or a Bad Day depends more on one's perspective than on how the day actually goes.

Dad talked a lot about what he wanted to do after he got out of the hospital and started feeling better; he knew his Bucket List had to be modified but still had Hope that he would get the chance to do some of the things he still really wanted to do, like going to the beach again.

We started thinking that as long as Dad was able to do at least one thing that he needed to do and one thing that he wanted to do each day, that day could be considered to have been a Good Day.

Nine days after Dad was admitted to the hospital and diagnosed with brain cancer, we had the first New Kind of Good Day: we got to take him to rehab, where it seemed like Hope was stored and a promise of Normal awaited. 

It had been a whirlwind of activity since we’d gotten to the hospital.  Dad arrived by ambulance on Oct. 23, had surgery to “debulk” the tumor on October 27, was moved from the Neuro-ICU to a regular hospital room on the Neuro floor on October 29, and was transferred to an inpatient physical rehabilitation facility on November 1. 

When we’d toured the rehab facility before we’d decided that he should go there, we were told that he would receive at least 3 hours daily of PT, OT, and Speech Therapy.  We told the admissions coordinator that we felt he might benefit from a week or so of that type of intensive rehab on an inpatient basis and then we would take him home, after which he could get more therapy on an outpatient basis.  We had High Hopes that a short stay in rehab would give him the boost he needed to be able to walk unaided, get ready for the day safely, and possibly even drive a car.  We wanted as badly as he did for him to be able to get back his independence and even a modified version of his life.

The hospital staff wanted Dad to be transported by ambulance to the rehab facility, which was about 10 miles away.  "I feel confident in my ability to keep him safe," I told the nurse when she told me they were planning to call an ambulance, "and that's what I am going to do."  Maybe that wasn't 100% true, but I'd be damned if I let a decision that I thought was a Big Deal be made by someone who didn't know us and didn't know how determined Dad and the rest of us.  Because I thought that another ambulance ride would further underscore the fact that Dad was sick and how much his life had changed, I insisted that my mom and I take him to rehab on our own, and that we did. 

Dad was so happy to get outside the four walls of the hospital, even if it just meant exiting through the stinky underground parking garage of the hospital and then viewing the world through the windows of the car on the way to entering the front doors of the rehab facility.  He tried to talk us into stopping by a restaurant for lunch in between the hospital and rehab, even offering to "go for fast food" if we didn't think it was a good idea to go to "a sit-down restaurant." 

Looking back, I wish we'd done it ~ I wish we'd said to hell with The Rules; if Dad wants to go to a sit-down restaurant, then we're going!  But we had been told to go straight to rehab, do not pass Go, do not collect $200, and that's what we did. 

We wheeled Dad into his new room at rehab and got him settled in the bed.  He was tired from the transport and from the excitement of the day, so we let him "rest his eyes," as he put it, while Mom and I unpacked and arranged the room. 

Dad in his room at the rehab facility

 We had also been instructed to deliver a copy of Dad's medical records from the hospital to the staff at the rehab facility.  Before I handed them over, I studied the neurosurgeon's notes from during Dad's surgery, even making notes in my notebook of what had been written in the summary.  I didn't have time to process or use for that information at the time but thought I might in the future, and I felt like the more information I could get on Dad's condition, the better armed I would be.

The rehab director came by shortly thereafter and did his assessment on Dad.  He had him do much of the same stuff we'd seen requested of Dad at the hospital: "Touch your finger to your nose," "Follow my light," "Hold your arm up and don't let me push it down," and, of course, then came The Questions.

That time, after so much rehearsal in the hospital and after having heard us talk about going to rehab so much, Dad did well in proving that he was oriented to person, place, time, and reason for admission ("I guess I have a brain tumor," he told the doctor.).

And then came the call for some more challenging cognitive tasks:  "Count backwards from 100 by 7's," "Listen to these three words and after we finish talking in ten minutes I'm going to get you to say those words back to me," and "Name the item that I am using words to describe."

These were tricky.  Dad tried his best; he got part of each of those tests correct and then searched my face for help on the rest.  That was the worst part - when he realized that he didn't know the rest of the answers on something he knew he should have known.

"That's why we're here, Dad," I told him.  "I can help you with getting your balance, strength, and coordination back, but we need to make sure your memory is better and that you are safe."  He trusted us to make the call of what he should do next to get better, and so he agreed to stay.

After all of that activity, Dad said that he was ready for bed before 10:00 that night.  I had to be back at work the next day and then planned to come back the day after that to go with Dad and Mom to the oncologist's office to find out The Plan,  and so I left Mom to watch over him in their new quarters.  As I turned to walk out of the room, Dad looked at me and said, "Thanks, Steph!  It's been a Good Day."

New Orleans On The Mind

My dad loved New Orleans.  He thoroughly enjoyed the food, appreciated the people, delighted in the music, and, of course, he LOVED the Street Beer!

 

Dad, making a presentation to some of his clients at a meeting

When people asked Dad what he did for a living, he said that he was “in the grain business."  During his career, he managed several grain elevators, supervised the opening of a rice processing plant, and, in 1993, joined an agricultural marketing consulting firm as a principal commodities broker.

Not long after he graduated from college and got his first job in the field, he joined the Mid-South Grain Association, a trade organization for people in the ag-marketing business.

During the course of his career in the grain business, the Mid-South Grain Association was a constant for Dad.  He served as president of the organization for several years and was secretary-treasurer for the past 18 years. He was always so appreciative of the numerous friendships he developed through the group and enjoyed organizing their semi-annual conventions, one of which was always held in February in New Orleans.

My sisters and I and our spouses tagged along several times when my parents went to the convention in New Orleans, always a fun time for all of us and a good opportunity for us to see Dad “in action” with so many people he had known professionally and personally for years and in some cases for decades.

When Dad got sick in late October, he had just begun planning for the convention the following February.  He still had to line up guest speakers, get people registered, and coordinate with the hotel where the meetings were always held, the Royal Sonesta.  He had quite a long To-do list going, and this became one of the things about which he worried while he was sick.

After Dad was admitted to the hospital, while he was in the Neuro-ICU for several days awaiting surgery, he was on several different medicines, including a massive amount of steroids to address the swelling around the tumor in his brain and a type of pain medication that we later learned resulted more in increased anxiety and talkativeness than it did in pain relief for Dad.

My mom, my sisters, and I took shifts, often in pairs, to be with him 24 hours a day, and, as I’ve mentioned, we took careful notes about everything that went on.  One of the things we wrote down was what he said, especially when it related to things about which he was concerned. 

During those long, scary nights in the ICU, he talked endlessly, often about not feeling well, having a bad headache, and being very tired, all of which made sense given what we knew about what was going on with him medically.

Just a few hours before his surgery, he seemed to finally be getting some rest, but he kept talking in his sleep, saying things like “I’m bored,” “I’ve got to know when I can run again,” and “I don’t know why I have to be here.”  He also said some things that weren’t in context, like “I’m going to the oyster bar,” and “I’m going to eat a dozen.”  In between comments, he kept repeating a number that didn’t make sense to us, and, after hearing him say that same number over and over, I decided to use my cell phone to Google it.  It turned out that the number was the telephone number to the Royal Sonesta Hotel in New Orleans.  Apparently, he had New Orleans on The Mind.

Over the course of the next several weeks, we made lots of notes of things that Dad told us to write to complete the Convention-Planning To-Do List, and then we passed it on to someone else in a leadership position with the organization.  Dad still worried about it frequently, but we tried to reassure him each time he brought it up that it was being taken care of. 

After Dad went on ahead on January 5, Mom was asked to continue taking part in the convention and with the organization, if she felt up to it.  She had worked side-by-side with Dad for all those years in planning for and putting on the convention, and she definitely knew the ropes.  Because Dad was so concerned that the convention go smoothly, Mom felt that carrying on with that task was a good way to honor his wishes and to uphold his legacy in the professional realm.  She did get the job done, coordinating the planning for the event, and, with my husband and me, attending the convention to represent Dad as he would have expected us to do. 

I’m sure that Dad was watching over us during our time in New Orleans and that, although he might have missed being there, he was proud that we honored his commitment and that the show went on.

Lessons I Learned from My Dad Through Running

From the first day that we found out about Dad’s diagnosis until 75 days later when he went on ahead, my family and I kept detailed logs in spiral notebooks  to record everything involved in his care – grids of medication logs, fervent notes from conversations with doctors, comments he made that we wanted to share with whomever wasn’t there at the time, schedules of who would be with him when. 

One of the many elaborate schedules we kept for Dad during his illness

It helped us to keep things straight during a time when we weren’t always thinking straight, it gave us a place to write down questions and to-do lists, and it was a way for us to communicate with each other when we passed like ships in a harbor.

But Dad thought the logs were funny.  He liked to tell other people about them: “Watch what you say,” he told whoever came into his hospital room, “The court reporter is here.”  A few times he even told us what to write in the notebook, questions he wanted to remember to ask the next time he saw the doctor and things he hoped to do when he got better, a much-abbreviated Bucket List.  Still, he acted like he didn’t really see the value in them; certainly he didn’t get as much use out of them as we did during his illness.

The day after he went on ahead, I was going through some old photos in a box at my parents’ house and came across a set of running logs that he had kept on me many years ago.  In the margins he had written notes that made me think about the many lessons I have learned over the years from him through running, all of which can be translated into important life lessons as well as training and racing tips:

-“No guts, no glory!” (“Don’t expect something for nothing,” he’d say as he prodded me to run up the levee AGAIN in the Mississippi Delta 95 degree weather as part of my training regiment. “It’s good to be lucky, but it’s even better to be prepared!”)

-“Always double-tie your shoes before a race.”  (Be prepared!)

-“Don’t quit just because you get a cramp.” (Even when the going gets tough, stay in the race.  “Keep your eyes to the front and your head in the game” was often his pre-race advice to me.)

-“Know the course and know your competition.” (Pre-pre-race advice!)

-“I know the secret to being a better runner, and it sure isn’t fancy running shoes or gadgets.” (“Well, what is it then?” I asked him when he said this to me when I started training for my first marathon.  “Get your ass out there and run more!” he said and then roared with laughter at his own cleverness.)

-“If you need motivation, find a friend.” (“Running is easier with more than two legs,” he told me more than once, and then he always added, “Do you get what I’m saying? I mean running is more fun with friends.”)

-“When you’re going on a long run, always tuck some TP into your shorts.” (I like to think he meant “Be prepared” which is a good life lesson, but I’m pretty sure he meant this one literally.)

-“Sometimes the best runners have the crappiest running gear.” (Dad’s version of “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”)

-“Keep track of your thoughts in the field.” (Dad sometimes carried a pen with him when he went on a run, and when he had an idea during the run he would – without breaking stride, of course - use the pen to make a note on his hand.  If he didn’t have a pen, he moved his wedding ring from the ring finger of his left hand to that on his right hand as a reminder, a habit that one of my sisters and I got from him and still do now.) 

-“Excuses don’t get you to the finish line.”  (“You can always say it’s ‘too something’ to run, but you’ll be glad you got out there anyway,” he said.)

-“If you are adequately prepared, you won’t have any regrets, no matter what happens in a race.” (If I heard this one from him once, I heard it at least 100 times.)

The last two are my favorites. 

Dad, you were very much “adequately prepared,” and you made it to the finish line in a way that was respectable and admirable.  Thank you for the runs and for the advice; I get what you were saying, and I will remember your wise words.

Running with my dad