Dad looks like a little shrunken rag doll

I push Dad across the street from his convalescent hospital to buy a Mexican Coke for him. They have real sugar, not the high fructose corn syrup we get in the American product. He still loves his sugar. I'd like to be able to talk him into drinking something that would help hydrate him, thereby helping his elimination--he does suffer so terribly from constipation, but I get tired of fighting.Whenever I give up trying to help, I realize that I've conceded the fact that he's actually dying! Why fight with a dying man? What pleasures does he have? Up until about 6 months ago, he was still reading books.

My brother Mark still brings him books that he thinks Dad will like. Well, he would like them if he could still concentrate, still focus well enough to read a page and turn it before he forgot what it was. Actually, thinking about it, I do that a lot myself. I'm getting older and my younger brothers and sister even show signs of aging. We are all saying that Dad has taught us so much and is continuing to teach us even though he doesn't realize it. We know we don't want to wind up like him, in a convalescent home.

His heart seems to be healthy and also he has no kidney or liver problems that we know about. He is taking no medication, if you can believe that! A 96 year old man and all they have to give him is a stool softener and vitamins! It's a real testament that eating all the wrong things isn't what necessarily does you in. What's killing him is his attitude. He always has had a terrible attitude about following the dictates of health "experts". He acts like he thinks it's a conspiracy to make you give up being happy. Right now it's impossible to get him to discuss that he should drink water or juice, or maybe try to eat veggies to get some fiber, or try to tell him to raise his arms above his head to give his shoulders some movement! He gets nasty, even vicious.

His right hand has been unusable for more than 6 months, so we really have no hope of it getting better. At first he complained that it was sore, and indeed, it was swollen. He had it x-rayed first by someone who came into the facility where he's staying. They said he didn't have anything wrong with it. After the problem persisted a couple of weeks, he was taken to a doctor who x-rayed it and said he had a small stress fracture in his metatarsal. We were happy to know that actually something was wrong and it wasn't totally psychosomatic. He wore a brace on it for about three weeks. It was x-rayed a third time and they said it was healed. Nothing was wrong now except for the way he wouldn't even try to use it. No entreaties, no threats of future atrophy, no pain killers, absolutely nothing helped change his idea about that hand. He held it down in his lap, and now I believe it is frozen. He strenuously objects to any attempts of anyone to touch that hand. So, forget about him walking again.

When he first went into CV, he would be given a daily walk in the walker. Someone would help him take 15 or 20 steps, sit down, and then walk back. That seems to be totally in the past now and the future looks like he'll die in the wheelchair.

It was really hard to leave him today because it was relatively early. I couldn't imagine what he was going to do the rest of the day. TV is no longer any diversion and reading is out. I had to go though, and he asked to be put back to bed. Poor Dad. It was only three in the afternoon and he went back to bed.

How is Dad today?

That is always the question.
It's Friday. I'd like to be doing anything else, anywhere else. I'm at CV where my dear old dad is residing. He's been here about 14 months. He walked out his long driveway to pick up his newspaper and fell down in the gutter November 30, 2009. That was the beginning of the end.
My wonderful brothers and sisters all come and visit Dad. When we talk to each other, it's always, "How was Dad?" Today, I'll have to say, "Not so good." I've been here about an hour and a half. He hasn't spoken very much. I gave him a banana and he said he'd like some pomelo. I brought a huge pomelo with me today. He was in the activities/dining room with many of the other residents when I arrived. The pomelo was admired all around. I allowed Patsy, blind from diabetes, to feel it. Linda, a young-looking stroke victim, unable to speak, asked for a piece. Patsy wanted a piece. I gave the first piece to Dad, that was an hour ago. It is still sitting in front of him.

So, Dad is not too well today. His poor right hand is very swollen. What can be done about it?

He turned 96 on November 2, 2010. That is a very long time to live if you haven't taken good care of yourself. Dad used to live on ice cream, hot dogs, canned spaghetti, bologna and white bread. If he's on the wagon, he would drink Coke and coffee, otherwise whiskey and beer.

How long will he live like this? He has lost so much weight over this last year. Right now he weighs less than I do. Sorry to say that I've gained as much as he's lost, so I'm probably over 135 pounds and he's for sure less than that.
He still has moments where he's the good conversationalist, the compassionate humanist, the literary quote meister, and delightful friend that we remember. He always had the appropriate quotation to help you through a situation. Dad could always make us feel better. He's an armchair philosopher and a satirist. He gave us pride when we were dirt poor. Just to be one of our family seemed like a great stroke of luck. We thought our family was the best.