Good Sunday morning! “Change your thoughts and you change your world.” —Norman Vincent Peale As far as Sunday musings go, this may be the last in the multi-week saga of my Mom, 90, and Dad, 93, and their plucky persistence to remain independent in their home even after Dad’s two surgeries weakened him. Our week was as packed as our van: We got the last of our things out of the condominium; we unpacked the last of the boxes at the Lakeside new home; and we packed the van in an effort to re-balance our downsized stuff between our two small homes. On Friday, we locked up the house and began our roundabout journey to Naples. First stop: Tiffin. Three days after our last visit, we were back, arriving at the house at noon. We didn’t find things as expected. Dad was still in bed. Mom was not yet dressed, because she hadn’t wanted to disturb him. The house was buttoned up, quiet, and darkened at sunny midday. Mom was unusually emotional and worried about Dad. She feared he was failing. I hugged her for a long moment. The noise of our arrival must have awakened Dad. About fifteen minutes later, he appeared, dressed, slowly entering the living room. Supported by the walker, he was dapper as usual but slumped, with a discouraged expression. He was grateful that we could take him to the doctor, who said he’d fit Dad in whenever he could come. Jim fixed Dad a bowl of oatmeal. Mom decided to stay back and get dressed so that we could go right away. We promised to call immediately after the doctor’s appointment. We slowly walked down the stairs to the garage level, Dad on his own with his cane, as I walked backward, facing him to lend support if he became weak. Taking each step was a concentrated effort for Dad. I suggested that after the appointment, maybe we could get a McDonald’s burger (he once considered this a treat). He wrinkled his nose, and said, “Nah.” I wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t had an appetite lately. But I was taken by surprise when the day took a nearly miraculous turn. Just getting out for the first time in a week may have contributed — and the exercise of walking the hospital halls to the doctor’s office may have gotten the blood pumping — but, amazingly, Dad was about to visibly improve. When the doctor came in, I witnessed a powerful healing technique: Encouragement. “Well, you sure look better,” the doctor said. “I do?” Dad said incredulously. “Yeah, a lot better than when you were laid out on that hospital bed,” the doc said. Dad shrugged, with an unconvinced half smile. “Look, Don,” the doctor said, “If you were in your fifties, you might be feeling almost back to normal a month after what you’ve been through. Or you might not have made it out of the hospital at all. You’re 93. You need to be patient. Move around but don’t push yourself too much. And start eating, particularly protein. You’ve lost a good ten pounds and your body needs protein to heal. “I’d like to see you again in a few weeks,” he concluded. “Okay, Doc,” Dad said while getting up with a fuller smile. As he grabbed the walker, he seemed to stand a little taller. When the doctor left the room, Dad said, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s pick up your mom and go out for a McDonald’s burger.” “Sounds good to me,” I said. My parents stayed in the car as we ate our lunch, then picked up a week’s worth of mail at the post office, and made stops at the drug and grocery stores. It had been by far the busiest day since Dad got out of the hospital. I figured we would eat in and he would retire early. But, when we joined Mom and Dad for their ritual drink at 5:00, Dad stunned me when he said. “Let’s go out for dinner.” Saturday was Jim’s birthday, so we let him chose between our two favored restaurants in Tiffin. He chose the Chinese. As we made our procession to the lower level and the car, I was baffled by the difference in my father from his first discouraging entrance earlier in the day, to the evening’s revived fighter with renewed will to carry on. Dad’s physical condition could not have changed so dramatically in a day. It was his mental condition that changed. The doctor’s dose of encouragement — and the empowering gift of hope he provided — may not have required a medical degree, but I have no doubt it made all the difference. It may have even saved my dad’s life. Have a great week.
Posted on: Sun, 26 Oct 2014 11:20:39 +0000
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