Lisa's Piece of Earth: The Dusseldorf Orphanage

An elderly woman with short-cropped white hair and sunglasses sits at a table in the dining hall of the nursing home where my dad lives. She is hunched over a cup of coffee blowing bubbles into it with a straw. The brown bubbles are spilling over the cup and soaking into the pile of towels the cup is resting on. “Pearl” is perseverating over her coffee again; a thrice-daily event that never fails to put a smile on my face. As soon as I push my dad’s chair into the large room I hear her familiar words delivered in the same loud spirited cadence, “Root-toot-toot, how do you do, la-de-dah, (tongue roll), four!” “This is such good coffee.” “Mmmm-mm!” “De-licious!” “Thank you Ma’am”. “Nothing like a good cup of coffee first thing in the morning, is there?” “Ah, come on you guys, is there?” “Yer darn right it is!” “This is the best cup of coffee in the whole universe!” “This is the best cup of coffee in the world!” “This is the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had!” “This is the best cup of coffee I’ve had all day, in fact it’s the only cup of coffee I’ve had all day.” “Thank-you daaaaaahling!” “Who made it?” “There is love in this cup and I found it!” “Who made it, cause it’s a hum-dinger?” “It’s making me burp though, one after another.” “Here comes another one right now.” “Can’t help it, root-toot-toot, how do you do, la-de-dah, four!” “I have to blow on it because there are bugs on the top.” “Look at them scatter when I blow!” “I’m going to take another drink.” “I took one.” “I finished this coffee in two and a half slurps and a few burps”. “I could use some more coffee”. “Who made this coffee?” “It is de-licious!” “Thank you darling!” “Root-toot-toot, how do you do, la-de-dah (tongue roll), four!”

My dad looks at me with weariness and says, “I hate this Dusseldorf Orphanage”. This is my dad’s nonsensical name for the nursing home where he lives. A name he coined by the emotions of abandonment he feels about living in a place where there are so many residents whose minds are tucked away in dreamlike places and whose bodies limit them from walking away to their own homes. My dad is very frail due to the effects of severe osteoporosis, and his mind is full of clouds that drift between periods of clarity and confusion, a combined result of dementia and pain controlling medications. His ability to swallow is worsening and he is fed pureed foods so he won’t choke. Dad is lifted with utmost care from his bed with the help of a machine called a Hoyer. It is named after the person who invented it as a means of preserving the backs of medical personnel who have to lift those who can’t help lift their own weight, and preserve the fragile bones that are so easily broken in patients like my dad.

Last year my dad’s appendix ruptured and because he has a pain pump inside of him that emits medication to dull the pain of his crumbling bones, it wasn’t discovered for three days. He went into respiratory arrest in surgery, was brought back to life by the help of a respirator, then preceded to battle bouts of pneumonia and colon infections. His decline has been long, painful, and heart breaking. I live in Washington and my trips to Oregon over this last year have been frequent and often times long. My husband’s own health has at times been an issue, and as I have stayed with my husband as he recovers from one of his own surgeries, I’ve been on the phone facilitating the care given to my father at critical times of his decline.

Sleep is an issue for me, as I seem to process everything when I lie down. Many times, I will wake up from a deep sleep in a full panic attack with heart racing and my mind filled with thoughts of my husband or my ailing father. Such is the life of a caretaker.

I am my father’s medical power of attorney. The decisions of how his care is facilitated rest on my shoulders. The ache I feel for Dad residing in his “Dusseldorf Orphanage” is constant. The residents’ minds and emotions there seem to be best described with adjectives more often used for the weather: “cloudy,“stormy,” ”blustery,” “dreary,” occasionally “sunny,” and most often, “overcast.”

Sometimes my dad is focused and his cognitive abilities so sharp that he can remember the name of a country band named the Poodle Creek Pickers that his cousin Joe plays in out in Crow. Other times, he forgets who I am and introduces me as his sister, or calls me the name of one of my own sisters. When I left him a couple of days ago, I stroked his forehead as he began his morning nap. I tenderly kissed his forehead and said, “Dad, I have to leave back to Washington now.” He said, “Good night Lisa I’ll miss you.” I told him, “Now don’t give the nurses any trouble today.” He replied, “It’s night time and I’ll be sleeping.” I reminded him that he had just had his breakfast and he said, “I did?” Then remembering, he said proudly, “Oh, I ate all my mush!” His eyes focused on me and filled with tears, “Lisa, I’m screwed up.” My hands cupped his face and I assured him that he was on so much pain medication that it made it hard for him to think sometimes, that without it he would be able to think just fine.” My dad whimpered and started to fall asleep as I stroked his head. I left with tears on my cheeks. How I miss my dad. How I wish for release from his “Dusseldorf Orphanage.”