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CKSWarriorQueen

~ Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Days of Creativity~Advocacy~Well-Being

CKSWarriorQueen

Category Archives: Sleep

Six Years Ago Today…

11 Saturday Jun 2016

Posted by ckswarriorqueen in Acceptance, Aging, Alone, bereavement, Breathing, Caregiving, Children, Compassion, Darkness, Death, Empathy, Family, Father, Father's Day, Filial Piety, Grace, Grief, Life, Light, Love, Memories, Mercy, Mourning, Neighbor, Neighborhood, Path, Police, Sleep, Sorrow, Tenderness, Time, Walk

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aging, bloodhound, caregiving, children, elderly parents, Essex County Canine Unit, Essex County Police Department, faith, family, love, patience, Salem Road, search, search dogs, UCPD, Union County Police Department, Union NJ, walk, walking

Six years ago today, my 88 year-old father went for a walk in the early morning and did not return. This is my imagining of what happened that day, June 11, 2010.


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July 18th ~ A Fullness of Love

18 Friday Jul 2014

Posted by ckswarriorqueen in Acceptance, Accountability, Aging, Anxiety, bereavement, Caregiving, Children, Compassion, Death, Do Your Best, Eternity, Faithfulness, Father, Filial Piety, God, Grace, Gratitude, Grief, Love, Memories, Mercy, Mother, Mourning, Patience, Peace, Regret, Sleep, Sorrow, Strength, Suffering

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caregiving, daily devotional, Daily Strength for Daily Needs, death, elderly parents, faith, family, father, fearlessness, friends, grief, health, Illuminations, Kessler East Orange, loss, love, mother, patience, peace, post-surgical rehabilitation, responsibility, sepsis, stubbornness, surgical wound, trust

071814PQA fullness of love….
doesn’t that perfectly describe the ideal of a mother’s love for her child?
Today is nine years since I lost my mother, and today, my heart is full of her.

Here’s my description of her last day on earth.
What you need to know is that this day was preceded by four weeks in the hospital, which included spinal surgery, undiagnosed diabetes (!), post-surgical infection, and sepsis, which was her primary cause of death.

If I knew then what I know now, I would have dissuaded her from surgery and just tried to make her comfortable and keep her safe.
I will always carry the burden of the decision I made to transfer her from the hospital to the rehabilitation center on a Friday in July.
If you don’t get anything else from this blog, please get this:

NEVER ALLOW SOMEONE YOU LOVE TO UNDERGO SURGERY
(except in a life-threatening emergency)
OR A TRANSFER FROM ONE FACILITY TO ANOTHER ON A FRIDAY IN JULY.

Nothing good will come of it.

__________________________________________________________

(The following is excerpted from my memoir-in-progress, Missing Dad.
All conversations recounted here are accurate transcriptions,
made at the time they occurred.
All incidents described here are accurately reconstructed
from contemporaneous notes and emails.
No names were changed. There are no innocent people to protect.)

I get up at 5AM to get into the shower and be ready to go with Jannie and Wally by 7. Before I get into the shower, I check the answering machine—no messages. Good.
When I get out of the shower, there are three calls on the answering machine. Not good.
The first is a doctor from East Orange General, telling me that my mother has had a major stroke during the night. He is sorry to say that there is no brain activity and that her body probably won’t live through the day. The second is Wally who has heard the news and is asking me when we should tell Dad. The third is George who has also heard and wants to know what to do.

Frank awakens, and comes out of the bedroom as I am getting ready to leave. I tell him what is happening. I have to go, now, to get to the hospital with Janet and Walter. They will be here in a few minutes. I take the phone number of the client Frank will be working with today, at Cryder House, in Whitestone. There is nothing he can do, so I think he should carry on with his day. I will let him know what is happening. I take my overnight bag with a change of clothes, just in case I need to stay in Jersey.
“I love you.”
“Love you too. Take care of yourself, please.” He holds me and kisses me.
I leave. I am already exhausted going into this day, the last day of my mother’s life.

My brother is coming back from Ohio. Nancy, Chris, and Grant are back on the road north to New Jersey, having arrived in Maryland a scant few hours earlier. I am on the road with Walter (driving) and Janet (riding shotgun).
Walter, Janet and I are trying to figure out how to tell Dad that Mom is going to die today.
“I think I should be the one to tell him,” I say.
There is very little traffic on the way.

We pull into the parking lot at East Orange General. I don’t know how, but John is already here. Janet, Walter and I meet him in the hallway. We all hug and kiss hello, and make our way to the ICU. John is crying. We are numb. Barb, George, Alyssa and Dad are already there. Dad is distraught.
“What happened? What HAPPENED??”
We go into Mom’s room.
Our mother is hooked up to a million tubes and beeping things. Gauges are everywhere. Numbers flit by, without context.
The neurologist enters, introduces herself to all of us, looks for the person she should talk to. She takes me aside. I tell her I have Mom’s health care proxy, and I know her wishes, which are “no extraordinary measures”. She asks me if my father grasps the seriousness of what happened, that my mother/his wife is being kept alive only by the machines. I tell her he might comprehend it if she tells him, but that he is unlikely to accept it from me without her saying it first. Dad has a real respect for medical authority (we will use this later on to help him).

All of us are in a knot around the doctor. I hold Dad’s hand as she tells him. He looks at me, questioning what he has heard. I tell him Mom is gone, only her body is still here.
“Is there any chance?”
“No, Daddy, no.”
We embrace him, I kiss his face, and start to cry.
He doesn’t know what to do next. We speak about what Mom said she wanted, if this situation ever occurred. Mom wanted us to just let go.
“Let’s wait,” he says. He doesn’t want to turn anything off; he wants to give her a chance. Nothing needs to be done right now, so we will wait.

There are tears, lots of them, a priest named Father Mitch, wooden rosary beads, a wonderful nurse named Beth. My two best friends in the world are named Mitch and Beth. I feel that this is a sign, that the priest and the nurse are God’s own angels sent to help ease my way into this new and awful motherless world that I am about to enter.
We have Father Mitch give Mom last rites, even though she is Greek Orthodox, and he is a Catholic priest. This comforts us all. I keep the rosary beads in my hand. (To this day, I carry them in my purse, everywhere I go.)

Mom hangs on for Nancy, Chris and Grant, who arrive around noon.

The hours pass.

Kids, grandkids, kids-in-law, Dad weave in and out of the room in a haze of prayer and silent pleading and endless, endless beeping.
My dad sees me crying at my mother’s bedside and tells me to stop.
“She might hear you,” he says. “I don’t want her to think there’s no hope.”

Despite my earlier reservations about East Orange General, the ICU staff is as good as any hospital staff I have ever seen, in real life or on television. They are sensitive, they are caring. They do their best to make Mom comfortable, and to comfort us. I wish these had been the people taking care of her at Kessler next door.

My mother’s face is gray. Her skin is totally relaxed, softly sagging from her cheekbones. She has a thin stream of black fluid trickling from the right side of her mouth. There is a tube in the left side of her mouth. She is no longer in any pain. I take a white cloth and gently pat away the black fluid, but it keeps trickling. I am on the window side of the bed. Alyssa is on a chair at Mom’s left side. I ask her if she’s scared. She’s only twelve and a half years old; I think she’s a bit young to sit through this. Even my sisters, her aunts, have a hard time looking at our mother like this.
“Oh no, I’m okay. I’ve seen things like this on Days of Our Lives. I’m not scared at all.”
We sit in the room, the wooden rosary beads from Father Mitch in my hand. I haven’t said a rosary in years, but the nuns at Our Lady of Sorrows taught me well. I only leave my mother’s bedside to use the bathroom, or if Nurse Beth asks me to leave for a moment so she can tend to one thing or another in the room.
I will keep vigil until it is no longer necessary. I have my change of clothes in case she lasts until tomorrow.
I look out the window, down to the street. There is a truck out there with the name “Angelica” on its side. My mother’s mother’s name was Angelina. I see this as a sign that she is close by, waiting for her daughter.

The grandkids are hungry and Dad is exhausted—they are going to grab a bite at the Wendy’s across the street and ask me if I want anything.
I want this never to have happened.
They leave to get some food, come back to the waiting room, and then decide to leave again for home and let Dad get some rest.
Jannie and I stay, Alyssa too.

At one point—I’m not sure how long after the others left with Dad—I am alone in the room with Mom and the endless beeping. I am holding her hand. I bring my face close to hers and whisper.
“It’s okay. You can go now, if you want. Dad will be fine, we will be fine. I love you. You can leave. Don’t worry.”

Nurse Beth comes into the room and says she has to tend to a few things.
I leave for a moment to use the restroom.
In a moment, Janet is outside, knocking on the restroom door.
“Come on!  Something is happening to Mom!”
Nurse Beth is there.
There is no beeping.
No moving numbers.

Our mother dies at ten to four in the afternoon.

We call the others. They pull off to the side of the Garden State Parkway. We tell John, Barb, Chris, Walter, George. We don’t tell Dad. We will tell him when he gets here.
They come back, it seems like only a minute later.
Dad is stricken, he cannot believe she is gone.
He weeps.

Dad takes me aside. It’s just him and me; the others are gathered on the other side of the waiting area.
He holds his forehead, shock and grief etched on his face. His eyes, wild and full of tears; he says “Claud, you kids…please don’t leave me. Don’t leave me alone.”
At first, I thought he meant he didn’t want to sleep alone in the house that night. He had a houseful of family; he wouldn’t be alone. I realize later what he really meant; he is afraid that he will be alone now that Mom is gone, that we kids will leave him to his own devices, that it was our mother who was the center of all things and that now he will lose us, as he had lost her.


You will never lose me.


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June 14th ~ A Very Present Help in Trouble

14 Saturday Jun 2014

Posted by ckswarriorqueen in Acceptance, Accountability, Aging, Anxiety, Attention, Attentiveness, bereavement, Caregiving, Community, Compassion, Courage, Death, Diligence, Duty, Faith, Faithfulness, Family, Father, Filial Piety, God, Gratitude, Grief, Home, Inevitability, Loss, Love, Mourning, Neighbor, Neighborhood, Patience, Persistence, Police, Prayer, Shadow, Sleep, Sorrow, Time, Trouble, Trust, Truth, Will

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daily devotional, Daily Strength for Daily Needs, elderly parents, faith, family, father, friends, grief, Illuminations, loss, Missing Dad, missing persons, patience, persistence, responsibility, search dogs, siblings

061414WPQ

From Missing Dad: Monday, June 14th, 2010

Dad has been missing for over seventy-two hours; sometime soon, I will switch from counting hours to counting days, but not yet.
Janet and Wally are due in from Maryland at about noon. I have to make some calls before I leave. I’ll be on the 9:47AM LIRR to Penn, and pick up the 10:37 NJT train to Roselle Park. That will get me to Jersey at about twenty past eleven. I’ll have the chance to get a couple of things done here before I leave, and to get a couple of things done at Dad’s before Janet and Wally arrive.
Every single second is precious and must be used to a purpose.
I call the UCPD. The dispatcher recognizes my voice. I ask to speak to the desk sergeant. I verify that the new platoon has my dad’s photo. I tell them we are continuing our search today, and that I need to speak to the detectives when they come in.
I want to know when they are going to start using search dogs. I still don’t know that search dogs are used when they are pretty sure that they are looking for a body.
I realize that I have not yet called my mother-in-law to tell her about my missing father. I have to do this before I leave, or it will prey on me all day.
“Hi Mom, it’s Claud.”
“Oh, Claud–how are you, dear?”
And I tell her that Dad went for a walk on Friday morning and no one has seen him since.
She wails, “Oh that poor man! All alone out there…”
I can’t listen. I love her, and would have spared her this news if I didn’t feel I had to prepare her for a bad outcome. But, I have my own burden of fear to carry, and it is heavy enough. I detach myself carefully, tell her I have to leave for New Jersey to continue the search, and promise to keep her informed.
Next, I call Meals-on-Wheels and suspend Dad’s deliveries, pending…whatever happens. When I tell them he went missing on Friday, they tell me he was there at the house when they delivered his meal on Friday at about half past one.
I already know it wasn’t my father who received the meal; it was Glenn who accepted it from the delivery lady. He was talking to the detectives in Dad’s dining room when she rang the doorbell.

George and Glenn are waiting for me at Roselle Park. As we edge out of the parking lot, I look at each of them and ask if they mind if I speak very freely. They both nod for me to go ahead.
“I think that if we find Dad, we won’t find him alive. We may not ever find him at all. He’s been gone too long.”
Glenn says that he didn’t want to be the first one to say that, but he agrees. So does George. They are both relieved that I have said this out loud. I ask George if he thinks Barbara and Alyssa are preparing themselves. He isn’t sure. I tell him about my conversation with Barb in the A&P parking lot on Sunday, when I asked about Alyssa.

I really want the UCPD to search the woods with dogs at this point. We have covered all the obvious places, and the less obvious places, many times over; we need help to get to the places we can’t reach.

We get to Dad’s and open up the windows to air it out. The weather’s been beautiful since Dad disappeared; there was only a brief shower on Saturday, late afternoon; otherwise, it’s been sunny and not too hot. Glenn’s been taking care of the mail over the weekend, not letting it pile up on the porch. The neighbors all know about Dad, and have walked the woods and the neighborhood themselves. Ron, the neighbor across the street, tells us about a shelter in Elizabeth; maybe Dad is there. George’s neighbor Joanne had mentioned one too. Both places were on the list that Nancy and Janet have been calling all weekend. None of the neighbors, or the shopkeepers, or the cemetery workers saw him Friday morning. It’s like Dad walked out of his door and into thin air.

I have been playing phone tag with the detectives through the day. Finally, I get to speak to them briefly. They give me their direct dial numbers and email addresses. I talk to them about where we looked for Dad over the weekend. Detective George Moutis told me that everywhere he and his partner, Detective Ken Elliot, canvassed, we had already covered. He and his crew had seen scores of our flyers all over Union. And they had fewer leads than we did—they had no sightings at all. They hadn’t come across even one person who had seen Dad on Friday, or since.

They will keep up the investigation, and the platoons of patrolmen will keep looking for Dad; by tomorrow, if there’s no progress, they will call in the search dogs.

Janet and Walter are going back to Maryland in the morning; Nancy, Chris and Grant will be up in the early afternoon. Barbara is at work, and Alyssa is at school. John is flying in on Thursday. I am going home to rest for a day, and go back to work on Wednesday, unless of course Dad is found.

Wally drives me to the station, and I make my way home, Roselle to Newark to Penn to Murray Hill. I am exhausted, disappointed, frightened, resigned; I am struggling to keep a glimmer of hope alive in me but it is nearly impossible for me to do so.

When I get home, I tell Frank about what the day has held. We eat our dinner, watch a movie or some South Park episodes (I don’t remember, and I think I fell asleep). Before bed, I email the detectives’ contact information to all the sibs and spouses.

I fall into dreamless sleep, exhausted.
_________________________________________________________________

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June 11th ~ Four Years

11 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by ckswarriorqueen in Aging, bereavement, Caregiving, Children, Eternity, Faith, Family, Father, Filial Piety, Grief, Loss, Memories, Mourning, Patience, Peace, Police, Sleep, Sorrow

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caregiving, daily devotional, Daily Strength for Daily Needs, elderly parents, grief, Illuminations, Missing Dad, Psalms, siblings, sorrow

061114PQToday is four years since my father took his last walk.
This is my imagining of that last day.

The brightening sky is clear; the birds sing. It’s too early. He doesn’t sleep the way he used to. Slowly, carefully, in the dark, he feels his way down the stairs. He shuffles through the living room, the dining room, into the kitchen; he turns on the light, the radio. He gets his plastic glass, his cereal bowl, a spoon, his box of Cheerios. He looks at the empty fruit bowl. Bananas. He ate the last mushy brown one yesterday. That’s the problem with bananas; you buy a bunch and they’re green, and you have to wait a few days until you can eat them. Then, they all turn ripe at once. At least one will be almost black by the time you eat it.

Bananas. It’s not too early for the 7-11 at Salem and Chestnut. They’re always open.

He turns off the radio and goes into the dining room. He takes off his pajamas and drapes them over a chair. His clothes from yesterday, and from the day before, are on the other chairs. He picks up the clothes he wore the day before yesterday. He already has on a short-sleeve undershirt, boxers, socks. He puts on a long-sleeve thermal undershirt that is yellow with age. On top of that, his lined flannel shirt. He puts on his pants­­ and his belt (to which he’s added a few holes), and buckles it in the last hole. He puts on his new windbreaker, a gift from one of his granddaughter’s friends. He puts on his shoes, his watch, takes his wallet and a handkerchief. He puts on his old tan hat. He takes his keys, locks both doors, walks down the steps and down the driveway, past his car. It hasn’t worked for months. The battery is dead. His kids won’t let him replace it. His kids won’t let him drive any more.

Yesterday had been so strange—people in and out of his house all day. His youngest daughter had come in the morning and brought her friend, that nice lady, the nurse—what was her name? The nurse helped him with his physical therapy exercises, made sure he took his pills. She said she was coming again today.
As the girls were going, his son-in-law’s best friend stopped by. They talked for hours about things he forgot he remembered, about the old country, about his job in the shipyard during the war.
Later, the doorbell rang—it was the Meals-on-Wheels girl. His visitor tried to get him to eat the food she had brought while it was hot, but the food from the day before was still in the refrigerator. He ate that instead. It’s a sin to waste food.

Then, his visitor left. Alone in his home for the first time all day, he stretched out in his recliner and fell asleep. When he woke up, it was time for bed. He undressed, put on his pajamas, went upstairs.
Strange day.

Oh.
Bananas.

He walks down his street to the corner, turns left, and goes down to the shortcut path through the woods to Salem Road, where the 7-11 is. He will get the bananas, go back home, eat his breakfast.

He hears something: a woman? Is she calling him? He follows her voice, veers off the path into the woods. He used to walk here with his granddaughter, when she was little. Now, there are brambles, branches, tangles of vines and weeds. The more he walks, the more mixed up he gets.

He hears her again: “Tony…Tony?”

He looks up, down, all around; no one is there. He walks some more. He’s deep in the woods now. He knows these woods end in a grassy half-circle on Galloping Hill Road, across from the hospital, a block away from the 7-11. There’s a playground, a small basketball court, a bench facing the brightly colored slide. He could sit there for a bit, then walk down to the 7-11. If he keeps going, he should come out on the other side.
Ahead, in the middle of a thicket of vines and brush, he sees a log, a fallen tree, lying on the ground. Hasn’t he seen that tree before? It’s all beginning to look the same. Maybe he should take a little rest.
He makes his way to it, sits, and thinks: Why is it so hard to get out of here? It’s not a big forest. There are streets and houses on all four sides, the playground at the end, the hospital across the street. He used to walk here all the time.
His head is swimming. His feet really hurt. He unties his shoes, takes them off, places them next to the log, in arm’s reach. He is breathing hard; he tries to catch his breath. God, his head hurts. His chest hurts. Everything hurts. He is so thirsty that if there was a puddle, he would drink from it. A little dirty water wouldn’t hurt him. You should have seen the stuff they had to eat back in Europe, back when times were bad.
He’s going to take a little rest now, then put his shoes back on, and he’ll find his way out. He shakes his head, tries to focus on the dial of his watch. It says 12:15 and 25 seconds, but the second hand isn’t moving any more.
It was so bright when he left the house, but it…it looks so dark now. How long has he been walking? He can’t tell if it’s still daylight. He is so tired. He takes off his hat and lies down.

Four days later, the bloodhound from the Essex County Police Department will find him by the fallen tree, fifty yards from the grassy half-circle edging the suburban forest, his untied shoes still in arm’s reach.

Missing Dad Flyer
_________________________________________________________________

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ZZzzzzzzzzzzzzZZzzzzZzz……………

07 Monday Jan 2013

Posted by ckswarriorqueen in Sleep

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catnap, dream, drowsy, sleep, sleepy, snore, zzzzzzz

I am too sleepy to write a coherent post, so this will be one of the one-liners I promised you last week…have a good night. We’ll catch up tomorrow.GCWrap-CatsOnSettee

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Claudia Karabaic Sargent (CKSWarriorQueen)

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