Grad school is rough -- my younger colleagues even agree on this. You are basically at the mercy of your advisor. If you are fortunate, you end up with a merciful advisor. If you are not... it is really rough. Individuals in the latter category often leave grad school because of a bad advisor.
This last month I experienced something that none of my peers has -- the death of my surviving parent. One other woman in my cohort lost her mother to cancer. Not to minimize that loss in any way, she has a close relationship with her father; however, she continues to struggle and misses her mother daily.
My father was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease in 2004, and dementia in 2005. I cared for him on my own until 2008, and then managed to get care for him during the day until nighttime wanderings and disorientation necessitated 24 hour care in April of 2009.
Looking back on it, I really don't know how I did it -- finishing my master's coursework, running the experiments for my thesis, writing it up. And taking care of my dad and managing his care on top of that. When I started getting accepted to Ph. D. programs, my brother and I began looking at assisted living facilities for my dad. Dad was not happy about this. At all.
We moved him in June of 2009, after I graduated. Dad was really angry. The lead up to the move was awful. A neighbor called Adult Social Services because we were forcing him to move against his will. Social Services came out during finals week. After interviewing Dad (who told her that I did not live there, when I had lived there for 5 years) and me, she told Dad he was lucky to have kids who took such good care of him. After that, I received a nasty anonymous letter from "the neighborhood," telling me how selfish I was. The letter assumed that I was going to use rent from the house to finance my education, among other things.
Dad eventually adjusted to assisted living, due in no small part to his girlfriend, Betty. For my dad, life is good if he has a woman. I was immensely relieved, and immensely grateful.
When I went to see him this last August, he was doing quite badly. He had declined rapidly. He had fallen several times, and landed in the hospital twice because he hit his head. He had gone into congestive heart failure. He was wandering at night, and behaving inappropriately with the staff. The level of care he was receiving in assisted living was not sufficient to meet his needs, although they were doing all they could. He really needed to be in memory care, but there was no room available. It was a rough trip, and I came back upset and sad and worried.
In October a room finally opened up. About two weeks later, another room opened up, a private room that was adjacent to the dining room and across from the director's office. Dad expressed a desire for a private room (the girlfriend was still coming over) so we had him moved again. He settled in well.
I went to see him the week before Christmas to take him to doctor appointments and spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with him. Picture of life with a parent with dementia: The first day I got there, I went to see him. When I walked up to him and said hello and kissed him on the cheek, he said, "Tammy! You're all grown up!" Very sweet and not a little heartbreaking.
We had a really good visit; he was minimally argumentative (common in dementia), and had only one bad day, when he was disoriented and agitated. He had clearly recovered a bit, and stabilized -- he was no longer declining according to the staff and director and his doctor. I was SO relieved. When I left, I thought to myself, he's going to be around at least for another couple of years. He's receiving the care and attention he needs, he's got a girlfriend.
When I got the call on New Year's Eve that he had died, I was shocked. I was disoriented and upset for several days. Even though Dad and I had a "complicated" relationship, to use an euphemism, we had made our peace.
Perhaps the strangest feeling, the one that I did not expect, was the acute feeling of loss from the knowledge that I no longer have parents. Dad had not been a parent for some time; I had been caring for him for almost 7 years. And yet I still felt this new emptiness, this space. I think perhaps that was the source of much of the disorientation.
Selfishly, I was grateful that I had a week before the semester started, although it wasn't really long enough. Much better than if he had died during the semester though -- I can't imagine how I would have dealt with that. And selfishly, I am grateful that my last memories of him are good ones. I am also thankful, for all of us, that he did not suffer and that he did not have to go through the end stages of Parkinson's and dementia. Each of those is awful; I can't imagine both together.
It has been almost a month now. I was told to expect sudden reoccurence of the shock and grief. That prediction has been accurate. I am doing what I have to do to get through it, to get through life. When the grief comes and I feel raw and exposed, I hunker down with my dog and read trashy novels. Perhaps not the most elegant way to get through it, but it works for me.
Right now I think of what John Bradshaw said: "Living well is grieving well." His point was that life is full of loss, and we need to learn to deal well with loss if we are going to manage life well. I think he is right, life is full of loss. But some losses are bigger than others.
