Succumbing to the media machine and the state of modern health care

I have succumbed. My cell phone now rings "Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic."
And I am not ashamed of it, not one bit. It took every ounce of my strength to not download the other ringtone that was suggested: Justin Timberlake's "SexyBack." Ever since Stacey mentioned it on her blog, my interest in Justin has been renewed. Or maybe it's just because I think he's pretty. But I digress.

I'm here in the 'dell, flying back to Boston tomorrow at an obscene hour of the morning, and it has been a rough couple of days. I flew in on Thursday, again at an obscene hour of the morning, and met with my dad, Tante and Opa for lunch at the hospital, after which we went over to see Oma in the skilled nursing facility. And this is what I have to say: there is such a tremendous disregard for the elderly in our country. People care for their pets better than they do for the infirm, mentally unstable, and those otherwise incapable of caring for themselves. And my poor old Oma, addle-brained though she is, has to be in this facility day after day as they continue to 'care' for her. With this kind of care, I'm surprised that there is not a funeral home attached to the building, just past the circle of comfy chairs stationed out back where all of the nurses go to smoke. You know, the chairs that are supposed to be sat in by patients and their visitors. She looks at us, confused most of the time and speaking in half-German half-gibberish (good thing I took German, right?) and trying so hard to convince us that she really needs to go home. When she's lucid, it's the worst because she knows where she is. I cannot help but think that it would be better were she completely out of it, at least then she would be in her own world all the time, not coming in and out to find herself held captive in this place where her clothes mysteriously disappear and the nurses appear to radiate indifference. There are, of course, the few who are genuinely kind. They address her by name and treat her with the respect and dignity befitting of any human being. But there are also the vast majority of underpaid caregivers (though I am reticent to use that term) who could really care less if she gets her medication, if her shoes go back on her feet after physical therapy, if her clothes are really her clothes and go back in her dresser. Perhaps some families can't deal with it - they have to park their family members in a facility and just pray that all goes well. But when the Hindrichs clan made an onslaught the other day, with me and my aunt and my Opa and my dad, all of us speaking to her and each other in German and demanding to know where the hell her jacket is because Opa put it on her only two hours ago, the natives did look distinctly unsettled. As well they should.

On the way home from dinner tonight, I told my Dad that whatever it is that he desires for his living will, he had better put it in writing because I refuse to make those decisions. It is not life or death that I am worried about. It is that terrible middle ground between, the one where we are neither fully alive nor fully dead, that terrifies me. I worry that the ones I love, or even I myself, will end up there, occasionally surfacing into reality and seeing a host of lackadaisical people who hold my medicine in the palm of their hand and have no interest whatsoever in whether or not I live or die. Living the last of a half-life, and forcing my family to do the same. And I know that Opa's most heartfelt wish is for her to spend her last months in peace and dignity, comfortable and well cared for, and it breaks his heart to see her like this, sad and lonely and surrounded by this band of apathy, and I don't know what to say or do. We catch glimpses of her, and I know that she is still in there somewhere, and we are taking part in a terrible game of hide and seek, where we are neither permitted to hide nor seek, only wait until she comes out and says "Here I am!" for that brief moment before the shades are drawn yet again. It is a sad and depressing game, in which there are no winners and no one with any authority to say "no fair, let's start over."

I am wearing her wedding rings now, two of them. Opa is moving out of their house and in with my parents over the next few weeks, and he wishes to take nothing but his clothes to his new room. The furniture has been divided and claimed, dishes and linens and all things household apportioned, and her personal belongings gone through. He asked me to hold out my hands the other day and put two of their anniversary bands onto my right hand - I think I'm wearing 20 and 40. How unusual it is to be wearing these rings that were hers, and yet she is still alive. They fit my finger remarkably well, stacked up against one another. I look over at my mother, sitting on the other side of her bed and I ask myself, "will we be here in another twenty-five years, me at her side and her somewhere off in Neverland?" I don't think it will be so, as this kind of decline does not run in her family, nor has anyone else suffered from Alzheimer's, but I think it is somehow made worse when someone who is so strong and so firm of will is reduced to a shell as my Oma is now.

So before I get too morose, I'm going to kiss my mom and dad goodnight and prepare for the trip back to Boston. I apologize to my readers who were not prepared for this sudden outburst, but the whole thing weighs heavy on my heart. I will blog about the fun parts of my trip another time. Goodnight Moon and goodnight to you all.