Dear Readers,
As I explained to you in Chapter Thirteen, my wife, Carol Ann Hearons, nee Esser, expired in Michigan from small-cell lung cancer in late 2014, and I was summoned to Wisconsin shortly after to help my kid sister, Robin (known in our family since early childhood as Rawbaw). When I got there, I could see that her diabetes had turned her life upside down. Beyond that, her youngest son died of pancreatic cancer last August, which, in a very real sense, made her a cancer victim, too. (I can only imagine how it hurts to see your child die before you do. It's not the way things should be.) Rawbaw is in a wheel chair now, but hoping to get out of it, and we are working on that possibility.
I guess I was destined to be a Son of Wisconsin! It became clear to me within weeks of signing on as Rawbaw's in-home caregiver that she needed a long-term advocate, chauffeur, housekeeper, cook, appointment maker, appointment keeper, chaplain, soothsayer, social secretary, and morale officer. Two years and five months into this gig, I have made my peace with the seemingly endless medical developments that keep me here.
What makes me linger is a simple promise I made to Rawbaw when I first got here. When the subject of care facilities came up, she dramatically pleaded, “Please don't let me go into one of those places. I'd lose my mind in two days.” Her fear of having that befall her was palpable. I told Rawbaw, “I'll do everything I can.” That pretty much sealed my fate, because there's no limit to how much one human being can do for another!
I didn't hesitate to commit to her needs. But I did gasp a bit when I realized I could be here forever! Fortunately, I figured out that I had nothing more worthwhile to do with my time, following the death of my wife. I had acquired caregiver skills that could be put to good use anywhere, and (as I have truthfully admitted in past blogs), if I had stayed in the house in Pontiac, Michigan, that Carol and I had shared for 44 years, I might still be stumbling from room to room in that house, calling Carol's name and moving the furniture to see if she would move it back.
(Yeah, I had a bad case. Still do. Am still wearing my wedding ring and planning on finding her when my own number is up. Should be an interesting search, because she was very angry with the Catholic Church when she died and probably won't be waiting for me in Room 222.)
In a nutshell, the caregiver gig has been as beneficial for me as it's been for Rawbaw. It took a while, but I finally figured out that all I had to do was hang around indefinitely, and Rawbaw could still be the lady of the house indefinitely, with her loving mutt, Doggie Brooke, at her side, receiving family and friends in her own home (built in 1891, but now sporting a new roof and first-time gutters).
Life and my circumstances had clearly prepared me for this assignment. No kids. No pets. No job. I was made to order! I just jumped into my car the day after I got word of Rawbaw's plight and drove one long day from Pontiac to Appleton. Little did I know, when I came to Wisconsin “for a couple of weeks” to help Rawbaw return to her house after a brief stay in the hospital, that I would be rooting for the Green Bay Packers every football season since and eating string cheese like it was going out of style.
To put it simply, maintaining my sister's quality of life is maintaining mine. I have purpose — a mission — and Rawbaw tells everyone I am a saint. The down side is that she often calls me “Slave” or “Mr. Shuffles.” (I wear slippers a lot, and drag my feet to keep them on.) I have also picked up new skills (loading a weekly medicine wheel, giving injections, treating a stump wound with silver nitrate, Promogran and Aquacel, and other services often needed by someone whose Type 2 diabetes has created all sorts of problems in the so-called “Golden Years”).
My morale is high, because I believe in miracles. Carol was a miracle. My good health as I crowd 80 is another one. Why not hold out for one more: seeing Rawbaw wearing her high-tech prosthesis (what she calls her “fake foot”) and walking her own dog at the doggie park?
While we're waiting to catch a break, Rawbaw, Doggie Brooke, and I are a fairly compatible nuclear family.
Rawbaw is on my case to use the automatic dishwasher, but I am old school and always want the kitchen sink full of hot suds for whatever purposes.
Rawbaw has a hissy when I leave the lid up on the kitchen trash (which can get pretty ripe), but I can't smell it because my senses of smell and taste were blunted in 1976 (possibly by a vaccination against swine flu — I think I told you that — several blog chapters ago.)
Rawbaw worries that I will have a heart attack while mowing the lawn or shoveling snow, but I tell her I am pacing myself — and even planning to live to be 100 years old, just to see how things turn out. (Will the world survive global warming? the Zika virus? robocalls?)
Rawbaw doesn't like the way I drive. (Hell, neither do I.)
Rawbaw isn't crazy about my beard, but I like the low maintenance.
Rawbaw has spoiled the dog, and I have spoiled the dog even more.
We are a weird trio, but we love each other, and love conquers all.
More about love in Chapter 15...
—Michael E. Hearons
