Accepting the Unacceptable:

“Acceptance doesn’t mean resignation; it means understanding that something is what it is and that there’s got to be a way through it.” – Michael J. Fox

As I stood beside Dad’s bed coating his lips with Vaseline, reflections haunted my memories. He laid in the same ICU unit, in the same hospital just doors away from where Kari had laid weeks earlier. Moments of unknown produce my breaking point because there are few options. A human mind accepts even the unacceptable when it is identified, but the unknown inflates fear, unbalances equilibrium, and distorts reality. As irrational thoughts invaded my subconscious, questions evolved.

Medical staff asked if we knew Dad’s wishes. In a crisis, what would he want? With difficulty I stated his wishes, no resuscitation. They asked me to make life and death decisions. Thankfully, Dad had already made all the big decisions. He had a living will that provided all the needed directives if he became too ill to consciously speak his desires.

Though I never wished to lose my dad, we all understood. Daily, life confronted him with challenges that increasingly became too difficult to accept. I confided my thoughts and emotions to a friend. I felt like this was a whole new experience and possibly something I did not know how to do or know how to learn to do. I remember looking at my friend who supported me by being present and whispered, “I don’t know how to do that.”

She said, “Maybe this isn’t your lesson to learn.” Her statement made a profound impact and days later it continued to resonate. Unknowingly, she provided advice that released me from guilt and offered acceptance. Sometimes life requires us to accept the inevitable without attempting to control the outcome. Sometimes control is not within reach. Sometimes simply being present is enough.

The next day, he breathed, “Get — me- out!” It wasn’t a request but a demand. Based on previous experiences, I knew Dad became disoriented when in the hospital. By this time, I feared a healthy recovery would require support of his mind more than medicine for his body.

Discharged after a week, the hospital released him, seems like an appropriate term since he insisted being institutionalized the equivalent of jail. Unfortunately, his freedom from the hospital resulted in a transfer to a rehabilitation center. We again learned to navigate a new normal.

Though he looked drawn and tired, Dad’s personality and choice of words caused me to smile. We talked about events and reviewed the prior week’s episodes. Attempting to reenforce the importance of following doctor’s orders, family preached the importance of rehabilitation. I

knew my words fell on deaf ears, and I am not referring to his poor hearing and the absence of his hearing aids but his stubbornness. Just as expected, he said something about living to see another day and brushed my concerns aside.

Then he changed the subject to ask about his great-grandchildren. “Is the little one crawling? How’s the oldest one’s softball? Are they in school?” He quit trying to remember names some time ago. Each question took time and effort to ask as he talked slowly while inserting long pauses between words and phrases.

My desire was to limit his need to talk as it demanded so much energy but concentrating on my words proved almost as difficult for him. I showed him pictures to illustrate the narratives, but his tired body and poor eyesight, it was obvious the faces looked blurred. We both focused on the stories and pretended he would be sitting in his living room by the end of the day. During our visit, I saw Dad smile and heard his voice. The conversation shared stories but our presence affirmed our love.

Exhilarated to leave the hospital, Dad reluctantly followed the routines of the rehab facility. A couple weeks after his stroke, we celebrated his 85th birthday. On that day we did not talk about death, we celebrated life.