Picture 6-year-old Paul Maclean in the 1992 film “A River Runs Through It.” He refused to eat. His meal waited in front of him until the next day and he still refused to take a bite.
As my Sweet Al and I move into the last days of our lives, we are becoming 6-year-olds throwing tantrums. Old people do that.
Al sits at the table with a pill in his mouth, refusing to swallow it. He says, “But it makes me dizzy. Isn’t any one listening to me?”
My son says to him, “If you don’t swallow it, you will throw up. You can either feel dizzy or throw up. It’s your choice.” The pill didn’t go down without a tantrum.
For 20 years, we went from doctor to doctor trying to figure out what was going on with Al’s throat. The Botox pumped into his throat worked for years, but then it didn’t. Surgery is out. At his age, it is too dangerous. Another doctor prescribed this little pill that relaxes his throat and he is able to eat. It’s a hallelujah moment for all of us. Such a relief — until at meal times Al refuses it.
Our family’s biggest battle is to keep Al healthy. He has lost 40 pounds. We are constantly feeding him. We pack him a little lunch, a drink and a pink pill if we are out for the day.
There are back-to-back doctors’ appointments — physical therapy; a primary doctor; a heart; lung; ears, nose and throat; and now a spine doctor. I didn’t know about one of Al’s doctor’s appointments and canceled it. Our son was upset to say the least. He had organized his day and taken off work to drive Al to the doctor to find out about his dizziness. I was not told about the appointment, so I canceled it.
I have always known what was going on. It’s different than keeping things from Al, but I need to know. I don’t function without knowing the schedule. My calendar is marked, and I plan my life. I threw a little tantrum. I needed to be in the know.
A tantrum is described as an emotional outburst, often characterized by frustration, anger or a temporary loss of emotional control. Sounds about right.
Every day is a new adventure in the making when we wake. My Sweet Al decided he was going to paint the house one morning. Whoa. I had to get tough on him. “No Al, you can’t climb the ladder or carry those heavy cans of paint. I’m going to turn on the ‘Mountain Men’ show. Let’s see what Tom and Nancy are up to.”
My Sweet Al doesn’t feel like he’s being heard. He says, “I’m trying to stay well. I think I want to go home.”
“Al, nobody is going home until Jesus calls us. Get that out of your mind.” I had to give him tough love, but it was necessary.
It was necessary for me, too. My son said I needed to lose weight. If I fell, he wouldn’t be able to pick me up. I told him he might have to hit the gym more often. Right now, it’s like the nursery rhyme, “Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean. And so between them both, you see, they licked the platter clean.”
I’m learning how to be appreciative of our wonderful children who have altered their busy work schedules as Al and I are in a transitional place in our limited life. We just want to be heard and in control of our lives. Not one, but two old people they contend with.
A note from our grandson told me we are still seen and heard. He wrote me after reading “Not what they yearn for,” one of my articles in the “Artist’s Lane,” posted June 18 in The PREVIEW: “Grandma, this was very poetic, written with emotion, and had a good flow. I am grateful that you documented our times and all the memories we share. Grandma, I loved your message!”
Final brushstroke: Heavens. Creede’s words spoke volumes to me and brought a tear to my eyes. We still have to be careful what we say and not act like 6-year-olds. Our children and grandchildren will remember that, too. We are still an influence in our family.
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