The Patient, Part 2

Two months ago I wrote about my experience as a surgery patient in South Africa. But now I have another patient in mind, and I feel compelled to write about him, because what's happened with him in recent weeks has shaken my world. This patient is my father.

Christmas 2016

For several years now, my dad, John, has been suffering from a rare disease called progressive supranuclear palsy (PSP), which affects his speech, thinking, vision, and balance. Every Sunday night I have a FaceTime date with my parents (in Oklahoma, so for them, it's Sunday afternoon). A few weeks ago, during our FaceTime, my mom, Melanie, shared with me some things that had happened with my dad and her growing concern for him. Because of his lack of balance, he had been falling a lot, but he had never been seriously injured, and he had always been able to get himself back up.

But on that Sunday, he had fallen and could not get up, and since my mom is not physically strong enough to help him up, she had to ask a neighbor to come help her get him into the wheelchair. As I talked to my mom, I saw my dad in the wheelchair at the dining room table, where he had fallen asleep. She was especially concerned that he would continue to try to get out of the wheelchair on his own and then fall again, and she wasn't sure what to do. We talked about it, and she decided to call my uncle to come over and help my dad get a shower and get into bed, and thankfully my uncle was able to come and help.

Not long after my dad went to bed, he tried to get up again and he fell. My mom got him a pillow and blanket and tried to make him comfortable to sleep on the floor. But the next morning when she gave him breakfast, he couldn't sit up well enough to eat, so she called an ambulance to take him to the hospital. And then she didn't see him for a month.

Of course, neither did I. And I haven't seen my mom. During that month, I wasn't able to hug her, to cry with her, to keep her company as for the first time in 47 years she was alone in her house. And this separation was and is not because of coronavirus, but because I live thousands of miles away from my parents on another continent. Well, perhaps it is partly because of coronavirus, because as badly as I want to be with my mom right now, the restrictions on international travel make it extremely difficult if not impossible. 

I'm learning that this is one of the greatest sacrifices of living overseas—a sacrifice for me, and a sacrifice for my parents—that we cannot be together in times of suffering. It hurts. As my mom has said many times, "I know God will take care of us—He always does—but that doesn't mean it's easy." (I believe that truth applies not just to my family's situation but also to the situation all of us find ourselves in at this moment, in lockdown or isolation or quarantine.)

So I prayed for my parents. I gave thanks for my brother, who lives in Tulsa but was there in person for my mom, going to stay with her and support her through this trial.

The last time I saw my dad, in Cape Town a year ago

I gave thanks that my mom was able to at least talk to my dad on the phone at the rehab facility where he went after his hospital stay and take him newspapers and clean clothes and treats (delivered by nurses and caregivers working with him). I gave thanks that I was able to help by connecting my mom to a friend who works for Baptist Village Communities so they could discuss the possibility of my dad's being admitted there if he needed a place to go after rehab. I gave thanks that because of the social restrictions, my mom did not have to go into the office (at her church) and was free to take calls and make arrangements for my dad without it interfering with her job. I saw all of those ways that God was working, and that gave me peace and comfort.

My birthday was during that time, and when my mom called to sing "Happy Birthday" to me, she called my dad and put him on speaker phone, and they sang to me together. Somehow as much difficulty as he has speaking, he is still able to sing almost as well as he always has. And my mom would not let my dad's condition or isolation keep them from upholding this tradition of calling and singing to us on our birthdays. It was a sweet moment.

My parents' visit to DC for my birthday, April 2016

My dad was released from rehab to go home on April 30. But as happy as my mom was to see him and have him back, his homecoming brought a whole new set of transitions and challenges. Before his hospitalization, my dad stayed home alone while my mom went to work. Now he cannot be left alone. Several therapists have been coming multiple times per week. My dad's behavior is different and unpredictable. The good news is that he's able to walk using a walker, he's eating well, and my mom has arranged for a home health worker to come stay with him so that she can go back to her part-time ministry position at her church. 

But no one knows what the future holds for my dad, except that, because of the disease, life will continue to become more challenging for him. So we wait to see how he progresses and whether he can stay home long-term or will need to go somewhere else. I wait to hear the latest news on my dad as I walk, from afar, with my mom through this time of transition. And we all make this our prayer:

I remain confident of this: 

I will see the goodness of the Lord 

in the land of the living. 

Wait for the Lord; 

be strong and take heart 

and wait for the Lord.

(Psalm 27:13–14)

My parents with the kids in DC, April 2016

The morning we left OKC for Mozambique, April 2018