Out with the Bad, In with the Good – Entry 11 in the story of my sister and me

Sometimes you just have to go for it and sometimes you have to wait and it sure is hard trying to decide which it is. But no matter what you do, you have to tell yourself that it’s the best decision you could make at the time. 

And then you go on. Pat Loehmer

Pat, around 18 months old, in the kitchen, participating in her favorite activity - eating. 

1999

As the winter of 1999 turned into spring, we received more bad news. The many rounds of chemo had shut down my sister’s kidneys. Pat would have to go on dialysis three days a week, and her current chemo regimen would end with no chance of more treatment.

The nearest dialysis center was 40 miles from her home. By this time, she was confined to a wheelchair, so she and her husband decided to move her into a nursing home several miles from the dialysis center. I would spend several afternoons a week with her, taking her for walks outside pushing her in her wheelchair on sunny days or watching TV with her on dreary days.

Occasionally I would sit with her through dialysis. She would marvel watching the fluid drain from her body. Smiling, she would instruct me to watch her feet. Her slippers which were snug in the beginning would fall off by the end of the treatment, her feet having shrunk in size that much.

One night, just as I got home from work, her husband called.

“The port for her dialysis didn’t work today. Before she can get dialysis, they have to take her to surgery to put in a new port.”

“Do you want me to come down?” Of course, I wanted to jump right in the car and go, but maybe he wanted to spend time alone with her when she came out of surgery.

“You’re her power of attorney after me. I think you should be in on these decisions too.”

His words stabbed my heart. What was he saying? Wasn’t Pat able to make her own decisions? I had seen her just a few days before and she had been fine.

“If she doesn’t get the port, she can’t get dialysis, and well – “ my words faltered. “She needs to keep getting dialysis.”

“That’s what I thought.” His normally strong deep voice was reedy, soft. “So, then I’ll tell them to take her to surgery.”

“I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

A few hours later, I sat at her side as she woke up from the minor procedure. They had already started a round of dialysis through the new port.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, looking around the brightly lit room.

“I just happened to be in town and thought I’d stop by.”

“Jerk.”

I bit my lip, thinking of something witty to say, not sure who the jerk really was. She watched her blood pump through the machine at her side, watched the miracle of toxins being sucked from her blood, watched her clean blood flow back into her body. I was always equally amazed by the process, amazed that anyone had figured out this crazy system. And saddened that they hadn’t figured out how to suck out all the bad stuff.   

Still in the kitchen. This time for Pat's birthday in 1971

Flashback

             I rolled out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. The forecast predicted another warm July day, and as a pre-teen girl living in the country with only my sister for companionship, I expected this day would be as dull as the rest of the summer days.

            I was surprised to see Dad at the kitchen table, still eating his breakfast. The smell of his oatmeal mixed with the aroma of his toast, done too dark for me. Pat sat at the other end of the table. From the sound of her metal spoon against the sides of the Corelle Ware bowl, I guessed that she was almost done eating her Lucky Charms.

            From behind Dad’s back, I pointed to him, the unasked question on my face. Why wasn’t Dad at work? Pat just grinned in reply, her mouth full, a trace of milk dribbling down her chin.

            “Your dad took the day off,” Mom announced as she streamed through the kitchen. “But I have to go to work, so the three of you better behave while I’m gone.”

            Before the car was out of the driveway, my sister and I were standing on either side of Dad’s chair.

            “Does this mean what we think it means?” Pat finally asked.

            “Yep,” Dad answered, running a hand through his greying hair. He never was one to use many words. “Go get dressed.”

            Within minutes, Pat and I were back in the kitchen, wearing our t-shirts and shorts. I’d even forgotten about my breakfast. Dad struggled up the basement stairs with the ten-gallon crock, but we were too excited to come to his aid.

            We made a mess of the kitchen that day, as we did for one day every summer throughout my childhood. Sugar was spilled on the floor. Root beer extract stained the counter top. We cleaned up as best we could. We didn’t want to incur Mom’s wrath.

            With the metal antique bottle capper, a crazy contraption two feet high, Dad forced the caps onto the soda pop bottles, locking the metal caps into place. Over the years, Dad learned to move the production outside at this point. One or two of the glass bottles always broke during this process.

            Over the next few weeks, as the filled bottles laid on their sides on an old quilt under our beds, several more bottles exploded from the pressure as the soda began to effervesce. In the same manner, Mom exploded. Dad shrugged though. He knew, as Pat and I knew, that in the end it would be worth it for a bottle of homemade Root Beer.

Ok, Dad was never a sharp dresser, but he usually did dress better than this. We were making root beer, though, and it did get messy. The little munchkin is our niece Paula.