My Brother Tom

 

          I've wanted to share this story for a while now, but it's been too close to home, too raw. Every day, sometime between ten a.m. and two p.m., it feels like the scab gets ripped off, and I'm left bleeding again.

          I've been praying, sometimes pleading, with God to lift this burden and grant peace to me and those surrounding me in this struggle. And just when I was ready to throw in the towel, God gifted me with a miracle.  

          As you may know, my brother Tom is fraught with dementia, and I'm struggling to keep him – and myself – together. Once he gets up for the day, between 10 and 2, he could call me six to eight times to tell me the same thing, or to tell me eight different things. We've decided that he has to go into assisted living, and his medical providers wholeheartedly agree.

          I visited a facility here in town last week and thought it would be a good fit for him. In the past, I've mentioned to him that we should get more care for him and that maybe he isn't safe at home alone anymore. He has met those suggestions with angry defiance.

          Tuesday afternoon, we had an appointment for him to tour this facility. My heart banged against my chest when I picked him up to drive him there. I didn't tell him where we were going until we were on our way.

          I opened with something like, "Tom, I have to tell you something, and you are not going to like it, but I want you to just listen."

          So, I reminded him that the plumber had been to his house the day before, that he needed his well worked on, and that his water wasn't safe to drink until it was fixed. That was the truth.

          Then I told him a few fibs - long stretches of the truth. It would take a couple of weeks for them to fix the problem, and he would not have any water during that time. And that they would have to clean out all his water pipes in the house, which could cause poisonous gases to be in the air.  

          He agreed, mostly saying that they have to do whatever they can to fix his water.

          I continued, with words as slow and even as I could. He would need to move out of his house then for a few weeks until the plumber was done, and I had found him a nice place to live, where he would have his own room, his own TV, and a small refrigerator to keep his Mountain Dew. This place would prepare and serve him three meals a day, and even wash his clothes, clean his room, and help him shower once a week. (Not showering has been our biggest point of contention, as he claims it is NOT healthy to be clean.)

          He actually listened to everything I said. And when I was done, he answered, "That would be great."

          Tears popped into my eyes. I couldn't believe it. Praise God, praise Almighty God in heaven.

          We toured the place, and he picked out a room just inside the lobby, where a TV was only steps away. He said he wouldn't need a TV in his room if he could watch that one. He asked how much the meals were, and we assured him they were included in the price. And how much is this place, he asked. I told him it was being taken care of, between his monthly social security check and money from the VA through their Aid and Attendance program.

          All the way home, we talked about it, and he still seemed on board.

          When I got him back to his house, though, he asked when his truck would be done in the shop (where he believes it has been for two months, waiting for repairs, when it has been in my yard most of the time).

          I told him that once his water is safe to use again, in two weeks, maybe his truck would be ready too, and he could move back to his house and drive his truck again (which is NOT going to happen, but if you've dealt with anyone with dementia, you know it doesn't pay to argue with them; tell them what makes them happy and move on).

          He was fine when I left him that afternoon and has been in a good mood since then.

          A miracle. An answer to prayer!

          But then God said, "I'm not done yet."

          Shortly after I got home, Hubby's orthopedic surgeon's office called. He had been scheduled for shoulder replacement on June 10, but it was bumped back to August 12 because of an infection in his tooth. We were worried that surgery that late in the summer would mean he couldn't drive the bus yet when school started a few weeks later. Plus, he's been in a lot of pain and just wanted this shoulder fixed.

          The woman on the phone said they would have to cancel his surgery in August as the doctor would be out of the office.

          "Okay," I numbly replied. 

          And God was about to chime in, "Gotcha!" when I heard the words, "But we can move the surgery up to July 30 if that would work for you guys."

          I said, "Yes, of course, that would be perfect," and wanted to add that you could have opened with that.

          God chuckled and thought to Himself, "I'm still not done."

          This might sound so minor, but it still means so much to me.

          While I was on the phone with orthopedics, I had another call. When I checked messages, it was Home Health calling to schedule an appointment to visit Tom. But this just wasn't any nurse; this was a woman I had frequent contact with when I worked at the clinic. Anyone who has gone through stress like I have over the last two months knows that a familiar name and voice can make such a difference.

          There you have it. I have rambled on for long enough. But I need to let you know that there is a loving, caring God, Who listens to your every prayer, Who knows what you are going through and will lift you out of your despair when the time is right. Don't ever give up on Him. 

(The portrait was taken in 1991, as a Christmas present to our parents from my brother, both sisters, and me. Before ugly sweaters was a thing.)