I knew on the evening of January 2, 2017 my life was about to change drastically. A new normal was about to begin. The oddest feeling really. Like a punch to the gut. Or like my heart and lungs dropping simultaneously to the bottom of my stomach.

An unknown number was calling my cell phone. I don’t answer if I don’t recognize the number. Probably a scam call. A few minutes later my sister called. I picked up. That same number had dialed her as well. It was the police department calling to say they were with my parents at a gas station. They had received several calls that my dad was driving erratically. They took dad’s car keys, so we needed to come get my parents. When we got there, it was already dark, cold, and way past dinner time. Both mom and dad looked tired and confused. Dave drove mom home in our car, and I drove dad in his car. On the fifteen minute drive home, dad kept repeating how he didn’t know why the police had been called, he didn’t do anything wrong, and he just got a little lost. Turns out he was more than a little lost since he must’ve been driving aimlessly for hours before stopping at this gas station completely in the opposite direction of his house.

This wouldn’t be their last encounter with the police. Earlier this year, my mom decided to walk to the bank from their house. Four miles round trip. She hasn’t driven in years (because she shouldn’t) and no longer has a driver’s license. Still not sure if she actually made it to the bank, but it doesn’t matter since she got lost and a couple of concerned strangers called the police after trying to help her find her way unsuccessfully. The police met them at a gas station about a mile from their house and drove mom home.

Why didn’t dad just drive her to the bank? Well, after the January 2nd incident, my sister and I took his car keys, had dad evaluated by DMV driver safety who revoked his driving privileges, took him to his doctor, and learned that he had been seen by a neurologist two years prior and diagnosed with Parkinson’s. Of course, dad didn’t tell anyone.

The following 1,013 days would prove to be the hardest, darkest, most frustrating, challenging, depressing, and saddest of days.

I’m trying to rationalize and even justify why I didn’t see this coming. In retrospect, it was just easier to tell myself it’s all part of getting old. Your memory goes. You get more stubborn about inconsequential things. You wear the same clothes most days. Your energy level decreases. You talk about the same things like the needle stuck on the same track of a record album.

Time together was no longer like it was before.

Most of 2017 was spent arguing about the car and car keys. It didn’t matter what we said or did, dad would not accept that he could no longer drive. One time dad was so insistent that I give him back his key that he stood in the middle of the street in front of my car and wouldn’t let me leave until I gave it to him. I got out of my car and walked the six miles home in my leather dress boots which I ended up throwing out since the walk ruined them.

For the longest time, we were more worried about mom’s health. We suspected dementia which was confirmed after my sister and I attended a workshop years prior and recognized many of the symptoms. To make matters worse, my mom refused to see a doctor. She’s always been that way but grew even more adamant as her condition progressed. We would later “trick her” into going with dad to his neurologist where she was diagnosed with Alzheimers. But all that time, I had become so focused and frustrated with mom’s condition that it never occurred to me something might be going on with dad.

Dave and I have moved many times in our thirty one years of marriage. The last few homes were purchased specifically with the possibility of having my folks live with us when they got older. A downstairs bed and bath were a must. In 2018 it became painfully clear that we were in no position to provide the kind of 24/7 care both mom and dad would require. We set out to get them into a local assisted living community and out of their two story home ASAP.

Well, let’s just say all our initial efforts went over like a ton of bricks. Plan B was to hire in-home caregivers. No-go on that front as well. They would have none of that. In the mean time, dad was declining rapidly. Loss of memory, weight, strength, stability; increase in delusions, temper flares, and denial all contributed to frustration on everyone’s part. The most challenging was the denial. Both mom and dad were in denial that there were ANY health issues. They just kept saying “We’re just getting old. This happens to everyone our age.” The denial was not just frustrating and the root of every argument every time we tried to help; it became life threatening since it meant neither of them would take their medications.

We were getting desperate. And more frustrated. Speaking for myself, I was getting depressed.

As New Year’s Day 2019 approached, I realized it’s been two years since we found out about dad’s Parkinson’s. I could not imagine going another year the way we had spent the last two. We had already found a beautiful, wonderful local assisted living community at which I had already filled out forms and placed a hefty deposit. Of course, part of the admissions process is physical exams, TB tests, and in-person assessments. The care team, my sister, and I definitely deserve some Academy Awards for the show we put on to get all that done without them realizing.

And then there’s the actual moving day. We were assured by the assisted living director that most residents come to them with some degree of resistance, but do acclimate quite well to their new home where they get three delicious, healthy meals a day, meds administered, laundry and housekeeping done, exercise and other activities at his leisure, and a shuttle to take them where ever they need.

It’s like a cruise ship on land for seniors. Who wouldn’t want that when it comes time?

My parents. That’s who.

Did I mention we got desperate? Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. My sister and I were beyond our capacity to continue driving them places, buying groceries and meds only to see them unconsumed, arguing every single visit. But what we were missing most were the days when we got together as a family just for fun. We were convinced getting them into assisted living at any cost would get them back on track and restore some semblance of health and family life.

It was time for Plan Z. (Yes, there were at least 25 other major attempts.) Since they wouldn’t accept help from anyone but family, what if we were no longer available? They would HAVE to move to assisted living, right? Since Dave and I had been regularly traveling to Indy where our businesses are located, I came up with the brilliant idea of telling my folks we were moving there and that my sister was also taking on a full time position, sooooooo neither of us would be available to regularly help them after February. Surely that would force them to see the necessity and practicality of moving.

Long story short, Plan Z failed.

In June we decided to try something we proclaimed “Project Termite.” We came up with this plan in which we’d convince my parents their home had termites and would need to move out so the house could be fumigated. My sister actually bought bugs from a pet store to strategically place in my parents’ house so they would see for themselves what might be found inside the walls of an infested home. I scheduled a termite inspection – yes, a real one (which in reality verified their home was clean as a whistle). The inspector showed up as scheduled on June 19th. My role was to take my folks to lunch while the inspector did his thing so they wouldn’t be around to ask questions. When I got there to pick up my folks, dad did not seem well.

Another long story short, I took dad to John Muir emergency that same day. He had developed pneumonia. The man never goes anywhere – how did he contract pneumonia?!!! Sadly, we learned the hard way that Parkinson’s causes a decline in ability to swallow. Dad was silently aspirating, and none of us knew. He became so weak, so fast. He had already lost a scary amount of weight and his rapid decline in ability to swallow was something we were definitely not prepared. A couple of weeks in the hospital and the next thing I know, the doctor was pulling me aside in the dark hallway outside dad’s hospital room asking me to consider feeding tube placement or “pleasure feedings” for end-of-life.

Ummm…WHAT?

We were just at Sweet Tomatoes having lunch two weeks ago!

*My blog post from July covers the events that transpired after that conversation including how we thought dad could possibly rehab and move to assisted living with mom.

Ninety-eight days in skilled nursing and rehab with a feeding tube. We watched dad go from unable to sit up on his own to walking down the hallway by himself (a huge no-no since he’s a fall risk) to becoming more delusional and agitated to the point of needing an incredible amount of meds in addition to the ones he was already supposed to be taking the past few years – all of which were being administered through his feeding tube.

Quality of life. You hear that all the time. Now it was staring us in the face. It was time to make some tough decisions.

And how’s mom been doing these ninety-eight days? Well, it took dad’s stay in the hospital to convince her she needed to move to assisted living. Her ninety-eight days have been spent acclimating to her new life and us explaining every day why she’s there and where dad is since she can’t remember. It’s like that movie “Fifty First Dates.” We recently discovered she’s not been eating and has been hoarding all her plates of food in her tiny fridge because she’s saving it all for dad. If you know anything about Chinese moms, you know they are all about food and feeding you. It’s how they show love, and it gives purpose to their lives. “Have you eaten yet?” “Yes, I’ve eaten. Thank you.” Proceeds to pull food out to give to you.

How am I doing? I think I’m at my best when I’m busy. Like crazy, non-stop busy. So, when dad was transferred to skilled nursing/rehab, I went into “Operation Move Everything” mode. In a matter of days, my sister and I moved my mom into her new home, and completely cleared out their house from top to bottom to get it ready to sell in order to help pay for all their upcoming bills. Come to discover our mom was worse of a hoarder than we imagined. But amidst the closets and boxes containing fifty years of random stuff were some gems that didn’t go to the junk removal/donation trucks. Plenty of pictures. A lifetime’s worth. We kept those.

One photo album in particular will hold a special place in my heart. My sister had compiled a memory box of photos and albums to keep in dad’s room for when we visited him. One of the times I visited dad by myself, I got out their wedding album. But it had more that just wedding pics. There were photos of the engagement, dating, college, army, and way more hair than I remember dad ever having. I held the album up close so dad could see. He began to reminisce of those days. It brought him back to when he was a boy growing up in a village with his seven siblings. There were nine, but two died. They were dirt poor. Everyone was. My dad was the only one from his village that finished high school then went to college. The entire village criticized his dad for letting my dad go to college because he should be staying home to help take care of the farm and the family. But his dad stood his ground since he believed my dad was smart and had potential. He took a lot of slack for that apparently because as my dad was sharing this, he started crying.

There’s only one other time I’ve ever seen my dad cry, and that was when he got laid off from his engineering job during the summer before my sophomore year at UCLA. He didn’t know I was watching him. He was at his desk in his den opening the mail. I knew he was expecting a letter about a job he applied. He opened the envelope, read the letter, then put his face in his hands and wept. I snuck out before he saw me.

And now my strong, stoic, stubborn dad was lying in a hospital bed with a feeding tube crying. Then his demeanor changed, and he switched gears to telling me how popular he was in school and how many friends he had. My dad not only had a lot of friends, he was a good friend to many. And he kept them through the years. Some of them were in that same photo album. Some of them called him this week from his homeland of Taiwan, from Arcadia where we grew up, and from cross country to tell him what a wonderful friend or uncle he had been to them. When we got to the part of the photo album with my mom in her wedding gown, he smiled big and said “She’s pretty!”

A good, memorable one of those ninety-eight days.

The other days are kind of a blur now. They’re a mixture of bringing mom to visit dad, checking in with nurses, sitting in on some physical therapy sessions, going with him to doctor’s appointments, pushing dad around in his wheelchair, and just sitting by his bed side. In August we celebrated mom’s birthday with a family visit and playing a bouncy ball game with a therapy ball outside in the courtyard of the nursing facility. Two weeks ago we got clearance from dad’s doctor to bring him to visit mom. Those were good visits. Last week we brought dad to the church where he has faithfully served since moving to Northern California in 2004. Family and friends made a special trip to church that day to see dad.

We were hoping for a few more of those types of visits.

The last time I wheeled dad around was Tuesday, October 8th. I sat outside in the courtyard with him and Facetimed Natalie in San Diego like I had done in previous weeks. Seeing his oldest grandchild always brought a smile to his face. This time he was significantly more tired and struggled to get words out. He wasn’t able to ask his usual “How’s work? How’s Zach? Has he gotten into medical school yet? When are they getting married?” This time he seemed to fade in and out of consciousness.

We were told by dad’s care team that his feeding tube was likely not delivering enough calories and nutrition. There just wasn’t enough muscle left to absorb it all. He was showing signs of organ failure. We had discussed the possibility of moving dad to be with mom his last days, but it would have to be without the feeding tube since assisted living is not licensed for that level of care. Tough decision with mom’s Alzheimer’s since it was very likely mom would not remember dad’s passing and continue to look for him at her community. We agreed to keep dad where he was. And now the most agonizing decision was upon us: when to stop the feeding tube and activate hospice.

Another day in the ninety-eight days.

Monday, October 7th, my sister and I dropped everything and went for some “run therapy” at Half Moon Bay. It was an unusually warm day on the coast. Both of us love Half Moon Bay for different reasons. That day we did something we hadn’t done in decades and certainly not the last few years since dad’s Parkinson’s diagnosis. We just hung out. No kids. No hubbies. No real agenda. No arguing about car keys. The one thing we did check off the list that day was agreeing we’d try for one more family visit and possibly a church visit this weekend before making any sort of decisions. We had a lot of peace that day.

Wednesday, October 9th, was a first for the state of California instituting massive PG&E power shutdowns in anticipation of extreme wind and low humidity forecasted. Because of these power outages, many businesses and schools were closed including my sister’s. As a result, she had the morning free, so we decided to visit dad in the morning. When we arrived, we quickly learned from dad’s nurse that he had just yanked out his feeding tube and thrown it in the trash a few minutes ago.

This may sound like an absolutely horrible occurrence; but on the contrary, it was a huge, undeniable answer to prayer. I so desperately did not want to make the decision about stopping the feeding tube and be wrong. Weeks ago when we first met with the hospice team to gather information, the lead nurse told me “Dad is about to cross his finish line. The finish line is in sight.” She didn’t know I’m a runner. Or what those words would mean to me. I pondered her words heavily the following weeks. It occurred to me that if we stopped the feeding tube “too soon,” it would be like cutting the course in a race. I did not want to cut dad’s race short. I shared this with my sister on our run at Half Moon Bay. We also affirmed each other in that we know we want only the best for dad and if we are “off” by a few days, we know we had the best intentions. God reminded me of Psalm 139 that says He already knows the number of our days. So really, even if we’re not sure we stopped the tube on the “right day,” God will call him home when it’s his time anyway.

When we got the news that dad pulled out his feeding tube on his own (pain free apparently), there was a great sense of relief because he had decided for us. I signed the hospice papers that day. I was told dad would officially be on hospice October 10th. That date is my parent’s 54th anniversary. Years ago my mom told me they picked that date because on a clock the 10:10 position of the hour and minute hands look like a smile. That date is also one of my favorite Bible verses:

“I came that they may have life and life to the full.” John 10:10

Setting himself free of the feeding tube was one more step toward his finish line. He was one step closer to full, abundant, eternal life as God intended.

Family and friends came everyday to sing and pray with dad. Even though dad was unconscious, we believe he could hear us. We talked to him and took every opportunity to share with him our most precious memories as well as tell him what an incredible father, husband, provider, friend, and faithful servant of God he has been. There were many tears because dad will be dearly, painfully, insurmountably missed.

This morning, October 13th, day ninety-eight, dad crossed his finish line moments after sunrise. He is without a doubt running on streets of gold with Jesus at this very moment. We have long joked that no matter how amazing a dish, dessert, event, or item is, dad would always say “Meh, it’s okay.” I imagine dad is in Heaven eating juicy mangoes like he did as a little boy in his village or playing another round of golf minus any sand traps and declaring with his big toothy grin “Wow, now THIS is pretty awesome, God!”