Mini Bucket List Part 2

Say “Yes!”

After awhile, my family and I took my Dad’s lead and decided to break some rules. At this point, when the days are literally numbered, what kind of trouble can you really incur? We wheeled my Dad outside to enjoy the warm weather and gentle breeze, all legal. We were not allowed to take him off hospital property. If we did and anything was to happen, say a fatal incident, God forbid, we would have to call 911 for help, not the hospital. This used to be important, a real risk.

The sunshine was glorious, but the parking lot was dreary. About a hundred yards away lay a sparkling lake. It was like a Siren to the captive patients at the hospital. It took three seconds for my sibs and I to say, “Why not?” We unlocked the breaks on the wheelchair and made a dash for the oasis-like lake.

My younger sister stood in the crosswalk like a crossing guard, arms outstretched to prevent anyone running over an 86 year-old in a wheel chair with an oxygen tank. (I think I’d run over a regular person first before an old guy in a wheelchair, even if it were my sister, and maybe because it was my sister, just kidding.) We made it and nobody noticed, at least to our knowledge.

Must Have!

We soaked up the Colorado sunshine and listened to jazz from my iphone, courtesy of my jazz son’s recommendations. Dave Brubeck’s Blue Rondo A la Turk*, will be forever imbedded in my memories. And Brubeck’s Take Five* seemed apropos too. Both tug at my heart with every listen.

Jazz has a way of making you feel content to just be, not worry about what to say next. You can peacefully enjoy the moment and let your heart and soul wander as you sit, lakeside.

My dad’s remark in perfect English, “This is Grand!” Gads, spoken like a man of his genteel generation and spot on.

Bandidos

We made plans to return the next day. This time we’d bring wine for the sibs and my dad’s favorite chocolate malted from Gunther Toody’s. Then my brothers decided we better go incognito, in case anyone might recognize us from the hospital. Groucho Marx never looked so good on a band of bandidos, dad style. Water pistols served as extra protection. Jazz tune Sing, Sing, Sing* was our escape music. Heck, as long as we are breaking all the rules and truly nothing to lose, may as well make it fun. Check that off your mini-bucket list. What freedom!

And while you’re at it, why not bust out of your tough self and show a little affection towards your children, even if they are 40+. Let’s hold hands while we watch the baseball game on TV. Love the Rockies and love my kids. My younger brother Max and I shared this quiet moment. Now that’s “grand” too.

Fast Food Finery

When my dad moved to hospice, a hospital hospice, they forgot to feed him dinner. (Patients don’t really eat at this place.) I took this cue to bring in the sacred Burger King Whopper Junior. I had to cut it up into tiny bits because my dad couldn’t swallow very well. He couldn’t inhale that burger fast enough. His cheeks were filling up like a squirrel eating nuts. Fast food never tasted so fine. We had to literally pull it away to make sure he swallowed what he had and he had to prove it before getting more. No skin of his back if someone wants to look at a grotty old tongue. He got what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to show it.

His last parting words to a visiting friend were a tear-jerker. My dad didn’t want us to worry, or his young friend Joe, husband to my sister’s pal. I heard him tell this fella, “My life is complete.” The room broke into sniffles; even my dad was subdued. I jumped into the seat vacated by good old Joe. “I’m still here!” I wanted to cheer him up. He cheered up the whole room with his sarcastic remark, “Well isn’t that your tough luck?” Man, he’s always one step ahead of us no matter his state.

My last day with my dad, I found him downing a water like he was drinking a tall one at the bar. It was 7:15 AM. Because he can’t swallow well, thin liquids cause him to aspirate, or swallow down the “wrong side”. Water was a luxury. He didn’t care. The nurses didn’t care and neither did we. He drank and coughed like he was drowning his misery, almost literally. He was content.

Bliss.

The nurses at hospice were angels. They wheeled my dad’s bed out into the gardens filled with lavender and daisies. My family and I joined him. He was at home, watching over the flowers. He asked us to pick some, lots, so he could hold fistfuls. He held each bouquet to his nose for a long, good whiff. And he sat, completely satisfied. My dad in bed with the bed of blooms is my last memory of him. And he was happy.

So fear not, a bucket list does not have to be big stuff. Think small like Frank:

Speak Spanish. Don’t wait to speak fluently or for Mexico.
Tease nurses and doctors and most definitely your kids.
Sign “I Love You” and mean it.
Disguise yourself as Groucho Marx.
Enjoy a malted and don’t worry about calories, glucose or lactose.
Break a rule and love it.
Hold hands with your kids even when they are adults.
Take an emotional roller coaster ride: poignant one moment and sarcastic the next.
Devour a Burger King Whopper Junior even if you can’t swallow it.
Hold fistfuls of flowers and inhale their perfume.