A Change in Seasons: Caring for Her Father the Way he Once Cared for Her

On this episode of Our American Stories, Debra Freeberg joins us with an abridged version of the beautiful and heartwarming story she wrote about caring for her father in his time of need.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:09):
And we returned to our American stories. Next, we have
a listener's story from Deborah Freeburg. Deborah is here to
share a part of a heartwarming story she wrote about
caring for her father in his time of need. Let's
take a listener.

Speaker 2 (00:25):
In the season of my childhood. My parents were my
guides and teachers. They taught honesty and fairness. They taught
that you don't accomplish anything without hard work and perseverance.
It was in their actions that I learned that faith
and family were paramount. Every month or so, we drive
to the tiny town of Hautsdale, Pennsylvania to visit Grandma
and Grandpa Freeburg. Every summer, we drive across the vastness

(00:49):
of Ohio and Indiana to reach Crystal Lake, Illinois and
spend a few weeks with Grandma and Grandpa Johnson. Vacations
were always equated with trips to family. Parents attended almost
every family event they could, anniversaries, baptisms, weddings, reunions, and funerals.
Family was important. Caring for family was important. During my

(01:12):
college years, I remember the care that my parents displayed
for their parents. Grandpa Freeburg had multiple strokes and Grandma
Freeburg slid into dementia after he passed. The road from
Pittsburgh to the nursing home in Johnstown was well traveled.
Grandma Johnson's repeated surgeries and my parents flying back and
forth to Tucson from Pittsburgh, occasionally even driving cross country.

(01:36):
It took its toll, but that's what family did for
one another, and now it was my turn a new season.
Uncharted in a bit frightening. In the center of the
hospital room is a large medical bed enclosing a large
man with its metal railings. DEB Yes, Dad. The sheet

(01:58):
and blue blanket are bunched around his middle. He looks worried.
I think it's time pea patrol. I felt the shame
rolling off of Dad as I swallow my embarrassment this
first time. I'm sorry. I never thought you'd have to
do this, Dad, it's okay. Stiffly stepping to the rolling
table wedged at the head of the bed, I move

(02:19):
one of the many stands of medical equipment to get
to the table. I pick up the urinal flask. I
smile at Dad and he smiles back. Thank you, he whispers.
In nineteen ninety seven, Dad had a massive rolling stroke
that resulted in the loss of mobility on his left side, arm,
and leg. He still had his cognitive functions, speech, intellect,

(02:43):
and his peculiar sense of humor. Dad rehabbed and struggled
to relearn and retrain his body so that he could
still navigate the house, go up a few stairs, or
walk up and down inclines in the driveways and sidewalks. Jim,
be careful, mob would say, Dad, be careful. We would say,
let me help. I can do it, He'd say. Dad

(03:06):
hated being a burden for my mother, but he still
needed help with dressing, putting on shoes and socks, being
driven places, opening heavy doors, and the like. Now Dad
was never a quitter. For the next half dozen years
or more, he thought he could exercise his way back
to health. No stroke was going to keep him down.
My active fishing golfer father began a rhythm of short

(03:29):
months of recovery followed by disappointment. Outside of therapy, Dad
tried to exercise, push too hard, or fell and hurt
himself more than he helped. After he fell off the
sleek wooden Nordic tract glider rails, got banged up, bruises
blooming along his side elbow, a misery, and a ripe
shiner on his face. His doctor told him to stop

(03:52):
trying so hard. He sat in his wheelchair by then,
couldn't exercise much. He wouldn't take his antidepressants. They made
him feel funny. He steadily packed on pounds. He couldn't
stop eating, and Mom couldn't stop making him his favorite foods.
By the time Dad passed three hundred pounds, my mom
had great biceps pushing him along in his wheelchair, but

(04:12):
she was exhausted. Mom's friends routinely told me and my
sister's that Mom was the strongest woman they'd ever met,
and my mom could have run a small country in
her prime, but twelve plus years of taking care of
Dad wore her down. My sisters were six hours away
and I was nearly eleven hours away by car. We
started a schedule of rotating months so that Mom can

(04:34):
have some relief in company and Dad had company. See
you in a couple months, Dad, if I'm here, Oh Dad,
please don't say that. Well, I may not be here
next month or next year. You never know, Dad. No
one should have to live like this, but he did
for fifteen years after the first stroke, when he got pneumonia.

(04:55):
In twenty eleven, I took another week off from work
I never knew and it might be the last visit.
This time, I decided to spend some nights with Dad
in the hospital rather than the few hours in and
out each day. Dad was incontinent and needed extra help
at night when the nursing staff was minimal. At first night,

(05:17):
I walked into Dad's room as the nurse and orderlies
were changing his bedding and gown. I stepped back into
the doorway as they rolled him over on his side,
then onto his back, and rolling him back on the
other side as they got the bedding under him and
over him. The first night alone in the room, we
began with talking and catching up, and then deb instead.

(05:40):
I'm sorry. I never thought you girls would have to
do this pea patrol Dad, It's okay, Oh honey, no
big deal. Dad, you change my butt plenty of times.
I fling back the thin blanket and rise from my
cramped position on the hard vinyl sofa. I reached for
my glasses on the small window ledge above the cap
oulch and stand, pushing the frames back on my nose.

(06:04):
The blinds are partially open and I glanced down at
the circle drive, illuminated by lights above the hospital entrance.
It's late. I'm sorry, he'd say. It's all right, I'd say,
but it was more than just handling his urgent needs.
He was exposing his gross, bloated bellied to me. I
knew that he hated his body. It's all right, I'd

(06:27):
say again. At first, I just concentrate on the task.
I'm done, okay. Each time, I gently take the flask away,
set it down on the rolling table, and then he
grabs the wipe and furtively wipes himself. I cover him
back up with a thin sheet and the blue woven
blanket back in a minute. In the bathroom, I check

(06:49):
the output and write it down on the chart, empty
the urine into the toilet, rinse and wash the flask,
and then wash my hands thoroughly. Placing the clean flask
on the t I rub his arm and smooth his
spiky hair. I love you, Oh, I love you too, Dad.
I'm glad you're here, honey. I am too dead. Try

(07:09):
to get some sleep. The medical machine alarms go off regularly,
and the couch of vinyl covered hardness is killing my back.
The clock's second hands, ticks around and around. My half
doze or daydream moments of my childhood as I watched
dad's sleep, mouth slack, blue eyes shuddered a mount of

(07:31):
a man in a cage bed. When we were kids,
Dad would meet us after work at the community pool
and we'd laugh to see Dad's dark golfer tan on
his face, neck, arms, and legs against the Scandinavian whiteness
of his belly blooming over his red bathing trunks. He'd
lie on his back and float his manly white belly

(07:52):
gliding by. It's the great white wall, look out, We cry,
and Dad would chase us and toss us up in
the air and throw it back in the water, spluttering.
My two sisters and I would shout again again until
his arms gave out and Mom called us to eat dinner.
This was my beloved goofy dad who embarrassed my teenage

(08:12):
self every time he wore this Elmer Fudd faux fur
hat in public or the umbrella hat, or thought Conway
Twitty was a rock star. The dad who bought an
invisible dog and walked around Gatlinburg, Tennessee, encouraging the little
kids to pet the dog. Yes, the father whose disappointment

(08:32):
chafed me and justly would hold me accountable. He could
get on my last nerve with his advice or teasing
that rubbed raw. But he was a man of friends
and the most honest person I knew, and the most
self deprecating. I was mortified at my response to his
weight and size. I mean, there he lay a great

(08:54):
heap of a man under blanket. I was ashamed of myself,
and I understood that didn't know the essence of the
man I knew. As I watched him sleep, I'd wonder
when my father last felt cherished, or when he felt
fully alive in his body. I wanted him to feel cherished.
For two days, I stayed overnight in the hospital with

(09:16):
my father. Sometimes we chatted about my daughter and work.
Sometimes we chatted about my sister and the family. Sometimes
we chatted about nothing much at all until he fell asleep.
Neither of us sleep more than a few hours at
a time. Deb Yes, Dad, pe patrol on the double.

(09:37):
I am sorry, I am sorry. You have to see
your old, broken down father like this. Each time, each time,
he'd apologize, you shouldn't have to do this. I tried
to make him understand, But Dad, I finally said, this
is how I can love you. His eyes were a
little moist. Then we looked at each other. Nothing more

(09:59):
need be sad. We were together and that is what mattered.

Speaker 1 (10:05):
And a terrific job on the editing, storytelling and production
by our own Madison Dericott. And a special thanks to
Deborah Freeburg for sharing her beautiful story. We're all going
to be there, folks. On the receiving end and the
giving end of her parents, she said, in their actions,
I learned faith and family were paramount. She remembered the
care her parents gave their parents, and then that time,

(10:28):
that new season bit uncharted and frightening, where she became
the caretaker. When I watched him, she said, I wondered
when he last felt cherished. I wanted him to feel cherished.
A love's story between daughter and father, the daughter caring
for her father the way her father had once cared
for her. This is our American stories.