Caring for Dad: With Love and Tomatoes

By Cindy McIntyre

For anyone who has floundered through the stages of grief or for anyone who has lovingly served as a caregiver, this book offers solace or reassurance. Follow the author as she is caught in a struggle—seeking a balance in her personal and professional life—and thrusted into a sudden reversal in her life’s role, a shifting from child to parent.

In the wake of pain, after her mother’s passing, the author begins an eighteen-year journey as a caregiver to her father. In Caring for Dad: With Love and Tomatoes, she utilizes storytelling to share inner thoughts, prayers, poetry, and laughter. Join the author in exploring the calamities and triumphs she experienced with her dad. Ultimately, she learns that caregiving is many things: soul-crushing closeness, courageousness, and an all-consuming commitment. Every aspect caregiving offered her, the highs and the lows, was well worth the effort. God had provided her a privileged blessing—the ability to give love to another unconditionally.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973641223

Cindy McIntyre

Cindy McIntyre, author of Eulogies Unspoken: Stories of Worth, is an award-winning poet, and an educator of at-risk youth. She is a member of the Missouri Writer’s League and Ozark Writers League. She holds a Bachelors degree in psychology and a Master’s degree in Human Services, with an emphasis in Education. Miss McIntyre, has a background in home health services, which prepared her for the eighteen-year journey, serving as her father’s caregiver. Cindy McIntyre shares with readers honest emotions of grief, and moments of hope and inspiration. She is originally from Earlville, Illinois, but now calls Missouri her home. www.missouriauthorcindymcintyre.com Grief is universal. Yet, each of us takes a different journey on the path to healing. Through storytelling together, we might regain hope and faith.

Book preview

Caring for Dad

With Love and Tomatoes

Cindy McIntyre

38246.png

Copyright © 2018 Cindy McIntyre.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scriptures taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The NIV and New International Version are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4123-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4124-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-4122-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018911563

WestBow Press rev. date: 09/27/2018

Contents

Chapter 1 Lullaby, Dad

Chapter 2 Daddy’s Baby

Chapter 3 Come Home

Chapter 4 Bless the Little Children

Chapter 5 A Prayer of Thanksgiving

Chapter 6 The Fifth Floor

Chapter 7 Becoming a Caregiver

Chapter 8 Animal Adventures

Chapter 9 Birds and Murder Tape

Chapter 10 The Great White Hurricane

Chapter 11 Winter Woes

Chapter 12 Heartfelt Hunger

Chapter 13 Medicine Chats

Chapter 14 A Stint with a Roommate

Chapter 15 Pacing of the Heart

Chapter 16 Burning Concerns

Chapter 17 Where’s Dad—and Who is Ilene?

Chapter 18 Life Measured in a Month of Sundaes

Chapter 19 Not So Long Ago

Chapter 20 Across the Bridge

Acknowledgments

Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters… It is the Lord Christ you are serving.

—Colossians 3:23–24 (NIV)

In

memory of my parents, whom I miss every day. To my father who trusted me with his life. Dad, I only wish our journey together on earth would have lasted longer. Thank you for floundering with me after Mom’s passing. We sure did our best to survive together. As your caregiver, I tried hard to serve your needs by viewing them as daily blessings, granted to me by God. What an honor it is to be your daughter. Thank you for being a good father. As you used to say, I thank you, but God thanks you too.

Life’s Transportation with Dad

My first car, you by my side, arms outstretched.

Laughing as I utilized my bare feet to go. I am

barely walking but accelerating

in my red plastic convertible.

Earning my license to drive at sixteen, you

stood coaching from the front porch. I am

barely able to operate in a straight line,

in the driver’s seat of your red Dodge truck.

Mom’s car, I am by your side, and

crying from the passenger seat. We are

barely capable of being without her, but

in her car together, we’re drowning in our grief.

Dad’s car, but he has no license to drive.

Losing his independence—his eyesight now fading.

Barely mobile, but his walker now aiding. He’s

in the passenger’s seat of a car, he is surrendering.

My car, you by my side, storytelling, and

laughing, as we are cruising. I am chauffeuring.

Barely juggling all life’s roles, teaching days, evenings

nursing. In my car, with Dad, for daily caregiving.

My car, you are not by my side. Now, empty space.

Mourning as I am pondering life’s next journey.

Barely capable of regaining so much time and freedom.

In my car, occupied with faith, but void of caregiving.

My car, with future manuscripts and books written by my side.

Honoring your life and our memories, words keep rolling out.

I am barely slowing down. Listening to your character,

I hear your voice. Inside my car, Dad’s daily echo flows,

Come on—let’s go.

Dad%2c%20sister%20Sandi%2c%20and%20me%2c%20circa%201971.jpg

Dad, sister Sandi, and me, circa 1971

Chapter 1

Lullaby, Dad

Lullaby and goodnight, with roses bedight… lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed. Dad, what in the world does bedight even mean? Ever so softly, I asked this question, but only inside my mind. After all, it was merely a rhetorical question, as I was never expecting any response. Searching later for the answer, I learn that bedight represents being adorned or covered in roses. So, it was precisely the perfect song to ease my heart. And did this place knowingly harbor that secret all along? See, I judged the tune solely as a means to appease me through trickery—a way to coax me into pretending you were just asleep, Dad.

Planting myself inside the high-backed chair, I permitted its wings to envelop me while wishing each floral imprint would devour me. Deeper and deeper I plummeted into the cushions with my eyes half-closed. Over and over I processed every word of the nursery rhyme. Sleep on with no fear; guardian angels are near. Caught inside a storm of fragrant blossoms, the petals were unfolding and emitting their anointing oils. The scent of roses mingling with daffodils is implying that spring is forthcoming—except I am withdrawn into a wintry cocoon, attempting to protect my soul.

Uncertainty is all around me, and the sunlight is clouded. A mishmash of emotions and seasons are prevailing, each of them vying for my time. Sorrow and joy are at odds inside me, both attempting to cultivate and take hold—this is my internal struggle. Yellow roses, my favorite flowers, were draped over the wooden structure, spraying out their brilliant hue—just one of the many reasons why I love them the most. You deserve the best color. Everything was a favorite of us both, Dad. Varying shades of blue, brown, and yellow, which complemented each other. Occasionally, I relinquished quick, sideways glances toward the back wall, where I bear witness to it all.

A discreet hallway beyond the back wall leads to the showroom. Layered boxes—some were anchored to the wall in there. Others were entirely staged, opened and firmly established on the ground, thus allowing the opportunity to color match with clothing, providing a full-fledged effect. Assorted sizes and styles were available and for any age group.

No one will ever find just the right size, however. Nothing will likely be enough to contain all the character of a soldier a family has lost, even with Old Glory on display. Nothing will likely be enough to hold all the potential of what might have been for a family who has lost a child, even with teddy bears on display. Nothing will likely be enough to accommodate all the memories of a father, even with his all his photos and his Bible on display. Mostly, it’s a no size fits none and an airless location where it is difficult to catch your breath.

Such a sad place, and its sorrows haunt all who have been here before. Their sad energies cling to me, especially from those who must reach out and choose one of the tiniest pink or blue options, or those having to select multiple items, all in one day, involuntarily. Empathy for those suffering here is justified. Because I know, in my own heart, I have never been quite the same since coming here.

Twice now, I have found myself here, brainstorming and grasping for any way to challenge and outsmart my grief so that I can withstand this unimaginable moment. Clench your teeth, bite the inside of your cheek, and dig your fingernails into the palm of your hand while making a tight fist. Check, check, check. You’ve got this, Cindy. You will survive. This time, you need to breathe.

Eighteen years ago, I stood in this cursed room, traumatized and numb. Mom’s purple dress once floated through the air here, landing inside the silk-lined boxes as we tested each for the right match. Theresa, Sandi, and I scurried right past the lavender model this time. But each sister paused to make jerky eye contact, silently observant and mindful of our awkward situation. Even then, nothing was ever going to be enough to contain the love and memories of a precious mother. Nothing at all inside this whole room would have ever captured all her worth.

Twice? Twice! Yes, twice now, life had dealt me this hand. Forced upon me was an expectation to make yet another appearance in this unusual and grueling location. What is it precisely I am doing here with my sisters? Is it scouting, shopping, browsing, hunting, or selecting? Finding a word to explain this circumstance is impossible! We must try to tolerate this fate and merely make our selections.

Masculine setup was our requisition and mission today. Our to-do list had this item as a top priority to accomplish. Among the layers of boxes, still anchored to the wall, we were paraded. Memories of this place have never left me. I quickly recalled all the little structures, the flags, the children’s bears, and the full-sized displays. Visual images continuously loiter in my mind. Blessing or curse, I do not know, but there they remain, etched in my flashbulb memory.

Finally, we agreed on lighter wood tones. Boxes had to be pulled out from their anchors on the wall. Golden oak was the color—I would even say it had a touch of honey glaze. Elegant and simple, yet offering a hint of distinguished gentleman in its overall design. Inhaling deeply in preparation because I was more aware now than I had been eighteen years ago. Peacefully, Dad’s suit was placed on