The Ballestero Blog

Private Sorrow

By

Martyn Ballestero

“A short journal about adult children dealing with the final days of their parent’s life.”

This was written for the benefit of my immediate family. Knowing that it was impossible for us all to go and see Dad as he began to near the end, I thought it important to chronicle these events. No matter how mundane, I wanted to remember everything. Much can be lost over the years in the relating of experiences by word of mouth. So I wanted to record things big and small as they happened and as I saw them.

Table of Contents

The Funeral                  Part 1

The Fear                        Part 2

The Flight                     Part 3

With Dad                      Part 4

Day-By-Day                  Part 5

Epilogue                        Part 6

Part 1

The Funeral

The audience is solemn faced and quiet as the musicians do their best to play a comforting hymn. I stand at the head of the casket. Friends and neighbors have just paid their last respects in single file. All eyes are on the family as they stand. They are broken and tearful as they mouth their final farewells. Shoulders are heaving. They cling to each other for support.

As the pastor, I know I need to go and try to comfort them, especially the especially the widow. Somehow, I’m frozen in place. My head says to go, but my body is not responding.

Bro. Lee Silver, a faithful and well-loved member of the congregation lies in a beautiful casket beside me on the left. He had lived a good life. He was a worshipper and a pastor’s friend. His dear wife had nursed him through a bout with cancer. With that seemingly behind him, he then found himself dealing with what was symptomatic of Alzheimer’s and Parkinson’s. The final report from the doctor said, “Jacob Crutchfield’s Disease.” I’d never heard of that before.

In the hospital room a few weeks prior, Sister Silvers and her oldest daughter told me about the dark side of the disease. Among others, they’d listed:

• Confusion.
• Loss of memory. Especially short term.
• Involuntary shaking or jerking of the limbs.
• Degrees of hallucination.
• Talking to non-visible people
• Picking up imaginary objects and moving them.
• Loss of appetite.
• Inability to swallow with ease.
• Just eating a bite or two a day of solids.
• Pursing lips at food, fluids, or pills.
• Dehydration.
• Not recognizing family members.
• Inability to properly void fluids.
• Closing of the eyes most of the time, even when someone is talking to them.
• Vacant look in opened, yet unseeing eyes.
• Incoherent mutterings and ramblings.
• Voice loss. Communicating in whispers, quiet whispers at best.

“Oh no God,” I remember thinking. These symptoms fit my father to a tee. He’s been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and severe prostate problems. They feared it might be cancer. And now, Mom was waiting for the report to come back on Dad’s Bone Marrow test.

It seemed that whatever symptoms Bro. Silvers had, in about a 3-4 weeks, Daddy would have the same problem. It became scary and almost prophetic.

Two weeks ago, while in the hospital, Bro. Silvers had quit opening his eyes to talk to visitors. He couldn’t or wouldn’t swallow. Malnutrition and dehydration had become a serious issue. Next came the transfer to a nursing home. Within a week, it was like the Lord had said, “That’s enough.” He sent for Bro. Silvers, relieving him of his struggle. My wife, Marcia and I had heard the nurse tell Sis. Silvers that, “The Lord has just taken your husband home.” We hadn’t wanted to intrude too deep or too long into the family’s private grief. It was sweet how the Lord had allowed us to be there when we were needed.

I looked at Sis. Silvers now. She stood looking down at her husband. Her eyes were red and wet. Her hands nervously worked new creases into her freshly ironed hanky. My wife had materialized beside me, available to help minister. The funeral director, a fine young man, had gone to the widow’s side, his arm around her giving her support. He was doing my job. I felt very guilty, but still I couldn’t seem to bring myself to respond to her need.

My ears alerted me back to reality. I could tell that the organ was playing alone. The piano had stopped. Why? Then without turning my head, I knew why. The sobs of the piano player were deep and heart wrenching. Yet I knew she wasn’t mourning like that for Bro. Silvers. She was deep in her own private sorrow.

I knew immediately why the pianist was crying. I knew because she’s my sister, Carlene Branham. I wanted to cry with her. I felt just like she did. I made myself maintain composure. We had to finish this service. Our personal pain couldn’t be allowed to be so transparent, now.

With the help of the Lord we all escorted our departed friend and brother to his final earthly abode, Mt. Pleasant Cemetery.  I couldn’t find my Minister’s “Star” Book, so I was compelled to make all of my remarks from heart and the “committal” from memory. The congregation stood around the gravesite and sang: “In The Sweet Bye And Bye.”

As we left the cemetery in the funeral car, I felt a sense of foreboding. Not even the lighthearted conversation from the funeral director helped. I had to go home and pack. My flight to California was early in the morning. Tomorrow, I’d be with Mom and Dad.

Part 2

The Fear

I’d seen them just two months ago. We’d all been there for their 50^th Anniversary; my sisters Carlene, Ramona and Nila, and their families. Dad wasn’t doing very well then. But recently it had gotten worse. A lot worse. Mom wasn’t her cheerful self. Her voice sounded awful close to the breaking point on the phone these past several months. Sometimes she’d vented her pain with tears. Then she’d apologize as if she’d done something wrong or shown a weakness of some kind.

Mom always prayed early in the morning. Sometimes when I called I could still hear the sounds of left-over prayer in her voice. Prayer had always come easy for Mom. Now it was even easier.

Daddy the Pastor, Evangelist, Bible Teacher, Conference, Camp Meeting Speaker and Author was revered and honored by most all who knew him. Over fifty years in the ministry spent burning the candle at both ends. Some years, he had preached more sermons than there were days in the year. These were things we remembered about our Dad. But now, that’s what they seemed. Just memories.

They’d lost their home. The generosity of Bro. Fletcher, Bro. Frazier and the precious Fontana, CA. saints had provided them with a house they could stay in, Bro. Bill Buie and the wonderful saints from Hollywood, FL had given them a new car. How grateful I felt that others had been able to do things that I wasn’t able to do for Dad and Mom. I’ve always felt guilty about that.

The generosity of the sweet people I pastor had made itself manifest just three days before. After service Wednesday night, an announcement was made and everyone responded. They gave me an offering to buy a ticket to go see my Dad. I bought it the next day.

Why was I dreading to see my Dad? It was totally a new emotion for me. I felt guilty. I’d never felt a sense of (Could I dare say it?) dread before. I was having a very tough time processing in my emotions all the horror stories of disease and ageing that I’d received from home. How in the world was Mom able to cope? The worst they said I could imagine, was happening.

Bless Mom. My worst fears nagged at me. I could stay ten (10) days. I didn’t want to see the “worst that could happen.” I just wanted to see Daddy.

The travel agent had said, “Mister, we can save you lots of money if you care to book a flight fourteen days in advance.” I responded that I might not have two weeks. I want my Dad to know me, and money can’t buy that.

Part 3

The Flight

“Southwest, flight #1381 from Chicago to Phoenix shuddered through the overcast clouds. I shuddered too. All the kisses, well wishes and waves were now memories. I was on a plane with a sense of loneliness.

As a pastor, it’s normal to spend your life supporting and comforting the flock. Today, it seems like some of my streets only run one way. I go to the hospital, nursing home, or wherever for others. No one is here for me. I guess that’s the lot of a minister. Everyone feels he’s strong enough or knows all the right words. Pastors are human. They can hurt too. I’m surprised that not many have figured that out yet.

I guess I’m in the middle of a pity party. I feel tears wanting to come. I must be a big baby. Mom needs me to be strong for her. Today, I don’t feel strong. Where’s this special strength from the Lord that I preach about? Where? Where is it found?

Somehow the roles between parent and child change over the years. I used to be dependant upon Mom and Dad for everything. Now they look to me, the first born, to make decisions for them. I don’t relish the thoughts of making mistakes with their lives.

Tears of fear fall silently. I’m paranoid. I know Daddy won’t look like he did a couple of months ago. He weighs 142 lbs. Mom said. He loses 2-4 pounds every week. Mom needs some time off. Maybe I can help.

She needs to get out of the house. Nurses from Hospice come by and check on him. We haven’t allowed the word “nursing home” to be mentioned yet.

Numbly I mutter a silent prayer, “God help me today, it seems unfair that I help others and there is no one to help me. Who’s going to give me what I need?”

“I am.” The Lord seemed to impress upon me.

The flight is “Open Seating”. Two fresh-faced young people ask to sit by me. Newlyweds. They’re a darling couple. They just got married yesterday. As they sit beside me the talk of their honeymoon plans and new home and jobs in a new state.

They took turns reading aloud from the Bible, their Sunday School lesson and the book ‘One Plus One Equals One”. I watch their excitement with life grow. Fingers point to interesting sites on the ground below. This was their first flight. I felt a twinge. While life was coming to an end in one place, it was just starting here. I wished them the best.

I had listened to Sis. Nona Freeman’s tape about “I Am My Beloved’s And He Is Mine.” She spoke of giving thanks in all things. Her husband had a car wreck and was severely injured. Instead of praying desperately, she had simply said something like, “God, I thank you my husband had a wreck and is near death.” Amazingly, God had given them a miracle.

I thought I’d try that approach. “Lord, I thank you that my Father has Alzheimer’s and is dying.” I sat there a minute. “Lord, it sounds sarcastic when I say it. I’m sorry.” I guess that scripture don’t work for me.

I changed planes at Phoenix. I now sat on Flight #386 to Ontario. Once we were off the ground, I looked up at the “call” button. “Passenger in 10-D needs your help Lord.”

My writing is interrupted by the voice of the flight attendant as she leans over my seat. Carol, a grandmother of a 9 year old, speaks in her soft Texas drawl.

She said, “pardon me sir, but two people have noticed you writing and we’ve decided that you must be an author or writer of some kind. If I might be so bold as to ask, What are you writing about? I want to know too”

I tried to explain in my best “Reader’s Digest Version.” Tears welled up in her eyes. She let them fall. Still clutching her tray she stood there for five minutes or more. She consoled me, telling me of her experiences with her parents dying with Alzheimer’s and how she made it through. I couldn’t believe it. She, a total stranger, was ministering to me. Like He’d done for Elijah, The Lord had sent a “Raven” to minister to my needs, even at 33,000 feet. I felt better.

On leaving, she said her aged Grandmother had once said, “I don’t want to be a blessing. I want to die before I am a blessing.” When I asked what she meant, she said, “You know when someone is sick and lingers a long time, how they always say that it was a ‘blessing’ when they die?” She said, “I don’t want to be a blessing.”

We both chuckled. I told Carol that she was a credit to the airline she represented, and thanked her for caring.

We landed without incident in Ontario. Upon disembarking, I told her that she was a treasure and thanked her again. Standing at the door by the pilot, she threw open her arms and said, “Come here, I wanta give ya a hug.”

She did. (I hoped the Lord and Marcia understood.) I looked out of the plane onto the ground below. My Mother stood behind the fence waiting for me. I walked down the stairs to the tarmac, out in the open air. Mom started waving her arms. Her hug was long, tight and emotional. I was glad to be here. It felt like home.

During the car trip to the house, I read a few excerpts from the pages I’d written. Mom’s driving became erratic as her vision blurred and she fumbled for a tissue. We both had a little cry.