Reentry: Coming Home
by Dr. Santo D. Marabella, The Practical Prof®
Friday, June 28, 2019 — it was a significant date.
The next morning, I called my parents’ phone number to double check that Mom, 88 at the time, was awake for our trice-weekly trip to hemodialysis. No answer. She was almost always up and ready in time for her 6:20am appointment. I say almost because there were occasions when she would get up in the middle of the night thinking it was time, get washed and dressed, only to realize she mis-read the clock. On the few instances when that happened, she might oversleep.
But, today was different. I could feel it. I raced over to their house from mine, about a 13-minute ride, 9 minutes that day. Called a few times on my way, still no answer. Instead of double-parking in the driveway, I turned the ignition to “off.” I was unsure what I would find, but prepared that it wouldn’t be good.
I unlocked the front door, and almost instantly saw my mother in her housecoat, lying on the kitchen floor, through the living room. I yelled as I approached her “Mom, are you okay?” She answered, “I fell!” She was conscious and talking — good! As I got on the floor next to her, I noticed her ankle —bleeding, twisted… in a completely un-natural way. I’m not a medical doctor, but I knew it was broken. “I hurt my ankle.” “I see that,” I said. I started dialing on my cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” “The ambulance, we’ve got to get that checked,” I said. She started to make a move to get up and told me she had to put on some clothes — she couldn’t go to the hospital like this. I stopped her. “It’s okay, Mom, they’ve seen older women in their housecoat. I don’t want you to put any pressure on your ankle.” She acquiesced.
We got to the hospital, and, of course, it was broken. And, that began a two-month period of surgery, recovery and rehab. But, it also marked the beginning of my reentry — coming home. That Friday night would be the last time we (Rafaelle, my flat-coated retriever and I) slept in our house, and that Saturday night would be the first time we slept at “home.”
That Saturday night was the first night in a while that we stayed over. We would stay if bad weather was predicted, to make sure they could get out if necessary or just to keep them company from the “cabin fever” they would experience from being stuck inside. And, we were over multiple times during the week, going to doctor appointments, having meals together or just checking in.
I knew I had to come “home” because my Dad, then 92, suffered from Parkinson’s Disease since 2002. He could walk with a walker, but could no longer be safe at home by himself. So, Rafaelle and I came home to be with Dad. An only child, with no spouse or kids, it was easier to move me, than to move him to my house — more importantly, everything at their house was accessible.
The first night at “home” in my old bedroom was eerily different, yet comfortably the same! The bed and the other furniture were new, but the room was still mine! The room still had the paneling that prohibited an adolescent me from plastering posters all over the walls (Dad’s rule!). The RCA Victor console stereo was there. Growing up it was one of my best friends. It helped me perform a variety of musicals — a past time when peer friends were not to be found. And, of course, it represented a younger kid’s growing independence — moving upstairs, having his own phone line and a bit more privacy. It was an adolescent’s dream!
As an adult, I was fairly self-sufficient and independent. My parents were always there to help and support, yet I managed to build a career as a college professor that sustained and fulfilled me. As my parents grew older, their health issues became more complicated and their need for help more apparent. I alway did as much as I could for my parents, while having a separate life of my own.
Funny, but all these years later, being in that bedroom again wasn’t a symbol of independence. It represented dependence — my parents’ dependence on me which translated into less independence for me! That notion which had been on my horizon for years, became a reality that weekend.
Coming home was a choice. I knew that I needed to choose this, or face a lifetime of resentment and regret. I’m Italian — we’re good at both! Neither is good, for any of us. I chose to come home because my parents needed me, because I could do it without neglecting a family of my own and because I worked at an institution that supported its employees and their family responsibilities. It was never an easy choice, but it was easy to choose.
Besides being helpful to my parents, coming home brought me and Rafaelle peace. Peace for me, that any phone call after 9pm (my parents’ typical bedtime) was not a crisis that would end up as a late-night visit to the ER of the local hospital. Or, that either parent would have more assistance (from me and our paid caregivers) so they had to do less. And, finally, that being there helped minimize and in some cases avoid problems from questionable choices Mom or Dad might make (their fierce independence never waned). Yes, there were still crises and difficulties, but I was there so the worry, anxiety and fear was less. I used to joke with friends that I had a Worry Alert system (think “Terror Alert” after 9/11). Before I came home, I was on “red,” but after I came home, my alert went down to “orange.” Now, that’s peace. And, if I had more peace, Rafaelle had more peace (he’s a worrier, too).
Coming home was a gift. To my parents, it gave them comfort that they were loved, not alone, and had the help they needed. For me, it gave me an opportunity to connect with them in a way that I will always cherish — I gave a bit back to the people who gave me all that I needed (and most of what I wanted) to live a fulfilling and happy life!
