Despite the name of my series, "Going Home, Again," I hadn't been home since beginning these writings, almost two years ago. This past weekend, I made a trip home. With all my father has been through so far this year, and his frequent returns to the hospital, my brother had wisely suggested that his sisters visit Dad soon. Of the 100 days of this year 2002, Dad has spent about 72 of them hospitalized. So, my oldest son, Joe, again as travelling companion, I made the journey to see my dad, fearing that this may be the last time I get to see him in person, and wondering how debilitated he will be when I get there.

My brother has kept me informed of Dad's condition, his re-hospitalizations, his setbacks, his accomplishments. But what should have been a fairly easy recovery from aneurysm repair, had turned into a nightmare of vomiting, diarrhea, resulting in malnutrition and dehydration. When the doctor finally convinced my father to have a colonoscopy, the results were frightening. Especially coming from my father, who doesn't know medical terminology any better than my brother. My father's description of the results of the test were that he had a "blockage" and they wanted to do a colostomy, and he had chosen NOT to have a "poop bag" and was going home.

Now, to me, a "blockage" could have meant a bowel obstruction, which could cause infection or gangrene, and could easily kill him in a very painful manner. I panicked, at that point, and almost cancelled my trip to Nashville for the conference. However, I decided it was time I spoke to his personal physician myself. The information his doctor gave me was very complete and informative. I took copious notes and sent them to my sisters. I now knew more than my brother who, for all his presence and personal attention, did not understand much of the medical terminology being thrown at him.

My father has "ischemic colitis with stenotic sigmoid colon." His colon is no longer working properly and, in fact, has a "stricture" of such small size that the colonoscopy device could not pass through it. Without the colostomy, my father faces continued decline, many risks for bowel obstruction to occur, continued weakness, and, " It's not going to get better with medical treatment or by itself."

So my son and I schlepped our way to Southeast Kansas, taking the usual barbaric travel agenda of flying from Toledo to somewhere then to Kansas City, then shuttling to the rent-a-car place and driving the 3 hours to Chanute. It's an all-day journey, no matter how you slice it. But it's always therapeutic. When I first hit those rolling hills of Northeast Kansas, I always become nostalgic and try to think of ways to move back to "God's Country" where you can see the stars at night and there are few two-land highways and not nearly as many semi's.

The first inkling that this was not going to be a normal trip was when I walked in through the garage door to the kitchen (the family's entrance to my homestead) and, instead of the comforting smell of my mother, now gone 2 years, I was hit with hospital odors. My dad has had 24-hour supervision off-and-on, having only fired everyone recently as his appetite has improved and he's feeling stronger. He has had incontinence problems, weakness, and other digestive problems mentioned above. The antiseptic smell almost made me gag and I braced myself as I went to awaken my father from his recliner in the living room.

I was initially pleasantly surprised by my father's condition. Although looking tired, thinner hair, and somewhat thinner-looking (40 pounds weight loss in 3 months), he still looked and smelled like my daddy. He did not look like a skeleton, he was not pale, and he was able to walk himself, with his cane, back to his bedroom.

I had come to visit armed with information about colostomies. I was under the impression that Daddy's decision to forego the surgery was based mostly on embarrassment or the hassle factor. Many clients of mine have had colostomies and learned to manage them very effectively. I believed that Daddy's quality of life could be improved and he could again plan road trips to Tennessee and California to visit his daughters.

As it turned out, I never even brought up the topic of surgery. After spending just a few hours with my dad, I realized his frail body would never respond well to surgery -- how well we had proven that to date! Most, if not all, of his bodily systems are now affected by illness and age. He can barely breathe, due to pulmonary disease caused by 50 years of smoking. He can barely walk, due to debilitating arthritis and back problems. His circulatory system is affected, as evidenced by the aneurysms which had most likely been caused by cholesterol build-up.

Daddy finally brought it up on our last morning together. Sitting in his recliner lift-chair, he quietly said, "I feel that every day I live is a surprise. I've probably outlived all of my luck. That's why I've decided not to have this colostomy surgery. I probably wouldn't survive it, and if I did, I might not have any quality of life. I wish I hadn't had the aneurysm surgery either. At least before, I was able to drive and travel."

I supported his decision. "Dad, I'm just glad you're able to care for yourself right now. You're fixing your own meals. You're taking a shower alone. You're able to enjoy your little dog and watch whatever television show you want to watch. With the medication, you're even able to enjoy eating again and have an appetite."

My dad has choices, and the capacity to make choices for himself, which is a wonderful thing to retain. My visit showed me that he has not suffered any loss of cognition -- his memory is intact, his thinking ability is the same as always. I may not agree with his thinking. He tends to pick and choose what he will learn and what he will not. For example, he was putting his pills in his weekly boxes on Sunday morning, and I was commenting on them. He said, "Don't ask me about the pills, I just take them!" Reaffirming his disgust with the medical system which has put him through so much.

Thank God for choices. He's made his, and I can support him now that I know all the facts. I know more of the facts than he does, and that's okay, too. People don't need medical facts shoved down their throats in order to make decisions, but I did want to know that he was making an "informed" decision, and not one based on emotions. I'm satisfied.

I had been so worried that I would be visiting as a pseudo-nurse, but my visit was blessedly normal, watching television, going out to eat, and just spending quiet time in the presence of my father. What a gift. We need to celebrate the little victories in life. The simple things. The ability to change a channel, to make a meal, to enjoy that meal comfortably, and to live in our own homes with our pets. His girlfriend still visits, providing companionship, laughter, and a chauffeur. The hospital smell slowly dissipated as I made coffee every morning and filled the home with my own scents. I was even able to find my mother's scent finally, in her bathroom. It felt as if I had found my mother, herself, after having lost her. I knew Dad wasn't really alone in that house.

He wears his emergency response button around his neck. He forgets his cane sometimes, but he's enjoying his days. We pray that he doesn't fall and break anything (when offered physical therapy, to strengthen his legs and reduce his risk of falls, he harrumphed it away as a waste of time); and that he is given the gift of dying in his sleep. I think he's earned it.