Corpse Hotels

I admit to leaning towards the morose in my interests. Since traveling to the Netherlands and learning about a rising trend towards sustainable funerals there (and elsewhere around the globe, I discovered), I have become increasingly intrigued with modern accommodations for the deceased–and the living who remain behind. In today’s NYT, I came across a story about an innovative practice in Japan–in Tokyo, specifically–for addressing the needs of small families who have lost a loved one: corpse hotels.

Since crematories are too few to accommodate the needs of an aging Japanese population and traditional funeral homes often offer too expensive and elaborate services for a small family facing the death of a loved one, some unique hotels have sprouted up to fill the gap. According to the article (and accompanying video clip), Japanese tradition dictates a night-long wake in the deceased’s family home followed by cremation in a nearby facility on the following day. But with space in Tokyo at a premium, forcing families into smaller high rise condos and apartments less welcoming of corpses, and overbooked crematories requiring waits of a week or more in some instances, an alternative intermediate resting place for the deceased and family members has become necessary.

These spaces provide “rest” of two kinds–for the deceased awaiting cremation and for family members seeking a comfortable environment for paying last respects and remaining with the departed until final rites can be performed.

While this business venture is certainly market-driven and provides an opportunity for profit among those behind corpse hotels, I think that the services provided are likely appreciated by the families who utilize them.

Father’s Day(s)

Today is Father’s Day, and my dad is back in the hospital. I brought him to the ER yesterday morning when his ankles began swelling beyond recognition and his mind became more confused. At the moment, he’s sitting in a hospital bed on the sixth floor, Cardiology, undergoing an infusion that will be repeated every 4-5 days for as long as there’s some benefit, however minute.

I’m crazy about Dad, always have been. He’s got grit. As I’ve written before, Dad knows what he believes in and stands by it. He is a good man, a hardworking farmer, a devout Catholic. He has always acted on his convictions and refused to “go along with the crowd” if their mindset doesn’t gel with those convictions. I have nothing but respect for Dad.

During the past eight weeks, Dad has faced a new challenge: Congestive Heart Failure. His time on earth, and in my life, is coming to a close. I have spent every day with Dad these 55 days, sharing meals, watching Westerns on television, enjoying long chats about his past and the future without him here to counsel me on caring for Mom and managing the farm.

On this Father’s Day, I am reminded that I am extremely blessed to have had the opportunity to call this man my dad. I wish we had many, many more Father’s Days ahead of us.

 

Memories of a different life

A report issued in the European press in March finally made its way to my parents’ local newspaper:  A retirement home called Alexa Seniors’ Residence in Dresden, East Germany is assisting elderly Alzheimer’s patients by taking them back to another time.

By recreating the Communist era, filling the residence with decor from before the Berlin Wall came tumbling down, offering residents clothing from the time, and even providing a shop filled with the kinds of products that residents would have once seen for sale in their local neighborhoods, patients with dementia return to a familiar scene. And to a moment when they were confident in what they knew and what they could do.

One of the early news stories–with lots of photos of the retro environment created at Alexa–can be found here:  http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-4276120/Home-helps-Alzheimer-s-patients-recreating-East-Germany.html

While it’s hard to imagine how returning to an era of control could be a good thing, sometimes the kind of memories are less important than simply the possibility of remembering. As I’ve observed my mom’s painful decline into dementia, I’ve noticed that many of the moments she recalls most vividly are also the most painful–the events and people from her past with which she has experienced the least amount of closure.

 

Routines

This morning, Bob, one of the farmers who began working our family’s land once Dad retired, agreed to come over to install some safety features in the bathroom. Dad is home from the hospital, at least for now, but the house that my grandparents built clearly needed some updates to accommodate the situation. Although we don’t know for sure how much Dad’s life will change given his current diagnosis, Dad told me that he wants to stay at home if he can and feel as secure as possible going about his everyday routine.

As soon as Dad found out that Bob was headed our way, along with Bob’s brother-in-law/partner and the rep for crop insurance that they all work with, Dad began talking about needing help getting out of his pajamas and into his bib overalls and seed corn hat. The guys were coming to visit, and Dad wanted to look the part of, well, Jerry–a fourth-generation farmer whose standard attire has been the same for just about all of his 81 years.

As we sat waiting on Bob and the others, Dad and I started talking about a future with Congestive Heart Failure–the new “bland” sodium-reduced diet; morning rituals of recording and reporting vitals; an onslaught of visits from home health, home helpers, and friends and neighbors prepared to drive Dad to and from a host of appointments.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll last if I can’t get outside, walk out to the field, see the crops coming up,” he told me.

I reminded Dad that the purpose of cardiac physical therapy, which he’ll begin on Friday, is to help him restore as much strength as possible to his heart muscles and lungs. Over time, the goal is to move him closer to doing the very things that will make his life more like it’s always been.

“I don’t think it’s going to be the same, though,” he responded.

Dad’s eyes began to water as he told me that he isn’t confident that he can make so many changes at his age–and without my mom by his side.

I get it. I do. Dad’s being encouraged to accept a new normal that’s anything but. Especially for an Illinois farmer.

 

 

 

 

Sooner rather than later

During the past few years, my parents and I have been talking more openly about the future of the farm on which I was raised.

“One of these days,” my dad has often said, “you’ll be in the driver’s seat when it comes to running things.”

Bit by bit, Dad has taught me what he knows. A fourth-generation farmer, Dad has a wealth of knowledge to share–about planting, harvesting, marketing, buying and selling land. Perhaps the greatest thing my parents have taught me, though, is that the land on which they’ve made a living is something to be cherished. When my ancestors immigrated from Ireland, they discovered rich soil in Central Illinois and chose to settle here–a decision that has continued to shape how my parents and many others in my extended family have lived their lives.  Certain fields are reminders of the sacrifices that Mom and Dad made at different points in their marriage, plans and dreams they had for building their operation and creating a more secure future for our family.

As Dad and Mom have shared their wisdom and memories, I have drunk in their stories and know-how. And I have thought about how my life will change when, one day, I am involved directly in the business of farming. As well as how much my life will represent another chapter in the history of our family.

What I hadn’t considered, though, was how soon this change might occur. Four weeks ago, Dad showed up at the local ER with Congestive Heart Failure. On the same day, Mom was transferred to the nursing home with a host of physical problems and increasing dementia. Neither Mom nor Dad seems to be bouncing back, and I am scared that my responsibilities on the farm might come “sooner” rather than “later.”

I pray that we’ll all have more time together. And that when the moment arrives for me to step up and take charge, I will do my parents–and all those who came before–proud.

Trump and tractors

Today marks my 15th day in Illinois. I headed this way on Monday, April 24 after receiving a phone call from the ER nurse at the local hospital in my hometown telling me that my 81-year-old father had been admitted with congestive heart failure. It just so happens that my 80-year-old mom was being transferred to a nursing home on the same day to address a damaged knee following a bad fall at my parents’ home the week before.

The past 15 days have brought much strife.

After local doctors confirmed that Dad’s heart was operating at minimal capacity, Dad was sent to a larger facility in a nearby town. More bad news followed. A heart catherization showed extensive blockages in two of his arteries, a leaky valve, and confirmation of a number of other heart issues that have grown worse with age. During the past week, Dad and I have sat at home counting down the minutes until he can go to a more sophisticated cardiac center for a needed, albeit risky, procedure.

In the meantime, Mom has continued to struggle with her injuries and with increasing confusion and signs of dementia. Once or twice a day, I set out for the nursing home to visit and field phone calls in-between visits to help Mom sort out where she is and what’s going on in our lives. We spend time arranging things in her room at the nursing home and talking about things we’ve done over the years–a visit to the Norman Rockwell Exhibit at the Birmingham Museum of Art, seeing the Rockettes Holiday Spectacular one Thanksgiving, our mother-daughter trip to Australia, and other memories that are ingrained in Mom’s mind.

Dad and I pass the days {and nights} talking, reading farm magazines (when he feels up to it) and writing (when I feel up to it), and watching television. Dad’s favorite channels are CNN for coverage of all things political and RFD (standing for Rural Free Delivery, the name of the postal service that delivered directly to rural areas). RFD shows address everything from crop yields to cattle feed to the pleasures of an agrarian life.

“All we watch is Trump and tractors,” I joked to Dad earlier today.

“Yeah, that’s about all there is,” he said with a smirk.

We both know that there’s so much more.

 

 

Tips from a cancer survivor and mom

I came across an amazing article in Working Mother from a mom with terminal cancer: http://www.msn.com/en-us/lifestyle/whats-hot/a-note-to-my-fellow-working-moms-as-i-near-the-end-of-my-life/ar-BBzLxej?li=BBnb4R7

Rachel Huff shares the choices she’s made now that her doctors tell her that she is nearing the end of her life. Rather than embarking on a trip across the ocean or retiring early to take it easy, Huff says that she is relishing in the everyday joys of her life. The people she sees and tasks she completes at work. Opportunities to drive her kids to school and activities. Time to sit and sip a cup of tea. A day without debilitating pain.

Huff’s words made me pause and think about all that I have to be thankful for: a beautiful family, a job I love, a place to lay my head at night, and all the little extras that fill my days that I too often take for granted.