Urine bags and heroes....

I was just reading from an Amazon "look-inside" excerpt from the book Ensouling Language by Stephen Harrod Buhner. The topic was "heroes."

My self to my self:
Who are my heroes?
The so-called little guy who helps out another so-called little guy. 
I guess I should say "guy or gal."

Independent acts of compassion, kindness, empathy.
Acts that don't make headlines.
Deeds that receive little-to-no public recognition.

Earlier this week, I told Hubby that my mom is a heroine.
Even with her faults.
Maybe they weren't really faults; but rather, quirks.

Mom's diagnosis of "manic depression" (now known as bipolar disorder) in the early 1960s landed her as an inpatient in two different mental health institutions. Mental health has more awareness in the current day and time than compared to the 1960s, though there is still a cloud of stigma regarding mental illness. Mom endured 1960s shock treatments. I can only imagine the cocktail of drugs she was force fed. She was in her latter thirties to early forties at the time.

I have no conscious recollection of that time in her life.
I was a baby when she was first hospitalized at Emory in Atlanta, Georgia.
I was a toddler when she was later hospitalized at Broughton in Morganton, North Carolina.
I was the youngest of three children.
Dad was our primary caregiver through those volatile years.

In spite of Mom's struggles with bipolar disorder, and later fibromyalgia and arthritis, she was successful in her career and as a mother and wife.

When she was 58 years old and Dad was 62, Dad was driving alone, taking a mountain curve in his mid-size car, when he engaged head-on, metal to metal, a large flatbed truck.

Dad's next conscious moment?
He was staring at a hospital ceiling.
Steel halo around his head.
Body stretched straight.
Unable to move.

Quadriplegia. 
It must be one of the most traumatic diagnoses to process.

Dad had been an avid golfer.
An occasional snow-skier.
He loved to dance.
In his earlier years, he had hunted deer that provided meat for the family.
He had owned a small sailboat.
He had raised quail.
He had gardened.

All of it was stolen.
In one split second.
The snap of his spinal cord at C-4.

Mom cared for Dad at home for over 12 years.
Day in.
Day out.
Yes, she had help from family, friends, and hired aides.
For a few weeks each year, she received supposed respite when Dad would go the McGuire Veteran Hospital in Richmond, Virginia.

But those "respite" times allowed only minimal rest.
Mom, usually along with a family member or another caregiver, would make the five-hour drive to Richmond and would stay at least the first night, and often more, before driving back home.
Even then, Mom back at home alone, Dad's well-being was always on Mom's heart and mind.

The same is true with any caregiver, with the one who loves deeply the afflicted.
Whose soul is bound tangibly and intangibly with the one that appears to have the greater need.
Dad's greater need wasn't just in appearance; it was reality.
Physical needs for breath and nourishment and elimination and movement must be met to a certain degree in order for the seemingly less tangible needs of the soul to be known, expressed, embraced.

Mom wiped Dad's ass almost daily. About three times a week, she inserted her latex-covered index finger up Dad's anus to help excavate human feces. She'd plop the brown matter into a plastic bin. The bin would then be taken to the toilet and flipped, tapped, rinsed, wiped, and sanitized for the next round.

Almost daily Mom dressed Dad.

Part of the daily wardrobe included a condom held onto Dad's penis by a strap. A short, skinny, hollow, firm latex neck protruded from the end of the condom. A long, hollow, 1/4-inch-diameter, latex tube fit tightly around the short, hollow, firm condom-neck. The long tube extended downward and was strapped to the inside of one of Dad's legs. Right below Dad's knee, the tube fit tightly into another short, hollow, firm, latex neck which was the top end of a eight-inch long, six-inch wide latex urine-catcher bag that was strapped to the inside of Dad's calf.

When Dad's bladder needed to release, the urine would flow down the tube and into the bag.

From the bottom end of the latex urine-catcher bag, extended a 1-1/2 inch-long, 1/4-inch-diameter, short, hollow, firm, latex tube-neck. A plastic flip-clip closed off this short tube-neck to keep the urine in the bag. Flip the clip to open the tube-neck, and the pale yellow liquid would drain.

At times, Dad's external condom would slip off.
Dad couldn't feel the warm liquid or the release that comes to us feeling folks when we pee.
So we wouldn't discover the slip-off until Dad or any folks around him saw that Dad's pants were wet or smelled the urine.
This was terribly frustrating. especially in public.
We would have to get Dad home right away; usually not a convenient task.
The scenario would humiliate Dad.
But he took it all in stride and would often times try to find some humor in the situation.

Mom performed all this and more on a regular basis.
Yes, family and friends helped .
Yes, home health helped.

Yet, Mom was always there.

She wasn't always pleasant.
Who would be?
But she never gave up, not even when it was time to let that care be done by others.
She simply couldn't let it go.

Was Dad a hero too?

In a sense, yes.
He was also the victim of a horrendous car wreck.
He was a hero in the sense that he found humor in every day life.
He was a hero in that he brought others laughter with his wit.
He couldn't use his hands and arms for much.
His legs were useless for mobility.
Still he tried to find purpose.
Even if that purpose was laughter.
Dad would cry regularly, often prompted by the goodness he found in others.
If gratitude were a fragrance, Dad was its flower; at least, in his post-wreck life.

I don't recall ever seeing Mom cry.
Sometimes I wonder if her tear ducts worked.