Читать книгу NORMAL Doesn't Live Here Anymore - Barb BSL Owen - Страница 30

I left the hospital briefly, because I realized that I needed to locate the paperwork my parents created the previous summer. Entering my parents' home, I was greeted by their two lonely cats who nearly tripped me as they wound through my legs. I walked into my dad's office and for the first time in my life, approached his off-limits file cabinet. It was Dad's private space where no one, not even Mom, would venture. Thumbing through files, I thought about the way my dad overpowered me with his decision that I, alone, was to have legal responsibility for them, regardless of my hesitance. When Dad made a decision of such importance, his unspoken rule of compliance became effective and I was clearly not allowed to refuse. As a sigh of surrender left my body, I kept looking.

Continuing my hunt for the papers, I wondered why the file cabinet was off limits. Dad never verbally said so. It just was. Many months later, when I had time, I discovered that Dad’s file cabinet housed valuable parts of his life, along with reams of unnecessary papers kept for reasons known only to him. I found countless written prayers and copies of sermons from church services, receipts for every car he purchased and carbon copies of dozens of letters he had written, randomly mixed among files containing legal and vital papers.

Gratitude overwhelmed me when I discovered several carefully constructed folders containing documents with Mom and Dad’s wishes along with the power of attorney that proved I had authority to be their advocate and make decisions on their behalf. Tucked in beside the paperwork I was relieved to find the checkbook to which we had added my imprinted name and signature. I stuck the checkbook in the folder of paperwork and wondered what else I might need.

I glanced in the bedroom and noticed Dad's wallet on the dresser. Something beckoned me to open it and there I found Mom and Dad's insurance and Medicare cards. Beside his dollar bills I noticed the car wash coupons that I had given him for his ninetieth birthday, just days before he entered the hospital. Sifting through random notes in Dad’s wallet, I wondered if we had celebrated his last birthday.

Tears suddenly welled up. But this was not the time to cry or sit with my head in my hands, even though the little girl inside me begged to do so. She had to wait as details at the hospital demanded my attention.

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