One of the constraints of writing on the internet is that I can’t take for granted the things you would already know about me if we were friends already. My words can be misconstrued, and I’d never know it if you didn’t comment about it. So if anything in my posts sounds grossly wrong or unChristian, give me the benefit of the doubt and shoot me an email. Or comment and kindly inquire.
Thus far the hardest part about moving in with my Dad has been the necessity of changing our family’s direction to include him. This may seem obvious, and it is, but it’s the little ways the decision plays out that can be hard. When we decided this, even before he was diagnosed, I knew that almost nothing was dearer to me than keeping my dad out of a hospice and with his family. He’s only 59 years old, freshly divorced, just lost a brother to suicide and has depressive tendencies. Then he was diagnosed with a terminal wasting disease. Any other option than moving him in with us was barely worth consideration. No way was I going to give over his eventual care and assistance to strangers paid to care for him physically but not spiritually.
Some of the requirements of this decision were obvious. We’d have to move to a bigger home, buy a wheelchair-accessible van, help him take care of insurance struggles and get his affairs in order, learn how to use various types of equipment and manage home nursing staff, and eventually incorporate his needs into every facet of our lives when he is fully physically dependent. We also want to fully include him as an integral member of our family, so that he is not facing this alone. Gotcha. No problem. Consider it done.
Some of the effects of this decision were more subtle. E and I are very “pro-kid” as I like to say, in that we want to parent lots of children. We were foster parents and hope to do that again. We adopted and hope to do that again. We birthed a child and hope to do that again. This is a very ingrained part of who we are. But because my dad’s disease has such a bleak and short prognosis, we have made the very difficult decision to declare something of a moratorium on adding kids to the family for the time being. It’s unofficial, as we practice FAM and no contraceptive is 100% effective (although I’m a huge fan of FAM, personally), and if we were to become pregnant we’d be incredibly thrilled. But when we look ahead to the level of care Dad is going to need, we recognize that it would be exponentially harder to care for him well with an infant and toddler in tow. Right now, the kids are almost 2, 3 and 4. They can follow directions, obey, go to the bathroom themselves and feed themselves with little assistance. (Well, most of the time.) This is a good trend, them physically needing me less as Dad physically needs me more. To continue adding children with abandon is to increase the physical demands on me, which I’m fully willing to do …except to the point that it decreases the quality of care I’m able to give my Dad.
Does that make sense? I’m back to the question we had when Dad was first diagnosed in the middle of our plans to adopt. Is it wisdom to recognize that we are young and can probably have more children later, and to put off doing so to better care for my father? Or is it denying God (not getting into the theological free will discussion) the chance to work more deeply in our lives through extra-challenging circumstances, knowing that suffering produces character (Rom 5:3-4 and Jas 1:2-4)? I mean, if you look at it that way, we’d all be seeking out suffering in order to refine our character, and I don’t know anyone that does that, not even Paul. He didn’t always shy away from the possibility of suffering for his actions, but he didn’t seek it out, either.
So that’s where we are now. No more kids while we’re taking care of Dad (unless CPS calls, but that falls under the same category of unexpected pregnancy: we’d be thrilled but we are not going to seek it out). This was an unforeseen conclusion of the choices we’ve made, and logically I still believe it’s the right choice. But my emotions are less easily convinced. I still want more kids. I still miss the babies my heart feels should be in my arms and my womb right now, but aren’t. I wish it were as easy as everyone suggests, “Well, you can always just try again!”
We want to. But we won’t. God help me to be content, and to perform well the work You have given me for now.
Posted on January 7th, 2008 by Dove
Filed under: ALS, Fostering/Adoption, Kids | 1 Comment »
