It is a very good thing indeed that my mother is here doing pretty much all the care giving for my father. The hospice nurse is here once a day, but their ministrations are largely too short, at least to give my mother some relief. But that’s why I’m here. My mother asked me today “You’ve changed diaper on a baby, right?” — no, I have not. What this made me realize is that I am utterly unprepared to take care of my father. I am very glad my mother is the tough, positive woman that she is, and it’s amazing that she’s done this much for my father already.

The only call to action I had today was when mom was on the phone and dad needed to go to the bathroom, which is nothing new. The “#2″ isn’t anything new, he’s had issues with the runs since the chemo started. Now it’s the medication to clean the ammonia out of his blood, since his liver shut down two weeks ago. Last night, before I arrived, was the first night he had some serious issues; my mother contacted one of her dear (probably soon to be sainted) RN friends who loaned us a bedside commode.

But this time was was different. My mother was on the phone and I had to help dad get to the bathroom, the most basic of functions someone can do for themselves, I felt it: dread, terror, malcontent, paralysis. I wanted to say “Dad, just use the bed side commode” as he wobbled, my arms under his, towards the bathroom. But I didn’t, because I figured that would upset him. He must have sensed something, or maybe he just wanted my mother, because he yelled (or as much of a yell as he could muster) “Lynnie!” Mom got off the phone double quick, and I just stood there. I failed in this most basic of things.

That moment is a microcosm of what’s coming, and he knows it. I know it. He doesn’t answer if you ask him what he’s thinking, or if he’s in pain. Two to four weeks to live and he’s refusing all pain meds, says he feels no pain. My mother believes him. I know he’s full of shit – because I know how I manage pain, and my incredibly high tolerance for it. I also know how utterly self reliant my father was for the majority of his life, and how incredibly infuriating it must be for him to need help to just go to the bathroom.

Dad is sleeping. The redskins are on TV. They’re playing the Cowboys, and it’s one of the biggest rivalries in the NFL. Any other time, even two weeks ago, he’d be watching and screaming at the TV along with every other rabid Redskins fan. Before he had his hips replaced, we attended the one and only NFL game I’ve ever been to, 10*F and sleeting, gritting his teeth the whole walk to and from the stadium. That is the love my father has for football, especially redskins football.

Whatever is going on in his head, he knows what’s going to happen. He’s just waiting. My mother and I expect his ever impatient nature still comes into play. I don’t see any shame in ending your own life if you know it’s going to happen shortly anyway. My mother agreed, noting that it’s legal and available in Oregon.

I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know how much work I’m going to done in this telecommuting setup. I am terrified of having to wipe my father’s backside, but only because I know he’ll see that as even further degradation of his dignity. I am afraid that I am going to “deer in headlights” again when I am needed most. I have never been so scared in my life, but even saying that out loud feels empty, because I can’t wrap my head around what’s happening.

All I can do is keep going, which is what I am going to do. I also hope to write something like this on a regular basis, as a way letting the worry out. Keeping worry in tends to rot the soul.

I love you, dad.

The day after my first run-in with the harpies at the DMV, I estimated that the situation would be fairly easy to resolve now that I knew that all they really wanted in life was a copy of my wretched PA automobile title. To that end, I phoned PSECU again and delivered a lengthy discourse to the customer service representative on what was going on. Because they’re PSECU, they’re helpful – the CSR informed me that the easiest course of action would be if Clerk of Courts office faxed a request in for a copy of my PA title. I informed the CSR that “there’s no way those grumpy old women would actually comply with that request”, and I am 100% confident that still holds true. These are people there for a paycheck, nothing more – truly the bottom of the state service barrel — Like worse than DOT workers, except without the shovels and watching 1 of their coworkers do their job while 3 others stand around mining their noses for gold.

I was beginning to lose hope in this venture, when the clouds cracked open, a column of light shone down and penetrated layers upon layers of red tape set forth before me: I could fax PSECU (yes, here we go back to 1980 again) a written request to release my PA state title to me. I would be soley responsible for it’s care and feeding and would have to return to PSECU the Ohio state title. And it takes two weeks to get – leaving me driving around a non-registered vehicle for a while. I thanked the CSR, drafted the fax in word (whilst changing the word template to say HAX instead of FAX) and waved my magic wang as the fax was catapulted across the wires and into PSECU’s lap.

I recently received the forms from the PA DOT to get my title, filled in my long polish moniker a few times, and sent them merrily on their way. I even waved to the mail man. I now await the arrival of my PA state title, and the conclusion of this adventure – please PA DOT monkeys, be expeditious in your daily tasks.

To follow up on the fact that I am now, essentially, a constant moving violation:

1. Apparently it’s only a small ($50) fine in Ohio
2. The cops seem to have bigger fish to fry
3. I’m working on getting it resolved, and worse comes to worst I can show them the paperwork down at the station.

Lets just hope I don’t have to.

Firstly, the Ohio BMV New Resident page is next to useless, revealing the first heartbreaking fault of this whole process. I have to have something with my SSN on it to get a license. Come on ladies and gents – it’s a passport, I had to go through hell and high water and AAA to get this blessed piece of ground up pressed wood pulp. But that I can throw aside for now, as my PA license is quite valid until sometime in 2009.

If you own a vehicle, you will need to have it inspected. The purpose is to avoid registration of stolen vehicles. All license agencies offer this service and many, but not all, new car dealers do also, so call ahead to be sure. Ask for the service department at the car dealers.

The inspection of your vehicle will verify the make, model, body type, and manufacturer’s serial number or vehicle identification number. You will be given the completed inspection form.

This part was easy, and stupid. I went to the Fyord dealer down the street and pulled into their garage. Once I had the attention (no small feat) the upstanding citizen who was obviously stoned or looking at porn on the computer at the service desk, I asked about this out of state inspection form. The reprobate nods, and wanders off. Shortly there after a fellow came out, recorded the VIN from my door frame, had me write my name, rank and serial number on this paper, proceeded to charge me tre-fitty, and I was on my way. I suppose this is all some sort of VIN typo-preventing excercise.

After fighting with the 1980s flashback which is the fax machine at work, I divined the proceedure neccessary to make the bloody thing send a long distance fax. This golden fax was a request to my bank to assist in fulfilling the following bullet-point requests in getting the 4Runner titled in Ohio:

If you have a lien on your car, you will have to request that your original title be sent directly to the title office so the lien can be recorded on the Ohio title as well as supply an original or copy of the loan papers;

If you lease a car, contact your leasing agency to find out how they want you to handle the title transfer. It varies from company to company;

A nice letter to the fine folks at PSECU was all that seemed to be required, informing them to fax a copy of my title and “loan paperwork” to the fax number for the Clerk of Courts’ Auto Title Department. Apparently this is too much to ask, as Pennsylvania doesn’t do paper titles or some such nonsense. I didn’t remember the part about absolutely having to have a copy of the title when I left my office today, and headed for the BMV on Redbank.

It’s 5:45 when I pull in, and they’re open till 6:00. Plenty of time – PSECU had hopefully sent all the paperwork, and I could be in and out in moments. I enter the room through two sets of poorly labeled doors, deceptive in their true holdings, to be greeted by a bunch of grumpy women in their mid to late fifties. Asked about my fax, it hadn’t arrived. I was told by the woman that they had to have the title, and when I informed them of the fact “I do not own the vehicle, my bank does,” they repeated the same statement. I stated that the Ohio BMV’s new resident website told me this is what I needed, and was told “that’s not our website.” Apparently one hand isn’t doing a good job of sharing the cock, as these folks seem to be utterly clueless in the processes in which they’re involved. So it appears that this Clerk of Courts’ Auto Title Department has nothing to do with the BMV – I can accept that, but how about a little cooperation. I was inches away from verbally abusing these elderly wenches of ill-use but, somehow managed to hold it in. Kyle wouldn’t have held it in. I stated that I wasn’t going to waste their time, turned my back and walked out.

Tommorow holds the promise of being on the phone with PSECU’s title department trying to get a copy of my title and loan paperwork (which, of course, have to be transmitted with signatures on that 1980s abomination the fax machine) to the Clerk of Courts’ Auto Title Department which is not part of the BMV. I’ll try to keep you posted.