The Sinking of Santa

At this time of the year I often find myself reliving earlier Christmas memories. It's hard not to do that when your kid is grown and Christmas just seems to lose it's lustre. Like most kids, my son relished every second of Christmas - especially those weeks before the 25th when he edited and re-edited his Christmas list. How many times did I hear him call out to me "Mommy - come here...come here" and I would rush to the living room where he would inevitably be pointing at something on television..."This!" he would yell "I want this! Can I have this??"    But, like many Mom's I wanted my child to experience the holiday from all angles so every year we carved out a few hours to shop for children who wouldn't have a Christmas unless some well-meaning strangers gave them one.

It was 1990. Eli had just turned 6 and the excitement and anticipation of the holiday filled his thoughts. He worried that maybe santa knew he hadn't exactly been a "good boy" as often as he should have been...but he hoped Santa would overlook his missteps.  I assured him that he had probably been "good enough" to get at least some of the many items on his growing list. I reminded him that Santa would forgive most of his transgressions if he spent some time doing something for others.  So we planned our yearly shopping trip to get some toys for children who needed them. We talked about what these children might want and where we might find these toys. We set a date to shop. My plan was working. I was certain this was a good way to instill some values that he could carry with him into adulthood.

On the day of our big shopping trip we bundled up and piled into the car.  We were still in the driveway when he said, "Mommy?"  "What," I asked.  "Why isn't Santa bringing the poor kids gifts?" Oops. I spent a few seconds collecting my thoughts and choosing my words. "Well honey, Santa can't do it all. He needs help. That's why he has helpers....like at the mall...where all the Santa's are just helpers because Santa is so busy getting the toys ready." There. Good answer. "But," he said, "why are we buying toys for the kids.  Do other people buy us gifts too?"  Uh oh. I may be losing ground here I thought.  "Well Eli,  the real truth is we pay Santa for the toys and the poor kids parents' don't have the money to do that." This was not going well.  After a long silence during which he pondered my answer he said, " That's not nice. Santa's not very nice is he?"  Oh. My.  "I think he is Eli. But he wants us to be nice too. So we help."  Another silence.  "I don't like this," he declared.  ANother silence.  "Mommy?"  "Yes Eli?"  Are you Santa? Is there really a Santa?  I don't think there is because it's not like in the Night before Christmas book. IS THERE A SANTA? he demanded, "IS HE REAL?"

What to do? What to say?  Perpetuate the lie? The kid has already figured it out.  I hadn't figured on having this moment with him for at least another year. But here it was.  "You're a very smart little boy Eli.  And you're right. Santa isn't real. Daddy and I are Santa.".  He said nothing for a few seconds. "Oh. Okay. Then lets go get some toys for those kids.  And Mommy? "Yes?"  "I'm glad you're Santa cause we don't have a chimney anyway."

It feels like buttah and there are only 1000 left

It's not that I don't have a buttery leather jacket made by some far flung company whose clothing I've never bought (or heard of for that matter) - it's just that I never knew it was humanly possible to talk about one item for 30 minutes using every adjective or combination of adjectives possible. I am stunned. I have discovered the shopping channels. WHo knew?

Boredom combined with a remote took me to the channels tucked below HGTV, The Cooking Channel and the endless bullshit of the Guy Fieri channel (what do you mean he doesn't have his own channel - of course he does. He's on all day and night.)What I found blew me away.

Tonight I missed (or rather ignored) the opportunity to buy a tall, skinny (excuse me, "sleek") vacuum that came in 4 designer colors.  This "amazing" vacuum boasted "double motor action" and the man who was selling it said that if my vacuum didn't have a motorized brush bar that I was relying on nothing but "air" to move my brushes. I'm so ashamed of myself and my inferior floor cleaner. And this vacuum is lightweight (much like the guy who was selling it) and why was I lugging around a heavy, old fashioned slug when I could own this remarkable, modern, machine for 6 easy pay payments of $30?  And I'd better hurry because they were selling fast....only 427 left at this price. Tonight only. Ta dah!

On the next channel a young, absolutely gorgeous woman was selling 100% pure Argan oil. While she talked and talked and talked she kept rubbing the oil on her arms, hand, neck and chest. I must confess I was worried that the spray on dress she was wearing would have nothing to grip and just slide off with all that oil. But it didn't.  I kept wondering if she had side rails on her bed to keep her from sliding out of bed at night....I had vision of her husband having trouble holding on to her when they made love...but I guess that's none of my business.  I also liked the callers. Yes, people actually watch these shows, buy the stuff, drink the Kool Aid and gush endlessly about the products. They all have southern accents and they all swear that the oil has changed their lives.  (I don't think they really have lives.) Tonite one caller suggested that the company should make a larger bottle. The pretty lady responded that "we're working on it". Seriously? What's to work on? Buy two! I have several under my sink to pour bacon grease into...they can have these bottles if they need them. They can also keep the bacon grease because it's probably as good as their product but smells yummier. 

Skipping to the next channel, I overcame the temptation to buy a lamb leather jacket in cognac, wine, mallard, black or evergreen.  ( Mallard? )This channel had two sales reps - both young with a lot of hair and fake nails. The jackets were dull but the ladies took the viewers on a tour of the seaming of the jackets.  I've never toured a jacket quite that way. This "must have" jacket was a "phenomenal value" and was "crazy popular". Over 500 were already gone. So was I.

My last stop was a jewelry channel. The sales person was sitting next to the jewelry designer who looked a bit like a stuffed Yogi Berra doll, He smiled a lot but never spoke. I only ever saw his profile so I'm not sure they'd finished stuffing him before air time.   The jewelry was not to die for. It was fake. The sales host repeatedly said that if I bought these earrings and necklace that people would think I was wearing "real diamonds". Sorry, but the people I know HAVE real diamonds and aren't blind - just old. The jewelry was "fabulous". It was being offered at a special price and the price was only good for 30 more minutes. I waited. Still waiting.  I didn't bother to wait for the matching bracelet because the lady said there were only 29 left.  I didn't want to go up against the ladies who sit by their TVs, phone in one hand and credit card in the other. They're pros. I'm not competitive.

I don't know if I'll watch again. Maybe on some cold night when everyone else is asleep, the dogs are snoring and I'm out of chocolate...maybe then.  But probably not.

The Incredible Shrinking Woman

So I haven't blogged for awhile. Too much going on. So, naturally, it would take something major to redirect my attention to anything other than my hectic life. Case in point: The annual physical.

Let's roll back to late October when, out of the blue I get a phone call from an enthusiastic young man who identified himself as Brad from United Health. His mission that afternoon was to convince me that it was time for my annual physical.( How creepy is that...? )  "How do you know I haven't had one?" I asked. "Your records don't show one for this calendar year," he responded. "Brad?." I replied, "Are you watching me? Has United Health joined the NSA to spy on me? WTF? I don't need an annual exam...I've been at the doctors' many times since May...I'm fine. Really." "Ma'am," Brad commented, "We encourage annual physicals and to make it easier for you we have arranged to have several pharmacies available to perform the exam for you...to make it more convenient .for you...maybe closer to your home.  I can even make the appointment for you.""  "Brad, " I responded, "My doctor is less than three miles from my house. I think I can get there.  I can still drive. My brain still functions. I don't wear diapers. I still have most of my teeth. And I don't need any help."

Brad was silent for  few seconds. "Well, ma'am (knock off the freakin' ma'am stuff already!!!) If you complete your annual physical we will send you $15"  "Brad, I said softly and slowly, "I don't need to be bribed to see a doctor. Keep your money...really keep your money."  Apparently Brad has never experienced anyone who actually told him they didn't WANT UHC's money.  "But ma'am, it's part of our service to this plan."  "KEEP YOU MONEY BRAD!!!!" I said somewhat forcefully and I ended the call.

But I did call my doctor because not all systems had been checked and what the hell - it is free.

Turns out my doctor was booking physicals way into 2015 but the receptionist said she was familiar with UHC's aggressive tactics and she would schedule me with the NP. I took it.  Nothing special happened. After all, for a woman closing in on 67, I'm in pretty good shape...except....omg...tell me it, isn't so...I have shrunk a quarter of an inch!!! I made the nurse measure me again. I stood as erect as I could, sucked in my stomach (don't ask what that was going to achieve), stretched my neck and stood in the posture that my mother had always wanted me to have (Stand up straight! Stop slouching or I'll get you a back brace!!) But fact is fact. I am on the downslope. Shrinking. Withering. Getting smaller.

So what has aging given me so far? Grey hair I cannot dye. Deep smile lines. Freckling and strange bumps from the years of sun worshiping (baby oil, iodine and a reflector) sore joints, less collagen, diminished stamina and now - the cruelest thing of all. Shrinkage.

I'm looking for property in Lilliput...I'll still be tall there.

Just a word about the 1%

I've had it.  It takes a mere hour or less for my jeans to sag.  Why? Well,, it's not because I'm too skinny.  And it's not gravity. It's the 1% spandex.

There was a time when I thought that adding a touch of Spandex to jeans material was a stroke of genius. It gave us that little extra chance of actually getting the damn things on and getting the waistband snap to close without sucking it all in.  But there is a price to pay for that feature, I don't know if it's worth it for 50 minutes of looking stylish. (which, I must admit, is 50 stylish minutes more than I get with any other garment I own)

 Each of the 4 pairs of my newer jeans boasts a content of ONLY 1% Spandex - but what that 1% is capable of doing is tragic. Each of these four pairs has its own special way of relaxing.  This has made it necessary for me to recall the actual time the jeans will fit well and then cram all my important activities into that small capsule of time before my pants let me down (so to speak).

One pair I own tends to sag at the butt. A sixty-six year old woman whose pants sag in the butt looks like a flat butted 76 year old woman (from behind) with a load in her pants..I strive to avoid this image. In these jeans I avoid any extended seated time. This makes driving, eating and writing difficult.  It also interferes with my counseling sessions - because I sit all day. That is solution number one.

Another pair sags at the waist.  This, in just minutes, contributes to surprise muffin top.  I start the day with all the extra untoned skin tucked carefully inside my waistband. As time progresses the waist expands and begins to slide down until POP - the muffin top has escaped,  I have solved this problem by wearing a thin belt and moving slowly from hole to hole as the day goes on. Breathing and eating are issues. I try to avoid both. It's tough.

Pairs 3 and 4 begin to ripple in the leg and sag at the knees. It looks like I'm wearing someone else's pants and - much worse - it looks like a cellulite party under the cover of denim. Not nice.  Solution? Stand all day.

Back in "my day" (before Spandex) I had to lie down on my bed to have a meaningful moment with my Calvins. Tug, pull, tug some more. Voila! Great fitting jeans that stayed that way. All day.

 I miss those days.

Hospice By The Sea

We have an old computer that is on life support. It is 6 years old and in computer language - dying a slow death. It is where I write reports for my friend (because it has an old version of Word and I have not figured out any of the new ones) and where my husband reads his email and looks at naked women (don't ask). There are many files on this computer that I never want to lose - yet I have done nada about that. That's so me.  

Today I was glancing at some of the files - hoping to be able to delete inconsequential things from 2007 and 2008 and I ran across something I'd written about my mother's death.  It it still meaningful to me and I don't want to lose it. So I thought I'd park it here  just in case the computer strokes out and nothing can be retrieved.  So here it is.

Hospice-By-The-Sea

 

 

 

Christmas Day 2000.  The Hospice nurse puts her hand on my Dad’s shoulder. “You’re doing the right thing,” she says with practiced empathy.  She turns and flashes a conspiratorial smile at me as if to say, ‘We did it’ and quietly slips out of the room.  My Dad looks lost.  I lead him to the hallway and we walk slowly to the Family Lounge to meet with the Hospice social worker. She smiles, motioning for us to sit down. The room is quiet.  We each choose a chair at the table and sit back to listen to the rhetoric of dying with dignity.

 

My Dad is strangely silent.  He nods his head and pretends to pay attention but I know his thoughts are elsewhere. Over and over he asks “If she wakes up, will you feed her and give her water?” Over and over the social worker assures him that nourishment is always standing by if “the situation changes”. But until then she will receive a diet of morphine, with no water chaser.

 

The papers are presented and the lines for his signature are boldly marked with x’s. Sign here. And here.  And one more, here.  It’s done.  My Dad sighs, his eyes fill with tears, “My God, “ he says to no one in particular, “I’ve just given you permission to kill my wife.”  I choke back my own tears as the social worker begins the second part of her dignified death lecture, attempting to explain how wonderful this will be for Mom.  “it’s best,” she says in almost a whisper, “for her.” 

 

But what about us?

 

Dad and I stand, shake the social worker’s hand, take her card, and pick up the yellow folder full of information we will no doubt have to read. “What is Hospice?”, “What to expect” and our own personal copy of the Dying Patient’s Bill of Rights.  We return to Mom’s room.

“They’ve removed the feeding tube.” Dad says, stroking her forehead.  “Glenna. Glenna?,” he says loudly, “Glenna if you don’t wake up we have to take you to a Hospice. “ No response.  “Glenna,” he tries again, “Sweetie just wake up then we can go home and I’ll make you a nice dinner.”  Silence. He shakes his head, bends over, kisses her cheek, and says softly, “We’ll see you later.”  We leave.

 

The Hospice By The Sea is set back from a main street in Boca Raton .  It is not visible from the road.  But Dad has been there before and he easily maneuvers the confusing turns and tangles of driveways.  If we make a wrong turn, we’ll end up at the Senior Center where people aren't dying. They are playing cards, gossiping, or getting ready for a field trip. But we make the right turn and I get my first look at the last place my mother will ever draw a breath.  My inner child is screaming,  “I want to go home! I want my Mommy!” but my outer body and middle -aged sensibility prevail and direct my Dad to a parking space near the weekend/holiday entrance.

 

This doesn’t look like a place where people come to die. It looks like a Florida Resort.  Pink stucco. White trim. Surrounded by a dense jungle of palm trees and other native Florida flora and fauna,  Perhaps, I think, this is somebody’s vision of Heaven

 

The weekend/holiday entrance is at the side of the building.  It is not as fancy as the weekday entrance.  We walk a gently sloped concrete path and come to the door.  We must be “buzzed” in.  This odd requirement will annoy me the entire time my mother is here.  There does not seem to be criteria for being buzzed in.  Anyone may enter.  Simply push the button.

 

My Dad, who has a prostate problem, immediately goes in search of a bathroom.  I go in search of someone to tell me what happens next.  Three people sit at the nurse’s station.  I approach the one dressed most like a receptionist.  My mother is being admitted,” I explain, “is there anything I need to do?”  “Not a thing,” she replies, wiping the last crumb of a Christmas cookie from her chin, “Just have a seat over there or grab some coffee in the Family Lounge.”  She turns away and resumes her exploration of the plate of cookies on her desk.  I sit down.

 

The Family Lounge is immediately behind my chair.  I am drawn to it by the laughter of children.  This is a small, but brightly furnished room.  At one end is a kitchenette – refrigerator, coffee maker, microwave. A plate of Christmas cookies sits on the counter next to a freshly brewed pot of coffee and a carafe of hot water.  I am a tea drinker and I appreciate the presence of hot water and tea bags.  This means I won’t have to bring mine from home. In the center of the room is a small round table with 4 chairs. The other side of the room offers a loveseat covered in a happy tropical print, a coffee table, an entertainment center with a large TV and shelves of games.  The laughing children are seated at the coffee table trying to construct a jigsaw puzzle.  They too are eating Christmas cookies.  I have to keep reminding myself that this is Christmas Day.

 

Dad finds me. “Did Mom get here yet?” he asks, as if she were meeting us for dinner and would soon come strolling in. “Not yet,” I answered, “soon.”  We sit quietly.  The children have gone but the room is becoming crowded.  A large family begins to take up every inch of available space in the Lounge.  One woman is sobbing, her head resting on another woman’s shoulder.  Three men are discussing football.  Two teenagers are devouring the Christmas cookies while another begins to unpack a large cooler.  Clearly they expect to be here for a while. Dad and I watch as they unpack the cooler. Sandwich meat, rolls, pickles, chips, soda – and yes – more Christmas cookies.  We feel out of place in this gathering, so we leave and walk down the hall to the room that will soon be my Mother’s.

 

I suppose the room is pleasant enough.  There is a Lazy Boy recliner, two wooden chairs, a table and lamp and a tall bookcase full of books no doubt left by other relatives who have spent hours waiting for loved ones to die... French doors open onto a patio where we have use of several lounge chairs and a table.  We share this patio with the loved ones of the patient in the next room. Back inside. I stare at the bed where my mother will soon lie.  It is a typical hospital bed.  On the wall, above where her head will rest, is a small, hand printed card that reads, “Glenna Neff”.  That’s my mother, I think to myself, and that is where she will die – under a small hand printed card that says Glenna Neff.  My throat tightens. I walk out the door and into the hallway, leaving my father to his own thoughts.

 

My Mother arrives. 

 

Two men wheel the gurney down the hall.  Mom is tightly wrapped in yellow blankets – I guess swaddled would be more precise.  Only her face is free.  Dad and I follow the gurney into the room.  Nurse-types materialize out of nowhere.  One says to me, “We need a few minutes alone with her.  Go out to the Lounge. We’ll come and get you when we’re done.” She closes the door.  Dad leaves my side to revisit the restroom and I return to the Lounge, which is now empty.  I pour a cup of hot water and slowly bounce a teabag up and down until the water turns dark amber.  Across the hall, in the nurse’s lounge, several staff are eating a large spread of Christmas food and laughing.  I wish I felt like laughing. I wish it felt like Christmas.

 

We wait.  I pour my Dad a cup of coffee which he refuses.  “It makes me pee,” he explains.  I understand . I’ve learned we can never be too far from a bathroom. I stare at the television, thumb through some magazines that have been here longer than the patients,  I cross and uncross my legs.  My Dad is on his cell phone updating my brother and his wife.  When finished, he folds the phone, slips it into his pocket and says, “They’ll be up to see Mom tomorrow.” I nod.

 

“You can go in now,” says a voice behind us.  It’s the nurse who had eased me out of my Mother’s room.  “I’ll be in to talk to you in a few minutes,”she adds.

Dad and I make our way back to Mom’s room. 

 

Mom lies quietly in her bed, underneath the hand printed card that reads Glenna Neff.  The oxygen device is still fastened beneath her nose.  But there is none of the awful gurgling and mucousy sound that we had listened to for days in the hospital. Her eyes are closed but her mouth is wide open, frozen in an “o”.  Her head is propped on several pillows, her hands lie atop the sheet.  It is cold in her room and I make a mental note to ask for a blanket. 

 

My Dad talks to her.  “Glenna – if you want to get better you’re going to have to wake up. If you want to die then just lie there.  “  He admonishes her like a child, as if this coma was her bad idea. She doesn’t respond.  I try a softer approach. “Hi Mom, “ I say.  “Merry Christmas”.  I kiss her cheek and wonder whether I should remove the fake holly leaf and red berries the hospital nurses had put in her hair in an attempt to decorate her for Christmas.  I decide to leave it there.

 

The nurse, one of a string of many that I will meet over the next days, enters the room.  “Let’s go out into the hall she says and we follow.  “The hearing is the last thing to go,” she explains, “We never talk about the patient in the room.” In the hallway, standing beside a framed copy of the Dying Patient’s Bill of Rights, she explains that they’ve given Mom a shot to dry up her lungs and morphine to “keep her calm”. I think to myself, ‘how much calmer can you get than a coma?’ but I don’t ask. We talk at great length about the signs of death and what we can expect.  My Dad, once again (but to a new audience) asks if they will feed her and give her water if she wakes up.  And once again he is assured that they will.  We are told that we may come to visit 24 hours a day and we are free to stay overnight whenever we wish.  As she leaves the nurse invites us to call on her anytime if we have questions or concerns. I’ve already forgotten her name.

 

We return to Mom’s room and I remember that I wanted to ask for a blanket. I head for the Nurses station. As I pass Mom’s closet where no clothes hang, I see a blanket folded on top of the cot that is kept there for overnight stays.  I remove it and cover her, turn down the air conditioning, and kiss her cheek.  “I love you Mom.”  Dad whispers something in her ear.

 

We decide to go home for a while and have our Christmas dinner.  We assure each other that we will be back to visit later.  As we head down the long corridor to the weekend and holiday entrance I try not to look into the other rooms but I am unsuccessful.  Each death vigil, I note, is different.  Some families have filled rooms with pictures, banners and personal mementos. In one room a woman has opened the cot for overnight stays and is rearranging a pillow and blanket, preparing for a long night.  In another, a giant stuffed bear does sentry duty from a bedside chair.  We leave and head for home. Neither of us says much.

 

Dad and I had planned to cook a leg of lamb on the rotisserie.  But it’s late and neither of us has much of an appetite.  I raid the refrigerator and find 2 steaks I can quickly defrost.  Moving to the cupboard, I grab a box of rice from the shelf and then return to the refrigerator to scan for something green. Broccoli.  We’re set.  A fine Christmas repast for a not so fine Christmas.  I cook while Dad calls my sister, his pastor, and his brother.  I strain to listen to his words and realize he still has hope that she will wake up.

 

It’s 8:00pm .  The dishes are done, the calls have been made.  “Let’s go see Mom,” I say and off we go.

 

The parking lot is crowded and we find a space far from the weekend and holiday entrance.  The Florida air is unusually cold and I pull my sweater tightly around me as we walk to the door and ring to be buzzed in.   My mother’s door is  the 4^th one on the left.  I count them off as we walk.  Nearing her door I am suddenly afraid that we will find her dead, an odd thought since death is why she is here.  I push open her door and hesitate listening for a sound or noise.  I hear her breathing and feel relief.

 

Once again her room is cold.  I turn down the air conditioner for the second time that day.  My Dad is talking to her.  If she hears him, she’s not letting him know.  “She looks so much more comfortable here,” he said to me. “Your sister will feel so much better seeing her like this.”  I am suddenly aware of music.  At some point after we left for dinner, someone turned on my Mother’s television – which is also a radio- to a station that plays foot stomping, hand clapping gospel music.  Dad and I spend at least ten minutes trying to change the station. But we are remote-control challenged and fail.  The gospel music keeps playing.

 

We sit quietly by her side.  Dad discovers he can use my Mother’s bathroom and is – in every sense of the word-relieved.  I walk down the corridor to the Family Lounge for a cup of tea and a cookie.  I see new faces.  A young couple sits on the loveseat, arms wrapped around each other.  They laugh and tease.  I want them to stop. Somehow this is not the place to do this, I think to myself. I conclude that they must be here to protect an inheritance from a relative they care little about.  Two women sit at the table, deep in conversation.  One is in tears.  Now here are some people I can relate to.  I get my tea and walk back to Mom’s room, peering into the room of her neighbor – the one we share our patio with.  I cannot see the patient but I can hear her breathing.  It is loud, wet and rumbling.  At her bedside sits a younger man, keeping his vigil.  I wonder if he is the woman’s son.

 

A nurse has solved our remote control problem.  Dad has found a more suitable station that plays big band tunes.  My mom loves that kind of music. The nurse returns.  In her hand is a syringe with no needle..  “This is her morphine” she explains to us as she inserts the tip of the syringe into my mother’s mouth and pushes the plunger.  She checks the bag of urine that hangs discreetly at the side of the bed.  It is almost full.  She smiles and leaves us. We sit.  We take turn holding Mom’s hand and stroking her head.  The clock reads 12:04 .  Christmas is over.

 

 

It is Tuesday.  This morning I scour the phone book looking for a cremation service.  I choose the one the social worker suggested.  The man who answers the phone is named Bob.  He is appropriately empathetic and informative.  He explains our options and seems to understand, without being told, that money is a concern.  I opt for simple cremation and tell him I will purchase an urn on my own.  I assume from his immediate acceptance of my declaration that he hears this all the time.  He warns me not to get anything breakable. 

 

In the other room my Dad is on his cell phone calling the Hospice.  When he is done he comes into the dining room to report. “Mom’s doing fine,” he says.  We are both silently relieved that she hasn’t died while we shopped for someone to turn her into ashes.  Dad announces that he has a few errands to run.  We agree to visit Mom when he returns.

 

Because it is Tuesday and daytime we enter the Hospice through the front door.  The parking lot is full but we find a space close to the door because someone is leaving.  As we approach the nurses station a short dark haired woman smiles at us.  I introduce my father and myself.  She is a social worker.  My Dad immediately seizes the opportunity to express his concerns about feeding Mom if she should awaken.  The woman, whose name is Judy, assures my Dad that the Hospice is fully prepared and equipped to feed Mom if something should change.  “If she wants to eat, she will be fed,” Judy explains. “But she doesn’t talk,” my Dad responds, “How would you know?”  “Don’t worry,” Judy replies, “we know.” She smiles at me.  She knows denial when she sees it, her smile tells me.

 

We move towards Mom’s room and again I feel that sense of dread as we approach her door. I listen for the sound of her breathing and again feel relief when I hear it.  There is a nurse in the room.  My father asks to speak with her and they go out into the hallway. I’ve heard this conversation before and have no desire to hear it again.  I kiss Mom’s forehead and adjust her blankets.  “Hi Sweetie,” I say, “How are you doing?” 

 

She is on her side.  Pillows support her back and keep her from falling over.  Her bedrails are up.  Her eyes are open.  I wave my hand quickly infront of her eyes. No response. No blinking. No pulling away.  I take her hand and squeeze it.  She squeezes back…I think.  I do not know whether to tell my Dad.  I decide not to. It could have been a reflex. I leave and join him in the hallway.

 

The nurse is talking about the signs to look for.  The markers that will tell us when the end is near.  Mottling of the feet, legs and hands. Cold extremities. Rapid breathing.  I can wait, I think to myself, I’m not ready yet. As if she could read my mind, the nurse says “Your mother has not even begun to show any signs.”  “How long can this last, “ I ask.  “The average time is 7-10 days,” she replies, “ but we have had people last longer.”

The thought that I might not last 7 to 10 days crosses my mind.

 

“If you have any more questions, “ she says to my Dad, “just ask.  I’ll be in later to give her meds.”  I like this woman.  She smiles, speaks in a soft, comforting voice, and touches my Dad when she talks to him.  I wish she could stay forever.

 

We return to Mom’s room.  Once again, the foot stomping gospel music is playing and we quickly change the station.  Dad kisses Mom’s forehead and pleads with her to “come back”.  I leave them alone while I search out the cookie of the day and the cup of hot tea.  I bring Dad a hot chocolate to sip.  We sit with Mom for an hour until we leave for lunch. 

 

At home, my brother calls.  He and his wife are coming on Wednesday or Thursday.  The prodigal son. We decide to call my sister and invite her to visit, convinced that she will find comfort in seeing Mom so peaceful. I pray silently that she will arrive sober. I watch soap operas while Dad contacts his pastor, his brother, and a few friends from church.  These calls are important.  When he talks to these people he talks about her dying…if he does this enough, I think, he will start to believe it.

 

 Early in the afternoon my Father leaves the house for a while.  I am bored and restless.  I scrub the kitchen floor and clean my Dad’s bathroom.  The overpowering Clorox vapors give me a headache.  I open the windows and sit down at the computer to shop.  For the urn.

 

Hours later I have narrowed my search to three websites.  I want my Dad to choose from the urns I like.  I marvel at the variety and the variation in cost.  There are big urns, mid size, and even tiny urns designed to give to relatives or close friends who want an ounce or two of their loved one.  They are metal, ceramic, porcelain, wood and even plastic.  There are scattering urns that offer temporary shelter for the cremains before they are scattered into the wind.  There are urns that play music.  And finally there are urns designed to hold the ashes of both husband and wife.  Dad chooses a blue urn with a candle holder on top. Yes, it’s breakable. I type in my Mastercard number and press the submit button.  Voila! My mom’s final resting place will mail within 24 hours.

 

Dad and I make a quick trip to see Mom.  We meet another nurse. My Dad corners her and begins to list his concerns.  I can see that he is starting to second-guess this decision.  He wants to take her home.  The new nurse and I team up and talk him out of it. I feel like Judas – I am saying things to my Dad that I’m not sure are true – I too question the humaneness of this method of dying but I can’t imagine an alternative.  Taking Mom home is NOT an option. We leave.

 

It’s evening now.  But tonight I decide to alter our routine.  I bring with me a tape player, several tapes of contemporary hymns and a Bible. Once at my mother’s side, assured she is still breathing, I plug in the tape player and pop in the cassette.  Gently I tuck the Bible under her hands.  I glance at my Dad and see immediately that this scene I have created pleases him.  I make a mental note to include these activities into each evening visit.  He decides that the Bible will remain with her till the end.

 

By Wednesday our routine is set. Three trips a day. Hymns at night. Endless cups of tea and dozens of cookies.  There is also the consistent examination of the urine bag and a cursory look at Mom’s legs and hands for “signs”.  If she were a turkey we would be inserting a thermometer to see if she was done.

 

On Thursday, my brother and sister-in-law arrive.  We meet them in Mom’s room.  My brother declares his relief at seeing Mom so “at peace”.  I declare myself exhausted.  My sister-in-law offers to take me out for coffee. I jump at the chance.  Denny’s here we come. We eat and chat and to any observer we look like 2 women out for a late dinner.  It is nice to feel normal…I’ve spent so many days being in charge, it’s good to have another person take over.

 

And so it goes, day after day. Morning, afternoon and night. Cookies, tea, and tears.  The monotony is broken only by the occasional visit of a man I’ve dubbed “Cremation Man”.  Dressed nattily in a dark suit he quietly wheels a gurney down the hall. An emerald colored blanket rides neatly folded on top.  He disappears into a room.  If I’m in the right place at the right time, I see him leave. Discreetly and quietly pushing the gurney only this time the blanket is covering someone’s mother..or father…son or daughter. Cremation Man will soon come for my Mother.

 

New Years Eve 2000.

 

My sister and her boyfriend have joined us to welcome in the new year with Mom.  They’ve brought champagne and stone crabs and have clearly raised a few celebratory glasses before coming.  My sister, a bit drunk, is loud and inappropriate.  That’s why I love her. She’s reliable that way. 

 

We say a New Year’s toast over my Mother’s sleeping form. We check Mom’s body for “signs” and notice the coldness that began in her feet is now moving slowly up her leg.  How much longer can this go on, I wonder.

 

When the party ends, we leave.  My sister is calmer. And quieter. But still drunk.

 

 

 

 

 

Jan 3, 2001

 

Until today I never really bought the idea of “energy” and life forces. It always sounded so new-agey.  But today, as we walked into Mom’s room I had a strong sense that we weren’t alone.  I felt presences. I said this to my Dad.  He looked at me strangely and disappeared into the bathroom shaking his head.  My immediate thoughts were of my Grandmother and my cousin Frank. Both gone.  But, maybe not. I just knew they were in the room.  I just couldn’t prove it – and why would I want to. 

 

I also had a sense that Mom wasn’t in the room.  I mean her body was, but she wasn’t. I checked her closely. Her breath was shallow and quick.  Another sign. The room felt strangely peaceful. I flipped off the TV/Radio and the ever-present rockin’ gospel music. I switched on the CD player and started the music my Mom liked.  I held her hand and stroked her fingers with my thumb. “I love you Mom,” I whispered, “but you can go now. Dad is okay. Josh is okay. Everything will be fine and you have nothing to worry about.”

She didn’t move.  Neither did I.

 

I listened to my Dad blowing his nose, suffering from an ill-timed cold.  If his honking blow didn’t raise the dead, nothing would, I reasoned.  Dad was getting sick. He was wearing down.  And I was holding it together.

 

The priest came.  I recall some group prayer and the Episcopal version of the last rites.  This gives my Dad comfort.  It pisses me off.  Where the hell was God while my Mom descended into the purgatory of dementia?  Screw him (or her).

 

We left at noon . I continued cleaning my Dad’s apartment.  It was mindless and felt just right. A quiet afternoon.  I made a simple dinner and we ate in a silence occasionally punctuated by my Dad’s consistent need for reassurance that he’d done the right thing.

 

We made our evening trip to the Hospice as usual. Dad’s cold was getting worse. He had a fever.  He was probably contagious but what did it matter? Would someone catch his cold and die?  Black humor is my salvation.

 

It was clear that Mom was checking out.  I was determined to be there when it happened.  We sat. And sat.  My Dad was dripping in perspiration and sneezing in bursts of 4 or 5.  The nurse stopped by.  “Sometimes,” she said softly”, “They won’t go when the family is here.”

 

But I wanted to stay. I needed to stay. I would not let my Mother die alone in the Hospice bed with the small hand-printed card over her head that read “Glenna Neff”. 

 

I looked at my Dad.  He needed to be in bed.  I looked at my Mom…she was doing better than we were.  I walked over to Dad and said, “Let’s go home.  You can take a nap for an hour and then we’ll come back.”  He nearly ran from his chair.  I think he was relieved to be able to go.  He kissed my Mom on the forehead and told her he loved her and he would be back.  He said a prayer.  We left.

 

Back home, Dad changed into his pajamas and lay down in his room.  I sat on the sofa.  I did not remove my sweatshirt. My purse was by my side.  I picked up a pencil and paper and began doodling my Mom’s name and then the date.  As I finished writing the date, the phone rang.

 

She was gone.

 

I made the phone calls that needed to be made and we left for Hospice-By –The Sea for the last time.

 

Dad and I said our goodbyes as Mom lay wide-eyed and dead in her bed. They’d been unable to close her eyes.  It was creepy.  My nephew came. My Mom’s precious grandson whom she raised and loved far more than any of her own children.  He fell apart.  I held him while he sobbed.  I took over for my Mom at that moment.

 

As we were leaving, someone new was being rolled in. I wondered if this woman would lie in the same place where my mother had been. I would never know.  I wanted to leave the building before Cremation Man came, so I hurried out.

 

We arranged for the funeral service to be held on January 5.  I would fly home the next day (which happened to be my birthday). Mom was not at her service…she was still being cremated.  It was a nice service. I wrote the eulogy but was unable to read it. My brother read it however he messed it up by adding some of his own crap. Ruined the flow. Oh well.  We did get a “sign” .  Even the priest was surprised.  A white dove flew into the church (this was at night) and perched on the rafters. He was there for the entire service and then flew away.  Who knows.

 

I left on the 6^th, as scheduled. I was exhausted, drained and emotionally unavailable. I was looking forward to re-entering the land of the living. Before boarding my Dad thanked me and then said, “I feel bad that you’re going home alone.  I looked at him, put my hand on his arm and said, “Dad, so are you.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Support your local plumber

I am 66 years old and in my time on earth (as opposed to my previous time on Venus) I have probably lived with 2 dozen garbage disposals, One of them was my son and the others were mechanical things that lived in the dark underworld beneath my sinks and made horrible grinding noises at the flip of a switch.  Since living in my current house, we've had three...that's an average of one disposal every 6 years.  I don't know if that is above or below average. I also don't care.

Before purchasing the current disposal, we invited the plumber to evaluate why the one that was in residence was singing an empty tune and grinding up nothing. He said it was broken. It costs $100 to have a plumber tell you that. We already knew it was broken - duh." Luckily" he had one in the truck - as he pushed past me to go get it I asked, how much? He said, $360. I said -" no freaking way!! I can buy one at Home Depot (AND have my credit card hacked) for $100. "Those are not any good," he countered.  "I don't care," I said, "I'm not going to live here forever. I intend to move before the next disposal breaks.  Why don't you look around your truck and see if you have a goat or something that is cheaper." Note: Plumbers do not have a sense of humor.

My husband does not like it when I make a scene.  In the end he and the plumber (not Joe, incidentally) agreed to have someone from the "shop" bring over a more reasonably price one.  I left to take a shower and the "cheaper" one arrived while I was still wet. Cheaper? How's $225?"  Gotta love my husband's ability to drive a hard bargain.

Since buying the beast (the loudest and worst disposal I've ever had) I have learned a thing or two about them. I already knew that things like celery, onion skins, bones and grease were never to go into the grinding hole because they gum up the works (and then you have to call the plumber and repeat this scenario). I have since learned that pasta, rice, potato skins,most starchy foods, egg shells, coffee grounds, lettuce, and asparagus are also on the "NO" list. So is kale and that's really sad because the disposal is the only place for kale...it does not belong in anyone's actual mouth.

So why do we have disposals? What earthly good are they?  When this one goes - I'm done. I"d rather throw the dead food into the woods and let the animals eat it (except the kale - no self-respecting animal would eat kale).  I could compost but that is work and I am allergic to work. I can throw it into the regular garbage and endure the stench of rotting food. What's left to grind up? Cupcake crumbs? Leftovers that don't contain any of the forbidden foods? Velveeta?

In the end a goat makes much more sense. Sadly we are not zoned for goats.

Round cylinders, square holes and Walmart

With aging comes loss. Loss sort of sucks.  Spouses die, parents - for the most part- are long gone. Animals leave us for the Rainbow Bridge. Hair goes. So does balance. And so does giving a shit what others think of us (but I digress)  But no one could have prepared me for losing the cardboard inside the toilet paper roll. Seriously, who the hell decided to kill that thing?  Scott and Kimberly Clark . (a lovely couple)

It must have caught the news anchors and reporters off guard too. The story of the cardboardless toilet paper roll made the national news (I'm not sure if it was covered by Fox because this time it wasn't Obama's fault).  Where once there was a perfectly round opening supported by dull brown/grey cardboard, there is now a squarish hole...considering that my TP holder is round I foresee some issues. Think about it.  Instead of a nice smooth rolling motion, we will soon be experiencing kerplunck kerplunck  kerplunck.  How special is that?  I suppose someone will soon invent a square holder and we'll all be rushing around eager to own one or two of the trendy holders. But, can they make a square spring? And do we care?

This is supposed to be about reducing waste...now there's irony.  Less waste when wiping away the remnants of your waste.  Clever.None of this is wasted on me. No sireeee. And the first place to sell this product - why none other than Wallymart!  It's the American way...and probably the only American made product in the store.

In celebration of the cardboardless toilet paper,and I suppose, in honor of the role the cardboard tube has played in our lives,someone built an Eiffel Tower out of the tubes.No joke...I saw it on the news. I believe it was built in front of the paper company's building.  I am still trying to figure out where an Eiffel Tower built of toilet paper cardboard fits into all this. I am totally missing the connection.

But I will miss those little buggers. I gave them to all my teething puppies to chew up. My son and I used to make pretend instruments out of them.  I used to slip them over curled cords to keep the cords from curling over each other.I had a Westie who would run and hide if I made a farting sound by blowing into the tubes. It was funny. I did it often.   And if you give me a minute I'm sure I can think of other things I've done...oh yeah I recall having a...never mind. Forget it. You don't want to know. And I grieve for the people on Pinterest who have dedicated many many many many  pages revealing multiple uses for the cardboard rolls..things like.wreaths, stamps, totem poles, wall art, building blocks. What will these people do? Will there be a black market where crafters can score some board?

Reap...reboot...return

Okay so - I've been gone from this blog. No particular reason...not feeling like talking, I guess. It gets like that sometimes. But it doesn't mean I've been in some form of suspended animation. Nope. Although there have been a few moments where suspended animation looked mighty tempting.
For my sake and that of my wonky memory, I am doing a quick recap.  Then someday when my future relatives are on Ancestors dot com they'll be able to fill in the blanks and be grateful they only have to read about me.

 Empty nesting turns out to be glorious (but fleeting....see future entry). With no adult children (this term fits in my house) and no guests, it is possible to have unplanned sex (I said POSSIBLE...it's just a concept - a possibility- not a given), lower our utility bills by 20% (my son would turn on the lights of any room he walked through and never turn them off, run the shower for 20 minutes, keep his TV on all day and night..etc) and reduce our grocery bill by half. Time spent cooking was also minimized and focused on only the foods we loved. What we discovered was that without the stress of having another annoying, blood sucking human under our roof - we had more fun. We were more relaxed. We felt renewed!! I should have known this wouldn't last.
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I had my first Southwest Airlines Flight where I learned the secret to getting  better seat is to pay an extra fee. Worth it.  The fee probably took me from section D to section B....Section B is good. Section A is for gods and goddesses..not sure what kind of fee you pay for that.  But if you don't know what I'm talking about I'll try to briefly explain. You buy a ticket on THEIR website. No assigned seating EVER.No first class, business or coach. 24 hours before your flight you (and everyone else on the flight) go online and "check-in" and you get a section assignment and a number. 30 minutes before your flight you line up according to your section and your number (I had B42 going and B45 coming home). It feels a bit like kindergarten but you do not have to hold you buddy's hand. They call your section, you board and take whatever seat you want, It's fast and efficient...it's a little less attractive if you're traveling with someone who has a higher number though.  You have to creatively save her seat.  If you pay an extra fee you get "checked-in" 36 hours in advance. This increases the probability that you will get section B (maybe A)...but it doesn't guarantee it. It's a gamble...but the $24 was a better bet than any I made in Vegas.

(Oh and the soda, coffee etc is free and they are very generous with their snacks.)

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Vegas with a friend rocks.  Spent a lot. Ate some totally amazing fattening food and fulfilled a bucket list entry. (Cross one off. And yes, I got all teary when the concert began. Hold your laughter. It's MY life) Celine Dion. $200. Amazing - except for the asswads sitting next to me. They were French and seemed to think that anything Celine Dion said or sang that was French..or alluded to French..or mentioned a person who was French (or ate a french fry) gave them the right to either whistle at an ear piercing decibel or scream...they also sang along with her - especially when she sang in French. My dirty looks did not slow them down however my friend Deb did...some how she gave them "the look" and we enjoyed a full 30 minutes of peace. Au revoir idiots.

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I would probably have written about these things...but I didn't...there was more, but who cares.  I feel somewhat caught up.  I can go to bed now.

Bunnies, ribs and purple eggs

It's 8:30 on Easter morning.  My husband has gone to "work" at the golf course (10 hours a week so he can have free golf) and I am contemplating the best time to start cooking.  There is no sense of a holiday in the house. No basket, no eggs, and no new Spring clothes that are way too lightweight to wear because the weather isn't quite Spring-like.  The dinner I'm planning isn't ham (yuck) or lamb or even a turkey. We're doing ribs and not calling them Easter Dinner.

 I've never liked Easter.It's boring. I didn't even like it when I was little.  It always meant a Toni Home Permanent which gave me frizzball hair and an ugly dress that my Grandmother would insist was beautiful. I don't mean to be disrespectful of the holiday (yes I do)., It's fine if you're into the whole resurrection thing (but I have my doubts).  For me the worst part of today is to wake up and realize I HAVE no chocolate bunny tails and ears to nibble on.  That's what it used to be for me - that's what I looked forward to....biting the ears off my son's chocolate bunnies - the ones the Easter Bunny would bring even though my son wasn't particularly fond of chocolate. Over the years he would just hand them over while I, with telltale chocolate stuck in the corner of my lips from the ones that never quite made it to the basket, would smile and say "Are you sure?" while greedily snatching them from his little hands. Burp.

When my son was little my husband (#2) and I would hide eggs all over the house.  On Easter morning (before the Grandparents descended with 40 more pounds of candy) we would watch as he collected each egg in the off chance that one of these eggs would lead him to something worthwhile - like a toy.  And each year we got back fewer eggs than we hid.  Months later I would find a purple or blue egg behind a dresser or under the couch or inside a vase on top of a table....and more than once I would find these missing eggs while looking for the source of a funky odor in the room.  It took a few years for us to get smart enough to make  a list of where the eggs were hidden. Some people are slow learners.

Then there were the Easter Brunches at local hotels or restaurants.  We would pile into the car (my son, husband and my in-laws) and drive to an over-priced buffet where we had been lucky enough to snag a reservation.  Women would arrive, fresh from church, dressed in amazing outfits topped with large flowery hats.  I would always feel under dressed in my jeans (clean) and tee shirt. (I never changed the way I dressed for this occasion) There was never an Easter brunch where we didn't marvel at the amount of food our kid could eat and still move.  I would keep a close eye on my mother in law who, if we didn't monitor her, would find something to tuck away in her purse (not to eat but to use in a craft of some sort some day).  And then it would be over.

This year it's just us. Me, Bob and Charlie (my 2nd husband, son's Dad etc) and our dogs. My son recently moved out and does not talk to me (so he won't be stopping by any time soon).  My niece is at her boyfriend's parents'. My nephew decided to enjoy the day alone in Chicago. ( I suggested he go to Millenium Park and stand near the Jelly Bean...sort of a tribute to Easter) I don't really have to cook but I have a craving for sweet, sticky ribs. Charlie will bring one of his out of control dogs and we will spend the day yelling "NO!" at this poor confused canine.  And Charlie will also bring the one thing that's missing...a chocolate bunny.  He always brings a chocolate bunny.  (That's probably why I invite him.)

Happy Easter.

Vampire Village

My husband and I just spent the entire month of March in Florida.  No big deal for some people - but for us - a real big deal.  This fulfilled a large bucket list item. It allowed me to have a taste of what so many people we know do annually-escape the last and most horrifying month of winter (in the single most horrifying winter I can remember) It also provided an opportunity to consider actually moving our asses out of Wisconsin to join the growing mass of now suntanned elderly who have fled before us.

It was an experiment. The results aren't in yet. We're still thinking about it.

One of the concerns I have about moving to Lalaland is a social one.  The older a person gets - the more difficult it is to meet people and make friends.When you're working, friends come with the job ("Here's your desk, your computer and , oh yes, here's your new friend Marge".) We don't really work anymore -at least not the kind of work we used to do.  Joining a church is a good place to meet people (I've been told) - but we don't do that...what church would welcome an outspoken non-believer and a lapsed Lutheran? Volunteering is also rumored to expose people to new friendships but we've been volunteering at a food pantry in Wisconsin for three years and I've never gone to dinner or to Nordstrom's Rack with any one of the people we volunteer with.

 Having friends at our age is important.  Finding them is challenging.

So we considered that perhaps we would visit an "active senior community" while in Florida.  They come with built-in friends, optional planned "activities" and - I've been told - Friday night dances. ( We don't dance but we do watch Dancing with the Stars). Some communities are attached to golf courses.  I don't play - but my husband does.( I do enjoy driving golf carts though and I have clubs and cute shoes and some golfy looking shorts so maybe I could fake it.).

So shortly into week one of our extended trip I brushed up on central Florida "communities" and randomly selected one. (It is not far from a winery so if all else failed I could spend my days touring and sampling).  It was called Heritage Hills...and it did not have a golf course.

Best described as gorgeous, huge, perfect and clearly planned, HH offered "villas" (attached rows of 2 bedroom and 2 bedroom plus den units), and 2 and 3 bedroom detached homes.  Prices varied from the 170's for the villas to 350,000 for some of the bigger homes. There was, of course, the "clubhouse" (where the Friday night dances are held) with game rooms, craft rooms, and the sales office. Somewhere on the property was a pool, a putting green and some other things I cannot remember.

We were joined on our "tour" by another couple who lived nearby and were looking to downsize.  We were led on the tour (in a golf cart, of course) by a salesperson who looked like she had just rolled out of bed and who became fascinated by my curly grey hair. "I should have that hair!" she exclaimed repeatedly. (I offered it to her).

The key, we learned, to a successful tour is to lie and tell the salesperson that you are looking to move ASAP. We did not know this.  Once we (all of us) had established ourselves as "considering" a move, our commission possibilities were immediately diminished and so was the enthusiasm of our tour director/salesperson.  She spent considerable time trying to convince us that none of us would be happy in a villa because it would be too small. "Most people who purchase villas regret it," she explained,  Not enough room. No storage. They always end up selling and then buying something larger." I asked why they even bother to build them if no one likes them and she did not answer.  The game was on.  The other couple looked at me and we rolled our collective eyes. Bonded instantly. My new best friends. Things were looking up!

We toured 6 home styles.  Each nicer than the last.  The best, of course, was way out of our price range. Big shock.  As were crisscrossed the property one particular feature stood out.  On this perfect day, 72 degrees, low humidity, gentle sunshine not a soul was out. No one was gardening, walking, throwing a ball to their dog. No cars. Nothing.Just construction workers busy building the next "phase". Not an elderly creature was stirring (except a few ubiquitous lizards).  "Where is everyone?" I whispered to the other couple.  I asked "Diane" why no one was out.  She said, "Many of our residents still work. Our average age here is late fifties to late sixties."  That did not answer my question but it was the only response I would get.

"Vampires." my husband whispered. "Vampires live here. They only come out at night."

We ended our tour, said goodbye to the other couple (who had decided they would not be downsizing here) and drove out through the heavily guarded gatehouse.  I looked at my husband. "Ummm, not for us."

I think that if we ever decide to make the move to warmer climes, we will buy a regular house in a regular community and take our chances.  Let's face it, at our age people we know have already started to get sick and pass on.  That's bad enough. I don't want to star my new life with neighbors who are already...gone.

Worshiping our daily bread

It's Sunday and this title seems appropriate. This is about my recent separation from white bread and our touching reconciliation this morning.

Of the many "poisons"we are warned about (like sugar, white flour-based foods,salt, partially hydrogenated oils, trans fats and anything made at a fast food joint or by my aunt Max) my estrangement from white bread began shortly after my November attack of diverticulitis.  Vowing to eat even more fiber, I dispatched my husband to the local healthy bakery and asked him to bring home whole wheat bread.  I'm not a big fan of ww (or of that "W" president either) but I knew it wouldn't kill me. I assumed that this bakery was capable of producing an edible loaf. It was (if you like that sort of thing).  So for months, when bread was required, it was ww.  I am convinced that ww and the bag it comes in taste about the same - but it's easier to spread something on the bread than on the bag.

This morning my husband made one of his OCD trips to the grocery store.  (He makes weekly decisions about when he is going and never breaks that vow.  He had vowed that today was the day.)  He brought back the few items I had managed to scratch onto the list AND he improvised and bought a loaf of Italian bread. My heart stopped.

I walked slowly towards the bag ( in case it was an apparition and would vanish if I moved too quickly). I reached out my right hand and rested it on the store bakery plastic bag.. (Plastic bags  cover white bread). I applied a little pressure to the bag. The loaf depressed and snapped back.  The crust felt, well crusty...a whiff of freshly baked bread escaped..  I whispered, "Holy shit...Italian bread..."

My fingers found the twisty tie and I fumbled trying to unwind it. Once undone, the bag popped open and the end pieces fell over. Like dominoes. Chewy, yummy crusty dominoes.  I reached inside and grabbed the 2 smallest pieces.  My fingers automatically went to the white part because I wanted to be sure it was soft.  It was. I pulled them out and leaned in to smell them because bread only smells good like this when it's fresh.  I reached for the butter dish and the knife leaning against it. I shaved off several strips and slowly spread it across every possible bread cell. Right up to the edge of the crust. Popped it in my mouth, chewed slowly, enjoying the crunchiness of the crust and the softness of the insides (not to mention the greasiness of the butter).  I washed it down with cold tea. Smiled smugly. And as I walked away I spied a hunk of milk (not dark) chocolate sitting next to the microwave. A left over valentine token from another husband. I broke off a piece and ate it.

It was a good morning.

A brief reflective interlude

It is clear to me that I am in a funk. I don't feel like writing in this blog or in any  of the other places I leave my scent. I generally stay away from people as much as I can...and I have been arguing, insulting and mocking people whose opinions I disagree with on Facebook.  Clearly, I am not in control of me.  Working on getting out of it...but it isn't easy.

Medication is a consideration but I'm sooooooooooo sure I can resolve my sadness/anger once the issue with my son has passed (and that would be when??? cause we are on week four of him not talking and 2 months away from his move-out deadline) or once I stop being furious over losses I couldn't/can't control....or overcome my desire to maim anyone who spouts inspirational messages and tells me to count my blessings instead of my losses or disappointments..so I delay calling the doctor. If I were my client I would order me to get some meds (or check into a remote retreat in India).

I'm pretty sure at this point that my husband and anyone else who has been at the wrong end of my hair-triggered temper would be willing to make the call for me....or to buy me some Zoloft on the black market.  I'd put money on that.  I am most unpleasant to be around.  I can't even stand myself.  It's like PMS without the prospect of blood or cramps (which isn't that bad if you think about it).

And that's all she wrote.

A selfish neurotic look at therapy

It is inevitable that at some point during therapy  a client will ask me, "Don't you get tired of listening to people's problems all day?".  My usual reply, "No. Everyone is different. Everyone is struggling with something unique. No two people react or respond the same way." (Long answer to a question that could easily be answered "no".) That usually satisfies people. But, yesterday, when a relatively new client asked me, I realized that while my usual answer was sufficient, it was not really accurate.

Some of the most messed up people I know are psycho-therapists  (myself included). I have known therapists with a deep fear of being alone, not feeling complete without a man, a need to be adored by a woman 24 hours a day, unresolved mother issues, a compulsion to be friends with clients (big no-no) etc.... The list is long.   I've really only known two individuals that are fairly balanced people. But I could be wrong.  Several of these slightly unbalanced souls have been or are friends.( Now there's a sad statement). Something about this field calls to the emotionally needy.  Others need not apply.  And I must say - the more messed up the therapist is, the more effective he or she seems to be with clients.

How can this be? Counseling clients is like being in a day-long therapy appointment.  It can be as therapeutic for the therapist as it is for the client. Counseling people is an opportunity to often provide others with great insight into their issues - based occasionally on how you, the therapist,may have failed to do it, or see it, or perceive it, how you wished you'd done it or how you still could do it if you had the cajones.  Ah yes. We often watch our clients grow and succeed where we have been unable.  It's win-win. Ever careful that we don't transfer our past  emotional experiences onto our clients, there is a constant struggle to remain neutral when their problems are similar to ones we have experienced.  In the end their victories, their growth, large and small, provide us with some sense of overcoming.  I guess what I'm saying is that being a therapist is kind of selfish....but yea, I can live with that.

Excuses, excuses

"So will you be stopping here on your way back or on your way down," asked my last living aunt who happens to be on the brink of her 90th birthday. What?  Stop in Pittsburgh on my way back (or to) Florida? I quickly grabbed my Google map directions. There's no Pittsburgh on my directions...no Pennsylvania on my map...and no earthly reason that I cannot change my route.  I reply, "I don't think we can do that Max...it's not on the way." Silence.  "Oh. Okay....but it sure would be nice to see you guys."  More silence and the Cloak of Guilt descends and I basically feel like shit.

My aunt, the sister of my mother, the last living member of a family of 7 children, the one I am most like....the person who fed me an endless diet of corn on the cob, spaghetti and hamburgers and laid the foundation for my pedestrian food preferences....the woman who made sure I had great summers at the lake and a "family" that was normal...a woman who by all indications should be dead from the lung cancer, stroke, COPD, and congestive heart failure that plagues her.....wants to see me (probably for the last time)... And I don't want to go out of my way.  May a large pot hole swallow me up as I drive through Indiana and touch the edges of Pennsylvania with my tires.  May the frackers, hidden and well guarded in the western Pennsylvania hills, release their toxic gasses and cause a calamity that affects only me....oh dear....Guilt is paralyzing.

I have been asking myself for years why I don't go visit more often. It's an 11 hour drive.  It's boring but not awful.  I never have an answer that meets with my approval....and the last time I acted on the idea that I would actually go was three years ago when I had to fulfill a promise to spread my Mom, Dad and sister's ashes over my grandparents' grave. (well that didn't work out very well...)  My husband went with me and declared that this area of western Pennsylvania (25 miles outside of Pittsburgh) and many of the people he met, made him think of the movie Deliverance.   He hummed the banjo tune from that film the entire trip.Jackass.

My primary and oft repeated excuse is the weather and the time of the year.  If it snows in western Pennsylvania - you're stuck.  It's happened to me several times....once I got stuck for a month.  It's all hills and valleys.  You just get snowed in.  With the people from Deliverance, my cousin and her kids, and Aunt Max.  So winter is out.  There is no excuse for summer...or fall...or Spring.  Or at least none I can think of.

Will we re-route? I don't know.  I do know that she will continue to ask and I will continue to wiggle and squirm.  And if I don't get to spend time with her at least once more...I will wiggle and squirm and kick my ass all over the place for being so lazy. At the end of my life, who will I want to see? My son? No because he wouldn't come.  My niece and nephew? Maybe.  Whomever it is....I would probably not ask - I would just hope,  But not Max, she's just going to keep asking and part of me hopes she wears me down.

Postmarked: Hell

I live with someone who has a mental illness and because of this our life at home has a strangely discomforting rhythm.  While his behaviors are predictable and nearly set in stone, the impact they have on me is not..  I find I cope best with my son when I am mad. Screaming, vein bulging, hand shaking mad. Unfortunately, I cannot sustain that level of anger long enough. In it's place, fear and anxiety move in.
That's where I m now.

Several months ago I suggested to my husband that we take a month-long vacation. Rent a house someplace warm (any place warmer than this)  Travel there at a leisurely pace.  Get there when we get there. Stay there as long as we want. Maybe invite some friends and family to stay for a few days - or not. And slowly make our way back.  So I found a condo in a gated community in Kissimmee, Florida. And with much (and I mean much) anxiety I sent the deposit.

Now why would I experience anxiety while in the act of preparing for something I wanted? My son.  So much could go wrong before we left - or while we were gone.  It would, after all, be March and March has never been a good month for him or us. I convinced myself to be positive and move ahead.

 It  looks like my anxiety was justified.  Drug use has re-appeared.  His hair has been shaved to a military style prison cut. (Which he knows I hate...Maybe he's getting ready for the next arrest) I believe he has lost his job (I have no proof - he's just here too much to be working).  He is smoking in his room.(Forbidden) The room is a sty.(Won't clean it) Everything around him is in a state of neglect and duly reflects what state his mind is in. This is when things usually begin to go missing in the house...money...stuff..Hasn't happened yet but it is just a matter of time. This is - and always has been- the precursor to an EVENT. He has declared war in the house and will not engage in conversation. He has been given a deadline by which he is to move out. His door lock has been removed. Yet, he is mad at us for whatever twisted reasons.  We are the bad guys -especially me.

Persons with Borderline Personality Disorder are a therapist's nightmare.  At the clinic where I work we do all we can to avoid taking someone with that diagnosis. ("Hey Sara, I have  a great client for you..." or "Gee I am so booked, maybe you should give it to Tom..")....no one wants these people because there is rarely any change and many therapists do not believe change is possible. They are the clients that make YOU want to bang your head against a wall. They are are wired wrong....so the change has to come from the people who live  with them. Um...that would be me.

So, right now, I am struggling with what to do.  I have asked him to leave earlier. That's not going to happen.  I would love to find someone to stay at my house so I could maybe not worry 24 hours a day about what is happening here...but no one can do that .  I've even considered cancelling the trip and swallowing the 2600 dollar loss....but my husband says ,' no'.

There are many kinds of hell on earth. My son lives in hell.  We live in hell.

All I want is a 30 day retreat

12 Years a Coward

I think it was 12 years ago that my doctors started nagging me about getting a colonoscopy.  In that time I repeatedly refused with some pretty good excuses: Didn't want it, colonoscopies were for old people (denial is comforting) no one in my family has ever had colon cancer, a friend had his colon punctured during the procedure ( true), don't like going to sleep, couldn't afford it (pre Affordable Care Act)...my excuses were endless and my colon remained virgin territory (unlike the rest of me).

Shortly after my experience with diverticulitis - I gave in. I scheduled one and promptly put it out of my mind..until I had to face the dreaded day of PREP. For the uninitiated,  prepping for a colonoscopy ranks right up there with self-flagellation or watching a Steven Segall movie. Pure torture.  Wanting to be fully prepared, I spent hours scanning the Internet for colorful descriptions of the experiences of others on Prep Day.  From these horror stories I constructed a solid plan for what I would do and how I would do it. I was ready.

The people who developed the array of Prep products clearly have a sense of humor.  I was given a powdery substance that came in a 4 liter plastic jug which would, at some point, be filled to the "fill line" with water.  This product came with the unlikely name GOLYTELY. Honestly, I couldn't make that up

As part of my plan I would spend the day before Prep Day preparing to prepare. I would make jell-o jigglers, mix my Golytely concoction and refrigerate it because, according to the directions, it was more palatable that way. I would buy broth, 7 Up, Ginger Ale and Gator Ade.  By Sunday night I was ready for my day of clear liquids only and my evening of "cleansing".

Not eating all day isn't fun - so I'd planned to see clients on Prep Day, do my volunteer stint at the food pantry, send my husband out for dinner and camp out in the bathroom from 4- whenever.  I packed a cooler with my clear drinks, some extra ice, and long drinking straws, two plastic drinking vessels that had 8 ounce hash marks (so I could ingest the correct amounts) and a pile of magazines I hadn't had to time to read. I found a lavender scented candle to burn and made sure I had the softest TP imaginable. Oh - and a large tube of A&D ointment (highly recommended).

At 4:00pm I drank the first 8 ounce glass of Golytely.  It was cold, I placed the straw as far back in my mouth as possible and I chugged. At best it tasted like drinking the ocean with a lot of pee in it.  I grabbed for the Gatorade and took a large gulp.  It cleared the palate (so to speak). This became my routine. Because I had to drink 8 ounces every 15 minutes until the first 2 liters were gone.  I never touched the other drinks. The Gatorade was perfect. I never read the magazines either.  I danced. Jumped, Ran around the room. Hopped on the stair stepper (aka clothes rack) and did everything I could to get things moving. The drinking did not get any easier.  Strangely enough, I was no longer hungry.  It was over an hour before anything moved. And then everything moved. I was grateful for the Lavender candle. Really grateful.

When things quieted down I felt safe to move around the house.  This was not such a good idea.  Unlike the normal passage of stuff through the body, this treatment changes everything.  The directions clearly state "stay near a bathroom".  They didn't define "near".  I won't describe what happened but I will tell you it happened not once, but twice. I'm a slow learner.

Spent, exhausted  I got up the next morning and had to repeat the routine at 5:00am. Well, I sort of repeated it (I stayed in the bathroom)  I didn't drink the remaining 2 liters.  I drank 16 ounces.  I felt "clear" and declared that if I hand't done it right that was just too bad. No  way I was ever going to do this again.

I don't even remember the procedure. I do remember Dr. Armanisuit (not his name - but his suit) because he had done an endoscope 6 years before.  Dr. Armani Suit was impecabbly dressed -as usual. Crisp burgundy shirt, perfectly tied tie, dark Indian skin and gorgeous perfect hair.  Handsome man who, when he spoke and made a point, would roll his eyes upward, lower his lids and manage to look like he had no eyes. The man who was going to snake a camera up my butt had moments of having no eyes. Lucky me.

I guess things turned out okay.  The nurse said I wouldn't have to come back for 10 years.  I told her I would be dead by then and did not think that making an appointment so far in advance was a sound idea.  I'm not going back anyway.