Solstice evening

I took a walk at sunset, just because I could. On one side was a peek into people's lives through their windows and on the other was Wolfe Lake. I would call it more of a pond, it is quite small. All kinds of hop toads were warming on the asphalt, colored so closely to the pavement they were hard to see. The first instinct is to get a stick and make them jump but then the thought comes to show respect and I walk on and leave them alone. They jump when they want to and bask when they want to and who am I to intrude? Boundaries, boundaries.

I came back through the pool area and stopped to commune with the potted plants. I found myself singing to them, telling them through tuneless song how much I thought of them, how I rejoiced in their growth. I don't know what any neighbors on their balconies might have thought, but the flowers and vines and I had a really peaceful time together.

Tomorrow my dad's doctor is going to come over to the apartment to see him and make a recommendation for placement in a facility that can care for him better. It might be a real hospice or hospice care at a nursing home. The fact is that he can't stay there in the apartment. He needs more care than my mother can give and that the aids can spare. It isn't cruel. It is kind to both of my parents.

Kindness is the most precious of all virtues in my eyes. My sister-in-law took the time to visit with Harriet today and to try to talk to Sidney. I am not a Christian but I know that Jesus said that what you do unto the least of these, you do to me. This is the way I try to live my life, and when I see others being kind, it moves me greatly. I told Leslie how much her kindness to my parents meant to me. She said that in the end, what else is there?

There is someone at work who drives most of us crazy. The other day I thanked her for doing a good job when she came to give me a break. I thanked her for leaving the station clean for me. Her eyes lit up and she started to smile. It was such a small act, yet it made her happy. I compliment well behaved children, I ask new mothers how they feel. I joke with old couples and admire interesting jewelry. I suggest a better product or agree that something isn't so wonderful. The point is I want everyone who comes in contact with me to have a positive experience, to feel like someone sees them and their worth. It is my hope that there will be a ripple effect. Think globally, act locally.

I truly believe there is not one problem in the world that can not be fixed if we all were a little kinder and saw the worth in our fellow humans, wolves, whales, and toads.

Easier said than done

Today was the official "Take no shit day" on facebook. I had the optimistic hope that I wouldn't spread any around. I was wrong coming and going. After talking to a bookkeeper at a clinic I had to call my insurance company where I was told the claim that I had pre approved was not being paid because they hadn't pre approved it. What? What? What? Round and round in circles until I was crying and saying "How are you going to make this right?" Well, of course they weren't and I was advised to get in touch with the clinic to find out some answers. Instead, I called the clinic and left a voicemail message with the bookkeeper for her to call the insurance and get the answers.

I decided to go to a funny movie to laugh and release tension. Bridesmaids was funny, but not funny enough. Too many sad parts, too much potty humor for me. I hate urinal scenes and women sitting on the pot. It was funny, but not funny enough and I saw the male writer's influence. I guess I just wanted to scream with laughter but only guffawed.

Tension, pressure, worry, aggravation, frustration, and pain. That is what I am feeling. I talk the good talk and try to walk the good walk but my emotional stability is balanced on a pin. The slightest thing makes me cry. I say surrender, I say relax, I say it is all in the Creator's hands, but I really don't know how to do better, be more at ease. The truth is that my father is dying and I can't make him better and can't help him die. The old man has made many of my years with him hell, and my sister and I both prayed for him to die since we were children. I always knew he loved me, but I never knew I loved him, too. Excuse me while I blow my nose and wipe my eyes.

I know there are people who love me who I can depend on to "cover my back", yet I still feel lonely and alone as the days wind down on the old man's life.  Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.

A cupcake won't make it better

It is another Saturday night and I am watching TV and wondering who thought up this stuff? Does any of it have anything to do with my life? First Iron Chef America. The secret ingredient was spinach. I love spinach in just about any shape or form including canned. I saw ten different ways of cooking spinach using foam and food processors but only one that I might ever do, spinach mac and cheese. Then another show, so real, so timely, and so ridiculous... It was Cupcake Wars! What kills me about these shows is the judging. It is serious to the contestants, but not to me, and I have a hard time relating to any of it. But then again, maybe it is just what I need.

I took my mom out this afternoon. She is suffering as my dad is sleeping the rest of his life away. She says the hospice people are so good to him, they are treating him as gently as a baby. but they only come three times a week. The weekends are so long. One week ago, I was able to take him out to the park in a wheelchair. Today, he was sleeping, so skinny, not moving, in the same place in bed when we came back as when we went out. He is so vulnerable it breaks my heart.

We went to a deli and the food seemed not to have any taste, but I really think it was us. Then we went for a long ride around the lakes. My mother seemed to enjoy it. She kept saying how grateful she was to be out of the house. She doesn't know how long she can take it. I told her that she had to make some decisions, was she going to get a new, freer, lease on life, or was she going to follow the old man? She said she wants to live, so is going to be strong.

I wish the most important thing in my life was a culinary contest. I wish I could ease the suffering of this poor old lady who is spending her waking and sleeping hours worrying about my father. I wish I could make his last days happy. My God, he is so pathetic looking, sort of sleeping, getting weaker and weaker. We all want it over, but it is not up to us.

The title of this posting is "A cupcake won't make it better." When my oldest was four years old she hurt her knee and was crying. I asked her if a cupcake would make it better. She nodded, and I got a cupcake from the kitchen. I brought it in to where she was sitting and rubbed it on her knee. Laughter really is the best medicine.

 

Expanding the definition of success

I had a great conversation about my "garden" with a true gardener, my mother-in-law Betty. I was asking her about the huge tomato plant I bought and which leaves to take off. Then I told her about the roses, geraniums and all the vines. I was quite proud of the hibiscus that I was able to winter over as well as the geraniums. I said that I don't have a green thumb. She said of course I do. I said I can't grow petunias. I can bring home the most luscious plants and within days they are scraggly. She then admitted that petunias were hard for her too.

Every time in the past years that I got roses to bloom in pots, I experienced a thrill. Really, each and every bloom was precious and amazing to me. Look at me! I'm growing roses, hahaha! Begonias in hanging baskets? Piece of cake, anyone can do it. But because I couldn't grow petunias, I thought I wasn't a gardener. I planted raspberry bushes in poor soil, and blamed myself when they didn't thrive. I didn't know about using good soil. The chipmunks ate all the delicious dahlias. Obviously I was a failure.

My oldest daughter was born in 1977 and a friend gave me a green plant that lived for over seven years in three states. Frankly, I got tired of the responsibility of keeping it alive and one winter stuck it on the porch. When we moved to Orono in 1987, Betty gave me a grape ivy that was quite old. Whether I watered it or not, it thrived and grew. About the time the marriage was ending, I passed it along to someone getting married. I'd had that plant about twenty years.  It never occurred to me that I had anything to do with it's longevity.

I am starting to see twenty-three pots of flowers on the ground and five hanging on the fence as pretty darn wonderful. Does anyone miss petunias? I don't think so. Hey! I am a successful grower of plants in pots! (No puns about pot plants please.)

I wonder, are there other crazy standards we use to judge success? I wonder also, what you, my readers could tell me about reassessing success.

OK!

OK what? OK, let's go! OK, let go! OK, I'm up and will feed you rotten kitties. OK, it's a beautiful day. OK, OK, OK.

Yesterday I went to Laughter Yoga and spent a lot of time consciously releasing tension. My back and leg still bother me but I kept saying to myself, "I release this pain" and "There is no pain." I allowed the endorphins and ibuprofen to help and although there is still discomfort, it is definitely a lower amount. OK!

Here's a lesson from my daughter. As a single person she buys whatever she likes and knows she will use. I took her advice and bought one perfect peach as opposed to a quantity that would go bad before  being used. I might be paying more per item, but getting quality and cutting down on waste (and guilt). It goes against all the thrifty ways to feed a family, but makes sense on an individual basis. OK!

The folks seem to be OK too and I've had a couple of nearly folk free days. I spent time on the phone with the assisted living facility's head nurse and with the volunteer director from Hospice. It is delightful to step back and let them do their job; hopefully the old man will stop calling emergency services. A volunteer is going to visit with my mom and ask her all about herself. A new audience for old stories, OK!

My niece Emma gave birth to a lovely long baby boy last week. He was almost 9 pounds and 23 inches long. His daddy posted an eleven second video clip on facebook and I can't wait to meet him. Welcome to the world Linus James. OK!

Wishing all my friends and family a day filled with the appreciation of Creation and the wonder of our very own existence. For your pleasure, Monty Python's The Galaxy Song and The Beatles' Good Morning. OK!

Enough is enough

I spent five hours with my parents yesterday. I made sure the old man got dressed, took the old lady out for eggs and then to Urgent Care to have her eye washed. When we got back I took the old man out in a wheelchair and we watched Little League in the park next door. I bought him a Coke and he seemed to enjoy seeing the little boys playing baseball. They really were sweet, age six to eight and they had confident batting poses. It helped that the pitches were all good, generated by a machine. At one point the old man needed to pee. As I wheeled him over to the portable toilets, I stopped by bleachers and asked if there was a compassionate man who could help my dad. It is all in the asking and a very nice man assisted us. There are some things a daughter should not do and helping my dad pee is one of them. He is so unsteady on his feet. He can't deal with the buttons on his pants and I do thank and bless the kind soul who helped.

While we were sitting out he asked why they made him go in earlier. Why can't he stay out on his own for more time. Explaining staffing was the easy part, making him understand that he can't take care of himself is much harder. He waved off the difficulty he had at the Port-a-let. "That? Anyone would have trouble there!" No, Dad, most people can stand on their own. In his mind he can do anything. What kind of care does he need? There is a real disconnect.

I got the call at 12:50 AM, he had fallen, the aide couldn't get him back up, his elbows were bleeding and he called 911. The ambulance was bringing him to Methodist Hospital. I made a decision, enough was enough. I was going to bed and let them deal with him. At five I woke up and made a phone call. Was he admitted? No, they sent him home.

At what point do we make the real decision that enough is enough? That assisted living is no longer meeting his needs and he should be in a full time care facility? He is killing the old lady who is getting very little sleep while running to his beck and call. He is wearing me out. I see another conference in the near future. In the meantime, I think I will go back to bed for awhile. I need some rest before work today. That after church crowd is a tough one.

The sun is shining on my roses and although I am tired, I am not bleak.

Time

Until recently, I was obsessive about time. I was never late and if I was late, it was a catastrophe. As a child, I would get hysterical if we overslept and I was late for school. As a spouse, I stressed at my partner's cavalier attitude towards getting to work on time. I don't know why I was this way. But I do know why I changed. Instead of obsessing about time, now I obsess if I can check the computer one more time before I leave home. I'm rarely late... but I do cut it close!

This has been a horrible week, starting with the old man calling for an ambulance to take him to the Emergency Room.  I arrived before the paramedics and along with my mother was the brunt of verbal abuse. He is not a stoic Swede like my in-laws. He does not suffer in silence. They sent him home after some tests. He is not sick, just old and worn out and sometimes confused. The silver lining is that we aren't in NY. In and out in only four hours. Back in Brooklyn he would still have been waiting to be seen.

Meetings with Hospice, meetings with the administration of the building where my parents live. Who is in charge? Me. But I don't live there, and I am called last in line. I had a hard day at work on Wednesday. I was snoozing on the couch when the phone rang and in my sleep I decided not to answer it. After listening to voice mail I got in touch with a home medical delivery service. They had brought an electric bed but couldn't deliver it because there was no room. I waited all day Thursday for the call that they were bringing it back. I had to get the old man out of bed and move it to the trash so they could set up the rental one. All the aides were at a meeting at another building so I remade the bed and got him settled. I showed him the controls, but who knows if he understands?

I look at the old man and listen to him complain and think that he has a choice. Why doesn't he look at the beauty of creation and appreciate what little time he does have? Then I look at myself. Why don't I see this time as a precious commodity instead of something to be got through? I am trying. But now I have to try a little harder.

Today at work I complimented a woman on her well behaved children. She did that annoying thing that we sometimes do as mothers. She said, "Well right now they are." Yes, appreciate it because the times in the past that they misbehaved are gone and all she had was right now. What guarantee do any of us have that we will be alive longer than the next breath? So if I am waiting to appreciate life until after the old man passes, I am wasting my life right now.

David Byrne of Talking Heads writes: "Time isn't holding us, time isn't after us, time doesn't hold us back." So who does? In this moment I can only commit to trying to be in this moment. And if this moment holds pain, so be it. This too shall pass.

A little Talking Heads for your pleasure.

My poor old mom

My poor old 97 year old mother is having a very hard time right now. Everything is all about the old man and she, though not being ignored, is not the focus of attention. I've done, and continue to do, what I can for the old man, but here is someone else, someone frustrated, scared, and falling apart. I've promised her to be there for her, too.

My step mother, Harriet is an unusual person. She has better coping skills than most people. Sometimes it works to her advantage and sometimes prevents her from getting the help she needs. For example, she memorized the first grade reader before starting school. She knew it by rote and did not learn to read well. She was called stupid and held back, held back with no tutoring. School was torture for her and she was apprenticed at a beauty shop at sixteen. She was a wonderful beautician, manicurist, and cosmetician. People would wait for her and often she worked from ten to ten. During the Depression she always had a pocketful of tips and her salary would go straight to her parents. She was able to buy her younger sisters roller skates when millions were out of work. She is an incredible knitter and never uses a pattern. It hurt me to hear her say not to buy any more yarn, her eyes were too bad. Another thing she has coped with for years is macular degeneration. I remember visiting back in the 90's and watching her cook for me. She was making matzo meal latkes and using her fingers to see if they were done. She was still cooking until they moved to Minnesota.  She could not adapt to a two burner electric cooktop. She could see gas, but not gauge the heat of the electric burners. My father howled. I tried to tell him how blind she is but he wouldn't listen. She still waits on him hand and foot but it takes a lot out of her.

I picked them up yesterday at four o'clock. I asked how she was and she started to cry that someone had stolen her watch. She looked everywhere. I reassured her that no one would steal that watch, it had fallen somewhere. When I went in the bedroom I heard the watch just finishing the announcement that it was four o'clock pm. But I couldn't find where it was coming from either. So we know that her talking watch was not stolen but is hidden among the clothes and bedding and shoes. She is going to ask the aide who cleans to find it. She asked why she couldn't find it? She looked and looked. I told her it was because she couldn't see well.

The old man is in rough shape and could hardly walk and then barely ate. He has no strength. It takes him quite a while to gather his thoughts so when he does speak, it is without niceties. The aides are taking very good care of him, "Treating him like a king" as the old lady says. She is worried about him but can't do anything and her talk makes him irritable. I have told her that she can call me and vent. She keeps saying how she has been so strong for him for so many years and it is all too much. I promised to come on my days off and take her out for a short time while he sleeps. Just going for a coffee will break up the awful days of watching him die by inches. This is much harder for her than it is for me. They have been married fifty-one years, thirty-five of which I lived out of state and only saw them every year or two for a few days.

So that's the story. I await the birth of my newest great nephew or niece and the news of my father passing. But in the meantime, we the living must treat each other with love. What is the alternative? There is none.

Ranting and Raving (not worth reading)

Rant, rant, rant, rant! Outrage! Rave, rave, rave, frustrated at stupid stuff. Indignant, rant, rave, bureaucratic idiocy! The details are stupid and boring, the indignation is real. I don't want to be governed by rules of punishment. Common sense is so very, very uncommon and, please take this with a grain of salt, I wish everyone was as honest and smart as me.

What brought this on? Everything from the idiotic rules at work to the mean spirited legislators who have nothing better to do than regulate who can love whom, to just watching the news.  Sciatica flare up doesn't help either, don't know though, if it has anything to do with my mind or just not lifting correctly.

OK, rant over. (For now.)

For those of you who think I'm a saint, think again

The old lady called this morning wondering what we were going to do today. I told her whatever she wanted. I arranged to take them to a deli for good soup at four. When I got to the apartment my father was in a real pretty state. All dressed up and gunning for bear. I guess he thought I was the target. He was lucid as anything wanting to know about his money and where it was and what did I need this or that check for and naaaaassssssty! We got to Mort's and he looked at the five kinds of soup on the menu and didn't want any of them. He wanted that good soup he likes.

So after making a scene at the deli, we got back in the car and I drove from Golden Valley to Saint Paul to take him to Dixie's on Grand. We had a fabulous waiter and the old man ate an entire bowl of South Carolina Crab Chowder. It occurred to me to order some to go. Now he has two portions at home and I don't have to drive fifteen miles each way to get him soup.

On the way home the old lady said, "Well, as long as he is happy." I agreed. Just like a rotten child who gets his own way by throwing a tantrum or acting ugly, so can the old man. He makes the atmosphere around him toxic with dissatisfaction. My challenge is not to get into it with him. My challenge is to be that CALM parent who points out that whining boys don't get anything and how does he ask?

I admit to getting pissed at the restaurant, pointing out to him he asked for soup, what the hell did he want? He was able to say exactly what he desires. He wants everyone to leave him alone and let him sleep as long as he likes and stop telling him he needs to get up and live. He wants to be miserable and suffer. He's dying and he wants to get on with it and, oh, oh, oh, he is going to linger and linger and make us all as miserable as he is. I just know it.

He has the opportunity to look around him and appreciate all that is wonderful in this creation. He can look around and see the amazing quality of care he is getting. If he wants to be miserable, so be it. If he doesn't want to go to meals or activities, I've told the old lady to go alone. He is not going to push my buttons. I am going to wear a zipper and not let him get at my control. I am determined to do my best for him and I hope that somewhere in this eleventh hour he makes whatever peace with whatever he believes in. My desire remains the same today as when I took on this task, to do everything needed so that when he dies I have no regrets that I could have done more. And if the Creator hears my prayer, I will never have to deal with him again in any other life.

Not a saint, and I hope, never a martyr, just a daughter.

Waiting for the shoe to drop

I imagine that the title of this blog comes from the experience of someone who lived in an apartment with neighbors above. Each night the upstair tenant would come into the bedroom sit on the bed, take off and drop one shoe. The downstairs tenant, already in bed, would wait for the other shoe to drop so he could sleep. But what if the person above just toed off the other shoe and it never dropped? Would the person listening get anxious, irritated, upset or just go to sleep?  Speculation in the middle of the night.

One shoe is already off. My father is on his way to the big sleep. Whether I will hear that shoe drop, or whether he will just fall asleep with that shoe on is anyone's guess. One moment he seems near death, the next he is full of beans, the sarcastic kind that complains.

I do not want him to linger, although knowing the old man, I am sure he will. I know his passing is not going to be what I expect. I will probably be filled with all kinds of conflicting emotions and will miss his dry humor when he is gone. I will not miss the nastiness, I think.

This is what I want. I want him to tell me how much he loves me and that he is sorry for the times he was out of control. I want him to thank me for making his last years easy, if not deliriously happy. I want to know more of the story that sent him and his brothers to the orphanage. I want to know how they treated my birth mother's cancer. I want to know what is in his heart before it is too late.

Dear friends, this isn't going to happen for me. But if you can cross a bridge, mend a fence, open your heart to someone who has made your life difficult, please do it. The benefit will spread like ripples on a pond affecting every place the water touches.

Right now, I feel like everything is unfolding in its own time. We have come very far in these last six years. I pray for patience, kindness and understanding.

The faces of goodness

From bottom left, Sidney, Harriet, above them Carol and Iris, Bob above

Some years ago my brother-in-law said that someone called him a mensch and he wondered what it meant and if it applied. I explained that a mensch is someone who does the right thing, not to be rewarded, not to achieve fame, but simply because it is the right thing to do. A mensch has to act the way they do because it is hard wired into them to be the best they can be and when their good deeds are pointed out to them, he or she can't see the big deal. "Yes," I told him, "You are a mensch."

So, too, with my dear cousins from New Jersey. They are the faces of goodness and giving. They are the faces of love. Yet if you point out to them just how wonderful they are, they just laugh and shrug. They are the way they are, to them it is no big deal.

Several months ago I wrote how my ancient parents wanted to go to another wedding in New Jersey and how I had to put my foot down and say no they couldn't go. At that time, Bob and Iris, parents of the groom, told the folks they would come out to Minnesota to visit after the wedding. True to their word, they flew out on Saturday and spent three days with my parents and me. Pretty remarkable, yet, this is the fourth time they have come to Minnesota in six years. 

When my dad was in a nursing home in Brooklyn and my mom was isolated in the apartment, they drove from Jersey in the snow, to take them out, to make sure they were OK. The old lady had five married nephews and nieces in the NY/NJ area, but only Bob and Iris took time to help.

Ninety-six and ninety-seven is truly ancient. The old lady, who is almost blind, can still remember many stories (as long as she figured in them), but the old man goes in and out of lucidity. One minute he can't remember who anyone is, and the next he is full of energy and anecdotes. It is almost like a switch is thrown. On Sunday, he spent most of the day sleeping on top of his bed. I went over at five and told him he had to get up to go out, and he did. I told him to wash his face, put in his teeth and get ready. Off he shuffled to the bathroom. But when he came out he was so refreshed he did a tiny dance. Go figure.

My daughters and a son-in-law joined us at the restaurant, a Chinese Buffet. In the past the old man has enjoyed walking with one of the grand daughters and picking out his own dinner. He did that again and I cracked the crab legs on the plate. He chewed and chewed and chewed but couldn't swallow. The night before I cut his lamb chop into the tiniest pieces and he had no trouble. But now he could not swallow his food. Several chairs down the old lady was sampling from the plate I brought her. I gave her some tiny clams still in the shell and bacon wrapped shrimp with a toothpick among other items. "Mom!" I yelled, "That is a toothpick! Don't eat it!" Oh my god. Several minutes later we heard an amazing crunching. "Mom! You are eating the clam shell! Spit it out!" My daughter helped her. Oy, oy, oy.

The next day the old man couldn't swallow his pancakes at Perkins. He can swallow his pills but can't seem to get the masticated food down his gullet. We had an appointment at the clinic this morning and he has lost two pounds since last Thursday. The hospice folks are going to come in and evaluate his needs. He can live a long time on Ensure. He agreed that he didn't want tube feeding should it come to that, DNI, DNR. I told him that he needs to get out of bed each day so he doesn't depress my mother, and because he does not want her to feel bad, he agreed. At this point, who knows?

This is probably the last time Bob and Iris will see the folks. They gave my parents a priceless gift of love, their time and attention and I am grateful.

Some thoughts on dating

Being back in the "dating" world after so many years is a trip. What kind of trip?  Sometimes fun, sometimes boring, and quite often bumpy. In the last week I was stood up, had a nice lunch, met for a drink, and put together some thoughts on the whole process.

1. Don't waste time on endless emails. Either he can meet or he can't. I am not looking for a pen pal, and if his schedule opens up, he can give me a call. Believe me, I am not holding my breath.

2. Pick a place to meet close to home. In case he doesn't show up, at least I haven't wasted gas. Fifteen minutes late is the limit of waiting unless there is a phone call.

3. Pick a place to eat where I enjoy the food. The company might leave something to be desired, but my meal shouldn't.

4. Don't cancel other plans.  Set aside an hour before or after other event to meet.

5. Don't put off girl friends to meet an unknown man. Men come and go, but a good woman friend is worth cultivating and keeping.

6. Don't waste time with people who aren't of interest.

8. NO SECOND CHANCES TO NO SHOW, NO CALL, NO MESSAGE RUDE PEOPLE.

9. And always, bring enough money to pay for own coffee, beverage, or meal. Don't assume anything.

10. Have fun. If it isn't fun, what am I doing there?

If it is in the cards to meet a great love, that is fine. But sometimes just meeting someone for dinner or a movie can be wonderful, too. I like who I am and want to be with someone who thinks I am grand just the way I am. Otherwise, being alone is nice, too. Besides, I have a pile of new library books and a Netflix membership. No desperation here. Where are the kittens? It is time to go to bed. Good night.

Not much fun for anyone

There were two voice mail messages waiting for me when I took my break at work today. The assisted living facility called to say the old man had fallen twice. When I called back they told me he would not go to the emergency room. He wasn't hurt but his primary physician wants to see him sometime this week. No broken bones, amazing as that seems.

The second part of my break was spent on the phone shouting at my father. "Dad, you have to use the walker. Every time you stand up you must use the walker." He doesn't think he needs to use it inside the apartment. "Dad, you are falling in your bedroom, you are falling in the bathroom, you are falling when you stand up".  He tries to explain that his feet aren't working. Yes, and that is why he should hang on to the walker so he doesn't fall down. Finally I asked him if he wanted to stay in the apartment or go to the Shalom Home. He wants to stay in his apartment with my mother.  I told him that if he didn't use the walker they would send him to the Shalom Home, a real nursing home. "Will you use the walker?" He said he would.

I'm sad that he is full of pride and fear and confusion. I am sad that the old lady has to deal with her husband falling apart. I am sad that I can't help him. He wants to know what is wrong with him and all I can say is he is old and his body is wearing out. There is no doctor who can fix what he has. He wants to see a doctor because his back hurts. "What hurts, Dad?" His skin. I explain to him that we have seen many doctors and tried many different creams and drugs and what he has is sensitive dry skin on his back. His arms are like two sticks, skinny and black and blue. Each time he falls and he is helped up the skin bruises and tears where they lifted him.

We went to Chili's for ribs yesterday. He ate about four and a very small handful of fries. He drank about  three ounces of Blue Moon Beer and the old lady finished the rest. I don't know if he enjoyed himself or not. The old lady had her usual good time. And I got more and more depressed.

I signed on for the duration, but I never thought it would be so long. I realize my life is in Limbo until they both pass. I live day to day for now, never knowing the next demand on my time. Will it be him or her with a complaint that needs to be dealt with? Will it be something financial? Will he have sent away for some crazy thing that I need to return? Will he start calling hearing aid places or play the foreign lotteries? After at least 50 years of using an electric razor, he says the new ones don't work. I bought him shave cream and razors. Now he says he needs shaving soap because he can't work the button on the can. It is too hard. I bought the soap and a mug. She wants red lipstick, bright. She can do only one thing each day. If we go to eat, she can hardly make it back home.

Everyone tells me how lucky I am to have my parents at almost 96 and 97. They are lucky as hell to have me. I know I have grown in patience and acceptance. I hope the lessons we all needed to learn are coming to an end because watching my father fall apart is not much fun for anyone.

Truly Delicious

Like many other people I have been buying Groupons and Living Social coupons and trying new restaurants. Some have been fine but I will not return. The one Eri and I tried yesterday was really, really good. In fact, the food was truly delicious and I want to go back.

El Nuevo Rodeo is both a nightclub, upstairs, and a fine restaurant downstairs. It is on Lake Street near Hiawatha, 2709 E. Lake Street. It is attractive and immaculate, a very nice combination indeed. We started with guacamole made table side. It was so fresh and flavorful. The menu is quite varied and although you can get tacos, burritos, etc, I chose a shrimp stuffed catfish fillet with a mild chipotle cream sauce. The food writer, Ruth Reichl, talks about some things melting in her mouth. This was so delicious and tender it melted in my mouth. I wanted to make it last and last. Erica had a fajita wrap that she said was wonderful, too.

Sometimes I find a place that is so good I want all my friends to know so they can go, so the place will be successful, so I can go back. I hope you will try it. We talked to the owner and she wanted us to go back in the kitchen to see how clean it is. I believe her. This is truly authentic Mexican food that could be served in a fine restaurant in Mexico. They have a tasting menu that looks awesome and I hope I get a chance to try it, too.

So... who wants to go to El Nuevo Rodeo with me?  It is truly delicious.

Nibbled to death by guppies and Laughing Yoga

This is a two subject blog.

On Friday the old man called me to say he needed to see a doctor. The bottom of his feet hurt and he could hardly walk. We went out on Saturday to see The Lincoln Lawyer, with Matthew McConaghy, which the old lady and I enjoyed and the old man slept through. I asked if he wanted to stay home because his feet hurt, or if we could take the walker with us so he could lean on it. Of course not. So there we were, the blind hanging on to me on one side and the halt on the other. Oh, we make a mean trio.

Today I took him to see the dentist and the doctor. He is so skinny that his dentures are getting too big and Dr Rabinowitz did what he could to make them rub less. Then we went to the clinic where I was able to get a wheel chair. We had lunch and he ate nearly a whole grilled cheese sandwich. The sandwich was not cut so I cut it into triangles and arranged it prettily. He was daunted by a  large sandwich but did well with little pieces. Presentation is everything. I had a piece of dry salmon and some broccoli glop that cafeterias do so well.

One interesting thing happened as we sat with our lunch. We had a talk about volunteerism and he said that a lot of people did it. He thought it was kind of nice. This is a real change. He has always thought that anyone who did work for no pay was an idiot and he has razzed me for years about being taken advantage of.  Just pushing him through the clinic (which is 3 buildings with skyways) I was able to show him someone playing the flute, someone else selling spring flowers and someone else manning an information booth. He was surprised to find out that they are volunteers.

The doctor determined that the old man had a crack on his heel that was infected. So let's hope that he responds to antibiotic and antibiotic cream. I do not want to do months of wound clinic with him again. My mother says that it is always something with my father and she is right. It is like being nibbled to death by guppies.

Part 2

I am no good at picking wallpaper. There are too many choices. I have been most successful when I have only a few choices, and one alone is even better.  So, too, with leisure time activities. I can do whatever I want to do, but have a hard time figuring that out. I have started tutoring and that is fun. I signed up for a card playing club and found out that it really wasn't me. I was done in two hours, but they played long after I left. Today I attended my first session of Laughing Yoga. It was fun and I want to go again.

Long ago I tried to do Yoga. It was so hard and it made me throw up each time. I was told that I was lucky, that I was sensitive and it was clearing me. Well that may be true, but it wasn't fun and I stopped. I have a daughter who is loving Yoga. She does amazing headstands and balancing positions and all I can do is applaud, but it is not for me.

I am a social person. What can I do that is fun? I had seen those videos of people in India laughing with a leader and I thought I would like to do that. Then just yesterday I found out there is a laughing group right here in the cities. I signed up and went today. It was lovely and it was fun and I want to do it again. We moved and we breathed and we laughed. The leader said there is no way of doing it wrong. I felt quite stiff at first. At first I got charley horse in my midsection but continued to stretch and soon was fine. There are no jokes, no age limits and research has found that fake laughter gives the same health benefits as real laughter. It is also true that contrived laughter soon turns into the real thing. My, it felt good.

Years ago I saw a counselor and told her I felt stressed. She asked what was going on in my life and then told me the reason I was feeling stressed was because I was under great stress. She suggested going to a comedy club or funny movie and laughing until I cried. She was right, it released the stress. I think that I could enjoy laughing every Monday night or Thursday during the day. It is free, it is social without commitment, and it sends good energy out into the atmosphere; everyone wins.

There are over 7,000 laughing groups worldwide and 400 in the United States. If you want to know more, leave a comment and I will get back to you. Ha ha ha, ho ho ho, and a hee hee hee!

Obstinate? You have no idea!

(Disclaimer: this blog is not about my thousand year old parents.)

What is it about usually reasonable, loving, giving people that makes them take a stand on something and not give an inch? Why do people who would do anything for their children refuse to give them peace of mind? What am I talking about? Let me tell you...

My dear sister-in-law told me the tale of her eighty-something year old mother's stubbornness in one particular area. She won't make a will. She refuses to do it. L will get the lawyer and even pay for it, but her mother refuses. There are two other siblings and grandchildren and all kinds of complications but she refuses to deal with it. She won't even tell L what she wants done after she passes. It will all fall on L who has been her mother's rock for many years.  She has begged her to do this one thing for her, but mother point blank refuses.

Today I met my own mother-in-law for lunch. She drove South, I drove North and we met at Grand Casino Hinckley. I told her that my father had fallen in the night and he pressed his Lifeline button. They called an aide who got him back in bed. Betty is about ten years younger than my folks but she lives alone. She said other people had told her she should get a Lifeline. I agreed and she said that she would feel ridiculous having that thing hanging around her neck. I told her she could wear it under her shirt, no one need know. We actually argued there in the restaurant. I asked if her vanity was more important than giving peace of mind to her sons and their families and she said it was her life and not to bother her about it. She cited always being able to get up, including crawling over snow and ice after falling this winter and breaking her ankle. She would give you everything she owns if you needed it, doesn't care about clothes or fashion but will not even carry a cell phone for emergencies.

Both of the ladies above have been fitted with hearing aids which neither of them will wear. I don't understand why generous, loving, do anything for you women will make everyone shout rather than wear their hearing aids.

Here is a promise to my children, when I get into my eighties I will listen to your concerns for my well being and try not to add stress to your lives. We all like to think we will be vibrant and responsible right up to the time we die in our own beds with all our marbles.  I would like to emulate Cousin Harriet who looked around and saw that it seemed reasonable to sell her home and car at age ninety. I probably will still be obstinate, but I hope, not about denying you peace of mind.

Losing it

I come from people with no filters. Happy, sad, or infuriated, if they are feeling it, you are going to know it. It has taken me many years to learn how to control myself, and still, here in the land of stoicism, people think I am outrageous. Recently, I was jolly at a party and one old friend said to someone I just met, "See, isn't she just the way I described her?" Then she gave my bewildered face a kiss.

Today though, after trying to be reasonable, trying to comply, I was pushed too far and I lost it. The facts are simple. The old lady, 97, thought she had a bladder infection and I brought her to Urgent Care. First we had to take a number and then a triage nurse called us. Then back to the waiting room and then an insurance person called us. I left Mom sitting there while I went to take care of business. The woman smiled and said, "Harriet?" No, I explained I was her daughter and pointed her out. I handed over the insurance card, verified her address and date of birth, (February 10, 1914).  Then I was asked her telephone number. I blanked. I looked at the iphone but could only get the name, not the actual number until much later. All this time I was smiling, the woman was smiling and all was well. Then I remembered! I gave the number but it was one digit off. Still smiling, the clerk said no. I asked if I was close and she wouldn't tell me. What difference did it make, I asked. There she was, sitting in the waiting room, here I was, what difference did the phone number make? She needed that number to verify that it was the right person.

Before I knew it I was raising my voice. Of course this was the right person! Do I go bringing anyone else's ninety-seven year old mother to the clinic? Smiling still, she told me they needed to verify her identity. So asinine, as if someone pretending to be someone else wouldn't learn that telephone number. "THERE SHE IS! SHE IS RIGHT THERE!" I started to wheeze. People who know me know this is a very, very bad sign. (If I had thought about it, and if they had asked, I even had her state identity card with me although nobody has asked to see it in six years.) I was yelling random numbers, 9336, 9663 and making a scene. All kinds of people came running, "Miss, Miss, please calm down, you need to calm down. Come in back." All the while that little bureaucrat sat at her desk unaffectedly smiling.

Well, I couldn't calm down, the old lady, who can hardly see, was saying, "Why are you upsetting my daughter? She's a good daughter. What is going on?" And I was literally wheezing with rage and frustration. Zero to meltdown in a few short minutes. Finally someone got the two of us into an examination room, out of the public eye. I dried my eyes and got breath back. A nurse came in to talk to us. I told her that the woman wouldn't even give me a hint if I was close and the nurse said, "Oh, she needs to learn some sensitivity. That was wrong." And I was instantly calm. I was able to go into the contacts list on the phone and hit edit. There was the number, 9036.

When I am not being listened to, I get loud, then I get louder, thinking if I say it louder I will be understood. Then I lose control of my breathing and start to wheeze trying to get my point across. It is not pretty. Am I proud of becoming a fire eating dragon who embarrasses everyone around me? No, it is awful. Can I control it? Yes, most times. My kids are amazed at the patience I show the folks. They can hardly believe it is me. But sometimes, when confronted with petty bullshit, and having my actions controlled by petty bullshit, I lose it.

The nurses and medical assistants were very kind to the old lady and took her sample over to the lab instead of making us check in there too. A kind doctor wrote a prescription, and sent it to the pharmacy where it was filled in just ten minutes. As we were leaving I saw the young mother who came in after us still waiting for her baby to be seen. I hadn't wanted special treatment, truly.

Today I was lucky, yes lucky. I did not get a headache, or have intestinal distress as collateral damage to losing it. I haven't lost my voice, or held on to outrage. I am a little sad and disappointed for allowing myself to get into a state. Next time I will do better. Or maybe I won't. I would like it if my mighty wrath was put to a much better use. But as one friend reassured me, even Saints don't always live 100% pristine lives. Ah, perspective.

We weren't the Brady Bunch

A friend of mine posted on facebook that she introduced her daughters to The Brady Bunch. Lots of cute replies until mine. I said I hated The Brady Bunch. I was so jealous. In our house we watched what my father wanted, mostly Westerns.

Growing up there were so few shows I could relate to. Who were these parents on Leave It To Beaver? They never yelled. The children did not dread the sound of father opening the door. It was all sunshine and light, even during the darkest episodes. It saddened me greatly to learn that during the years of The Patty Duke Show, Patty was being mentally abused while portraying a happy, carefree life. Danny Thomas was the only father on TV that yelled, and then he would cover the yelled at one with kisses. No one was hit. No one was scared. The houses were always clean, the children perfectly groomed and in style. All In The Family was relatable. Archie would come home in a snit and the family danced to his commands. Roseanne struggled with money and to be the best parents with the resources they had, both financial and emotional. They laughed, but they also were real to me.

I remember watching The Flying Nun at a friend's house. Totally ridiculous, and I was able to suspend disbelief for the half hour it was on. And the only thing that friend and I were able to relate to on Gidget was the way she brushed her teeth with a huge mouthful of suds. It was so unlike what we experienced we were able to focus on that aspect of her life because we sure couldn't understand the rest of her charmed existence.

I lost my mother about the same time as I was learning to read in first grade. Dick, Jane, Sally, Spot, Mother and Father were some ideal that I could not have. In fact, I have a visceral negative experience every time I come across one of those cloth-spined readers from grade school at an antique or old book store. I remember being thrilled when my daughter started school and her reader featured Buffy and Mack, a rabbit and other creature. They were not WASPS living the dream, just some animals. If I, a white child had a hard time with Dick and Jane, imagine learning to read from those books if you were black. I guess you just had to suspend disbelief.  I had a baby sister and a big brother. I was Jane in a world gone crazy.

When we lived in a basement in Idaho while S went to graduate school, I used to watch reruns of The Beverly Hillbillies every night at 6:30. They made me laugh. They weren't real to me, everyone on the show was a caricature. We got rid of our TV about a year after that and did not get one again until years later. I liked Ugly Betty and Northern Exposure, total fairy tales. I could watch Law and Order set in gritty police stations. I can't watch the CSI shows because I do not believe those high tech labs exist on the budgets of most departments.

I was about to start ranting about the mascara advertisements that show models with false eyelashes when it occurred to me that I have strayed from the opening theme of this essay which was how, as a child, The Brady Bunch and other shows of that ilk made me jealous of unreal lives that I couldn't have. But really, there is no pleasing me. I hate The Office because I can't stand that portrayal of life either. I guess I will stick to Antiques Roadshow and reruns of The Closer. I just love Brenda Lee Johnson, thank you.

An amazing funeral

Today I attended a most amazing funeral for a man who was very loved. I'd never actually met him. He was the boyfriend of a dear friend and died of an aggressive cancer. This is all I knew about him: he was a talented musician, belonged to a motorcycle club and made my friend very happy. 

It was billed as a celebration of life and I thought I knew what that meant, happy tears and loving stories from friends and family. Oh no! This was a huge biker reunion with representatives from motorcycle clubs all over the upper midwest. We gathered at a bar and walked the two blocks to a funeral home. I was near the front of the walkers.  When I looked back I saw a sea of black leather as about five hundred people spread over the sidewalk behind me. I wondered how we were all going to fit in the chapel.

I needn't have worried. Men and women came in and snaked around the rooms looking at different stations with pictures of different aspects of the his life, childhood, fatherhood, bands he had played with, trips he had taken, etc. No casket, just flowers and mementos of his life. Here and there a biker held back tears, but mostly greeted each other with hugs and happiness. On their leathers they wore patches memorializing past members who had died, and there were already a few for their friend. 

I stayed for about an hour watching the groups come together, break up and reform in new groups. I watched the never ending procession move about the funeral home. I listened to the musicians play New Orleans type music in all the different rooms. I saw a few manly tears, but mostly happy faces, come to say goodbye to a friend. There weren't speeches and I know the party back at the bar probably lasted for hours.  As I left I said to one woman, "I wonder how many will come to my funeral? Ten or so?" She said not to say that because, "You never know."

Rest in peace, Scott Manske. You were very loved. I did not know you in life, but I know that anyone who has that many friends, and loved my friend, must have been a wonderful guy.

From the St Paul Pioneer Press:

"

Scott S. Manske 

  |   Visit Guest Book

"Scotty Danger" Father, Musician, Outlaw & Minister Passed away on April 11, 2011 surrounded by family and friends. Age 56. Preceded in death by father, Tom. Survived by daughter, Michele; girlfriend, Nancy Dorgan; Yoshi & Spike. New Orleans Processional 1:30 PM Sunday from Neumann's Bar, 2531 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul to Sandberg Funeral Home, 2593 E. 7th Ave., North St. Paul for a Celebration of Scott's Life from 2:00 PM - 3:30 PM. New Orleans Recessional at 3:30 PM from the Funeral Home to Neumann's Bar for further fellowship and celebration. In lieu of flowers, memorials preferred. "If you met Scott, you loved him." 651-777-2600"