The Telltale Chirp

Last night started out fine with an invitation to go dancing. The professor sure could move and I followed every step. We sat in a dark booth and slugged down club sodas with orange slices. About midnight we gorged on cherries at my place before I bid him a fond good night. I kicked off my dancing shoes and prepared for bed. New sheets invited in their crispness. At last, in bed with Martha Stewart.

I hadn't been asleep very long when I was awakened by a chirping. I got up and checked the smoke/carbon monoxide monitor. It was hard-wired in and didn't need a battery. I reset it then, and an hour later, all night long. Chirp, no chirp, chirp. By five I was a sleepless zombie. I called 911 and asked to speak to a fireman. They sent two to check it out. The tall one took the unit off the wall. The short one could find no source of carbon monoxide. The tall one found the back up battery in the unit and took it out. I offered cookies which they declined, and they left with my heartfelt thanks.

It felt so good to go back to bed and know I could sleep undisturbed. The sleep mask kept the dawn at bay and a cat snuggled near my feet. Then... chirp! What? How can that be? It is unplugged, it has no battery. It must be my imagination. Several chirps later I put on a robe and deposited the unit in my car in the underground garage.

It was past six and I knew the old lady would be calling soon. I was so tired. Determined to get some sleep I drifted back to bed, perhaps to dream. What kind of nightmare was this? How could I hear a chirp so clear, so loud, so near? I sat up in bed, wild eyed and turned on the light. Where was it coming from? There! Up there by the ceiling, another monitor, small and white. I hauled out the step stool and pulled it from the wall. Out came the battery and within minutes sleep descended.

Seven dollars and a trip to Target later, both alarms are armed with five year batteries and the only chirping to be heard are the crickets in the park.

Isn't technology great?

You can't call me an early adopter but I used to work with a very paranoid woman who distrusted all technology. She would not get an ATM card, use a cell phone and only used the internet at work. She was afraid of being hacked. Frankly, I thought she was deluding herself. If you have a social security number, and a bank account or mortgage, all your information is out there for the taking by people who know. I was late getting a microwave oven and cell phone but was kind of early getting on the net and can't think of living without internet access. 

About five this afternoon I called my oldest daughter, iphone to iphone. She had just stopped at a rest area about forty miles from Billings, Montana, and I thought she might like some company on her trip. She loves to call when she drives. The connection kept dropping and we kept calling each other back. She is on her way back to California from Minnesota. I asked her where she was staying that night and was told how by using the internet connection on her phone, she was able to find a place near Yellowstone and the directions to get there. Isn't technology great?

My lovely cousin Amy and her husband reconnected with our family by facebook. An old friend had a birthday and by seeing who wished him happy, I was able to find another old connection and send a message. I am going on a brunch cruise this Sunday. I found out about it on the computer. Isn't technology great?

Sure there is a danger of using technology for nefarious reasons, but I am really glad to have the benefit of  silicone chips and whatever they will think of next. I will probably continue to be a late adopter, getting a tablet when they are almost obsolete, continuing to read paper books, and still prefer talking to texting. Like it or not, kicking and screaming, here I am in the twenty-first century, and happy to be here. You are reading my journal, published for all to see. Isn't technology great?

A movie, and life review

The old lady and I saw the movie Crazy, Stupid, Love today. I loved it. Because I was sitting next to a 97 year old woman with macular degeneration I had to pay special attention to be able to tell her what was happening to which character.  There are many surprises, or as my mother says, "Wheels within wheels." It kept me guessing right until the end. And as I said, I did love and enjoy it.

You may have seen the trailer where Steve Carrell tells his ex that he should have fought for her. I floated around and around the pool at dusk wondering, could I have fought harder, could have my ex? Then I remembered that what I saw was a scripted story and what I experienced was life. It is easier to get a happy ending on film in 90 minutes. The actors actually talk about what is going on.

There is always one or more parts in a film that I have trouble believing.  It can be something as small as a hairdo or makeup from the wrong period to the way one character acts. In the case of this movie it was the thirteen year old son talking freely and publicly about his emotions. It just doesn't happen. A girl, maybe, but not your average young boy. Hell, not his father either. But it was a needed device to make the story work.

Lately I am spending a lot of time with the old lady. She is really missing the old man. They were together close to 52 years and it was a second marriage for each of them. She did not marry until she was 31 years old and was with her first husband 13 years. He died the same month as my mother, who had been married to my dad for 19 years. She says my father loved my mother and she loved her first husband. I know that it was a difficult second marriage for both of them while the kids were still at home. I lived in a house of chaos, manipulation, anger, violence, and fear. But for the last 36 years, alone together, they were pretty happy. She says she keeps crying and can't stop. I reassure her that it has only been one month and she has every right to grieve. I tell her that she is the one who saved his life and kept him alive. She says she was very lucky, she had not one, but two men who adored her. I agree.

She says I don't seem as sad as she is. It is absolutely true and I told her it is because she and I believe differently. I have had the most amazing feeling of lightness since the old man died. I just know that he has had personality taken away and has become what we all essentially are, love. I know he is happy, not sitting on a cloud... in fact I can't even imagine what or where he is, but I know that soul is at peace and all worries are over.

This was going to be an essay about recognizing opportunity and seizing the moment. I have so much to say about missed chances and wasted opportunities. But what is the sense of that? Can I change anything that has already happened? No. Here is my prayer, that I be fully aware in this moment, let go of fear in this moment, and be open to all the chances to be a real human and experience life and love in all its wonderful manifestations. I wish the same for you, too.

Family of love

When my second daughter was born, I hand-lettered her birth announcements on beautiful postcards. There was a central white space with lovely drawn and colored animals all around. And in the middle I wrote, "We are family, family of love, introducing our newest member..." Well that was over thirty years ago and I keep finding new branches, such as my darling new grandnephew, Linus, and dormant branches coming back into bloom.

This evening I got to see a cousin I haven't seen for at least forty years. What a wonderful treat to be together. My mother's niece Amy and her husband Paul flew into the cities from Atlanta as their first stop on the way to Minot, North Dakota. They will spend the weekend with a daughter and husband who live there. It was really fun for the old lady to tell tales out of school and for my cousin to tell what her life had been like and why she distanced herself from her family. She ran away and got married to leave home, and I ran away from home to get away from my parents and the man who wanted to marry me. She had no clue about me! I really do have to laugh. We each think the crisis' we experience in our young lives are so earth shattering that of course everyone knows.

We spoke of a cousin who won't talk to anyone from his side of the family, only his wife's. We spoke of having parents who were hard to deal with, but with all their mishegas, we still couldn't walk away. It was her mother, it was my father. I found it remarkable that we both married very nice men. (The fact that my marriage ended doesn't mean he wasn't a nice man, he was and is a very good person.)

Amy is my step-mother's niece and we are not related by blood, yet we are family of love. During dinner, my mother leaned over and kissed my shoulder. And as we drove home, I put my hand on hers and said, "We are doing OK, aren't we?" I see the friends she has in the building where she lives, and know others are looking out for her. The other night I organized National Night Out for my little condo and all the older ladies who have befriended me showered me with love for my efforts.

I have bunches and bunches of cousins all over this country and none of them have cared enough to stay in touch. It makes me sad to think about them, especially when I see the wonderful reunions Midwest families make. At this point the only family I know by blood are my sister and her sons, and my own daughters. Still, all my in-laws are dear to me and I could not love them more.

I have friends on facebook, and others who I don't talk to for months at a time. Yet I know, though not by blood, we are still family, family of love.

You've got to be carefully taught

I have been thinking about racism.


"You've got to be taught
To hate and fear,
You've got to be taught
From year to year,
It's got to be drummed
In your dear little ear
You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught to be afraid
Of people whose eyes are oddly made,
And people whose skin is a diff'rent shade,
You've got to be carefully taught.

You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught!"



The lyrics above are from the musical South Pacific. They are just as true today as they were in 1949 when the show opened. And I wonder, why? Why hate? I don't get it.


It seems to me that the bedrock of racism is a belief that one kind, one's own kind of people are inherently better than other human beings. It negates the idea of all people being beloved in the Creator's eye. When it says in the Bible that man was created in God's image, it doesn't specifically say which people. To me, people are people. We all bleed red. Our hearts all break. There are cultural differences for sure, but you can put type O blood into any human and it won't be rejected. 


None of us can control the circumstances of our birth and all of us are different. What we can control is our reaction to our race. The racist hurts others with his or her attitude but never realizes how much their own growth is limited. Is it fear or inferiority that causes militant racism? Are people threatened by seeing others of a different ethnicity get ahead? Have certain people of a different race hurt them, or are they just repeating the party line they have been carefully taught?


I am not a fan of parochial schools. I feel they carefully teach children that they are better because of their religious beliefs. They advocate a difference between themselves and the rest of the world, and they are superior. I think children should be taught empathy and compassion, that they are world citizens. But then again, I was raised pretty much as a Jewish heathen. I know that when people seek out answers, they will find them and it isn't always in a church or temple.


I am not against people seeking their own kind because they feel comfortable worshipping or living with others who look or think the same way. I am against the idea that one way is inherently superior to another. There needs to be an acknowledgement that all humans have worth.

Don't assume, don't presume

After the old man died, I was almost flippant about the amount of care the old lady would need. She has always been the strong one, and not that much fuss. She is definitely high maintenance, but that mostly meant telling her how beautiful she looks each time I see her. At 97 she still likes clothes and shoes and hair. She is a true narcissist, everything is about her. When she tells me that the people in her building only care to talk about their own selves, she doesn't see herself. What can I say to that?

I assumed I could handle her, easy. She wasn't as demanding as the old man. But I didn't count on one thing, the old man told her how good she looked and kept her up to standard. The old man demanded she dye her hair. He would tell her to stand up straight or put something else on. Almost like a child who wants attention, she didn't care if he was yelling at her to clean up her room, (he couldn't stand the mess on her dresser or the shoes on the floor) or telling her she was the prettiest woman in the building. It was all attention and it was all good.

Since the old man went into the nursing home in mid June, until now, I am seeing her almost every other day. It is too much. Not for her, but for me. I am tired, tired, tired and I need a vacation. On the days I don't see her I still have to deal with all kinds of stuff that pertains to her. I took her out for a nice day on Saturday, had to deal with the health care staff on Sunday, and take her to Urgent Care on Monday. I can't wait to go to work on Tuesday.

The activities are not hard on me physically, it is the constant repetition that gets me and used to get the old man until his hearing got so bad. The reason he would not wear his hearing aids lived with him. He loved her, but she doesn't shut up and doesn't realize she has just told you the same self-centered story for the ten thousandth time. That wouldn't be so bad, but you have to respond in some way. Today, at the clinic, I told her not to tell me the same old negative story. I picked up a Reader's Digest and read the following joke (more or less):

Jack woke up hung over, aching, with a black eye and read a note on the bedside table, "Darling, I've made you breakfast and have gone to the store to get fixings for your favorite dinner. I love you." He stumbled out of bed and found his breakfast and his son. "Can you tell me what happened last night?" His son said that he came home soused, tripped over a chair and got a black eye. Jack showed him the note and asked if he understood it. "Oh, that was when Mom got you to bed. She tried to take off your clothes but you fought and yelled for her to stop, you were married."


She laughed and laughed. I wound up tearing the joke out so she could bring it to dinner. (Yes, that was me.) Easily amused, she just needs a lot of attention, like a four year old. It turns out the ache in her back was a cracked rib and they put a belt on it. Now she will need help dressing, another thing to be arranged on my end.

Well, there is no cute end to this post, just thanks for letting me vent. I appreciate it.

Pool Haiku

It has been beastly hot here. Sweltering, melting, sweating, dripping, sticky, icky, hot. The kind of hot that makes eye glasses fog up when getting out of an air conditioned car. The kind of hot that makes children cranky and anyone with sense stays out of the sun. I really felt for the boys collecting shopping carts from the parking lot. A hard day for lifeguards, mail carriers, and road crews. Air conditioners could not keep up. My fingers were all pruney when I took off the gloves at work, there was so much sweat inside them.

When I got home from work and minor errands I lay on the couch cooling off. I watched the super talented children on So You Think You Can Dance and wondered how anyone could pick a favorite. It was nine o'clock before I went out to the pool area. It was delicious to uncoil the hose to water the plants and talk to each of them, calling them by name. Here you go, Tomato, here's a drink for Fuchsia, and Marigold, I am so proud of you.

Walking into the pool was like walking into a large tepid tub, not bracing at all, just relaxing and soft. I made myself do about ten minutes of exercise in the shallow end before I took a foam noodle out to the deep end. Back and forth like a water skeeter on surface then I abandoned the flotation device and just lay on my back looking up at the sky. It has been so humid that only a few stars shone and I found myself wondering if someone was floating on those far away pinpoints of light. I'd like to think so.

I started writing Haiku in my head. Five syllables for the first and third line and seven for the second. Haiku is the perfect form of poetry for me, short. Buoyant in the water, nope that is six syllables. Like an otter, she floats, nope six again.

Otter-like she floats, 

Buoyant, writing poetry, 

Counting syllables.

Machinery hums,

Blessed coolness behind doors,

Wet, I feel no chill.

Ears under water,

Alone in sheer abandon,

So glad blubber floats!

Friends in hot places,

Drink water, make plans to move.

Northern winter calls.

Half done

When I moved my parents out to Minnesota from Brooklyn, I had one goal. I wanted to know that when they died I had done all I could do to have no regrets. Now that the old man is gone I can say without a doubt, that I did all I could for him and I have no regrets as far as my care goes. Are there other regrets? Sure. I regret that he did not reconcile and ask my sister for forgiveness. I regret I don't know very much more than I did before about his horrific childhood. I regret I did not hear any stories about my birth mother. I regret that he could not talk about the past.

I can tell you something that is a bonus. I got to see a softer side of Sid. I got to see someone who was able to change his attitude about me. Did he appreciate me? I really don't know. He still thought I was a bit of a Pollyanna, doing for others when I didn't have to. But he started to see that as part of me, and not a bad thing. Over the past six years I lost my temper with him a few times. It wasn't pretty, and it really alarmed him. It also made him act better towards me and others. I wish him well in his new manifestation, whatever that may be.  A cousin said he was probably doing a jig somewhere. I have a feeling he is very happy.

The job is half done and I am feeling quite a lot of patience with the old lady. She never expected to outlive nearly everyone from her generation. Of five brothers and sisters, she is the only one left with her marbles. A younger sister, 88, lives in Florida. The friends she used to have in NY are all dead and many of the people she's met in her building are gone. She says she has no friends, but that isn't true. There was a great outpouring of sympathy from other residents and people have been very kind. The problem is short term memory loss. 

At 97, Harriet can remember her childhood and early life quite well. At least I think so, who is there to challenge her? But when it comes to events closer to now, we sometimes disagree. It is all perception and if it did not personally affect her, she can't remember at all. Whether this is true memory loss or just a manifestation of narcissism, I don't know. She repeats stories how others have offended her ad nauseam. She tends to forget details such as when I am coming for her. Then I find her in tears and fright and have to calm her down. My mantra these days is, "I won't abandon you." She finds it comforting and the other day she kissed my hand. I told her that isn't the way to kiss, and put my arms around her for a hug. She knocks me out and I am humbled.

She says she is ready to go anytime. She doesn't want to live to 100. I think she will, maybe even 101. I wonder what lessons will be learned in this last part of our journey?

Now for something completely different

It has been a few days since I've blogged and find I have little to say about what is going on in my life. Everything is fine. I want to talk about Shakespeare instead.

I have never cared for Shakespeare. I find reading his works quite tedious and watching them being performed is torturous for me. I also dislike Gilbert and Sullivan, and with the exception of Carmina Burana, can't stand opera.  I don't feel uncultured and have a great appreciation for most fine art, from ancient to modern.

It was with great joy that I came across these quotes about Shakespeare and want to share them.

1. Voltaire "This enormous dunghill."

2. Leo Tolstoy "Crude, immoral, vulgar and senseless."

3. J. R. R. Tolkien "I went to King Edward's school and spent most of my time learning Latin and Greek: but I also learned English literature--except Shakespeare, which I disliked cordially..."

4. George Bernard Shaw "There is no eminent writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, whom I despise so entirely as I despise Shakespeare when I measure my mind against his . It would be positively a relief to me to dig him up and throw stones at him."

5.  Charles Darwin "I have tried lately to read Shakespeare and found it so intolerably dull that it nauseated me."

As far as Gilbert and Sullivan go, I wish they would. I don't know which I care for less, the bumpity, bumpity tempo, the idiotic stories, the interminable length of the damn things or the audience who think it is ever so clever. The fact that one of my favorite writers, Robert Bencheley, adored it makes me want to like it but by the end of the first act, I have had enough, more, more than enough. A good friend is part of the local company but even for him, I can't attend.

So what do I like? New and thought provoking, old and well written. I love literature that is so tasty and attractive to read I want to eat it with a spoon. I like music with a melody and care more for DeBussey than Handel. I love good singers who don't shriek or make me flinch with their nasal sounding assaults. I love clear notes I can hear and would gladly miss everything played with distortion or a wah-wah pedal.

Both my daughters like Shakespeare. Quite a large part of the population does, too. But as for me and those quoted above, we'd rather not venerate his writing. There is one passage, though, that I've loved since sixth grade:


"This above all: to thine own self be true, 

And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."
— William Shakespeare (Hamlet)

So there you have it... being true to myself, I won't pretend to you that I can stand the bard.

Love to my friends and family

People keep coming up to me to share their condolences. Yes, my father, the old man passed Wednesday night, and boy oh boy are we happy! They say, "We are sorry for your loss." And I say thank you for your good wishes, but you don't have to be sorry. We are delighted he is out of his misery, and we are happy to be out of ours, too. The time for crying was while he was here, helpless and thirsty and wanting to die. Now is a time of celebration. Being with him Wednesday while he was totally non-responsive and autonomously breathing was pretty awful. Seeing his corpse, later that day, was absolutely liberating. The body on the bed reminded me of seeing a dead fly on a windowsill. Just a husk. That is all this body is when life is gone.

I wake up feeling wonderful. I believe in Energy, that cannot be created or destroyed. I am thrilled that he made his transition to another form. Maybe he will come back, but if my prayers are answered, I won't have to deal with him again. The old lady and I cried and she said, "I am so happy he died, but I will miss him so much." Yes, and I will have to deal with her, a different apartment, contacting social security, etc. But I know I can do it, and so can she. We are survivors.

L'Chiam, to life, in whatever form it takes. Let's make the most of ours while we are in this one. Be happy for Sidney, for Harriet and for me.

Quality of Life

I went to see my father at seven this morning. I stayed for about twenty minutes, holding his hand, speaking gently, watching him breathe. There were times his chest was so still, I thought he was gone, and then there would be a little snort to show he was alive. I held his hand, which was warm, giving it little squeezes, but he did not squeeze back. I told him I was sorry he had an unhappy life and that I loved and forgave him. I told him I was sorry for the grief I have given him over the years. I did a lot of silent communion too. The prayer of St Francis, "Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace," ran through my head. But I did not feel peaceful, I felt sad.

Shalom Home West is a beautiful facility on a beautiful campus. The courtyard is filled with conversation areas and lovely plantings. There is art and sculpture all over the place and the air smells good. There were no harsh voices. My dad is in this place of caring, with not a care in the world, except his next breath, and even that is not up to him. He is in limbo, not dead, but not really alive. And as beautiful as the facility is, there is not much quality of life for him.

What makes quality of life? Think of the movie Slumdog Millionaire. There is a scene where a child dives into human waste to retrieve an important slip of paper. That child had more quality of life than my father does now. There has to be a joy in living, a sliver of hope that tomorrow is worth staying alive to see. There has to be a reason to strive. There has to be a reason to laugh and hope and love.

The sweet peas I planted are starting to bloom. I've longed for that scent. It, along with all my little garden, improve my quality of life, as well as my neighbors. I hope that acts of kindness towards each other, whether acknowledged or not, aid in lifting the quality of life all around. My mother is devastated each time she sees him. I can only be there and try to be kind. She can make me crazy and it is my job to let her cry. What else can I do? Yelling does not help. So to improve her quality of life, I have to show love and understanding. My hope is that by doing this the ripples of kindness and caring spread to the far reaches of our existence.

Wishing all my family, friends, and even our pets, a day of appreciation for the gift of life. Jai ho!

The squeaky wheel

Early Tuesday morning, about 3 AM, I called the nurse's station. I explained who I was and why I was calling; Sunday and Monday morning I received messages that the old man had crawled out of bed and they found him on the floor. I wanted them to check him and make sure he was still in bed. They checked him every two hours. I wanted them to check him more often. I did not want to get one more call that he was on the floor. They wanted me to go back to bed.

Last night the old lady and I went to visit. We found the bed moved up against the wall and a thick mat placed next to it on the other side. This way, if he gets the notion and energy to crawl out of bed again, at least he won't be lying on the cold floor. Not ideal, but not too bad either. I pulled the mat away so my mother could sit by him and hold his hand. "Do you know who I am?" she asked. "You're my wife!" We were happy that he was aware, but then after she told him she loved him he turned into a petulant child. "I want to go home. Why do I have to be here? I was happy at home, you should have left me there!" Then the moans and groans came and this dramatic statement, "I want to die, it was miserable in the beginning and my whole life and it is miserable now."

Way to go, Dad, way to go. Tell the woman who tells you how much she loves you that your whole life, including the 52 years spent with her, stinks. The old lady is a trooper. She told him that he can come home when he can walk again. She says he is like a bad baby. I will tell you one thing, if you are a miserable young man, and make no effort to look for the good, you will be a miserable old man. Two weeks ago the doctor told us he couldn't live more than two weeks. Surprise, surprise.

The old lady asks if she is a bad person if she wants him to die? No, not at all. We all do, including the old man. I think we all want some peace. (When do we want it? Now!) Other people talk of the beauty of watching a parent die and the wonderful closure. I am pretty sure we will not be having that experience. Next visit, I am not waking him up. I would rather watch him sleep than yell lies about his getting better.

Lifting the burden

It turns out that the old lady is very susceptible to agreeing with whomever she is talking to. If a nurse said my dad was getting enough care at home, she agreed. If I said he should be moved to a care facility, she agreed. Finally, I made the decision to have him moved and I think she is OK with it. We moved him on Thursday night, gave him a day to get settled and went to visit yesterday.

He was more alert, knew who we were and had enough energy to be a pain in the ass. Wonderful! It hurt her so much that the last time she kissed him, he looked at her blankly. This time she knew he recognized her and that gave her happiness. Having him being cared for in a nice facility has really lifted the burden on both of us. She feels a little guilty, but I told her she shouldn't. He is getting a higher quality of care and I think we were both surprised to see him doing so well, mentally.

Physically, I have seen better looking prisoners of war. He is so skinny, his legs, arms and chest are just bones. His face is pretty skeletal. Yet there is still that spark of life there. He was able to complain about the bed being hard (it is an air mattress) and he was aware enough to want to go home, whereas at home he had no idea of where he was. Sort of a convoluted way of saying he was alert. And the moaning! He was not suffering in silence as long as he had an audience.

I said to him, "Dad, you know you don't have to stay around for us. Anytime you feel like leaving, go ahead." He replied that it isn't that easy. It must be frightening to let go of the only life you have consciously known when you do not believe in the Creator or any kind of continuation of consciousness.  Many years ago, when I received the meditation techniques I sometimes practice, I lost my fear of death because I saw eternity and know that my energy will go on forever in some shape or other.

So I feel good but my mother is just starting to prepare herself for being widowed for the second time. She is not looking forward to living alone, but I can't see her marrying again. (That was a joke) Keep sending her good thoughts. As the tiny, bent over thing declares, "I must be strong as a horse!" Yes, Mom, an old thoroughbred put out to pasture, enjoying a few days of sun.

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.