Dad's birthday is this week, he turns 84. As is our family tradition, that means a dinner all together, this time at my house. This has been both useful and stressful to me, but I knew it would be when I made the offer.
This event has forced me to deal with the drying flowers strewn across the dining room table. Much like the family documents, they are moved and sorted but not in a final spot. "Progress, not perfection," a wise man once advised me. Some days, progress is enough.
Meanwhile, in the midst of dealing with the dining room, Yule decorations are going up. The tree is in and dressed; the mantle likewise. The sideboard in the dining room has been gussied up and the table draped in the sparkly red, gold and green plaid cloth. The table has even been set for dinner. Once the cloth for the bar is out of the dryer, it will be replaced and the vignette that goes there will be set in place.
Dinner preparations began yesterday with shopping and pre-cooking some ingredients. Now that I've finished my coffee, it's time to chop herbs and gather ingredients - I'm a big fan of mise en place, probably a reflection of my tendency toward order and a touch of OCD.
As I wandered the grocery store yesterday, encountering the same folks aisle after aisle and sharing a chuckle and an "I know I've forgotten something" I came home to realize that of course I did. So at some point I'll run out to get the half & half for coffee and a fresh bottle of milk. I will try hard to let go of the idea that I might possibly have time to put up the porch garlands and lights, or refill the bird feeders before guests arrive. I will accept what I can get done, and I will remind myself that it is enough.
It is progress. It doesn't need to be perfect.
Sunday, December 4, 2016
Saturday, November 19, 2016
Reset
Working in a field like tech support, where you never know what's going to come at you on any given day, I've found I need to balance the chaos of work with order at home, particularly in my home office and bedroom. Understanding what drives my need for order was, in a sense the First Step for me.
Since Mom died, there hasn't been a lot of order at home. Running in the house after a day at the hospital, eating anything, dropping into bed, clothes left where they fell, repeat. Then the distraction of arrangements, things needing to be done, the house the last thing there was any energy left for. I tried not to look too hard at what was going on around me.
The dining room was first given over to creating photo memory boards, my desk to any number of piles of folders and envelopes with wills, cemetery deeds, birth and marriage certificates. Then the condolence cards started to come, and I found spots for them on top of and along the bookshelves. Floral arrangements after the services needed space, dish gardens and plants also. As my brother and I moved through the process, added to the chaos were a large shopping bag of statements to shred that came from her file cabinet, and photo calendars of the Boy she had kept; family documents, fragile and precious. Add to that the normal day-to-day desk debris from paying bills, post-it reminders and my office has not been a sanctuary for some time.
It's been a little more than a month, and I have been making gradual progress in restoring the order I need. I've ordered clear archival sleeves for the letters and documents that should be preserved but viewable; an archival quality box for the wedding booklet and diary and miscellany. While I need to put documents in sleeves and complete that project, for now it is all together and on a shelf (and off my desk). Condolence cards, the guest book, extra prayer cards...all have a home, even if temporary.
I still have tons of shredding and filing to do. For now, I've put the shredding bag around the side of the desk where it's out of sight, if not out of mind. I've cleaned out little areas of the desk that accumulate junk, and the pile of "things to deal with" is smaller and less impactful to my sense of peace in the office. Someday, it will all be taken care of, but in the meantime my goal is progress while being kind to myself.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
Savage
I am my Mother's savage daughter,
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.
I am my Mother's savage daughter,
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice.
My Mother's child is a savage,
She looks for her omens in the colors of stones,
In the faces of cats, in the fall of feathers,
In the dancing of fire, in the cracks of old bones.
I am my Mother's savage daughter,
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.
My Mother’s child dances in darkness,
And sings heathen songs by the light of the moon,
And watches the stars and renames the planets,
And dreams she can reach them with a song and a broom.
I am my Mother's savage daughter,
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.
I am my Mother's savage daughter,
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice.
Now my Mother's child curses too loud and too often,
My Mother's child laughs too hard and too long,
And howls at the moon and sleeps in ditches,
And constantly raises her voice in this song.
I am my Mother's savage daughter,
The one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.
I am my Mother's savage daughter,
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice.
Now we all are brought forth out of darkness and water,
Brought into this world through blood and through pain,
And deep in our bones, the old songs are wakened,
So sing them with voices of fervor and pain.
We are our Mother's savage daughters,
The ones who run barefoot cursing sharp stones.
We are our Mother's savage daughters,
We will not cut our hair, We will not lower our voice.
- Karen Kahan (Wyndreth Berginsdottir)
Thursday, November 10, 2016
Trumped
Yesterday, for the first time in my adult life, the outcome of a federal election brought me to tears. Not tears of joy, but rather tears of disbelief. How could this happen? This is not the country I thought I lived in. When I woke the Boy up for school, I could not utter any words other than "he won." before my voice left me.
I spent the day in a fog, trying to wrap my head around the outcome, trying to understand where the road leads next. In the midst of that, I saw the first reports of hate crimes against those that the president-elect vilified in his campaign: Muslims, non-whites, women... and trying to decide how to explain my emotional reaction to my child.
Last night, alone with him in the kitchen preparing dinner, I told him that I needed for him to understand why I've reacted in such a way. I told him the stories that I've kept buried away - the stories I hadn't ever found reason to tell his father, or even my friends.
I told my son that as a woman who has worked in male-dominated fields her entire life, I have lived the groping, the leering, the violation of personal space and the fear. How at my first summer job, I was taken from the assembly tables where I worked near my mother and moved to an office because they found out I was studying mechanical drafting. In that office, I was alone with an adult male in his late thirties or early forties. An adult male that I frequently caught leering at me, and who found every excuse to lean across me, brush against me, accidentally touch my breasts. I told my son that in that era, society had taught me that I was somehow to blame for this man's behavior. That I must have done something to make him think I was okay with it or that I deserved it. That my voice, raised against him, would have no weight. So I did what society taught me to do: I avoided him. I became wary. I made sure I faced him at all times so he could not sneak up behind me. I learned how the rabbit feels with the hawk circling overhead. I was 16 years old.
I told my son how in my second full-time job, as a young woman in the spring of her career, I worked with a number of young male engineers. For the most part, they were wonderful supportive people - we grew up together in many ways, and we treated each other like siblings. For the most part. Until one day, one of them came up behind me in my work space, where no one else could see, and slid his hands over my shoulders and down my shirt. And again I did what society taught me to do: I wondered what I did to make him think that was okay, and I studied to avoid him. I stopped choosing work packets that would cause me to interact with him. I made sure I wasn't alone with him as much as possible, and I understood that as a woman who had chosen to work with men, my voice had no weight.
I developed a thick skin and a self-deprecating sense of humor. I learned to let off-color jokes and comments roll off me and to return them in kind, because anything less made me appear weak. I was striving to no longer be seen as prey.
In 1991, Anita Hill stood up for all of us at great personal cost to herself and started us all saying "Enough." As the years passed, society improved. Sexual harassment training became more prevalent, and companies learned the risk of ignoring bad behavior.
I shared all this with my son, so that he would understand what the world used to be like, and what I was afraid it would become again.Through tears of frustration and grief, I told him I never wanted his cousin to be treated that way as she pursued her career. That I never wanted anyone else's daughter to wonder what she did to deserve being violated, groped or raped. How I believe that all women have the right to occupy space without fearing for their safety.
I told him that we have made so much progress as society - or that I thought we had - and that I feared for those that had been singled out as villians in the candidate's rhetoric. I feared for my gay friends, my non-white friends, for young women everywhere. I feared for the loss of civility and the empowerment of bullies.
We talked for a long time, I cried a lot and he did too, at seeing me upset. I explained to him that he was the beneficiary of white privilege - with his sandy hair, his blue eyes and his ability to pass as a Christian; that it was his duty to use that privilege to defend and stand up for those who did not have it. That he had the power to be an agent of change and to refuse to accept the negativity and vilification of anyone who didn't look like him.
And ultimately I apologized to my son because we couldn't do better than a xenophobic, misogynistic, racist narcissist as our next president.
I spent the day in a fog, trying to wrap my head around the outcome, trying to understand where the road leads next. In the midst of that, I saw the first reports of hate crimes against those that the president-elect vilified in his campaign: Muslims, non-whites, women... and trying to decide how to explain my emotional reaction to my child.
Last night, alone with him in the kitchen preparing dinner, I told him that I needed for him to understand why I've reacted in such a way. I told him the stories that I've kept buried away - the stories I hadn't ever found reason to tell his father, or even my friends.
I told my son that as a woman who has worked in male-dominated fields her entire life, I have lived the groping, the leering, the violation of personal space and the fear. How at my first summer job, I was taken from the assembly tables where I worked near my mother and moved to an office because they found out I was studying mechanical drafting. In that office, I was alone with an adult male in his late thirties or early forties. An adult male that I frequently caught leering at me, and who found every excuse to lean across me, brush against me, accidentally touch my breasts. I told my son that in that era, society had taught me that I was somehow to blame for this man's behavior. That I must have done something to make him think I was okay with it or that I deserved it. That my voice, raised against him, would have no weight. So I did what society taught me to do: I avoided him. I became wary. I made sure I faced him at all times so he could not sneak up behind me. I learned how the rabbit feels with the hawk circling overhead. I was 16 years old.
I told my son how in my second full-time job, as a young woman in the spring of her career, I worked with a number of young male engineers. For the most part, they were wonderful supportive people - we grew up together in many ways, and we treated each other like siblings. For the most part. Until one day, one of them came up behind me in my work space, where no one else could see, and slid his hands over my shoulders and down my shirt. And again I did what society taught me to do: I wondered what I did to make him think that was okay, and I studied to avoid him. I stopped choosing work packets that would cause me to interact with him. I made sure I wasn't alone with him as much as possible, and I understood that as a woman who had chosen to work with men, my voice had no weight.
I developed a thick skin and a self-deprecating sense of humor. I learned to let off-color jokes and comments roll off me and to return them in kind, because anything less made me appear weak. I was striving to no longer be seen as prey.
In 1991, Anita Hill stood up for all of us at great personal cost to herself and started us all saying "Enough." As the years passed, society improved. Sexual harassment training became more prevalent, and companies learned the risk of ignoring bad behavior.
I shared all this with my son, so that he would understand what the world used to be like, and what I was afraid it would become again.Through tears of frustration and grief, I told him I never wanted his cousin to be treated that way as she pursued her career. That I never wanted anyone else's daughter to wonder what she did to deserve being violated, groped or raped. How I believe that all women have the right to occupy space without fearing for their safety.
I told him that we have made so much progress as society - or that I thought we had - and that I feared for those that had been singled out as villians in the candidate's rhetoric. I feared for my gay friends, my non-white friends, for young women everywhere. I feared for the loss of civility and the empowerment of bullies.
We talked for a long time, I cried a lot and he did too, at seeing me upset. I explained to him that he was the beneficiary of white privilege - with his sandy hair, his blue eyes and his ability to pass as a Christian; that it was his duty to use that privilege to defend and stand up for those who did not have it. That he had the power to be an agent of change and to refuse to accept the negativity and vilification of anyone who didn't look like him.
And ultimately I apologized to my son because we couldn't do better than a xenophobic, misogynistic, racist narcissist as our next president.
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Seasoning
Everyone has a favorite season, sometimes two. I find that when I ask people them what their favorite season is, the answer is often "Summer" or "Autumn" and sometimes "Winter". Rarely it seems do people think of Spring as a favorite season, although it's almost universally welcomed once we've reached that part of winter where the charm is gone; that part after all the holiday decor has been packed back away, when the snow and ice piles are no longer pristine but rather obstacles or eyesores.
When I reflect on the seasons, I can't help but find something to recommend each of them. It is, after all, the Wheel of the Year, and as a Wiccan that has a particular resonance with me. But if pressed on a favorite, I would have to say that my heart belongs equally to Spring and Autumn.
I love the silence that engulfs the world with a snowfall, and I find the first substantial snow of each year to be a time to truly listen to the quiet of the world. I like that the snow cover in the woods allows me to more easily see the deer before they come out to the yard. I enjoy watching the birds at the feeders, particularly just before or as it begins to snow. However, the magic pales after a time. Perhaps it's just that I weary of being cold, and of the long dark.
I probably like summer least of all, which surprises even me when I put it down in black and white. I enjoy a reasonable amount of warmth, but I despise humidity and oppressive heat. I dislike walking from a cold, air conditioned building into air that is so wet it stops your breath. Having grown up in a shore town, with the beach always accessible, usually the road there clogged with tourists, I have no desire to sit in the sun every weekend. Perhaps my dislike of crowds influences my opinion about the season.
The boundary seasons have my heart instead; spring and autumn. As cliched as it might sound, the advent of spring truly is like being reborn. The sun warms the earth, the first buds deliver the promise of life renewed, and the world is fresh and clean again. Even spring mud is more reminiscent to me of a new start than a sad ending. I cherish each day that is warm enough to begin working in the gardens. I love to see the birds gathering their nest materials, and hear the insistent chirps of their young. I delight in the first sighting of baby skunks, the year's fawns, and even the baby woodchucks.
New plants go in, pots and planters for the porch are filled with a riot of color, the hoses brought back out for watering, the faucets turned back on. The porch is made comfortable and inviting again, hanging plants inviting bees and hummingbirds to stop in for a time. The chipmunks reappear, begging for sunflower seeds and raiding the thistle feeders. I end my days with soil under my nails and on the knees of my jeans, and I couldn't be happier for it.
When the heat of summer diminishes, the first chilly nights and mornings begin, I once again find myself spending more time outdoors than in. Watching the trees wrap themselves in yellow, orange and red tell me those leaves will soon be on the ground. But before that, we will be treated to an extravaganza of color, a fashion show put on by the goddess herself. For me, it means time to prepare. As the squirrels hide acorns and stolen seeds, as the chipmunks fill their cheeks and then their dens with food for the winter, I clean the bird feeders and lay in a supply of suet and sunflowers, thistle and mixed seed. I cut back iris and peony, bee balm and salvia, preparing the garden for winter's rest.
The deer return, this year's fawn nearly grown, but still acting silly. I check the supply of sweet feed in the sun room, and add bags of apples to my grocery list. It's time to remind them of where they can be assured of, if not a complete meal, at least a tasty snack. As the autumn progresses, I dream more of a sun-shed for potting plants and breathing in the earthy smell of plant starts at the other side of winter. The porch cushions come inside to be washed and stored until spring comes around in her time.
This is the season of completion, the season of harvest, the season where we see what we have accomplished as we prepare to rest through the winter and start again in the spring, gods willing. This year, the autumn has taken a larger toll than usual - the loss of my mother, my friend and my cousin. I try to keep it in perspective, try not to let it diminish my love for this time of year. Pete Seeger took words from the Christian book of Ecclesiastes and put them in the form of a song - these are the words that come to mind as I contemplate the turning of the Wheel of the Year:
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance"
When I reflect on the seasons, I can't help but find something to recommend each of them. It is, after all, the Wheel of the Year, and as a Wiccan that has a particular resonance with me. But if pressed on a favorite, I would have to say that my heart belongs equally to Spring and Autumn.
I love the silence that engulfs the world with a snowfall, and I find the first substantial snow of each year to be a time to truly listen to the quiet of the world. I like that the snow cover in the woods allows me to more easily see the deer before they come out to the yard. I enjoy watching the birds at the feeders, particularly just before or as it begins to snow. However, the magic pales after a time. Perhaps it's just that I weary of being cold, and of the long dark.
I probably like summer least of all, which surprises even me when I put it down in black and white. I enjoy a reasonable amount of warmth, but I despise humidity and oppressive heat. I dislike walking from a cold, air conditioned building into air that is so wet it stops your breath. Having grown up in a shore town, with the beach always accessible, usually the road there clogged with tourists, I have no desire to sit in the sun every weekend. Perhaps my dislike of crowds influences my opinion about the season.
The boundary seasons have my heart instead; spring and autumn. As cliched as it might sound, the advent of spring truly is like being reborn. The sun warms the earth, the first buds deliver the promise of life renewed, and the world is fresh and clean again. Even spring mud is more reminiscent to me of a new start than a sad ending. I cherish each day that is warm enough to begin working in the gardens. I love to see the birds gathering their nest materials, and hear the insistent chirps of their young. I delight in the first sighting of baby skunks, the year's fawns, and even the baby woodchucks.
New plants go in, pots and planters for the porch are filled with a riot of color, the hoses brought back out for watering, the faucets turned back on. The porch is made comfortable and inviting again, hanging plants inviting bees and hummingbirds to stop in for a time. The chipmunks reappear, begging for sunflower seeds and raiding the thistle feeders. I end my days with soil under my nails and on the knees of my jeans, and I couldn't be happier for it.
When the heat of summer diminishes, the first chilly nights and mornings begin, I once again find myself spending more time outdoors than in. Watching the trees wrap themselves in yellow, orange and red tell me those leaves will soon be on the ground. But before that, we will be treated to an extravaganza of color, a fashion show put on by the goddess herself. For me, it means time to prepare. As the squirrels hide acorns and stolen seeds, as the chipmunks fill their cheeks and then their dens with food for the winter, I clean the bird feeders and lay in a supply of suet and sunflowers, thistle and mixed seed. I cut back iris and peony, bee balm and salvia, preparing the garden for winter's rest.
The deer return, this year's fawn nearly grown, but still acting silly. I check the supply of sweet feed in the sun room, and add bags of apples to my grocery list. It's time to remind them of where they can be assured of, if not a complete meal, at least a tasty snack. As the autumn progresses, I dream more of a sun-shed for potting plants and breathing in the earthy smell of plant starts at the other side of winter. The porch cushions come inside to be washed and stored until spring comes around in her time.
This is the season of completion, the season of harvest, the season where we see what we have accomplished as we prepare to rest through the winter and start again in the spring, gods willing. This year, the autumn has taken a larger toll than usual - the loss of my mother, my friend and my cousin. I try to keep it in perspective, try not to let it diminish my love for this time of year. Pete Seeger took words from the Christian book of Ecclesiastes and put them in the form of a song - these are the words that come to mind as I contemplate the turning of the Wheel of the Year:
"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, a time to reap that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance"
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Visit
For a long time now, with a few exceptions, Sundays are the day we visit the immediate family for breakfast and catching up. More recently, it's been the day we go to Mom & Dad's and do what needs to be done. But now, with Mom gone, there is much less to do; it's more a true visit than a chore detail. Dad's pills are easy, and there is a lot less trash and recycling without the dialysis process. There are still some household things that we can do to help, but overall less time is spent on tasks and more can be spent on visiting.
Today was such a day. Once I had sorted through the mail, The Boy and I had loaded up the dialysis supplies we can donate for training purposes, and I looked over the grocery list, our work was done.
While we were in Mom's room, boxing up supplies to be donated, Dad came in and saw me looking in the closet, where of course her clothes still hang.
"What are you doing with the clothes?" he asks.
We have agreed to let him be our guide on how fast we move on making changes around the house. It's all about him now, for a change. "Well, I guess we'll gather them up and donate them, if that's okay with you." He nods. "Is there anything you'd want us not to donate?"
"No. I can't think of anything," he says.
"It won't be today, there's time to decide," I tell him. After a moment I ask "Dad, do you think you would want to move into this room? You'd have the little bathroom so handy that way."
"No. No, I'm fine where I am, stumbling down the hall at night," he laughs.
We continue moving stuff out, but I find myself wondering that he seems so ready to have us clean out her clothes, her room. Does he see things more like we do, practical tasks that need to be addressed, emotions safely tucked away? Or is it that these things are painful reminders to him that she's gone? He might not know himself, and I don't need to know so badly as to make him analyze it to satisfy my curiosity.
In the dining room, more supplies...and the inevitable trail of clutter Mom left in her wake. Dad points at a dialysate box full of plastic containers and lids. "You need those?" he asks me.
"No, I have plenty. Don't you need those?"
He shakes his head. "I don't think so, toss 'em out."
I look through the box, think about it. His regular caregiver is away for the weekend and she might know why they are in a box in the dining room. "Dad, let's wait until Bev comes back and ask her, okay?" He's agreeable. He likes Beverley, relies on her and more importantly trusts her. If she tells him those containers are needed, they'll be kept. He spots something else. "Do you need that foil pan?" I look where he's pointing. A foil pan with a sheet of aluminum foil in it, sitting on a side table for reasons we will likely never know.
"No, I don't need it. Should I toss it?"
"Yup! Toss anything we don't need!" He looks around, pointing now at the window air conditioners on their dollies where the boys put them after taking them out. "Do those need to be in here?"
"For now, I think so, Dad. There isn't any room in the closets and they are too hard to take up and down to the basement. Maybe when we get things cleaned up a little we can put them somewhere else. Would you want us to put the dining room back the way it should be?"
He considers. "I don't care. Either way is fine with me."
I decide to ask him again about the master bedroom. "Are you sure you don't want to move into the back bedroom with the bathroom?" He doesn't hesitate, shakes his head no.
"Would you be okay if we offered to let Bev use it? If you don't want us to offer, we won't it's...." and before I can finish with "up to you." he pounces on the idea.
"That's a great idea! Then she could have her own little bathroom!"
"Okay, then, if you're sure we'll see if she wants to do that."
He notices something else, the double bed we took out of the master bedroom when we thought Mom would come home and need the hospital bed. "What about that?"
"We'll put that in the back bedroom once we take the hospital bed out." He nods.
"What are you going to do with those wooden blinds?"
"What wooden...Oh! No, those are the slats for that bed. Those will go when we set that up."
I have a feeling he could stand there all day, finding things that don't belong and asking about them, so I tell him "We'll get things all sorted out Dad, it just won't all be at once. A little at a time, there's no hurry." He nods, satisfied, and we go sit in the living room to visit.
We brought the pup and so my cousin came over with her new puppy for a play date. Dad was delighted to see the dogs, and we all sat and chatted while the puppies got to know each other. Eventually, we all get up to leave. There are still many things to be done, but not at Dad's house. He asks several times what day they will go to the senior center the coming week, and I tell him. I add another visit the following week to their calendar, show him where I wrote when the bus comes and we talk about the band that will be playing there next week, and how I'm sending him the following week for Wii bowling. He smiles, remembering playing that with The Boy and he enjoyed it. He asks again when Bev is coming "home"...he isn't fond of the substitute. Finally he says, "What else do you have to do today?"
"Rhea has her first obedience class at 2 today, and before that I need to cut back some stuff in the garden before the rain."
"Can I help," he asks and my heart breaks a little.
"It's at my house Dad, or I'd put you right to work." His face falls a little. I make a note that I need to have him and Bev come up for a visit before the weather turns. He'd like that.
We make sure he has one dollar bills for the bus fare, and that we have all the mail and the grocery list and all is as well as we can make it. Kisses good bye and we're off. I think I need to stop in more often...he loves a good visit.
Today was such a day. Once I had sorted through the mail, The Boy and I had loaded up the dialysis supplies we can donate for training purposes, and I looked over the grocery list, our work was done.
While we were in Mom's room, boxing up supplies to be donated, Dad came in and saw me looking in the closet, where of course her clothes still hang.
"What are you doing with the clothes?" he asks.
We have agreed to let him be our guide on how fast we move on making changes around the house. It's all about him now, for a change. "Well, I guess we'll gather them up and donate them, if that's okay with you." He nods. "Is there anything you'd want us not to donate?"
"No. I can't think of anything," he says.
"It won't be today, there's time to decide," I tell him. After a moment I ask "Dad, do you think you would want to move into this room? You'd have the little bathroom so handy that way."
"No. No, I'm fine where I am, stumbling down the hall at night," he laughs.
We continue moving stuff out, but I find myself wondering that he seems so ready to have us clean out her clothes, her room. Does he see things more like we do, practical tasks that need to be addressed, emotions safely tucked away? Or is it that these things are painful reminders to him that she's gone? He might not know himself, and I don't need to know so badly as to make him analyze it to satisfy my curiosity.
In the dining room, more supplies...and the inevitable trail of clutter Mom left in her wake. Dad points at a dialysate box full of plastic containers and lids. "You need those?" he asks me.
"No, I have plenty. Don't you need those?"
He shakes his head. "I don't think so, toss 'em out."
I look through the box, think about it. His regular caregiver is away for the weekend and she might know why they are in a box in the dining room. "Dad, let's wait until Bev comes back and ask her, okay?" He's agreeable. He likes Beverley, relies on her and more importantly trusts her. If she tells him those containers are needed, they'll be kept. He spots something else. "Do you need that foil pan?" I look where he's pointing. A foil pan with a sheet of aluminum foil in it, sitting on a side table for reasons we will likely never know.
"No, I don't need it. Should I toss it?"
"Yup! Toss anything we don't need!" He looks around, pointing now at the window air conditioners on their dollies where the boys put them after taking them out. "Do those need to be in here?"
"For now, I think so, Dad. There isn't any room in the closets and they are too hard to take up and down to the basement. Maybe when we get things cleaned up a little we can put them somewhere else. Would you want us to put the dining room back the way it should be?"
He considers. "I don't care. Either way is fine with me."
I decide to ask him again about the master bedroom. "Are you sure you don't want to move into the back bedroom with the bathroom?" He doesn't hesitate, shakes his head no.
"Would you be okay if we offered to let Bev use it? If you don't want us to offer, we won't it's...." and before I can finish with "up to you." he pounces on the idea.
"That's a great idea! Then she could have her own little bathroom!"
"Okay, then, if you're sure we'll see if she wants to do that."
He notices something else, the double bed we took out of the master bedroom when we thought Mom would come home and need the hospital bed. "What about that?"
"We'll put that in the back bedroom once we take the hospital bed out." He nods.
"What are you going to do with those wooden blinds?"
"What wooden...Oh! No, those are the slats for that bed. Those will go when we set that up."
I have a feeling he could stand there all day, finding things that don't belong and asking about them, so I tell him "We'll get things all sorted out Dad, it just won't all be at once. A little at a time, there's no hurry." He nods, satisfied, and we go sit in the living room to visit.
We brought the pup and so my cousin came over with her new puppy for a play date. Dad was delighted to see the dogs, and we all sat and chatted while the puppies got to know each other. Eventually, we all get up to leave. There are still many things to be done, but not at Dad's house. He asks several times what day they will go to the senior center the coming week, and I tell him. I add another visit the following week to their calendar, show him where I wrote when the bus comes and we talk about the band that will be playing there next week, and how I'm sending him the following week for Wii bowling. He smiles, remembering playing that with The Boy and he enjoyed it. He asks again when Bev is coming "home"...he isn't fond of the substitute. Finally he says, "What else do you have to do today?"
"Rhea has her first obedience class at 2 today, and before that I need to cut back some stuff in the garden before the rain."
"Can I help," he asks and my heart breaks a little.
"It's at my house Dad, or I'd put you right to work." His face falls a little. I make a note that I need to have him and Bev come up for a visit before the weather turns. He'd like that.
We make sure he has one dollar bills for the bus fare, and that we have all the mail and the grocery list and all is as well as we can make it. Kisses good bye and we're off. I think I need to stop in more often...he loves a good visit.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Fox
My birthday fell on a Sunday this year. As with most Sundays, that meant I went to see my Dad.
On the drive down, it dawns on me that I've forgotten to grab a lawn & leaf bag. I have a mind that I should stop at the cemetery, that the flowers left after the service are probably the worse for the frost and rain we've had since then. I don't know that I'm ready to go there, but something in there keeps driving me toward that first visit. I ask The Boy to remind me to grab a trash bag when we leave grampa's. Of course, we both forget.
I was nearly at the ramp to get on the highway after our visit, talking to The Boy about our afternoon plans, when I realized I'd passed the turn-off for the cemetery. I change lanes and go back.
As we pull into the cemetery, The Boy looks over at me. Somewhat hesitantly, he asks me if this is going to upset me. I answer him honestly: "I don't know."
At first, I can't see the grave. I think it should be obvious to me - fresh soil, the remnants of sprays and arrangements...but I haven't gone far enough. From the car, it's not upsetting. We both get out and approach, and it's a sad scene. Most of the flowers and greens are well past their prime, and I have nothing to put them in, no way to improve this situation.
But wait...that arrangement still looks pretty good, it's just tipped over. Stand it up, it's better. Pick up that glass vase and lay the flowers on the soil, cover the raw wound of her grave, put the vase in the truck. These two baskets, the flowers can cover the soil, the baskets can come home. We can wash the mud off, and they can come back in the spring with new, fresh flowers for her.
I move to the other side, and I kneel in the grass. I look at the soil, marking a grave freshly filled. I look at the remnants of the spray we had put on top of her casket, and the one - so big, so beautiful - from my coworkers. I come undone. I try so hard to hold it in and I can't...and The Boy sees and comes to me immediately, arms around my shoulders trying in his awkward, teenage, loving way to comfort me.
I pull myself as together as I can, looking down at the ground and I see footprints...fox, perhaps?...in the fresh soil. I start to pick up the handle of another basketed arrangement and see the tallest flowers have had the tops bitten off. I can't help but smile. Even here, even now, the animals come to her. Somehow, I'm comforted by this. The Boy and I continue our work. We leave the best looking arrangements upright, we scatter the remaining flowers over the soil to hide it, and we agree to come back next week with a couple big trash bags to do a better clean up.
It was harder than I thought it would be, and it hurt more than I thought it would. As we drove out, The Boy asked if we'd come often. I told him how Grandma used to make sure there were flowers on her parents' and Granpa's parents' graves for certain occasions...Mother's Day, or Christmas, for instance.
"Will we come on her birthday?" he asked, and the tears came again.
"Perhaps we will," I manage. The rest of the drive home was quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts.
As a family, I think we're still trying to find our new normal, our new rhythm. Some things are the same, but some things will never be the same again.
On the drive down, it dawns on me that I've forgotten to grab a lawn & leaf bag. I have a mind that I should stop at the cemetery, that the flowers left after the service are probably the worse for the frost and rain we've had since then. I don't know that I'm ready to go there, but something in there keeps driving me toward that first visit. I ask The Boy to remind me to grab a trash bag when we leave grampa's. Of course, we both forget.
I was nearly at the ramp to get on the highway after our visit, talking to The Boy about our afternoon plans, when I realized I'd passed the turn-off for the cemetery. I change lanes and go back.
As we pull into the cemetery, The Boy looks over at me. Somewhat hesitantly, he asks me if this is going to upset me. I answer him honestly: "I don't know."
At first, I can't see the grave. I think it should be obvious to me - fresh soil, the remnants of sprays and arrangements...but I haven't gone far enough. From the car, it's not upsetting. We both get out and approach, and it's a sad scene. Most of the flowers and greens are well past their prime, and I have nothing to put them in, no way to improve this situation.
But wait...that arrangement still looks pretty good, it's just tipped over. Stand it up, it's better. Pick up that glass vase and lay the flowers on the soil, cover the raw wound of her grave, put the vase in the truck. These two baskets, the flowers can cover the soil, the baskets can come home. We can wash the mud off, and they can come back in the spring with new, fresh flowers for her.
I move to the other side, and I kneel in the grass. I look at the soil, marking a grave freshly filled. I look at the remnants of the spray we had put on top of her casket, and the one - so big, so beautiful - from my coworkers. I come undone. I try so hard to hold it in and I can't...and The Boy sees and comes to me immediately, arms around my shoulders trying in his awkward, teenage, loving way to comfort me.
I pull myself as together as I can, looking down at the ground and I see footprints...fox, perhaps?...in the fresh soil. I start to pick up the handle of another basketed arrangement and see the tallest flowers have had the tops bitten off. I can't help but smile. Even here, even now, the animals come to her. Somehow, I'm comforted by this. The Boy and I continue our work. We leave the best looking arrangements upright, we scatter the remaining flowers over the soil to hide it, and we agree to come back next week with a couple big trash bags to do a better clean up.
It was harder than I thought it would be, and it hurt more than I thought it would. As we drove out, The Boy asked if we'd come often. I told him how Grandma used to make sure there were flowers on her parents' and Granpa's parents' graves for certain occasions...Mother's Day, or Christmas, for instance.
"Will we come on her birthday?" he asked, and the tears came again.
"Perhaps we will," I manage. The rest of the drive home was quiet, each of us lost in our thoughts.
As a family, I think we're still trying to find our new normal, our new rhythm. Some things are the same, but some things will never be the same again.
Storm Breaks
Her energy is waning, she's becoming more and more confused. She asks what we're all waiting for and we tell her she's being moved to a quieter floor. No alarms, no monitors, she doesn't need them any more. A young man arrives from transport, an angel, as he disconnects and maneuvers her bed toward the door, he paints a picture of paradise on the 7th floor. "There is music and candles and it always smells like cookies up there. It's my favorite place to go in the hospital. You can have anything you want to eat, you can read books, or tell stories..."
"She loves to tell stories," I tell him.
He smiles, "I love stories!"
Faintly, from the bed, "Even dirty ones?" We all laugh. She's still there.
Her transfer from IMCU to Palliative Care is a procession. Her family, her entourage, accompany her and her angel from Transport and we get her settled in. She's used all her energy by now, and she's barely awake. We all sit quietly with her for a time, and like a collective breath, we know it's time to leave her be. One by one, we kiss her, say goodnight, tell her we'll be back tomorrow. She nods, sleepy, eyes closed, and we leave.
Friday morning, the first phone call at about 8am tells me that her respiration rate was elevated and she was given medication to help. I tell them I'll head in soon, and I start getting ready...shower, dress, coffee...and before I can get in the car, a second phone call. I know before I pick it up what this is about but I can't not answer. In that space between, she passed...and we weren't there.
In the days since, I've come to the conclusion that she probably wouldn't have let go had any of us been there. I look back at her advance planning workbook and one word comes forward, repeatedly..."family".
"What do you fear leaving behind when you die?" asks the workbook. "Family," she answered.
"What makes your life worth living?" asks the workbook. "Family," she answered.
"If you could plan your last day or hours, who would be present?" asks the workbook.
"Family."
She got the last day she wanted.
Waiting For The Storm 4
We talk to her - she hasn't had any pain medication but she's not moaning and whimpering like she had been. She's able to actually converse with us, although she sort of drifts off a little now and then. My brother has to leave for a bit, and while he's gone, I sit by her side, holding her hand and talking to her. She say she's cold, so very cold, so I keep bringing blankets in from the linen cart in the hall. She's buried under a mountain of blankets. Suddenly she turns her head to me. "Does Dad know?"
"Does Dad know what?" I ask.
"Does Dad know I'm dying?" I'm gutted. No one has even implied that in her presence, awake or not.
"Dad knows you are very sick. Do you want to see him?" She nods. "Okay, when my brother gets back, we'll talk about getting Dad here."
We talk about inconsequentials. I tell her about visitors that came the day before, when she wasn't awake. I pass messages on to her from cousins across the country who have been following her progress via email, messages and social media. She smiles to hear some of them.
I have to tell my brother what she said when he returns, and I can see that he is as gutted as I was to hear those words. His face crumples. "She wants to see Dad. Mom, do you still want to see Dad?" She nods.
She says, "I don't want him to cry. Tell him not to cry."
Before either of us can leave to get Dad, the the hospitalist comes in. She talks to Mom, makes sure that her words are understood, and asks her what she wants to do. Mom looks from my brother to me, and says "What do you think?" as though it is as mundane a decision as which paint color to choose, or which fabric on a recliner. "What do you think?" she says again, and again. And we tell her, "It's up to you. You tell us what you want, and we will see to it. It is not for us to decide for you." Offered her options, stop this, keep doing that, some combination thereof...she tells us she wants to stop dialysis. To be clear, I ask if she knows what that means. "Yes," she says, "I'll stop."
"You'll stop what, Mom?"
"My heart. Will stop."
"Is that what you are asking for?" She nods.
My brother leaves to get Dad. I text Himself, because now she is asking to see The Boy. The family begins to come together. I sit with her while we wait, and she keeps asking me to send in Dad, send in The Boy and I keep telling her they are on their way and they will come in as soon as they arrive. She then changes to reminding me that she doesn't want Dad to cry. Out of the blue she says to me, "I want to roll over." and I'm shocked - rolling on her side when they change her bedding causes her a great deal of pain.
"Are you sure you want to roll over? That usually hurts you."
"No. I want to go over."
"Go over where?"
"I want to go over." and she dozes a little.
I find the hospitalist and tell her we want to proceed with moving to the palliative care floor. They have a room waiting and just needed our word to go ahead. The palliative care coordinator arrives and I tell her that I think we're getting the signals we need from her. We agree to keep the antibiotics going another 24 hours and watch for any improvement.
Dad arrives first, and I talk to him in the hallway. I have to tell this man, who has been with her for more than 6 decades, that she isn't doing well and she is worried he will be upset. I have to ask him to be strong for her. We take him in and get him set up next to her bed, holding her hand. She turns to him and tells him she's dying, and he cries, of course he cries. He denies her - "No you are not, you're going to get better and come home." She is insistent, and he looks at me, pleading with his eyes, to make her stop saying that she's dying. I can't.
Himself arrives with The Boy and it's finally hitting home that she's called us all together to say goodbye. I have to explain this to The Boy and ask him to hold it together, and go in and see her. She doesn't come out and tell any of us goodbye, but you know while talking to her, she's staring at your face, listening to your voice and storing that all away. My sister-in-law arrives, and the staff come in to move Mom to the new bed for transport. They have to close the door to her room so her cries are muffled as they shift her...but we can still hear them. Once she's settled in her new bed, my brother gets his daughter live via FaceTime and grandmother and granddaughter see each other again. My mother says, "I will always think of you." and her face is alight. She is smiling. No, she is beaming, she is so happy to see her granddaughter...and my niece is crying. We're all crying but we're trying not to show it, so we don't make it worse for each other or make her feel badly about all of this.
<continued>
"Does Dad know what?" I ask.
"Does Dad know I'm dying?" I'm gutted. No one has even implied that in her presence, awake or not.
"Dad knows you are very sick. Do you want to see him?" She nods. "Okay, when my brother gets back, we'll talk about getting Dad here."
We talk about inconsequentials. I tell her about visitors that came the day before, when she wasn't awake. I pass messages on to her from cousins across the country who have been following her progress via email, messages and social media. She smiles to hear some of them.
I have to tell my brother what she said when he returns, and I can see that he is as gutted as I was to hear those words. His face crumples. "She wants to see Dad. Mom, do you still want to see Dad?" She nods.
She says, "I don't want him to cry. Tell him not to cry."
Before either of us can leave to get Dad, the the hospitalist comes in. She talks to Mom, makes sure that her words are understood, and asks her what she wants to do. Mom looks from my brother to me, and says "What do you think?" as though it is as mundane a decision as which paint color to choose, or which fabric on a recliner. "What do you think?" she says again, and again. And we tell her, "It's up to you. You tell us what you want, and we will see to it. It is not for us to decide for you." Offered her options, stop this, keep doing that, some combination thereof...she tells us she wants to stop dialysis. To be clear, I ask if she knows what that means. "Yes," she says, "I'll stop."
"You'll stop what, Mom?"
"My heart. Will stop."
"Is that what you are asking for?" She nods.
My brother leaves to get Dad. I text Himself, because now she is asking to see The Boy. The family begins to come together. I sit with her while we wait, and she keeps asking me to send in Dad, send in The Boy and I keep telling her they are on their way and they will come in as soon as they arrive. She then changes to reminding me that she doesn't want Dad to cry. Out of the blue she says to me, "I want to roll over." and I'm shocked - rolling on her side when they change her bedding causes her a great deal of pain.
"Are you sure you want to roll over? That usually hurts you."
"No. I want to go over."
"Go over where?"
"I want to go over." and she dozes a little.
I find the hospitalist and tell her we want to proceed with moving to the palliative care floor. They have a room waiting and just needed our word to go ahead. The palliative care coordinator arrives and I tell her that I think we're getting the signals we need from her. We agree to keep the antibiotics going another 24 hours and watch for any improvement.
Dad arrives first, and I talk to him in the hallway. I have to tell this man, who has been with her for more than 6 decades, that she isn't doing well and she is worried he will be upset. I have to ask him to be strong for her. We take him in and get him set up next to her bed, holding her hand. She turns to him and tells him she's dying, and he cries, of course he cries. He denies her - "No you are not, you're going to get better and come home." She is insistent, and he looks at me, pleading with his eyes, to make her stop saying that she's dying. I can't.
Himself arrives with The Boy and it's finally hitting home that she's called us all together to say goodbye. I have to explain this to The Boy and ask him to hold it together, and go in and see her. She doesn't come out and tell any of us goodbye, but you know while talking to her, she's staring at your face, listening to your voice and storing that all away. My sister-in-law arrives, and the staff come in to move Mom to the new bed for transport. They have to close the door to her room so her cries are muffled as they shift her...but we can still hear them. Once she's settled in her new bed, my brother gets his daughter live via FaceTime and grandmother and granddaughter see each other again. My mother says, "I will always think of you." and her face is alight. She is smiling. No, she is beaming, she is so happy to see her granddaughter...and my niece is crying. We're all crying but we're trying not to show it, so we don't make it worse for each other or make her feel badly about all of this.
<continued>
Waiting For The Storm 3
Transferred to rehab, Mom turns into a completely different patient than she is in hospital. Anyone coming near her dialysis machine is mistrusted, she's certain they will do something wrong, training notwithstanding. We field numerous calls from her about people in her room "trying to screw up my machine" and we do what we can to either talk someone new through the process or talk Mom down off the ledge of anger.
Her stay there is only brief before I get a call that she has a fever. Naturally, it's when my brother is out of town - it's that vacation magic again. They tell me her chest x-ray looks clear, they've drawn blood and the fever seems to be responding to treatment, and I will be kept apprised. No further updates. We visit the next day, I ask the results of the blood work and get simply "an elevated white blood count, but her fever is down and she seems okay." We carry on.
Less than a week later, I come home from work to a message from the rehab. The fever is back, they've taken her to the emergency room. I speak to the attending, he recommends admission to the hospital and I grant permission. It is September 29th.
By October 1st, the infection is affecting her cognitively - during my evening visit, she rants that she "just has a little fever" and that they are keeping her there for no good reason. "It's BULLSHIT!" she yells.
The next day, I see the doctor. They have determined that she has enterococcus causing bacteremia and endocarditis...in layman's terms, she has an infection in her bloodstream that has migrated to her damaged heart tissue. She has periods where she's lucid, and periods where she isn't, and the intravenous antibiotics keep going. Her doctor brings up the option of palliative care, which I take back to discuss with my brother. How do we know if it's time?
On the 4th, I decide to work from her hospital room for the afternoon. As I shut the car off in the hospital parking lot, the palliative care coordinator calls me. I'll be up to see her momentarily. When I arrive on the IMCU floor, Mom has company - and is awake for it. Seeing two of my cousins there with her makes me so very happy, and I drop my bag off before heading off to meet the coordinator. Because the mention of palliative care the day before had been on my mind, I had re-read Mom's advance health care planning workbook* to be sure I understood what her wishes would be. As a result, we were able to have an honest and productive conversation, and we left palliative care on the table when we (the family) decided it was time. I came away thinking about the statement the coordinator made to me: "There isn't ever a sign that comes down from above, telling us it's time for palliative care. We all just do the best we can." We agree on an initial plan of pain management, since narcotics are being avoided only to try to keep her lucid, and even without them, she isn't very.
On the 5th, I plan to work from her hospital room for the day, in the hopes of being present for any lucid moments she may have. There are none, but she whimpers and moans in pain, and I talk to the nurse about dilaudid, and she gets a dose. Her whimpering ceases, and she seems to be comfortable. Then, the respiration line on the monitor goes flat, the monitor itself alarms and I end my phone call with a frantic "gotta go, gotta go, goodbye". Before I can get to her bedside, she takes a hitching breath and says "gotta go......gotta go......goodbye". Unnerving? You bet it was.
The benefit of parking yourself in the hospital room for the day is getting to see each and every specialist as they do their rounds. Infectious Disease comes in, Nephrology, Hospitalist...updates make more sense when you talk to each of the specialties. Infectious Disease says they can find no source for the infection, they want to take another look at her hip, this time an CT - the prior x-ray and ultrasound were inconclusive. Nephrology says they don't like the cell count in the dialysate they've tested from her, and the Hospitalist asks what we think about the palliative care option, telling me that the white blood cell count isn't going down. I leave for the evening as they prep her for her CT scan.
On the 6th, I take the morning off to collect her belongings from the rehab. We agree that it's highly unlikely she'll be going back for physical therapy any time soon, and I coordinate pick up with the admissions director. From there, I head to the hospital where my brother is headed as well. He arrives before me, texts me that she woke up as soon as he walked in. I arrive less than half an hour later, and she's able to talk to us, the most alert she's been in some time.
<continued>
Her stay there is only brief before I get a call that she has a fever. Naturally, it's when my brother is out of town - it's that vacation magic again. They tell me her chest x-ray looks clear, they've drawn blood and the fever seems to be responding to treatment, and I will be kept apprised. No further updates. We visit the next day, I ask the results of the blood work and get simply "an elevated white blood count, but her fever is down and she seems okay." We carry on.
Less than a week later, I come home from work to a message from the rehab. The fever is back, they've taken her to the emergency room. I speak to the attending, he recommends admission to the hospital and I grant permission. It is September 29th.
By October 1st, the infection is affecting her cognitively - during my evening visit, she rants that she "just has a little fever" and that they are keeping her there for no good reason. "It's BULLSHIT!" she yells.
The next day, I see the doctor. They have determined that she has enterococcus causing bacteremia and endocarditis...in layman's terms, she has an infection in her bloodstream that has migrated to her damaged heart tissue. She has periods where she's lucid, and periods where she isn't, and the intravenous antibiotics keep going. Her doctor brings up the option of palliative care, which I take back to discuss with my brother. How do we know if it's time?
On the 4th, I decide to work from her hospital room for the afternoon. As I shut the car off in the hospital parking lot, the palliative care coordinator calls me. I'll be up to see her momentarily. When I arrive on the IMCU floor, Mom has company - and is awake for it. Seeing two of my cousins there with her makes me so very happy, and I drop my bag off before heading off to meet the coordinator. Because the mention of palliative care the day before had been on my mind, I had re-read Mom's advance health care planning workbook* to be sure I understood what her wishes would be. As a result, we were able to have an honest and productive conversation, and we left palliative care on the table when we (the family) decided it was time. I came away thinking about the statement the coordinator made to me: "There isn't ever a sign that comes down from above, telling us it's time for palliative care. We all just do the best we can." We agree on an initial plan of pain management, since narcotics are being avoided only to try to keep her lucid, and even without them, she isn't very.
On the 5th, I plan to work from her hospital room for the day, in the hopes of being present for any lucid moments she may have. There are none, but she whimpers and moans in pain, and I talk to the nurse about dilaudid, and she gets a dose. Her whimpering ceases, and she seems to be comfortable. Then, the respiration line on the monitor goes flat, the monitor itself alarms and I end my phone call with a frantic "gotta go, gotta go, goodbye". Before I can get to her bedside, she takes a hitching breath and says "gotta go......gotta go......goodbye". Unnerving? You bet it was.
The benefit of parking yourself in the hospital room for the day is getting to see each and every specialist as they do their rounds. Infectious Disease comes in, Nephrology, Hospitalist...updates make more sense when you talk to each of the specialties. Infectious Disease says they can find no source for the infection, they want to take another look at her hip, this time an CT - the prior x-ray and ultrasound were inconclusive. Nephrology says they don't like the cell count in the dialysate they've tested from her, and the Hospitalist asks what we think about the palliative care option, telling me that the white blood cell count isn't going down. I leave for the evening as they prep her for her CT scan.
On the 6th, I take the morning off to collect her belongings from the rehab. We agree that it's highly unlikely she'll be going back for physical therapy any time soon, and I coordinate pick up with the admissions director. From there, I head to the hospital where my brother is headed as well. He arrives before me, texts me that she woke up as soon as he walked in. I arrive less than half an hour later, and she's able to talk to us, the most alert she's been in some time.
<continued>
* I highly recommend this workbook to anyone with aging parents, or who may be responsible for the care of a loved one.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)