Salvageable

Fist in the Back

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 17:31:00 +0000

I was home from a long day of work and medical appointments before I understood what was wrong with me. It wasn’t just that Nicholas of Starbucks left the cream out of my coffee, insisting even after I asked that he had indeed put it in. (It was a drive-thru and the color I could see through the slot in the top of the cup looked suspiciously dark. Black, in fact.)

“Are you sure there’s cream in here?” I asked one more time. Oh, yes, of course. Oh well.

No, I finally started feeling the fist in my back last night. I had seen my psychiatrist earlier, a boring man who prescribes my anti-depressant. But even the boring man almost pushed me out of his office after a few minutes of conversation. My time was up.

“How have you been?” he asked after I sat down.

“I’m still walking,” I responded. I explained why just putting one step in front of the other was a small accomplishment for me. Several things had happened since I’d last seen him in the fall. Still, after I told him about the worst weeks of my life, and after he’d nodded a few times, it was time for me to leave. Fist in the back.

On to the nursing home. At my aunt’s careplan conference an hour later, a nurse I’d never met and who has never met my aunt, also gave me a little push. Yes, they really had left my aunt in the same clothes four days in a row. True, we had talked about this previously. Really? Really, we haven’t been brushing her teeth? Wow, hard to believe.

But now, now we have others waiting. Waiting for their turn around the table. Where plans are made and not carried out. Where words mean nothing and caring is cheap. Fist in the back. Time to move on.

Reminders Unnecessary

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 05:31:00 +0000

I've been indoors for a couple of days. I have a cold. I'm not happy about it, but I am grateful that I didn't have to board an airplane with it, or take an exam with it, or give birth with it, or address the nation with it.

I'm not superstitious, generally, but I'm wary of complaining too much. It's as though I expect a booming voice to reprimand me. You think that's bad? I'll show you something worse!

Even so, I'm going to toss aside my reluctance and just say it: The year 2008 was not a good year. It wasn't completely awful, but some awful things happened. I'm glad to have survived it, and I'm glad it's over.

I know it could have been worse. No reminders are necessary.

Battery

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 16 Jan 2009 13:59:00 +0000

English is my only language. When I want to get a laugh, I retrieve my high school Spanish from (deep inside) my memory vault. "Pasame la sal!" I love to shout (on any random occasion-- I just like the way it sounds). Pass the salt!

And so I don't know if other languages have as many words that have several meanings, though the same spelling and pronunciation.

"Battery" comes to mind. I put a new AA battery in my Aunt Netsy's table clock. She lives in a nursing home. She can't see the one on her wall. I then painstakingly reset the clock. Somehow the knobs on the back had come off. Finally the clock was in good shape again, and she was happy.

When I arrived the next day, the little clock lay on its face on the table. The battery cover was taken off and-- surprise!-- the battery was gone. My aunt hadn't noticed anything, and I wouldn't have expected her to. But, sadly, she wasn't surprised. "People can do what they want to do," she said simply.

If you are at all familiar with nursing homes, you already know the insidious attitude that can permeate even the best of them: Your room also belongs to me. "Me" is the staff. Since I take care of you, I can walk in whenever it suits me, rummage through your drawers if I choose, take your newspaper if I want to read it, and remove furniture without telling you. I can show up with a paintbrush and work in your room without notice. I can change your television programs to MTV. I can remove batteries from your remote control or your clock if I have another purpose for them.

You? You're a body in a bed.

It's not just a battery. It's also battery, as in assault.

Sad and Sorry

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 15 Jan 2009 00:36:00 +0000

Last week I spent a couple of days visiting my grandchild. He's nearly three. I loved being with him, as always, but he had a nasty virus that made him congested and feverish. He felt awful. His parents felt awful, too, since they got almost no sleep for several consecutive nights.

My grandson has learned to verbalize his feelings. Over and over he told whoever was in the room, "I'm sad." Sometimes it was "I'm so sad." After a while he expected a response and provided promptings when necessary. "Are you sad?" he would ask. Indeed I was, I always responded. Somehow it didn't seem enough, and so I would direct his attention to my face. I made sure my face looked really, really sad.

Other times he would inquire, "Are you sorry?" I couldn't emphasize enough how truly sorry I was. When I mentioned a telephone call from my husband, he asked "Is Granddaddy sorry? Is he sad?" I answered Yes, and my grandson nodded gravely.

At one point, when the fever was down and he seemed in the mood for it, I injected a little humor into our conversation. Face in hands, I pretended to sob over his plight. He squealed and clapped. More! More! He recognized Over The Topness when he saw it.

One of the benefits of being two is surely the power to direct the emotions of others. I admit it, I was a little envious.

Still Salvageable

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 14 Jan 2009 03:40:00 +0000

What can I say? I've missed my blog. I've missed writing.

I closed down Salvageable several months ago. I didn't do it impulsively. I had thought about it for several weeks, maybe longer, and decided that I had run low on fuel. I was barely creaking along and I couldn't stand to be one of those bloggers who posted only once every month or two.

The problem with NOT blogging, though, is that you still have all those thoughts. You still get excited and depressed and angry and silly. But if you don't have a blog, where do you put them? I've tried laying them on my family and friends-- mainly family!-- but it hasn't worked too well. Even a loving family member can take only so much of my ranting and ruminating.

So, it's back to you. Again. Still.

September

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 13:32:00 +0000

Two times of year cause me to reflect: January and September. But let's forget about January. I've never met a resolution I liked-- or kept-- and I don't like being told what to do, though for pure entertainment, being told what to do can hardly be beat. As I read articles about losing weight, meeting one's soulmate or landing the perfect job, I feel smug and ornery: That would never work! How stupid! No way!

But September is another story. For many years it was the real beginning of a new year. New classes (though most schools begin in August now), new shoes, new teachers and friends. New Sunday School department. New, new, new. Having a September birthday gave the month even more importance. I'm sixteen now! Things will be different!

When our first baby was born on the first day of September, it seemed only appropriate. Finally things were going to be different. I really did have new goals, and I didn't need Parent magazine to tell me what they were. I probably couldn't have articulated them beyond the basic concepts of protect, take care of, and nurture, but I began understanding "new" in a way I never had before.

And so today begins another September. The baby lives hundreds of miles away. Most of my memories have little to do with her current reality, or even with my own. I remember watching her learn to walk, and now she's training for a marathon. I, on the other hand, am contemplating natural remedies for arthritic knees! What hasn't changed for me is the sweet wistfulness, the prayerful longing, and the passion for the journey I began on the day she came into my world.

Life. As I Know It.

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 03:25:00 +0000

Summer for me has ended, as I went back to work at the residence hall at Baylor last Monday. My computer had been moved from one end of the long desk (it's more like a counter) to the other-- my first adjustment. After that, it was new students, new numbers, new t-shirts, new IDs, and-- of course!-- new freshmen parents! Dutifully they stood in line with their offspring and asked the questions their students were too shy to ask, such as "Should he have brought his own toilet paper?" It was an exhilarating and exhausting week.

Every day after work I drive across town to a nursing home where my Aunt Netsy is living. It has been an exhausting time for her, too. My own fatigue is the result of trying to navigate the maze of Good Care. What is it and how do I help get it for her? My cousin and I talk often and plot our next moves. I am sobered by the inescapable fact that I worked in long-term care for fifteen years, myself-- if it's this tough for me, how do other nursing home residents and family members manage, even survive, it?

Hospital, Sweet Hospital

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 02:10:00 +0000

I'm not ready to give up on blogging. I say that as much to myself as to any reader who might stop by even after all these days of No News. I tried closing the blog several months ago, and I missed the idea of having it just as much as, or maybe more than, the actual writing. It's some place to go, you know?

I can't remember a more miserable summer, weather-wise, than this one. I know we've had hotter ones, but the combination of the heat and the humidity and the absence of rain have worn on me. My Aunt Netsy has had a rough summer beginning in May. She broke her hip, had surgery, entered a nursing home for rehab, got a sudden painful infection, entered the hospital and stayed 10 days, and is now back at the nursing home where more rehab awaits. You've just been given the condensed version. She and I both agree that We'd Rather Be at Starbucks.

Frankly her ordeal makes me question my previous desire to live a long life. The extra years seem to come with a price. But I don't think I'm up to examining that subject this morning, and so I'll share with you a few of my observations from spending many hours bedside in the hospital.

1. I do not speak English very well. Why else would the same desk clerk, sitting at the same nurses station, stare at me with fish-eyes as I was speaking, then respond-- every time!-- "Wait, wait, what are you talking about?"

2. It's the little things, that turn out to be big things, that separate adequate nurses from good ones. Sadly, the Adequates are greater in number than the Goods. But in the interest of honesty and optimism, I can't say that we encountered a single Bad One.

3. In Waco, Texas, you're supposed to drink iced tea with your meals. It doesn't matter if you've never liked tea, or if you carefully explain at every mealtime that you would prefer juice, coffee or even water, you will be given iced tea in Waco, Texas.

4. Hospital gowns, though always open in the back, come in an amazing variety of lengths. They are plain and rather stark; Aunt Netsy commented that a crocheted collar on them would greatly improve their appeal.

5. Hospital breakfasts are not bad at all. I've eaten more grits during the past 10 days than I've eaten in my entire life.

6. Medical personnel do not share information with each other. They would much rather have you repeat it over and over. I've been told there is a reason for this, so that they can hear the patient explain her own history, but I don't buy it. I was repeatedly asked, "Why is she taking Cumidon?" The questioner(s) never seemed impressed by my answer of, "I'm not sure, my cousin Kay was the one who took her to those appointments and she's currently in New Mexico helping her husband Dewey build their dream cabin and she's not where I can reach her easily because otherwise I'd call her up right now so that you wouldn't have to read my aunt's medical record or call the cardiologist...." I admit I didn't add that last phrase, but it wouldn't have mattered-- The Inquisitor was already interrupting me to ask the next (unnecessary?) question.

7. There are many different ways of moving a frail, hurting 89 year old from one place to another. Some ways are so much better than others.

8. Being blessed with "good hair" can get a female patient a lot of favorable attention, especially in Texas where good hair is very important. Aunt Netsy has has a frail little body but very, very good hair.

9. Students should not be sent to draw blood from an elderly person with bad veins. It happened twice and was a disaster both times. Let them learn on someone else.

10. Modern medicine has its faults but it is also an amazing process that I am truly grateful for. I was and am in awe of what can be learned and accomplished to help a very sick person.

First Day of Summer

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 19 May 2008 18:34:00 +0000

It's a beautiful morning and I'm.....not going to work. I'm a schoolgirl again-- free for the summer. It's a welcome benefit of this job.

What will I do?

I'd like to plant some flowers. Start cooking again. Organize and clean out my digital photo library. Blog more often. Send long overdue graduation and baby and wedding gifts. Read more books. Take more naps. Unpack.

I wish my daddy was still here, coming over for coffee every morning. I'm drinking a leisurely cup right now, thinking of him and knowing once again what time gives and time takes away.

Time to DTR

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 09 Apr 2008 22:27:00 +0000

I was in my usual spot behind the front desk at the college dormitory where I work, talking to several students. One was in a new romantic relationship. Things were going well, he said. In fact, it was probably time to talk. The girl he was hanging out with had hinted as much.

"Yeah," responded another student, "D. T. R." I looked at the three other people around me, all of whom were nodding matter-of-factly.

D. T. R. ? Uh, what's D. T. R. ?

Define the relationship, that's what!

Am I the only one who didn't know? Always eager to expand my horizons, I googled DTR as soon as I got home. After getting past Diesel Truck Resource and Data Terminal Ready (and who could care about either of those?), I actually found it.

After considering this delightful new (to me) acronym, I decided that I myself have attempted to DTR. I think it counts, even though I didn't know I was trying to DTR when I did it. And when was that?

I seem to recall it was right before my high school boyfriend dumped me. Coincidence?

Almost April

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 03:27:00 +0000

I used to think of April as magical. Hard to say why. There were many nights when, as a child and teenager, I went to sleep with the window next to my head wide open. It never occurred to me that this might not be safe, and I suppose my parents didn't think of it either. I only knew that the breeze on my face felt like nothing else did.

And it's only March now. Not even Officially Spring. Yet today was one of those sunny, gusty days that reminded me of why I love spring so much. It was pouring rain all day yesterday. I was soaked by the time I made it home. But today was spectacular, just in time for an Easter egg hunt.

Anna, the exquisite little person whose mommy invited me to the hunt, toddled along clutching a small box of candy that had fallen out of a plastic egg. It fit perfectly inside her tiny little fist. Who needs a colorful egg when you can have a box of Nerds candy?

Soon it will be forty years since I walked on this same campus, even in this same area of the campus, holding hands with a boy I'd just met. He was too short for me, or I was too tall for him, but it didn't matter. Still doesn't.

Cute People Are on Facebook!

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 15:01:00 +0000

I am a modern woman.

Well. What on earth is that supposed to mean? Nothing, really. I just thought it sounded like the way a post such as this one should begin. Only maybe I should have said, I am a modern young woman.

Let me provide some history. About 8 or 10 years ago, I finally dropped out of the Lead Pencil Club and began to use email (a little) and do internet research. Then I began to use email a lot. Then I discovered eBay and enjoyed a couple of years of buying and selling and meeting some Pretty Strange People. (Some might say they couldn't have been stranger than someone who sells sock monkeys on eBay.)

At one point I finally learned to use a digital camera and taught myself some basic Photoshop-type stuff. Still like that a lot.

Almost two years ago, after reading a couple of exquisitely horrible blogs, I wrote my first post.

And now I'm on Facebook. I know, it's a) really no big deal and b) kinda funny. Me? But it was by demand. People wanted to be my friends! Cute people!

My daughter says eventually it won't be quite as interesting as it is now. Another of my kids says it's more than a little weird.

And I say: Ann's "relationship status" is married. She is "looking for" friends.

Gigi

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 15:04:00 +0000

Grandparents are often called funny names. That's because they receive these names from their grandchildren. My husband's mother, who was only in her mid-forties when our first child was born, made it clear that she preferred being called "Grandmother." None of this Granny or Grammy stuff. Just plain, dignified Grandmother. Alas, it was not to be. Unable to pronounce Grandmother, our toddler named her Maw Maw. And, of course, the other five grandchildren followed suit.

I have no hang-ups about being called Granny. It's what I want. I called my own grandmother Granny, and my children called my mother Granny. So far my only grandchild has not been able to say Granny. Until recently, he's been saying GaGa. Not exactly catchy, but I figured it was only a small twist of the tongue away from Granny.

Last week my daughter called me. Barely containing her laughter, she asked me to hold on a moment. I could hear her saying to my grandchild, "Say hi to Granny."

"Gigi," he chirped into the telephone. "Gigi."

He had been saying it all afternoon, obviously referring to me.

Gigi? Gigi??

I'm trying to be open-minded. Maybe my immediate assumptions and reactions to the name were wrong, I googled Gigi. Here are some of the words and phrases associated with Gigi:

burlesque; Italian restaurant; bar; movie (1958); fitness center; acoustic rock artist; pet boutique; merry-go-round horse; designer belts for babies; bikini wax; prom dresses; French poodle. Don't exactly remind you of me, do they?

I don't know whether I'll have to get used to it or not. He was still saying Gigi today, but Granny could be just around the corner (hobbling along with her cane, of course).

Bop Til I Drop

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sun, 09 Dec 2007 14:35:00 +0000

It's fun to not say no. I like not setting limits.

Of course, I could only be talking about grandmothering. Generations of grandparents have discovered this before I did. My daughter says it takes several days of detox for my grandson after he returns from a visit with me. I try to express sympathy but, secretly, I'm proud.

Yesterday morning my grandson and I danced. Sometimes we've joined hands and danced, but this time he wanted me to pick him up and carry him as I twirled and dipped. We put our cheeks together for a while, then he'd pull away and clap his hands together. His mother danced near us, and her dramatic moves made him shriek with delight.

I've never been an especially good dancer. Nor have I been known for my agility, strength or gracefulness. But my grandchild thinks I can-- and should-- be able to do anything he asks. If that means dancing, then by golly this granny is gonna move.

Part of the reason I'm able to follow my heart and do whatever he wants is that his parents set the necessary limits. I'm glad they do. I value them. But I don't want to be them. I want to be the granny who bops 'til she drops.

After the Fall

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Mon, 17 Sep 2007 17:32:00 +0000

My dad fell Saturday. We received the call about 11:15 that morning, picked him up at his independent living facility and took him to an emergency room, where we spent the next four or five hours. My dad, who walks with a "walker," could not get up or stand unassisted after he fell, and we feared the worst-- which in his case would have been a broken hip. But x-rays were negative and, though a painful gash on the back of his head required five staples, we were relieved. He is with us until we can make some confusing but necessary decisions.

Falls are awful. My husband has been telling me for years that I go down harder than anyone he's seen. "You've never learned to fall," he concludes, then tries to tell me what to do when I feel myself falling. I know, I answer, I've read the instructions.

Honestly, I never thought much about falling until I began to work with the elderly. After several of my special people died as the result of them, I began to fear falls. Nursing homes are hazardous places. I've read studies that say 50 to 75 percent of nursing home residents over 65 years old fall at least once every year; "only" one in three people who live at home fall once a year. As a staff member, I fell several times each year, so I suspect the percentages are actually higher.

I've tried to think of another word or phrase to describe what happens to a person when he falls, other than "shaken up." He didn't break any bones, we say with relief, he's just a little shaken up. But people are shaken deeper than their fragile bones, down into the psyche.

I can't believe this happened to me.

I'm afraid to go anywhere again.

My dad is using his walker now and testing out his world after the fall. Yesterday he slept a lot. As he lay on the couch, eyes closed and breathing steadily, my son gazed at him and murmured, "Doesn't he look sweet?"

Yes, too sweet, too good to fall.

Happy Birthday to Us!

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sat, 08 Sep 2007 13:58:00 +0000

It's your birthday, Mother, and if you were here I'd say Happy Birthday.....to us! That's what we used to say, you and I, once I was finally willing to acknowledge that it was your birthday, too! I used to be a self-centered little thing, didn't I? I'm glad you never held it against me.

I thought it would get easier to live without you and I guess, after nearly ten years, it is. But I still can't get through a day without thinking of you and, when I do, the tears surprise me all over again. No, I'm not really sad and certainly not depressed, but there's something about thinking about your mother. . . . I know you'd understand, because you were that way about your mother, too.

Sometimes it helps to list the things I'm thankful for. I'm glad you got to know Scott and Diane, because in knowing and loving them, you learned even more about me, and about Steve-- your own children. You thought Steve and I were both pretty lucky in our mates and marriages. I even jokingly accused you of liking Scott better than me, and though you denied it, I noticed you didn't protest too hard!

You spent time with all four of your grandchildren, making up in quality what you were denied in quantity. I feel a little guilty about that, because I enjoy such easy access to my own grandson. Speaking about yourself and my dad, you'd say, You just have no idea how much we love these kids! I used to think to myself, Of course. I know you love them a lot. But, as usual, you were right; I didn't know. Not until I held my own grandchild would I understand.

I wish you could have been at your grandchildren's weddings. I wish you could have met their spouses. You'd have been so pleased, and so reassured. You wanted nothing less than complete love and devotion for them and, from those wedding days forward, that's what they've had.

I wish you could see your three great-grandsons! I picture you holding them, laughing at their antics, looking at their photographs. I know you could find resemblances that have never occurred to the rest of us!

And I wish you were here for Daddy. He needs you still, as he always did. No one understands him as you did, though it's not from lack of effort on our parts! Whether it's making the bed, folding underwear, or loading the dishwasher, he unintentionally reminds me that your ways were best. You felt both relieved and a little guilty to leave first. You didn't want to say it, but I knew-- strong as you were-- you didn't want to live without him. For your sake, I'm grateful that you didn't have to.

I'm crying as I write and, though you didn't want me to mourn forever, you would have understood. You knew about grief, just as you understood love and family. . . . . and birthdays! They're all part of life, our lives, and denying any of them is impossible.

So, happy birthday. . . . to us!

Sandwiched

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 18:42:00 +0000

If something just won't leave my mind alone, I write it down hoping that the muddle will explode into eloquence. That's just a dream. Usually I'm satisfied if I have a little more clarity at the end of a session at the keyboard than I did at the beginning.

Sometimes I begin writing a blog post that I'm not sure I'll publish. The reason for that, most of the time, is that I know I may get fed up and delete it! Other times I realize that, whoa, I don't want people to read this.

I don't know when I first heard the phrase "Sandwich Generation." It was catchy, whenever it was, and I thought it might apply to me. I still had children at home, though two were teenagers, and my parents were getting older and needier. I introduced the term to friends in similar situations, and together we pondered the meaning of belonging to this newly identified group.

That was long ago, but my membership card has not yet expired. No, I'm not taking care of my children now (though I'm still available for giving advice!), but I have a grandchild I want to be with as often as possible. And my father's life is one I lean into more each day.

My reluctance to write about this (see second paragraph) stems from fear that people will think I'm complaining or, worse, glorifying my importance. The truth is, I don't do that much. My grandchild is in another city. My dad lives in Waco but not in my home.

Still, I feel "sandwiched" between my desperate need to be in my grandchild's life and my helplessness to change my father's. The two longings don't compete with each other, but trying to maintain my footing as I leap from one to the other is tricky. And I think I just changed metaphors, because sandwiches don't jump.

Yesterday evening I sat with my father as he described another hopelessly bad meal, throbbing hands that make it tortuous to tie shoes and button shirts, and his sickening dread of a nursing home. I know he usually feels better the next day. But the tears I held back as he talked fell freely the rest of the night. In my frustration I slammed three doors.

As I write this, my dad has gone out to breakfast with my son. I didn't sleep last night but I'm better today, too. Why? Because I'll soon hold a baby. . . .

For Example

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Tue, 15 May 2007 16:16:00 +0000

My mother lived for eighty years, but it wasn't long enough. I know that babies lose their mothers, and women in their twenties die every day. But gratitude for her longevity hasn't lessened my longing for more time with her. I wanted her to see my children get married. She didn't get to. I wanted her to meet her great-grandchildren, and she never saw them. She was fun and loved life as much as ever and if she were still here she'd still be grateful for the gift of it.

One of my friends said, when her mom died, "I've lost my cheerleader." No one else cared in quite the same way. It's true. I am blessed by the affection of many people, some related and many not, but no one is interested in me like my mother was. My mom knew how mundane my life could be, and she still wanted to hear about it! If I had guests for dinner, she wanted to know the menu and what I wore. For example:

Did everyone eat a lot, or was someone picky? What time did they go home? Did I think they'd be inviting us over very soon? If not, why wouldn't they?

Didn't I think I was catching colds too often? Maybe I wasn't sleeping enough. No, vitamins probably wouldn't help. Was I worrying too much? Well, I shouldn't, because after all I was doing the best I could and that's all anyone could be expected to do.

Who would I say my best friend is now? And why is that? Maybe it's because she's the one who still writes you. People should write more letters. Or at least call, though long distance is expensive. Anyway, you always need friends.

Didn't I dread moving so often? At least I had a wonderful husband who helped me. Most women don't have it so good. But, really, when did I think he might get out of the Air Force so that I could stop moving? Only if he wants to, of course, because it's important that he's happy, too.

Did I realize how well-behaved my children were? Better than most people's, and better looking, too! At least we could say that to each other without bragging, because we both know it's the truth. Don't you hate it when people brag on their kids to make themselves look better? We don't want to do that.

Did I need so many dogs? How could I keep a house clean with all those animals running around? Yes, they're cute, but still.....

I miss the conversation that continued regardless of how many miles were between us. I miss sharing things that only she would find worth mentioning. I have so many questions for her now, almost ten years' worth, that I didn't think to ask back then.

And the first one is, Did you have any idea how much I'd miss you?

Last Drive

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Wed, 28 Mar 2007 23:04:00 +0000

It must be hard to give up driving. In my experience, men often find it more difficult than women do. More than one male nursing home resident with whom I worked has thought he was in his car or truck when, in fact, he was lying in his bed. I'm talking about dementia, of course, but I've never seen a woman's confusion take that same route.

Prior to Christmas my dad, age ninety, still drove every day. He met friends for coffee on most mornings and then drove to my house for coffee with me, all of this happening before 9:00 A.M.. And he still came over for dinner at least once or twice a week.

Shortly after the holidays he experienced a series of seemingly minor medical problems. Test after test revealed nothing major, but-- long story short-- he now uses a walker and is frailer than he was last year. His car has sat for weeks in the parking lot. He admitted driving to the dry cleaner's several weeks ago but otherwise hasn't seemed motivated to drive. This is not a problem for me. It's a relief. I've been able to take him for appointment and errands.

Recently he mentioned selling his car "because I probably won't use it anymore." Without sounding too eager, I tried to be encouraging as I casually mentioned the good reasons to give up driving. When a family member mentioned buying his car, my dad seemed interested.

When I called him early Sunday afternoon and he didn't answer, I wasn't too concerned. I left a message. When he didn't return my call within 30 minutes, I called again. No answer. I began to consider making a trip to his apartment to check on him.

Finally the phone rang. He was trying to sound jovial.

"Well, you probably won't believe where I've been."

I thought I knew but played dumb. "No, I really don't know."

"I drove to the cemetery." This would be the cemetery where my mother is buried.

"Oh? And you felt up to doing that?" I tried not to sound irritable. But this is a man who usually notifies me when he's going to be in the bathroom for longer than five minutes.

"Well, I did all right. I can drive fine. It's just getting in and out of the car that's hard."

We continued our conversation for a few more seconds. Sensing my concern, he finally said, "The bluebonnets are blooming there."

"They are? Are they pretty?"

"They're beautiful." He said it softly. A long pause, then, "I guess I needed to take a last drive."

I don't know for sure whether that was his last drive. I'm praying that it was and that he received some comfort, as I did, that his last drive was to visit my mom.

Mistakes Were Made, Maybe By Me

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 16 Mar 2007 16:00:00 +0000

I've been trying to avoid becoming obsessed with the sentence "Mistakes were made." It's such an easy target, the passive voice, and all day columnists and bloggers have been hammering Attorney General Alberto Gonzales for using it. Bad, bad, bad Alberto!

We've become accustomed to hearing public figures, politicians especially, "apologize" without admitting anything. Bill Clinton probably wished later that he'd stuck with mistakes were made rather than uttering his famous denial of not having "sex with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky." See what happens when you slip into the active voice?

As indignant as I am when someone owes me an apology and just won't give it, I have to admit that at times I have avoided reeeeally taking responsibility myself. In the interest of honesty and personal growth, I would like to make amends. I intend to demonstrate that I can indeed take responsibility, even when employing the passive voice. Here goes:

Mistakes were made on my Trigonometry final exam in 1968. Lots of them, and probably by me, since it was my grade that dropped from a B to a D.

Mistakes were made when a kitten was smuggled into our no-pets-allowed university housing. Yeah, okay, I made the mistake when I smuggled the kitten. Also, my husband was the apartment manager. He worked for the university. Awkward.

Mistakes were made when I tried to speak German to Germans in Germany 1987-1990. I must be talking about me, because the Germans seemed to speak pretty good German.

Mistakes were made by not getting a flu shot this season. My mistake, my flu.

See what I mean? It's not so hard. Give it a try, Alberto.

Along for the Ride

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sat, 10 Mar 2007 02:17:00 +0000

You are going forward toward something great. I am on the way with you and therefore I love you. --Carl Sandburg, "I Love You"

Though Thanksgiving can get swallowed up into a pre-Christmas frenzy of shopping and partying, three other days during the calendar year are, for me, mini-Thanksgivings. My children's birthdays are occasions for remembering my first glimpses of their newborn faces and how each of them greeted the world in a style all their own. I relive the exhaustion and the ecstasy of that birth day, and I intentionally spend time breathing my thanks for the amazing life that began at that particular moment.

Life with our son has never been dull. He's funny and smart and his mind works in mysterious ways. One of our friends called him "a tender tough-guy." And he is. But more than that, he is an affectionate uncle whose antics make his nephew squeal with delight; a compassionate soul who held his "dog-brother" close as life ended; an attentive and patient grandson; and an irresistible son who lights up his mom's world by just passing through the room. From the moment I saw his furious little face in the delivery room and heard his not-so-little roar of outrage (he was probably hungry-- hunger, to this day, puts him in a really bad mood), I was captured. As the actress Helen Hayes put it, "That was the end of my heart. I never got it back."

I don't think many of us parents want our hearts back. We want to be along for the ride. Sometimes we forget who's supposed to be driving or holding the reins, a common parental amnesia, but the journey is nevertheless as exquisitely exhilarating as it is unsettling.

And on this day, my Thanksgiving in March, I am so grateful-- and humbled-- to be along for the ride. Happy birthday, favorite son!

A Sourpuss Amnesiac with an Attitude

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sat, 03 Feb 2007 05:10:00 +0000

I was in a hospital waiting room this afternoon. As usual, I finished the three-month old Time magazine quickly, so there was nothing left to do except stare at other people-- which is so rude-- or eavesdrop-- which is rude but subtle.

A woman about my age wearing a full-length white furry coat plopped down in a chair next to a man who turned out to be her husband. She was talking on her cell phone in a loud voice. "Do you want to meet me at Tom's . . . . well, why not? . . . you're always saying you want more time with me." She argued for a few more minutes before hanging up. Then she turned her attention to her husband, who was wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket-- kinda cool in my view.

"I think you have amnesia," she stated flatly.

"No, I don't."

"Uh huh, you do. I'm sure of it."

"No. I just can't remember everything you say." A minute of silence. Then she said:

"It just really frustrates me when you act like such a sourpuss."

"I am not a sourpuss," he answered.

"Yes, you are definitely a sourpuss, and you've been that way all day. I hate it."

"What do you mean? I got up this morning, I gathered wood, started a fire. . ." Silence again.

"You've had a real attitude. Something is wrong with you, and you have an attitude."

This time he waited a while before responding, then:

"Maybe I'm just tired."

(Ah. So that's it.)

Why would I be here if I didn't have to be?

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Thu, 25 Jan 2007 00:57:00 +0000

I spent the morning with my dad at the hospital. He had a radiology appointment. We were told to check in at Admitting at 10:30. From there he would have lab work and then proceed to Radiology. It didn't take very long to check in, though it involved more paperwork than he thought necessary.

"I don't know why they have to open up a new account every time I come," he said, not very quietly. On the other hand, he wondered why the Admitting person didn't spend a longer time reviewing the drivers' license he was required to show. "Did you really look at it?" he quizzed her. He then rattled off his drivers' license number for her just in case.

"That's fine," she said, "I just needed to verify that you're who you say you are."

"Why would I be here if I didn't have to be?" he countered.

The lab work went smoothly and soon we were already in the Radiology waiting room. It was only 10:40. Our appointment, we were told, was not until 11:30. They always allow plenty of time for the lab. Great, I thought.

By noon I had read all the available magazines. My dad had visited the men's room a couple of times. I asked the lady-behind-the-glass if she knew how much longer we would be waiting. Then I shared what she had said with my dad.

"She says they're running a little late, and it will be a few more minutes," I whispered into his ear.

"Oh really?" he answered, staring straight ahead. "I never would have guessed that."

I heard giggles all around me.

Finally at 12:15 his name was called. The technician asked him,"You've had this kind of test before, haven't you?"

"I'm 90 years old. I've had every kind of test before."

He came back 45 minutes later. "This place has some problems," he told me as he sat down to rest.

Oh? I was sort of hoping he wouldn't elaborate, but he continued. "They still weren't ready when I got back there, so they put me in a storage closet to wait."

I mumbled something about a construction project but didn't press him about being put in a closet. Turns out I didn't have to.

"Yes, it was just an old closet. Maybe six by six. There were boxes stacked all around me."

Really? Oh. Wow. Hmm. . . .What else was there to say?

Evidently he had thought of something. "I told them I wasn't coming back until they got themselves together. And I'm not."

Fine with me.

60 is the new 40

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Fri, 19 Jan 2007 21:52:00 +0000

When I turned on the TV yesterday morning, Today Show host Ann Curry was presiding over a segment called "60 is the new 40." First on was a 67 year old model, discovered at age 63. She's now working for Eileen Ford's modeling agency and living a most unexpected life. She said it was wonderful and looked very happy. I loved the color of her hair-- white-- but thought the style was pathetic. No way the Ford Agency would tolerate that hair on an under-40 model, but I guess they were relieved that she still had hair.

Next, Ann Curry interviewed Raquel Welch and best-selling author Gail "Passages" Sheehy. They both agreed that 60 is the new 40 and that the older model is bound to be very inspirational to aging women. Yes indeedy, I feel better already and know I'll sleep good tonight.

Raquel talked about, uh, Raquel. Sheehy trumpeted her new book Sex and the Seasoned Woman. My favorite moment of all came when one of them said-- are you ready for this-- "But getting older is about more than sex." I was overcome with shock and heard myself shouting at the television, "It is? Oh noooooooo!" In other words, I was profoundly disappointed. My mood did not pick up when Curry closed by inviting the viewers to stay tuned for a feature on depression. But I suppose I can rationalize that not only is getting older not just about sex, it's also not just about depression. Sigh.

I was ever-so-slightly impressed with a phrase spoken by Racquel. She seemed to be regreting her pattern of "living life on the surface" for so many years. Since she's presenting herself as an example of how good an older woman can look-- as opposed to be, for example-- I'm not sure she's much deeper than she's ever been. But perhaps she's trying, and that's all any of us can do.

The Zone

noreply@blogger.com (Ann) — Sun, 07 Jan 2007 00:28:00 +0000

I spent a couple of hours Thursday playing with two of my best buddies. Their mother, who had a lunch meeting to attend, is also a friend of mine. I never know exactly how the boys and I will spend our time together, because I am definitely not the one in charge. What I can be sure of is that we will have fun and that I will learn something new. Learning something new is a very fortunate thing-- otherwise I might turn into an old fogie.

That afternoon we spent almost all of our time in the boys' bedroom. They had removed the couch and chair cushions and carried them from the living room to their room, where the cushions began new life as a tall tower. That this tower was quite wobbly and was being climbed upon by two wiggly bodies made me a little nervous at first (I imagined myself telling their mother when she returned, "I'm sorry, but they both crashed through the window and I haven't seen them since!"). As time passed, however, I relaxed and entered The Zone.

The Zone is a place where thoughts of schedules and obligations do not exist. In fact, I think they're banned. While in The Zone, my voice switches octaves easily and my body participates in activities that I Do-Not-Attempt-At-Home. Words like poo-poo are funny in The Zone. New ideas and scenarios flow seamlessly, interrupted only occasionally by a call from the bathroom ("Miss Ann, come wipe my bottom!").

We usually play with Sock Monkey, whom I bring from my house. Interestingly enough, I am the one almost always chosen (ie., ordered) to hold Sock Monkey and be his voice. The boys prefer doing things to Sock Monkey. In other words, Sock Monkey is a perpetual victim, doomed to yelping and whining about the unfairness of his plight and begging the boys to make things better for him-- which they invariably refuse to do. Nearly every toy in the house is brought forth to inflict some sort of torment upon poor old Sock Monkey. Thursday he was mashed by couch cushions. Even Lucy the cat was summoned to the bedroom in the hope that she would introduce her claws to Sock Monkey. Instead, Lucy was unimpressed with her potential role in our drama and quickly escaped to a-- relatively-- safe spot under the bed.

Eventually my time in The Zone must always come to an end. Mommy or Daddy arrives home to a joyful reunion, and Miss Ann climbs into her red Bug and waves herself away.