Candy Rant

Connection

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Sun, 23 Oct 2011 17:55:00 +0000

I read a news story last week about a couple, ages 90 and 94, who had been married for 72 years. After a serious car accident they were taken to intensive care, put into beds close together, and died within an hour of one another.

"It was really strange, they were holding hands, and Dad stopped breathing, but I couldn't figure out what was going on because the heart monitor was still going," the couple's son, Dennis Yeager, told KCCI.com. "But we were like, 'he isn't breathing. How does he still have a heartbeat?' The nurse checked and said that's because they were holding hands and it's going through them. Her heart was beating through him and picking it up."

My brother sent the news story to my mom. I was afraid it would upset her, because if she'd had her choice, she and Dad would've left the planet together. Instead, she is still here, aching, loving him from afar in possibly the most extreme sense of that phrase.

But still, that heartbeat traveling from one to another seems a perfect metaphor for the way my parents love each other. Yes, present tense. I'm convinced that death doesn't stop that, in either direction.

Today would have been their 70th anniversary.

Season's Greetings

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 23:45:00 +0000

Classes start on Monday, which means that I'm in my traditional period of beating myself up for not getting enough done this summer.

It's now become like an official holiday for me, showing up as faithfully as plump, breakable jack-o-lanterns lining the shelves of Walgreen's in July. They smile their chintzy, poorly-painted, resin smiles while sitting on the Made in China stickers on their $19.99 bottoms. They're hideous and every year, there they are. Some things you can just count on.

Same thing with Candy's Back-to-School Bludgeoning. While Walmart is cramming its aisles with stacks of the cheapest wire-bound notebooks ever made, the kind with paper you can literally see through, but no one cares because they're 5 for a dollar, the school year is taking shape at our house.

I sit at the computer working on a syllabus for class, when I hear my very judgmental brain approaching the little two-step staircase down to my office. It has important things to say to me, verbal javelins to shish-kabob me with, and needs to get down those steps. I'm not going to help it.

"You want to bitch a little?" I ask it. "Handle the stairs yourself."

It does this Slinky-meets-jellyfish movement, very disgusting with the squishy sounds, and I continue working.

There's no putting this off. I look down at it, pink and wrinkly, sitting on the carpet like a headless turtle.

"Alright, Walnut Meat. Let's hear it. No, let me do this for you. You're going to slather on the guilt because of all I didn't get done this summer. I didn't finish my book. I didn't de-clutter every room. I didn't lose enough weight. I barely left the house. I didn't make it to the dentist. I didn't read the books I stacked up on my bedside table. I didn't use my time wisely. I watched 'The Bachelorette' and 'Hoarders' and a stupid Lifetime movie with Heather Locklear. I'm a failure. I should be taken out and shot." I stop for breath. "Does that about cover it?"

I hear tiny little bumping sounds coming from the steps. As far as I know there's no one else in the house. Just Brainard and me. And then I see it. Carefully making its way down the two steps is my heart, on a tiny pair of crutches.

Brain looks at me with its non-eyes and then we both watch the heart work its way toward us.

I swivel my chair around so I can face them both. The brain has somehow dragged a wee little white Adirondack chair over for the heart to sit in, because even the heart's armpits get sore while pressing down on crutches too long.

Heart speaks.

"Walnut Meat here has decided to let me talk this year. This wasn't easy. You know it's hard for the brain to yield its 5 minutes to me." Brainard, without any face or shoulders, somehow manages a sheepish expression.

I wonder, at this moment, what other people are doing.

"You had your long list of things to do," Heart says. "Brain and I both saw it."

"It's right here...wanna see it again?" I ask. I pull the legal pad from the stack next to my computer and hold it in the air like an eviction notice.

"No. I know it by...heart," the pumper chuckles. "Sorry."

"You've been hanging around Brainard too much," I say.

"Which one of those things on your ever-present list do you think was most important?" Heart asks.

"Well, as you already know, the ones with the red stars next to them are important."

"The real answer. Think harder." The Brain shoots a glance at the heart leaning back in its chair.

"Sorry. Not trying to step on your toes, Walnut."

"The real answer? You know the real answer. The Heart knows all, right?" I say.

A sigh from the Heart.

"Why do you think I'm using these crutches?" it asks.

I lean back in my own chair and cover my eyes. "If I have to say this, I'm going to be sick. But here goes: because you're a broken heart?"

"True," it says. "Why are you so snarly?"

"I don't know. I don't know. I do know. I'm tired of you being broken. Tired of feeling broken."

"This will be hard for you. Very against-the-grain. But listen: that list isn't important. It especially wasn't important this summer."

I know where this is going.

"Please," the heart says, as only the heart can plead, "tell me what you did with your summer?"

"You know."

"Say it."

My throat gets thick and I feel my heart aching from its Adirondack chair.

"I was grieving my dad."

"Why?"

"WHAT?!" What an ignorant heart.

"Just tell me."

The ropes in my throat give way and the tears fall again. How many times have I cried this summer? "Because I love him and he's gone and I can't tell him how much I miss him." I take a breath. "And I still can't believe he's gone!" I feel like an idiot.

"Yes. You held on until last semester was over and then you got a chance to swim into the waves of grief. The water had been rising, around your ankles, up to your knees, but you waded through the hallways at work, pushing through to May."

I can't look at the heart, but I listen.

"This was your work this summer. You had one real thing on your list, and that was to let me grieve."

Brain nods.

"As useless as you felt, and as exhausted and discouraged, you were doing what you needed to do. Don't ignore it."

"It feels like all I did was lay around and cry," I say.

"That's part of the job of grief," Heart says. "So is the writing you did in your journal. Brain here tells me you wrote 19,000 words. So, you did do some writing."

"Not the right kind of writing," I say.

"It was exactly the right kind. You let it come from me. That's the only way to do it."

I consider this idea. And I think about the late nights I've sat up reading Dad's old letters to me. I have hundreds of them, from college, from when I was 38 and living (miserably) in France and he sent me photos and wrote "I hope this doesn't make you more homesick." Letters from every year since I left home at 18. I think about three nights ago when I missed him so much that I sat on the couch at 2 a.m., holding on tight to his old blue flannel shirt.

"And," Heart says, "all that struggling with Walnut Meat here, the forgetfulness, the fogginess, the sitting alongside the road in your car after you turned onto the wrong street the other day? That's the work, too. Even Brain has struggled through this."

Brain nods again.

"So why are you the only one using crutches," I ask.

Heart leans forward in its tiny chair. "Because I'm where the love resides."

I can't speak. I wonder what I can do to help it heal.

"Just keep going forward," it says. "I'll heal. You'll never stop missing him. You'll miss him fiercely. Some days you'll swear you can feel it all the way down to your bones. That's the love talking. That's how strong it is."

I sit quietly, soaking it all in.

I hear squishy sounds again. I look over to see that Brain is giving Heart a slow but determined piggy-back ride up the steps. Heart waves a crutch at me.

Archipelago

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 05:44:00 +0000

I joined a grief support group.

It's a 13-week class and I didn't find it until the 5th week. And it would've been EASY to find during Week One, but my brain missed it. This is one of the most debilitating parts of grief: Your brain gives out. Your ability to find things that you had in your hand ten minutes ago, shuts down. As does your quick recall of the name of a friend who walks up to you and engages you in conversation that ends up not being a very good conversation because you are distracted and digging in the dirt clods of your memory trying to find his name. Obviously some of this is just being middle-aged, but it's increased tenfold since my dad left the planet, this clueless fog of mine.

That said, I've only been to the group two times, but it's helpful. The first night I went I was stunned at just how much pain and suffering was gathered together in that circle. A dozen people and all kinds of loss. A father grieving his 25-year-old son who died suddenly from no medical reason that could be found. A husband who was shot to death. A mother gone after a long illness. A father. My father.

The room crackled with the intensity of it all. It was as though lightning had just passed through. People spoke with voices that carried confusion and bafflement like heavy fruit gathered into an apron. They looked around the room with glassy eyes, all cried out or starting up again. The eyes said it all: Where do I go from here?

I sat there thinking "This is just one grief group in one church in one town." The idea of how much pain there is everywhere else made me dizzy. It was like being a kid and having that moment when the size of the world suddenly occurs to you.

I've started to understand that grief is way more complicated than I imagined. First it was the disbelief that caught me off guard. But now my dad has been gone almost 4 months and some of that initial shock is wearing off. Not all of it. I'm split between "Oh my God. He is truly gone." and "I haven't seen Dad in such a long time. When is this part over? He surely must be coming back." I watch my thoughts stumble over themselves like two drunks, arm in arm, trying to make it down the street.

A good friend wrote this to me yesterday:

I suspect this is a triple grief for you--the loss of your father as he was recently, the loss of the man he was before he became ill, and a sharing of the loss your mother feels.

I was sitting in the group last night thinking about those three pieces, then realized that there are way more than three.

I imagine it like this: Grief is a scattering of islands, big and small, over a vast stretch of ocean. Each island is a particular chunk of it. I travel through the water in a little rowboat trying to find them all. I see the one called "The Man He Was Before He Became Ill." It's huge. Dad's old before-dementia personality is all over it. I can hear the echo of his full-blown laughter. I can see him walking along the beach in that white T-shirt with the red cartoon pigs on the front, the one I gave him that was too small but he wore it anyway. I wave at him but he can't see me. I want to stay and watch him smile and walk near the water with that little bounce in his step, but the current is pulling me elsewhere.

Another island comes into view. "Your Father As He Was Recently." He is on the beach here, too. Sitting in a wheelchair at a small square table. A tray of food sits in front of him. His head droops forward. I want to go wake him up by putting my hand on his cheek. I want to feed him his supper and then little spoonfuls of chocolate ice cream. But all I can do is look at him as my arms pull at the oars and take me to the next place.

This island is bleak and terrifying. Slate-colored clouds hang over it. The waves are slamming against the beach. This is the island of "His Very Last Day." In the near-darkness I see a group of people. They have their backs to me. It's us. Our family, gathered around his bed. I can't look at any of this. I turn away and row as hard as I can. I will have to come back to this island later. I'll have to come back to them all later. To these three and to the others I can see on the illuminated map of my heart, and to the ones I don't yet know about. I know about the island of "There's No Way to Fix Your Mom's Broken Heart" and the "Conversations You Should've Had With Your Father" one. And the primitive, rocky piece of land that does nothing but radiate "I miss you. I miss you. I miss you."

Traveling among this archipelago is part of my life now. Something was blown apart when I lost my dad and the pieces scattered like shrapnel. The islands will change sizes and names and some will merge together and, possibly, some may dissolve into the ocean. We'll see. For the time being, I have to look for them all.

I Don't Know What I Expected of Grief

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Sat, 28 May 2011 19:56:00 +0000

But it wasn't this.

Where do I start writing?

I've lost people before, but no one nearly as close as my dad.

I'll just say that the overwhelming feeling, the one most constant in the three months since he died, is disbelief.

In the past when I would hear about the "denial" stage of grief (and I want to be clear that I don't believe at all in the "stages" of grief) I naively thought that denial was somehow by choice. As though the person would be telling themselves "I know my dad has died, but I choose not to deal with it yet, so I'm going to ignore it until I can bear it." As though it was that cut and dried and premeditated.

Never did it occur to me that the most difficult part of losing Dad would be my inability to believe that he's gone.

So I guess what I expected of grief was the dark and ongoing gut-punch of missing him. Aching for the chance to see his face when I drive to my hometown. The chance to feed him his dinner, wipe his mouth, clean his teeth, give him a neck trim, put lotion on his face. The endless small things, communicative but not in the usual way, that our relationship had become.

The oddity of the whole picture is that I do have the gut-punch, even though I'm still waking up in the middle of the night and realizing, freshly, that he's gone. I forget it by morning and have to learn it again. I'm tired of learning it and I'm tired of it being true.

It reminds me of a news story I saw decades ago about a former concert pianist stricken with a brain disorder that left him with aphasia. Each day he "met" his wife. Each day his wife offered him a cup of coffee and each day he accepted it, saying "Oh, I'd like to try it. I've never had coffee before." And each day he proclaimed it delicious.

Though major parts of his memory had been thieved away by the illness, this man was left with his ability to play the piano. So there he sat, magnificently playing Chopin, lost to the world around him.

Bye, Dad.

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Tue, 01 Mar 2011 21:47:00 +0000

My wonderful dad passed away Sunday evening.
Thank you for the prayers.
I will post as I can.

He was a great man and a good daddy.

Where I've Been

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Fri, 25 Feb 2011 18:51:00 +0000

I haven't posted for about 3 weeks. At first, life was just busy with work and normal things.

Then a week ago my dad developed pneumonia from aspiration of a food particle. On Sunday I thought we might lose him.

He is hanging in there but is in critical condition and things are very bleak.

We're praying for God's will, whatever it is, and we're praying especially for mercy. Dad can't communicate whether or not
he's scared, but he looks scared.

My mom is still trying to heal from her back and rib injury, and has just gotten a sore throat and cough. She's worn out.
You know the saying: When it rains...

Will post when I can.

Shame on Me for Slacking on the Beer Diary! Bottles 6, 7, 8, and 9.

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Fri, 04 Feb 2011 18:55:00 +0000

It's not that Scott is downing the brew faster than I can type. I've just been busy with school, and trying to feel my way around the tangle of moray eels that are my new students.

Let's recap:

January 19th

Beer: Phin and Matt's Southern Tier Extraordinary Ale

Beer Accompaniment: Gourmet pesto pizza from a local bar/restaurant/billiards place

I picked up the pizza and when Scott got home from work, I chose his beer. This is fun for me. I don't get out much.

Phin & Matt's was a huge hit with Scott. He loved it. And shockingly, I didn't run puking into the sink after I had my traditional sip. It was milder than many others I've sipped and gagged on, and I even took a second sip. (Yes, I can see the slippery slope I'm unicycling down.) It starts with two sips and ends in rehab.

January 21st

Beer: Ellie's Brown Ale

Beer Accompaniment: I can't remember

I do remember that Scott liked it and it was mild and satisfying. Sounds like an old commercial for Winston cigarettes.

January 30

Beer: Optimator Spaten, made in Munich

Beer Accompaniment: Delicious pasta, prepared by Scott. Rosemary noodles with salmon, asparagus, garlic, and red peppers. Exquisite.

My sip of the beer: Oh HELL no. This is bitter and doesn't even try to be friendly.

Scott: Yes, it's very German in that way.

He loved it, especially with the pasta.

And finally...

February 2

Beer: Xingu Black Beer (Doesn't that name just look foreboding?)

Accompaniment: Scott's misery. A snotty cold, hacking cough, made worse by a long day at work and walking the final block from the city bus in hideous end-of-the-world blizzard conditions.

My sip: Screw it. I don't want any.

His reaction: As soon as I drink this, please shoot me.

I don't think he could taste the beer, but hey, Xingu, thanks for playing.

TSNOWNAMI!

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 00:26:00 +0000

I wonder how many of you are also experiencing the crippling snow/ice storm?

On Facebook last night, a group of us killed the storm-time by coming up with names for this megamonster blizzard.
Here are some of them:

SnO-M-G

Sno-way

Point of Snow Return

Blizzaster

Snowtorious B.I.G.

Apocalypse Snow

Snowcial Networking Site/Frostbook

Snowpalooza

Blizzie Borden

Snowprah

Snow Freakin' Way

The Great Cornsnowlio

Snowthello

Stormageddon

Snowmageddon

Snowgate

Holy Snowman Empire

Snowmeo and Juliet

(to which I responded "Wherefore art plow?")

One person said "We're really plowing through these."
Another responded "I don't get your drift."
And finally, "I'll have to put more thawed into it."

I Need More Hours!

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 04:36:00 +0000

This semester has started off at full throttle and as a result I've been having to neglect almost everything fun. I'm even behind on the Beer Diary! The empty bottles are stacking up.

I just read the most horrible student poem I've seen in years. There's no way I can put even an intact line from it up on this site, but I'll give you some hints. He uses these words in it:

Lips
Squirm
Succulent
Nectar
Spasms

I made Scott read it and he threw it down and said "I feel dirty just touching this!" We're workshopping it in class on Wednesday, and there is no way on this spinning planet that the poet's classmates are going to get through his reading of it without convulsing. And not in the way he'd like.

Years ago I had to deal with this same scenario. A bad-ass looking guy who was 6-foot-5 wrote this poem about "her pink blossom bloomed under my fingers." I had to rush in and save him from complete humiliation when the class veered off into an uncontrollable hyena-laughfest.

This new guy? He's on his own. The other guy was trying most earnestly to write beautiful romantic poetry. This guy just wants attention. So be it.

Positive News from the Neurosurgeon

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Sat, 22 Jan 2011 23:34:00 +0000

First, he's a real person. He's kind and attentive and funny and engaging and has an impeccable reputation. In other words, the opposite of Dr. Surly Got-My-Degree-From-Heehaw-Online-College we saw 2 weeks back.

The good doctor's advice: No surgery for mom just yet. He suggested that she wait a month and come back to him, to see how much better she was feeling, and his guess is that Mom is about halfway there. His own mother had compression fractures in some vertebrae awhile back and she was in agony. She couldn't have surgery because of all the other health complications she had. And even she healed completely from the back pain in 4 months. So, we'll see. And we'll pray.

(We did find out that of the three compression fractures, only one is a new injury. Thus, the other two would not be candidates for the cement-injection surgery anyway.)

Another other-end-of-the-spectrum experience at this doctor's office: We got into an exam room ten minutes early, and the doctor entered the room five minutes later.

AND, while we were in the waiting room, a patient of his had come out, a pretty blond in her 40s, turned to all of us in the waiting room and said "Just so you know, Dr. _____ is the best surgeon there is. I had 9-hour back surgery, with rods and pins and the whole works, and I have not had a single problem since."

I've never seen anyone do that before. It was just more confirmation that we had come to the right guy.

We got to ask all our questions, we got to go into another room with him and see the MRI results for ourselves, and my mom was so comfortable with this surgeon that she had to tell him her favorite joke before we left.

"She's going to do stand-up in the Catskills one day," I told the doctor.

When he first entered the room and saw my mom and looked down at her information sheet, he said "You are one good lookin' 88-year-old!" My sister said "Everybody says that, but she never believes it."

I wish I could put a photo of my mom here. She is beautiful. Perfect, peachy skin and an electric smile. I am so grateful for her.

And thank God for talented doctors with abundant smarts and personality.

I See Lint People

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 23:10:00 +0000

This particular lint is from some fuzzy purple socks I have, though it photographed as blue. I saw it on the floor near the dryer and it wasn't an "it" but a "him." A one-legged man with a fast-moving thought bubble coming out of his head as he tries to catch it.

I have seen lint people before.

Beer Diary, Bottle #5

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 18:19:00 +0000

January 15, 2011

Beer: Shiner Bock. This is Scott's "everyday" beer and one of his go-to favorites. Which explains why 18 of the 54 bottles of beer he got for Christmas (I still can't believe how classy we are) are Shiner Bock. In case most of the rest of the stuff I bought him resided at Suckington Manor, I wanted to make sure he had good fallback beer.

Beer Accompaniment: While waiting for the wings to bake, Scott was in one room of the house watching the Steelers game, and I was in another watching college basketball. The most noticeable accompaniment of the beer was the series of blood curdling screams coming from Scott's room. I never noticed before how much he can sound like Sam Kinison.

"GET HIMMMMMMMM!"

(pause)

"What are you DOINGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!?"

I sat laughing my fool head off in the other room, unable to concentrate on the game. Then I got back into the basketball action for awhile and was yelling my own protests: "Don't screw THIS up too!" while being driven into rabid-dog madness by the smell of the wings in the oven.

Then, Scott Kinison sounds burst into the air again:

"Get him! GET HIMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!" followed by just a lone, gutteral, choking, man-shriek.
"GHHHHHRRRRRGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGKKKGH!"

And this during a game the Steelers ended up winning. During a losing game, I fear that Scott will turn inside out.

Anyway, he liked the beer.

Beer Diary, Bottle #4

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 02:26:00 +0000

Beer: Prairie Path Golden Ale, made by Two Brothers Brewing Company, Warrenville, Illinois

Beer Accompaniment: Scott's arrival home after working 9 days straight. I made him look away as I got out the mystery beer, poured it into a glass, then stuck it in front of his face all foamy and cold. Or, sort of cold. It was in our garage and not quite cold-cold.

Candy: Does it look enticing?

Scott: YEAH. YEAH it DOES!

He tastes it.

Scott: Oooh, it's good. I'm guzzling it.

Always the gentleman, he gives me my sip, which is just as bad as the last beer, and even worse, since it's not ice-cold.

Scott: ---crickets---

(Empty glass left on kitchen counter.)

Beer Diary, Bottle #3

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Wed, 12 Jan 2011 03:14:00 +0000

January 11

Beer: Red Seal Ale

Beer accompaniment: A long day at work for Scott. Beer used as a bit of a nightcap.

Scott's reaction: "It's good. I've had this one before somewhere along the line. You won't like it at all."

Candy's reaction (after a too-large sip): Runs around corner to kitchen. Gets out Trader Joe's Cherry Cider and drinks a giant gulp from the bottle.

That seal? He's bright red because he is embarrassed to represent such a putrid beverage.

Bedside Manner

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 23:43:00 +0000

I took my mom to an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon on Friday.

Let's start with the fact that Mom's appointment was at 3:00. At 2:45 I call the office (a couple miles from her home), and say "My mom is in a lot of back pain and I don't want her to have to sit for a long period of time. Can you please tell me approximately how far behind the doctor is running today?"

"Not at all!" the receptionist tells me.

"Great! See you in a few minutes."

We fill out the paperwork in the waiting room. It is now 3:20. I go up to the receptionist. She's about 25 with long, wavy, stringy hair down past her butt. Her eyes have all the tenderness of olive pits.

"Hi," I say. "I called at 2:45 and was told the doctor was on time. When will my mother be getting in?"

"Probably immediately," responds Pit-Eyes. She gets up to go find out. Or at least I think that is the idea. I go back to Mom and make a cushion out of my rolled up furry coat and put that behind her now-miserable back.

3:30 p.m. Still in the waiting room. I go back up to the troll's window again.

"OK. It's now 'immediately' plus 10. When is she getting in?" I stare into her eyes and watch them transform from black pits into perhaps the entire olives, with fire shooting from them like evil red pimentos. She says nothing, but stands up, her entire body glaring at me somehow, and stomps off to the back hallway where, apparently, there are riches of information to be had.

I turn to the full waiting room, to the audience of patients that has watched the interaction. "Guess what?" I address them. "She can get as pissy as she likes, but she doesn't scare me." Widespread discomfort envelops the room as people look down at their magazines or feet or the drab carpet. My mom lets out a little laugh.

Still no response from Troll Hag. She has disappeared into the sacred hallways.

At last a nurse calls us back to a room. My mother is visibly in pain as she walks. We sit in that room until 3:55. I get up and enter the hallway. There are 2 nurses and the Troll. "You know," I say, really quietly. The kind of quiet that proclaims having been pushed too far. "I am baffled." I look at each of them. "HOW hard would it have been to say 'the doctor is an hour or so behind today.' Really. Could any of you explain that to me?"

The troll bursts into flame, one nurse walks away, and one says "The doctor will be with you next."

"I'll believe it when I see it," I say.

And then, here he comes. Shuffling into the room in his clogs. I know this will offend someone, but men in clogs? No. Doctors in clogs? Instant evisceration.

But let's overlook the footwear and look at the medicine practiced by Dr. Douche:

1. His nurse told me when I made the appointment that we should bring Mom's X-rays with us. During his time with us he says "I haven't looked at the X-rays." (This is the guy who is a potential candidate to do cement injections between my mom's compressed vertebrae.) Later in the appointment he says "When I saw the X-rays, they showed that T-5, 7, and 10 are compressed."

2. He orders a bone scan. (I've been told by those in the back-injection ranks not to let anyone touch my mother without first getting an MRI.) I ask him the difference between a bone scan and an MRI. This is approximately my third question overall. He lowers his head, sighs and sits there. You can see the thought bubble over his head: Is she really wasting my time like this? Already I know that there is no way I'm letting Sir Douche touch my mother. (No danger there, actually. He didn't examine her in any way.) But I decide to use him to get what I need. I ask him to order a bone scan and an MRI. "We're going to get a second opinion from Dr. Non-Douche, and he'll need an MRI." He writes us an order for both.

3. I ask him if, in the case that this procedure is not in the cards for my mom (if the compressions are old injuries that have been jarred by the fall, kyphoplasty is not an option), what other sorts of pain management might there be? He doesn't even look at us as he says "Well, sometimes a brace is used. But on old people they cut into the skin."

My mom jokingly says "Yeah. Those old people. You just need to shoot 'em."

I look at her and say "I'll just have her put down like a horse," and then look back at Massengil. He looks at us with a blank face. Nothing. As though his features have grown so bored with all this that they've melted and dripped onto his white coat. I take the order from his hand and pick up my purse and help my mom with her coat.

We walk to the car. Slowly.

"You realize," I say, "that we're never letting this douchebag touch you."

"How is it," Mom says, "that he didn't read the X-ray but he knows what it shows?"

"He's a liar. And he's a liar in clogs."

I will tell you now that after I made the appointment with this "doctor," I heard from a friend who said "I wouldn't take a dog to him." By that point I was already in town and there was nothing to lose by going. Maybe the shoddy reputation was a fluke. But no.

I am grateful, though. I'm grateful that the door so clearly shut on this option. I pray almost nonstop these days for guidance about how to help Mom, and it showed up like a mushroom cloud here.

The Man Knows Me

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 02:02:00 +0000

These are the earrings Scott got me for Christmas. When I opened the little box, I loved them so much that I wanted to eat them. But that would lead to all sorts of unpleasant X-rays and the throwing around of words like "perforated" and "idiot wife."

2011 Beer Diary, Bottles #1 and #2

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Thu, 06 Jan 2011 00:10:00 +0000

January 3

Beer: Scrimshaw
Named for the delicate engravings popularized by 19th century seafarers, Scrimshaw is a fresh tasting Pilsner.

Beer accompaniment: Dinner of fish (cod) and crappy purchased-in-a-moment-of-stupidity (by Candy) frozen creamed spinach and frozen baby lima beans in butter sauce. We did cook them, of course, but they still sucked. The fish was good.

Scott's reaction: "This is an excellent beer. Goes really well with the fish."

Candy's reaction to one small sip: "Oh. Puke."

January 5

Beer: Too Cream Stout
Made with milk sugar which gives this beer a nice creamy mouth feel which mingles with hints of chocolate and roasty flavors. Dark as the "bubblin' crude" that spurted up when Jed Clampitt shot into the ground.

Beer accompaniment: Dinner of very spicy chicken, a fantastic salad with red and green romaine lettuce, craisins, sliced almonds, and homemade dressing (Scott's very light blend of: orange juice, olive oil, parmesan cheese, salt, and pepper), and a doctored up ramekin serving of that nasty creamed spinach from night before last. Scott added bread crumbs and parmesan and baked it. It covered up 34% of the suckiness, but there was just really no saving it.

Scott's reaction: "That's a pretty good stout."

Candy's reaction to one small sip: "Oh noooooo!" (gack sounds in back of throat) "That is coffee mixed with horse piss. How can you drink horse piss?! 'Creamy mouth feel'... my @$$!"

Reunited

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 18:28:00 +0000

After 26 days without being able to go see my dad because of her back pain, Mom got to go for a short visit yesterday. My sister drove her to Shiny Meadows and they sat with Dad for about half an hour.

My expectation was this: He would see Mom and say "Where ya been?" This is his usual question. I kept telling Mom that he has no concept of time passing anymore, and when he saw her, there would be no way for his brain to register that she'd been away for almost a month.

Being apart for that long, for them, is almost obscene. It hasn't happened since 1944. I had fantasies about Dad seeing Mom walk into Shiny Meadows and reaching his arms out to her, or saying "I missed you." I wouldn't actually want that, since it would mean he had been shaken by her absence. And the realization of that would chew into Mom like a trap on a fox's leg. So I let the daydreams go.

But here is the way of Alzheimer's:

Candy: Mom, what did he say when he saw you?

Mom: Nothing.

Candy: He didn't say "Where ya been?"

Mom: No. He didn't say anything.

I know he still takes comfort in her presence. I know he senses that she is important to him. It is just such a long trip, that distance from his quiet, perplexed face that has nothing more to say, to the core of him, where his love for my mom, unaware of illness or the passing of years, or the confinement of a wheelchair, is a meteor shower blazing across the black night.

The 2011 Beer Diary, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 01:49:00 +0000

Scott doesn't like to buy beer for himself. A guilty extravagance, this occasional six-pack of Shiner Bock.

I like to buy him beer. He rarely drinks more than a beer a week, Mr. Health-Conscious-and-Disciplined. So I like to try to freak him out by giving him a bunch of beers at once. This behavior is in my blood. When our beloved cat, Hankie, was alive, he had a collection of 6 tiny catnip mice. Black, red, white, yellow, made of felt, stuffed with the nectar of the tabbies, and about the size of black olives. Without fail, Hankie would swat all the mousies to a dark hiding place under the couch, so far back they were unfetchable. I'd eventually get a yardstick and FWACK them all out into the daylight again, all in their little gray fur coats, the finest dustbunny fur money could buy. After blowing their luxurious coats off, I'd make a big production out of cupping them all in my hands and say "Watch, Hankie!" and toss them all into the air at once. I took great delight in watching him hop and jerk and pounce and finally settle on one deserving mouse to sink his teeth into. Until I gathered up the other five and threw them in the air again.

I'm not suggesting that Scott is that easily fooled. Also, he would be able to retrieve the mice from under the couch.

But I do like to bombard him with lots of beer choices. This started a couple years ago in Phoenix. At Christmastime I went to a gourmet grocery store and bought him ten beers, all different, all uppity and microbrew-ish. I had no idea what I was buying, but I knew not to get anything "flavored" with caramel or cinnamon-y crap. The guys working at the grocery store were eager to point out their favorite choices. I took the beers home, wrapped them all separately, and put them in the refrigerator. It became a beer grab-bag. Each one was a surprise and Scott would describe the taste to me. If he managed to talk me into taking a sip, he got the same reaction: gagging sounds and a teeth-grinding grimace as though I'd just downed a Drano slurpee.

This year I decided on a treasure hunt. I wrote out obnoxious rhyming clues, forcing Scott to search for the next clue and the next one. A clue inside the crock pot. A clue taped to the butt of my elliptical. They were all leading to the hidden treasure: 54 bottles of beer. It was meant to be symbolic: one for each week of the year (plus two because I couldn't help it). There are about 35 brands. I did repeat some that looked extra good. (As though beer could ever be good.)

The final written clue: "This is the last clue that you must ponder. Just go to the place where the main verb is 'launder.'"

That's right. All 54 beers were inside the washer.

I know what you're thinking. Candy is so classy. She probably makes hors d'oeuvres with celery and Cheez Wiz. And wears halter tops. And has appeared on "Cops."

Nah, that's for Valentine's Day.

Alien Footprints?

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 04:39:00 +0000

This is the sidewalk at my parents' condo. As the snow first began to fall and was just a dusting, there were dainty little cat footprints trailing down the steps. The next morning, after lots more snow, this is what they looked like. I had never seen this before and was a little freaked.

Our Christmas Tree Angel Also Wishes You a Merry Christmas Eve

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 07:44:00 +0000

Merry Christmas Eve!

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 07:34:00 +0000

The Strange Duties of a Teacher

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Fri, 24 Dec 2010 03:28:00 +0000

Tonight I had to quickly whip out a recommendation letter for a former student who is jobless, desperate, and suddenly opting for grad school.

His first name: Christ.

The pronunciation rhymes with "mist," but still, it makes for a difficult letter to write. Some bits of it:

Christ was a student in my Introductory Poetry Workshop last spring semester.

In addition to his writing talent, Christ possesses a long list of qualities that will make him an exceptional graduate student.

I would have loved to have had Christ as a student for another semester, and I can only hope for more students of his caliber in the future.

When it got really bizarre, I decided to just go with it:

Political science is a passion of Christ’s (I can’t believe I just typed that, but I’m leaving it in) and if given the chance, he will thrive in a program where he can immerse himself in the study of it.

Almost Two Weeks Now

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Wed, 22 Dec 2010 02:09:00 +0000

Apart, that is. My mom and dad.

Mom's healing process is so glacially slow that it's like watching an inchworm pinch upward from the down-end of a teeter totter to the end that's in the air, then try to push with all his might to get it to teeter. Or would that be totter?

It's likely that she'll have to have this back surgery where a neurosurgeon injects a kind of "cement" between the compressed vertabrae in order to spread them out again. From what I've read, it's becoming pretty common. But...yow!

Whatever she needs, we'll get through it. When our family circles the wagons, we're pretty tough.

On another topic, my grades are done!!! This means I can now look at the list of things I need to do during the 27 days left on my semester break, and become overwhelmed, and do a little woe-is-me dance, then recover, then start to check off the things that I can manage to do (since I have no magic healing wand to help my mom), including:

1. Find yet-unfound box of winter hats and scarves I haven't seen since we left Phoenix.
2. Make a dent in the revisions for the yet-unwritten book I worked on all last summer.
3. Watch some yet-unwatched DVDs with Scott.
4. Go back to the gym I joined and and add some variety to this yet-unvaried elliptical boredom.
5. Finish Christmas letter and email it.
6. Write recommendation letters for three students who annoy me more each day.
7. Resolve never to write another recommendation letter.
8. Make sense of this flurry of words I'm lost in, in about 9 writing projects.
9. Pray more without any words.
10. Stop being so obsessively connected to lists.

Ten Days

noreply@blogger.com (Candy Rant) — Sun, 19 Dec 2010 03:16:00 +0000

That's how long it's been since my mom has seen my dad. The last time they were apart this long? World War Two.

When my brother Dan and his wife stayed with Mom for 2 days this past week, Dan went to feed our dad his lunch and took a couple of seconds-long videos on his cell phone of Dad. He asked Dad to say "Hi Katie!" (Our mom's nickname.) There was Dad's face, sweet and pitiful and almost without expression, except for the slightest I'm-too-worn-out-to-care perplexed look. Big pure blue eyes, combed white hair, looking into the camera, trying, as always, no...just since he's been in dementia, to do as he is told.

It took two tries, and prompting, for him to barely whisper "Hi Katie." And I don't think he knew who "Katie" was. He knows her as "Kathleen." In fact, Dan first said "Say hi to Mom." This doesn't work at all. When I used to kiss Dad good night at Shiny Meadows and say "Mom will be here to see you tomorrow," he would sometimes say "My mom?" And I would look into his eyes and say "No. Your mom has been gone a long time." (45 years). I learned quickly to say "Your wife, Kathleen, will be here to see you tomorrow."

Think of it, though. He wakes up in this immobile life, this meal, sleep, meal, confusion of a life, and his mother is there, standing next to his bed. "I've missed you so much," she might say. "I'd like you to spend the whole day with me." Big pure blue eyes, combed white hair, looking at her. Happy, very happy, to do as he is told.