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Just another evening in the dining room. It's about gratitude. Again. 

1/29/2013

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Picture
This post is a continuation from last time, a record of  some of my thoughts and  memories from a day in November when my  dad made a brief  but intense visit to the hospital.   Much has changed since that day two months ago.  Dad has moved across campus to a memory support unit, and he probably doesn't remember the events I'm describing. But somehow,  words help me to process  this one way street of change I've been traveling with my parents for the past  two years.  And I hope that some of  you might be helped along in your own journeys as parents, children, fellow travelers.


(When I left off earlier, Dad and I had walked down and around a few hallways  to check on Mom. And it was almost time for supper:)

PictureMay 22, 2012
Dad is reluctant about leaving Mom in her room as suppertime approaches.  Oh, he is definitely ready to go back to his supper spot, but he wants her to go along.  His hospital stay has stirred the pot a bit, and he seems to think they are (or should be!) living together in their assisted living apartment, although Mom's been over here in rehab/health care since breaking her shoulder in August. He wants her to  have supper with him "over there" in the worst way.  Explanations aren't  helping, so finally Mom just says, "No I think I'll stay here."  And Dad gives  up,  shaking his head.  As we walk back across the campus, he leans over, confiding, "That's how it is with your mother, sometimes she doesn't want to do something just because it's different, and there's no changing her mind."  For a  man in the throes of  memory loss, he has a more than adequate understanding of this piece of "the way things work" or at least the way they used to work. 

As we make our way to the dining room, we are welcomed on every side by staff and residents.  Clearly, Dad's been missed. One of my  favorite residents, Tommy, points his walker in our direction  and makes a bee-line toward us.  His blinding smile communicates that he is delighted to see us, thrilled that I've brought my dad back from the hospital after that scary incident at supper last evening.  "OH MY," he exclaims very, very loudly standing right beside my chair.   "I THOUGHT, OH NO IS HE GOING TO PASS AWAY RIGHT THERE IN HIS CHAIR IN THE DINING ROOM?"  
And again. And again.  It is his way of communicating, emphasizing his concern.  Pete and Repeat. 

But traffic is backing up behind him; an assortment of wheelchairs, canes and walkers and their owners seek their own tables.  I'm thankful for my Dad's hearing loss oblivion at this moment, as I try to acknowledge Tommy's concern while helping him to move on to his table.  One of the staff explains to me, "He worried all night about him."    Throughout the meal, Tommy raises his drooping head to look our way, and every time I meet his gaze, his face is transformed, radiant.  

A lady in a motorized chair finesses her way to the table next to ours.  One leg juts straight out, and getting situated isn't easy. She teases her tablemates about what would happen if she would hit the wrong lever and keep moving forward, toppling the table. "Poor Gladys, she'd be covered in water and peaches." The laughter is easy, the camaraderie obvious.  Gladys' giggle makes me smile. 

I hear two ladies at a nearby table talking about walking –
 
Lady Number One:"You mean you can't walk at all?" 
Lady Number Two: "No I can't."  
Lady Number One: "Not one step?"  
Lady Number Two: "Not one step.  They even use a wheel chair to move me from one chair to  another."  
They talk in loud,  matter-of-fact voices.  The tone, volume of Lady Number Two asks no pity. It is what it is.  Next sentence, same tone, same volume- "And they have pork barbecue sandwiches for dinner tonight."  Life goes on. 

Meanwhile, Tommy likes the sandwiches too;  he would like another one. "Please.  They were just so good." 
Staff: "So you want another pork barbeque sandwich?"  
Tommy: "Yes, but don’t put it in a bun. Oh, it was so delicious."  This amuses me because I know Tommy is Jewish, and I suspect he is making up for a lifetime of not eating pork barbeque with or without the bun when he "lived with Mother." 

Charles walks by, cane in hand, and says goodnight as he does without fail, even though my dad never hears him and never answers.   I comment on his snazzy cane –  I've seen him mostly with a walker recently.  "Oh, I use both," he tells me.  "I use the walker when I'm going a long distance."  He doesn't complain, and we don’t discuss it further, but I know "a long distance" is his daily walk down two hallways and around a few corners where he visits his wife in a memory loss unit. 

Nosey Clarence annoys me, calling questions across the dining  room in his abrasive, loud voice, trying to get my dad to explain what went on last evening. Even at a nursing home, "becoming unresponsive" in the dining room was apparently the event of the day.  "I can't believe someone could do that and be alive," he comments doubtfully. ( I wonder if he doesn't believe my dad is alive, or if he thinks my dad was faking last evening.  It's hard to tell with Clarence.)  

His next question: "Hey, is that your wife?" Pause. Then, "Are you his wife?"  I try to explain from four tables away that I'm the daughter, but he doesn't get it.  Cheerful Waitress tries to intervene when Clarence grumbles loudly, "Why don't he answer?" She explains that my dad is very hard of hearing, which is obviously true of Clarence too, but it hasn't made him more understanding.  His wife is wheeled to her spot across from him; she's visiting tonight from wherever she usually has dinner in another part of the campus. As she is settled into place, the nurse reminds Clarence, "Now we're only going to say kind things to her tonight, right?"  Hmmm. I wouldn't count on it.  But I can count on Cheerful Waitress to dish up joy unmeasured alongside every bowl of steaming soup (would you like the broccoli cheddar, chicken noodle, or  butternut bisque tonight? ) Even Clarence will be served with that which he did not order. Kindness. 

Usually Dad is anxious to leave the table and hurry back to his room at meal's end. He never lingers anymore. But tonight is different.  He leans forward and informs me, "They have some good ice cream here." I know this is his way of saying he wants dessert. "Oh, what is that
kind," he ponders.  When the waitress stops to take our order, she lists the flavors and reminds me that he  likes Moose Tracks, so I request one for each of us.  The mound in his dish dwindles as he savors every bite.  He is nearly finished when it dawns on him - "Oh, this is the kind!" he declares. "This is it – Moose Steps."

I agree; it is delicious.
Picture"Down Home"


We return to his apartment and visit a bit longer; strangely, his memory is clearer, his words come more steadily than they have in weeks.  We linger over a photo from "down home," the phrase he has always used to describe the farm where he spent his boyhood. I ask him questions about the house, and he seems to hear and understand almost every word.  He tells me about changes that have been made to the house through the years. Just as I'm about to leave I notice his hearing aids resting on the dresser.  All of this interaction, and his hearing aids are over there???  



It is time for me to leave. He likes to walk with me to the door, to "see me off" like he always did, with Mom, watching at the kitchen  window on Main Street.  So much has changed.  I turn and wave; there's a lump in my throat.  I might not be able to sing on the way home.  I swing the Grandpa-mobile out of the parking lot and head home the same way I came.  The same way. 

But not the same person.  
Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, 
turn routine jobs into joy,
and change
ordinary opportunities into blessings." 
William Arthur  Ward
Picture"Serving One Another"
 So, no, I might not be singing,
but I will be giving thanks. 
It's the least I can do.

Those little  transforming moments waved at me all day long – it seems I was surrounded by grateful people, people singing smack dab in the middle of their own evenings. I remember Gladys's easy chuckle, Tommy's radiant smile, Charles' kindly greeting, Cheerful Waitress's joyful assistance, even for Clarence. 

Oh, Clarence.  His evening is songless, and,
Oh God, that is not how I want live out my evenings. 

 So, it's gratitude again.  I give thanks for… 

-the warm "welcome home" my dad receives.
(I can't say enough good things about a facility with a towel and basin for a logo and the motto "Serving One Another." It's clearly what they do here.)  

-shoes beside the favorite chair, and Dad sitting in it.    

-shared "moose steps." 


-Dad's peaceful contentment in being "home."

-the opportunity to be present one more day.                                                               Hummin' B.


(As you may have guessed, all names have been changed to respect the privacy of both the grateful and ungrateful.)



4 Comments

Let me be singing when the evening comes...

1/7/2013

3 Comments

 
I made (another) unplanned trip to visit my parents a few weeks back, before the wild holiday season.  I can't exactly say the trips are unexpected anymore, but somehow I'm still never prepared to hear the voice on the other side of the phone telling me as gently as possible that the ambulance is (again) carrying one of my parents to the ER.  
 
It was my dad this time which hasn't been the case since his stroke early last year.  There was an incident in the dining room, Kind Nurse begins, but when she says he became unresponsive, I hear little else.  My evening fills abruptly with phone calls, contingency plans, and a
swirl of thoughts that take on a life of their own, like great flocks of geese, rising from unseen resting places, squawking doubts and anxieties and so much more.

Dad is apparently mostly "with it" by the time he arrives at the hospital, although the word alert doesn't quite describe him apparently.  I get an update via phone; the ER nurse tells me he isn't responding to commands. (Which is pretty typical for him, he's been leaving us for awhile.)  "But," she says, "He has dementia you know."  Why does this comment annoy me so much?  I try to maintain my politeness, but I
want to shout, "He is MY father, Of course I know."

We talk about strategies to reach him, and she promises to keep in touch, and does. He's staying overnight for observation. The tests show nothing acute or definitive.  He is resting comfortably, she says.  So I try to do that too. Oh sweet oblivion of sleep
.
Picture
Morning comes, and my geese are flying in formation now.  It seems clear that I must put on my Daughter-Nurse hat and travel two hours south bearing the gift of presence.  It is what I can give. I drive the Grandpa-mobile past autumn bronze mountains and sun dappled  rivers, listening to Matt Redman's song,
10,000 Reasons
The sun comes up, it's a new day dawning
It's time to sing Your song again
Whatever may pass, and whatever lies before  me
Let me be singing when the evening comes...


No small challenge there.  No guarantees either. 

You're rich in love, and You're slow to anger
Your name is great, and Your heart is kind
For all Your goodness I will keep  on singing
Ten thousand reasons for my heart to find.

Oh, here is the rock solid guarantee, the unfailing love and faithfulness of this God whose heart is kind.  So I keep on singing, and I find a few of those reasons for giving thanks.  It is, after all, Thursday.  I turn the music loud, and then I turn it off and direct my geese thoughts into the direction of  gratitude.   

Picture
-It is (another!) lovely day to travel.  The predicted Nor'easter apparently moved further nor and east… (poor New York and New Jersey) and I am surrounded by blue sky and sunshine and the weathered patina of the last brave oaks. 

  -Rare quiet moments surround me.  I revel in  them. I choose the music, or  no music.   

-Lesson plans are (uncharacteristically!) in place in detail, and Max is willing and able to invest his "Day Off" with Youngest  Mystery.  Which means it won't exactly be a day off. Again.)


 -A kind friend's pizza casserole waited in the freezer like  money in the bank.  I've made a  withdrawal, cashed it in.  It's  thawing on the countertop. No one will be hungry while I'm gone.

 -Dad's lovely car, a tank full of gas, and good roads round out my list, and all, all of my "gratitudes"are gift wrapped in the reality of God present in my present, His Presence traveling with me.  

The CD moves on to another song, "Never once have I ever walked alone…" I pray for the cognizance of this reality for myself –and  for my dad too, waiting in a strange place, surrounded by strangers and medical gadgets and wearing a dress.  (So many the incredible medical advances…yet he will be wearing the ridiculous dress with the gaping back…) –and for my mom, waiting in her own room, in her own pain, her own grief at all she has already lost.

When I walk into his room, his face is like a sunrise without clouds.  "How did you know to find me here?" he queries.  I  wonder for a moment if he is remembering my (nonexistent) sense of direction, and if he is really asking where I parked and how I found the hospital and will I be able to get him home from here…but no, those are my questions (which we will face together, soon enough.)  Three people are trying to take his blood pressure – they want a reading lying down, sitting up, and standing.  Their machine isn't working, and the scene is a bit chaotic even for me, and I know what they want.  And then I notice his hearing aids.  Or rather, the absence thereof.  He really doesn't have much of a chance of processing information if it doesn't get there in the first place.  Soon the deed is done, and he's resting peacefully, wearing hearing aids and glasses.  Again he thanks me for coming, for being there.
  And I tell him how glad I am to be present.

 When they tell us we can head home, back to the retirement home that is now his home, he is very pleased. "Let's go!"  The staff help him dress (sometimes I need to just be the daughter) and we discover he has no shoes to wear. I remember some discussion about him wanting the shoes OFF in the confusion of being transported to the hospital, so I reassure him that his shoes are waiting for him back in his room. And I hope, hope, hope I'm right, or there will be trouble.  It seems that the distress regarding items lost is directly proportional to the frequency of such losses, which I think is extremely unfortunate for individuals with memory loss. And their daughters.

Picture
I ask the garage attendant for the most direct path from the hospital to what is now "home," for three reasons.  One - neither Dad nor I have ever driven from here to there which  wouldn't have mattered a few years but… Two -  Dad has lost his sense of direction,  and that becomes a problem because Three -I've never claimed to have an internal compass although I've faked it a few times to my own embarrassment.  (Separate blog post necessary for that one.) 

My inability to get anywhere always drove him crazy.  "Just look," he'd say.  "Pay At-TEN-tion!!"  Which I did. But not to road signs and the like. I was more apt to observe hawks soaring above us, brightly colored laundry waving at me, or architectural line designs flowing past my window.

 Fortunately, the attendant's directions are impeccable, and I am more
than a little pleased to make it from inner city hospital to remote retirement community seamlessly. Dad is more  aware of the texture of the carpet beneath his shoeless toes, and I hear him shuffling his feet back and forth, then chuckling, "I'm not wearing shoes?!"   

He seems genuinely glad to be back in his room, and oh joy, the shoes are waiting by his favorite chair.
 After a quick stop in his room, he's ready for a long trek across campus to visit mom in healthcare, to "check on her," as he does every day about this time.  Here, he knows the way without pause, and I follow him, having learned weeks ago that he's found the quickest route down this hallway, turn here, up this ramp…

Mom is surprised and  glad to see him. He dozes off in the chair, and is soon ready to head back for his evening  meal.  He is satisfied that she is okay (he seems to think he is still taking care of her, somehow, when he checks on her like this) and she is glad that he is no longer in the hospital.
 
Equilibrium is restored, sort of.  All is well once again.  Sort of.  For now.  But I feel my heart longing for something more….permanent, more finished, complete, a day when there won't be another "bad news" phone call, when all is well finally,  eternally, forevermore. When, as Julian of Norwich said, "All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

It is evening now in so many ways, and I remember the final verse of the song that carried me here hours ago; I do so want to be singing when the evening comes...

 And on that day when my strength is failing
The end draws near and my time has come
Still my soul will sing Your praise  unending
Ten thousand years and then forevermore

 Bless the Lord, O my soul,O my soul.
Worship His holy name.
Sing like never before,O my soul
I'll worship Your holy name.

Oh, let me be singing when the evening comes, when my evening comes.  Thursdays are for  thankfulness.   Even a Thursday such as this.
                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Hummin' B
3 Comments

One of those days. Or, another senior/blond/sleep deprived/middle-aged woman moment!

4/20/2012

3 Comments

 
Is it sleep deprivation? Or a blond moment?  Or maybe it's the age/gender I am?? Could it really be a senior  moment??? Or some combination of the above?

I thought I'd pass along a few goofy moments I've experienced recently in the hopes that…what?  Why would I share these with anyone? 
-Perhaps because Max laughed so hard when I told them to him, and I wanted you to have the chance to chuckle too. 
-Perhaps because I want to know if others of you are having these same sort of experiences…you know, misery loves company. 

 Only, truth be told, I'm not miserable, I'm kind of laughing too. I'm 50-something (it's easier to say "something" than to get that number wrong, it keeps changing on me) and this kind of stuff seems to go with the territory.  Like forgetting things or losing things…

 If you know me personally, you know I am a maker of lists (Maker of Lists!!) and lately it seems like "find the ______" is on my list more days than not.  Just fill in the blank.  Recently I've lost  phone numbers (for the piano teacher we've been seeing all year, and I know I wrote it in my address/phone book… but where?), my garden gloves (not in the garden, oh no, that would be too easy), a new book I ordered and received from Amazon, an ice cream bucket full of seeds, and of course the usual car keys/phone scenario is played out regularly.  Sometimes when we are heading out the door, sweet Youngest pipes up,"Keys?"  "Phone?" because he knows how often I get out of the van in search of either/both of those items.  I'm not making this up, not any of it!

Speaking of phones, unlike many of our friends, we won't be getting rid of our landline anytime soon.  How in the world would I find my cell  phone??  Most of those friends are younger, and I say they are going to regret their decision eventually, when they are 50-something.  Unless Smart Phones get a lot smarter and cheerfully answer "over here" when the owner shouts, "where are you?" or "where is my stupid (or other fitting adjective) phone!?"

 The worst scenario of all is losing the list.  Happens all the time, all the time.  Grocery list (arrive at store coupons in hand, list is…gone,still at home on the counter) to-do list, stops-we-are-making-today list, shopping list lost in the box store, I'm guessing somebody got a good laugh over that find…

One thing I haven't really lost is my glasses because I wear them all the time unlike Hubby who is also 50 something and has reading glasses strategically placed in all possible locations – bedroom, kitchen, desk, office, cabin, truck…and is still routinely seen scrambling around
in search of glasses.  I take some meager bit of comfort/consolation in seeing this. 

But, while I have never truly lost or even misplaced my glasses, I have had some other unusual situations arise.  It was time to wash my face and try to wake up after a(nother) short night.  I closed my eyes and splashed my face with the warming water.  And that's when I realized I was wearing my glasses.  Sigh.

So, the next day, when schedules had been chaotic, and I was taking a shower at an unusual time, I  remembered the previous face washing experience.  Smugly, I reached up to remove my glasses before I turned my face into the water.  What??  I was not wearing glasses?!  Oops, I smiled to myself, realizing they were apparently perched on top of my head.  Pat, pat.  Nope.  No glasses.  No memory of taking them off, but I peeked out, and there they were, waiting, on the counter top. 

Not all of my brain blips are related to losing things (unless it'd be my mind, but that doesn't really count.)  Sometimes there just isn't a category unless it would be called a senior/blond/sleep deprived/middle-aged woman moment.  Has kind of a ring to it, don't you think? To illustrate, one morning I was already running late, but a glance in the mirror revealed that applying under eye concealer wasn't the activity I should eliminate to beat the clock.  I grabbed the magic tube, whisking it like an eraser over the blue-gray reminders of the late hours I'd been keeping thanks to writing projects and travel and thunderstorms and shoulder pain.   A swipe here, a swipe there.  I chuckled remembering a discussion on the pros and cons of makeup "back in the day" when such worldliness was verboten in my world.  "If the house needs paint, paint it," quipped a radio preacher with whom my mother studied regularly.   I knew my makeup use fell in that category today.  Glance, recheck, double take. Well, the house was definitely painted…I had just decorated myself with my favorite chiffon pink lipstick.

Another day, I was rushing around to get out the door for an evening Bible study, putting the leftover food from supper into the fridge, grabbing my Bible and notebook, turning off eight lights, finding phone/keys, dashing out the door.  Ahhh.  I sat down in the van and discovered I was carrying a Ziploc bag containing 3 slices of homemade bread. 

And yesterday.  I was multitasking exponentially as I prepared for two days away from Hickory Lane…
-finishing up the daily chores
-cleaning three days worth of eggs to sell and share
-folding a load of clothes. (Who left those in the dryer over night??? Oh. Me.)
-picking up stuff all over the downstairs because someone was coming to run the vacuum while I was away (yippee!!)
-packing for Youngest to stay with friends for two days – school work, play clothes, baseball clothes/gear for practice
-packing my own stash of "stuff" for a personal retreat– Bible(s), journal, computer, special books, camera, writing resources, etc, etc.
-Oh, and clothes and toiletries for Max and I.  (Max wisely volunteered to dash upstairs and select all of his clothes so I could just add them to our shared suitcase.) 
Keeping Youngest Mystery focused and calm was the most challenging aspect of the morning (think ANTICIPATION and CHANGE  of routine!) and I wasn't surprised that along the way I misplaced something on the way to somewhere else.  I remember saying to myself, well, I know I can find that later.  Unfortunately, when later arrived, I couldn't find it…because I couldn't remember what I was looking for.  And when we arrived, I heard Max murmuring about not having any socks and ummmm...undies in the suitcase.  What?!  I missed those?

Please tell me you have days like this as well?!!?

 Now if you will excuse me... While  I was proofreading this, I picked up my travel mug for a nice long swig of coffee.  More like a slosh… I forgot I had loosened the lid to my travel mug to add the Splenda.  I need to change my shirt.  If I packed another one.

                                                                                                                          -Hummin B.  (I guess I'm humming because I forgot the words....)


                                                                                                                                                                                                                       












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    Author

    I'm finding my way beyond the maze of the "middle" years
    (if I'm gonna be 100 and something someday...) 
    ​living life as a country woman who is a
     writer, gardener, wife, mom,  nature observer,  teacher,and most of all a much loved child of God.  

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