The holidays seem to bring out either the best or the worst in us. In my family, it's usually a combination of the two. We are initially excited and prepare meticulously who will bring what and where This event will be held and how. The problem begins well before we are all in the same place at the same time. Now, I raised these people so I should know what they're about, but I seem surprised every time when things don't play out as planned. Well, I shouldn't say surprised, but more of shocked would be the appropriate adjective. I shouldn't be either, as the same issues happen every single time we are celebrating holidays.
It's a good thing when we're all actually eating, as when there is food in our mouths, we can't speak at the same time. Jews, like Italians or Greeks or Chicagoians, are highly emotional and loud creatures and we tend to talk all at once. The loudest one will be the one who is heard and so the volume increases to the glass-breaking point. Glass doesn't actually break of course, but you think it will. At this point, shy people in my extended family are usually quietly freaking out in a corner. I try to reassure them that this is all normal for us and they have nothing to fear. Sometimes that works and sometimes it doesn't. Frankly, I've never understood quiet people. They always seem to have an agenda for which I am not privy to. Don't get me wrong - I love quiet people too. I just don't understand people who don't express themselves. I think that as soon as I leave the room, they will be talking behind my back. But then, why would they? I'm simply not that important. But you never know....
I'm also leary of people who don't finish all the food on their plate. How can you leave a little bit - or a lot of food on your plate? Didn't their mother raise them with the same quality education that they had to eat everything on their plates because people in Russia were starving? We were, although I never understood how finishing the food on my plate had anything to do with starving Russians. As far as I was concerned, they could have the peas and carrots and broccoli, although I would have been smacked if I had told my mom that. To this day, it is a compulsory act on my part to finish every morsel on my plate, whether I am full or not. My mother accomplished her goal and I'm sure starving Russians thank her.
So, the holidays. A time when we eat truckloads of food and sit around and play games, sing or discuss politics, religion or the people who frequent Walmart. Sometimes these conversations lead to angry discourse, slamming fists or rolling of eyes, and sometimes they lead to much laughter. Sometimes I wonder when and how my children became autonomous adults, who all have strong opinions and loud voices, much like their mother. I wonder how their childhood was so fleeting and seems like so long ago, and yet it really wasn't. I wonder how their children will be when they are grown, and I hope to see my great-grandchildren. I realize that these people who I bore and raised have become their own individual persons, but still have a bit of me in them. And although I did a mediocre job in raising them, they have grown to be intelligent, spiritual adults with whom I am very proud.
So with all the bickering and the attitude, the laughter and the love, we're not as dysfunctional as once I had feared. We are normal, opinionated and stubborn people who express our feelings openly and without abandon, and as long as we don't hurt anyone else, we are, in fact, ok. Thank you, Lord for the holidays, for it's at these times that we learn how to link our past with the present to create memories for our future.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Goin' to See My Babies
My father has a tender heart after all. Who would have guessed that? We were talking about them getting a small dog because they both grew so attached to Kita and I think that it would do them both a lot of good. My father started to say, "Yeah, but what happens if he runs out the door like Kita did? All I did was open the door a little and she went running out. And now all I hear is you (me) screaming 'No, no!' and I can't get that picture out of my head!" I felt like a priest in a confessional - it was very weird. I said again, "Dad, I don't blame you for Kita's death - you didn't know and she was so fast you couldn't catch her. But I still think you and mom should get a small dog because it's just so dead around here." Maybe I shouldn't have said "dead," but what I meant was that a dog gives "life" to a household and something else you can focus on instead of yourself. I watch my dad and he is depressed. He has also admitted to a neighbor friend that he is afraid of dying. He will sit in his office with the computer on the desktop page, with his legs propped up on the desk and he is just staring at the computer. He needs to love something other than himself.
I had sent a letter to the editor of the newspaper here and my mom got the paper today, saying that the letter was in the paper. My dad read it and I think it really touched him although he didn't say much. It was a short, but to the point letter that I have copied and pasted here:
I had sent a letter to the editor of the newspaper here and my mom got the paper today, saying that the letter was in the paper. My dad read it and I think it really touched him although he didn't say much. It was a short, but to the point letter that I have copied and pasted here:
"On Friday, December 2, 2011, in the middle of the morning, my little dog and best friend, Kita, was struck and killed by a motorist driving fast on S. Gondola Drive in Venice. She ran out the door through a small opening and as much as I tried to get her back, she kept going toward the street. I was shouting and walking towards her when the car hit her, so they must have seen me shouting, as well as her, as she was all black. It would have been impossible to not have at least seen me. The motorist never stopped - they just kept on going. There was another motorist coming by the same way at the same time and they slowed down but they didn't stop. They saw me pick her dead body up and carry it into the house. Blood was coming out of her mouth and head, her tongue was hanging out and her eyes were open and glazed over. Unfortunately, I will never forget that picture. It would be nice if the person who hit her would at least apologize for not stopping. There's nothing that can be done now, but apparently this isn't the first time a dog has been hit and killed on this street. There are speed bumps in the road, but that doesn't stop most motorists from speeding. Mine and my parents' hearts are broken because someone was too distracted not to see her or me and then just drive away. If they didn't see her, they must have heard and felt her because she went right under their tires. Please, please slow down on these streets. And if you happen to see a dog or cat or any animal for that matter, PLEASE slow down and stop if you have to. That animal is somone's best friend."
So when I return in January, I will do searches at the shelters in this area to find a little dog who is already potty trained for my parents. I think they can find the perfect dog in one of the shelters. I am a huge advocate to try and locate dogs in shelters first, because most of those dogs have been abused or neglected and desparately need a home. I'm not against buying dogs from reputable breeders, but I am against buying dogs from pet stores and puppy mills. Puppy mills are horrendous places and pet stores get their puppies from these mills. Just thinking about it, makes me crazy.
So I am leaving tomorrow for home and I'm really looking forward to it. I have missed my kids and my grandkids and looking forward to spending Christmas with them. I will be returning to Florida in the middle of January, and hopefully everything will be well with my parents. If that is the case, I will move back home permanently, probably in February.
My parents are taking me to the airport tomorrow - I'm driving there and my mom will drive home. She's been driving locally here and doing fine - a little slow, but fine. I'm a little concerned about her driving home, but she will not take the highway because she says she's not ready for that yet. She will however, take 41 all the way home in busy traffic. She can see ok, whereas my father can't see in front of his nose. But he will feel the need to yell at her if he thinks she's not doing something right, so it should be a fun-filled ride back home. I won't be there to referee, but my mom can stand up to him when she wants to. All she has to do is give him one of her "Eunice-glares" and they'll be just fine.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Short True Story
My parents' neighbor and friend came over last night and we all talked for awhile. Her name is Mrs. Crowe and I say "Mrs. Crowe," because we were taught as kids to call all adults Mr. or Mrs. so and so - never by their first name. I guess it was ok to call them by their first name if they weren't married - I don't remember that. So it's still ingrained in me to use these titles, but there's really nothing wrong with it - I actually think it can be respectful. Anyway, she told us a true story that I thought was entertaining, and I imagine it wasn't at the time, but I want to re-tell it now for your amusement. Besides, you don't know these people so no one will ever know the difference.
We'll call them Ed and Zelda. They were neighbors of my parents for many years. Ed was practically deaf and you had to really shout in his face for him to hear you. One day, he was having a conversation with another almost-deaf neighbor and neither one of them could hear what the other one was saying, but they both had a complete conversation anyway. Zelda was a weird, but nice lady according to my dad. He really liked her, so that says something about her.
Mrs. Crowe was telling us that Ed died before Zelda. Mrs. Crowe knew them very well because she was their guardian. Zelda was kind of nuts and Ed couldn't hear, so the combination was a mess. So when Ed died, Mrs. Crowe went to the funeral home on the day of the funeral and brought Zelda with her before the visitation. Ed was lying in the casket as most dead people do. Zelda came by his casket and yelled, "That's not my Ed! I know what MY Ed looks like, and that's not him!" Mrs. Crowe looked in the casket and sure enough, it wasn't Ed, but someone who looked like him. She hurried over to the funeral director and told him the situation and he was moritifed. Apparently, there were two dead bodies at the hospital and they sent the wrong one. The other man, who would be Ed, was cremated. So the guy in the casket was some unknown person. I was dying laughing at this point. Mrs. Crowe said that there wasn't a thing they could do, so they went ahead with the funeral, pretending it was Ed in the casket. Zelda must have forgotten that it wasn't Ed, because as the priest and the funeral director were bringing her into the ceremony, she screamed out, "Ed, you $#*&@%! Why did you die before me??" At that point, I couldn't stop laughing - I pictured it all and I thought it was hysterical. So Mrs. Crowe said that some unknown guy is buried in Ed's burial plot, and then Zelda passed away, so she is next to him.
Wow - you can't make this stuff up.
We'll call them Ed and Zelda. They were neighbors of my parents for many years. Ed was practically deaf and you had to really shout in his face for him to hear you. One day, he was having a conversation with another almost-deaf neighbor and neither one of them could hear what the other one was saying, but they both had a complete conversation anyway. Zelda was a weird, but nice lady according to my dad. He really liked her, so that says something about her.
Mrs. Crowe was telling us that Ed died before Zelda. Mrs. Crowe knew them very well because she was their guardian. Zelda was kind of nuts and Ed couldn't hear, so the combination was a mess. So when Ed died, Mrs. Crowe went to the funeral home on the day of the funeral and brought Zelda with her before the visitation. Ed was lying in the casket as most dead people do. Zelda came by his casket and yelled, "That's not my Ed! I know what MY Ed looks like, and that's not him!" Mrs. Crowe looked in the casket and sure enough, it wasn't Ed, but someone who looked like him. She hurried over to the funeral director and told him the situation and he was moritifed. Apparently, there were two dead bodies at the hospital and they sent the wrong one. The other man, who would be Ed, was cremated. So the guy in the casket was some unknown person. I was dying laughing at this point. Mrs. Crowe said that there wasn't a thing they could do, so they went ahead with the funeral, pretending it was Ed in the casket. Zelda must have forgotten that it wasn't Ed, because as the priest and the funeral director were bringing her into the ceremony, she screamed out, "Ed, you $#*&@%! Why did you die before me??" At that point, I couldn't stop laughing - I pictured it all and I thought it was hysterical. So Mrs. Crowe said that some unknown guy is buried in Ed's burial plot, and then Zelda passed away, so she is next to him.
Wow - you can't make this stuff up.
Friday, December 9, 2011
Driving Instructor
I let my mom drive yesterday for the second time and she actually did pretty well. I felt like a driving school instructor and kept telling her to stay in her lane. She wanted to hug the middle line and I kept saying, "Move over, Move over! You're in the middle of the road!" "Oh," she said and moved a little more to the side of the road. When she turns, she turns the wheel little by little, it was driving me crazy. I said, "Mom, take the wheel and pull or push it all the way around, because otherwise it will take you all day to make one turn." "Oh," she said. We drove into a parking lot and I told her to parallel park in front of the Goodwill store so they can come out and pick up the bag she brought. She had a difficult time doing this, but finally did, almost hitting a woman who was walking in back of her and who she didn't see. First I yelled at my mom, "There's someone in back of you!" "Oh," she said. Then I shouted out the window, "Watch where you're walking, lady!" I know, I know, not my finest moment. But it's better than what I wanted to yell.
Next, we went to her doctor so she could pick up her prescription, then we went to Walgreens to pick up my prescriptions. She had to back up and get closer to the window to reach it, and when the lady put my bag of prescriptions in the drawer, my mom couldn't reach them to get them out. She had to unbuckle, open the door and reach to her very limit, scooting all the way up the seat, to grab the bag. I suggested that next time she put her seat cushion in the seat so she is a little higher up. She can barely see over the steering wheel which makes me a little nervous. She says she sees everything, (except for that minor detail of the woman walking in back of us whom she almost hit.)
But she really wants to drive and become more independent. And I want her to also. Next, we drove into another busy parking lot and she eventually got us safely to a parking spot. When she turns, it's this wide sweep into the other lane, very slowly, and I had to keep telling her to turn in her own lane. I went into Panera for bagels and she went into Publix for a couple things. I got done first and came out to the car and when I saw her coming out of Publix, she had a big smile on her face. She got into the car and said she drove enough today and that I should drive home. She actually thanked me and gave me a kiss for letting her drive. I said, "Well, you'll have to tell dad that you drove, I won't." She said she would, and she did before supper and told him that I was a good teacher. He said, "Well, we'll go out tomorrow and I will be your teacher." Ok folks, I know it's time for me to move back home. I've done what I set out to do and they're both doing much better and my dad is acting like my real dad again.
My dad is irritated with me because I asked him to print out several papers for the bank that I need to fax to them and for some reason he couldn't figure out how to do it. I told him that I would print them off, if he would just sign me on to his computer. Well, I sat at his computer which has at least 100 icons on the desktop and I finally got onto his email. The whole thing is so screwed up that I, being an ex-clerical worker for 35-plus years, could not figure out how to simply print a document. It was the most ridiculously constrewed way to print and I tried and tried but failed to print out simple documents. I said some choice words about his computer and he got real angry with me. His computer is his best friend, and so he was insulted at my comments. So now he's giving me the silent treatment. So I emailed what I needed printed out to a friend at work and she printed them out and is mailing them to me. How ridiculous is that? Anyway, I should get them in 2 days and then I will fax them in. My dad has downloaded more junk on his computer that it's impossible to figure out how to use the most basic components. All power to him. I'll stick with my simple, little laptop....
My mom just rolled her eyes over the whole situation. So, you see - everything is back to normal, or as normal as this household can be. My mom is getting her independence back, my dad is ornery as usual and after watching how I deal with my dad, my mom is finally, in small ways, standing up to him. I don't think my mom needs a referee any longer. They both refuse to move into assisted or independent living, so they will stay in their house as long as they can. Which I do understand. I may not agree with it, but I understand. So really my work here is done. I just need to tie up some loose ends and then I will be moving back to Madison.
In the meantime, though, I am still living with old people and so I will continue with this Blog until I start living with young people. Old people, I'm sure, are much funnier than young people, and since I am getting closer and closer to the "old people" side of the equation, I may have to keep writing under a different title, like "Living with Old People Like Me," or "The Department of Social Security Disability Fiasco and Me." The latter would be good therapy as I plod through this unbelievably complex system.
Next, we went to her doctor so she could pick up her prescription, then we went to Walgreens to pick up my prescriptions. She had to back up and get closer to the window to reach it, and when the lady put my bag of prescriptions in the drawer, my mom couldn't reach them to get them out. She had to unbuckle, open the door and reach to her very limit, scooting all the way up the seat, to grab the bag. I suggested that next time she put her seat cushion in the seat so she is a little higher up. She can barely see over the steering wheel which makes me a little nervous. She says she sees everything, (except for that minor detail of the woman walking in back of us whom she almost hit.)
But she really wants to drive and become more independent. And I want her to also. Next, we drove into another busy parking lot and she eventually got us safely to a parking spot. When she turns, it's this wide sweep into the other lane, very slowly, and I had to keep telling her to turn in her own lane. I went into Panera for bagels and she went into Publix for a couple things. I got done first and came out to the car and when I saw her coming out of Publix, she had a big smile on her face. She got into the car and said she drove enough today and that I should drive home. She actually thanked me and gave me a kiss for letting her drive. I said, "Well, you'll have to tell dad that you drove, I won't." She said she would, and she did before supper and told him that I was a good teacher. He said, "Well, we'll go out tomorrow and I will be your teacher." Ok folks, I know it's time for me to move back home. I've done what I set out to do and they're both doing much better and my dad is acting like my real dad again.
My dad is irritated with me because I asked him to print out several papers for the bank that I need to fax to them and for some reason he couldn't figure out how to do it. I told him that I would print them off, if he would just sign me on to his computer. Well, I sat at his computer which has at least 100 icons on the desktop and I finally got onto his email. The whole thing is so screwed up that I, being an ex-clerical worker for 35-plus years, could not figure out how to simply print a document. It was the most ridiculously constrewed way to print and I tried and tried but failed to print out simple documents. I said some choice words about his computer and he got real angry with me. His computer is his best friend, and so he was insulted at my comments. So now he's giving me the silent treatment. So I emailed what I needed printed out to a friend at work and she printed them out and is mailing them to me. How ridiculous is that? Anyway, I should get them in 2 days and then I will fax them in. My dad has downloaded more junk on his computer that it's impossible to figure out how to use the most basic components. All power to him. I'll stick with my simple, little laptop....
My mom just rolled her eyes over the whole situation. So, you see - everything is back to normal, or as normal as this household can be. My mom is getting her independence back, my dad is ornery as usual and after watching how I deal with my dad, my mom is finally, in small ways, standing up to him. I don't think my mom needs a referee any longer. They both refuse to move into assisted or independent living, so they will stay in their house as long as they can. Which I do understand. I may not agree with it, but I understand. So really my work here is done. I just need to tie up some loose ends and then I will be moving back to Madison.
In the meantime, though, I am still living with old people and so I will continue with this Blog until I start living with young people. Old people, I'm sure, are much funnier than young people, and since I am getting closer and closer to the "old people" side of the equation, I may have to keep writing under a different title, like "Living with Old People Like Me," or "The Department of Social Security Disability Fiasco and Me." The latter would be good therapy as I plod through this unbelievably complex system.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Moving On
My parents were almost as devastated when Kita died, as I was. They fell in love with her as well - even my dad, which is rare for him. I know he cried when he took her to the vet to be cremated; he just won't show that in front of others. Death of any one or any thing is just a difficult emotion to deal with - even people with the hardest of hearts. And we each deal with it in our own particular ways.
I'm done crying now and it's time to move on. You must move on or you become stuck in time and that is never good. People who have never dealt with their past hurts, abuses or pain are still stuck in that period of time. I've learned that you have to "let go" of those things or you get stuck in a type of quicksand, which pulls you further down each day you re-live whatever it is that you are grieving. Grieving is all important when we lose something or someone or experience the pain we have suffered by the hands of someone or something else - but then we have to let it go, or it takes a hold of us and creates bitterness and resentment in our hearts. I know this because I've experienced it for myself.
Several years ago, I was in love with a man who also (or who I thought) loved me as well. We became best friends and planned on marrying and enjoyed each other's company. He made me laugh more than anyone I ever knew, and that's always been important to me. He was a kind, gentle soul, or so I thought, until one day he simply told me that he really didn't love me after all. It was so sudden and came out of nowhere that it all seemed like a dream as we sat and talked. But he was serious and told me that "I wasn't the marrying kind," which confused me even more. He was gentle as he was saying all this but all I could do was leave the restaurant and cry all the way home. I actually stopped the car at a street on the way home because I couldn't see, I was crying so hard. An officer knocked on my window and asked me if I was ok. I said I was, but I really wasn't. I was devastated and had never felt this way before. For months after that, I went through the motions of life but I wasn't living. Work was near impossible to get through each day, and unfortunately, my kids had to bear with me as I mourned this loss.
I pined away after this man for a few years following the breakup, because I felt that we were supposed to be together - until he decided to marry another. I was devastated once again and then I became very bitter and angry. I had such hate in my heart toward him and his new wife. They attended my church, so I had to see them every time I went. I had built a wall of bitterness and hatred around myself and I was so utterly unhappy that all I could do was think about them and their happiness. Until someone preached a message on bitterness and unforgiveness. It was then that I realized what I was doing to myself; no one was being hurt here except me.
I didn't want to feel this way any longer - I had wasted too many years on this and I was done. I gathered up all the dignity I could and went up to this man and asked if I could talk to him. I stood there crying and apologized to him and told him that I had been very angry and bitter towards him and I asked him to forgive me. He began to cry as well and apologized too and something broke that night. It was like a huge load was lifted off of me. I left that conversation feeling wonderfully free. I can't explain it - I just know how I felt that night. God healed my heart when I took the steps to make it right with this man. It doesn't even matter whose fault it is; like my mom always said, it takes the bigger person to apologize first.
That was a lesson I will never forget. Not that I've done that every time someone hurts me - I haven't. But eventually I get around to remembering my lesson and how it changed me and I try to make things right - even if I wasn't the one who was wrong. Nothing, absolutely nothing and no one is worth living a miserable life over. Forgiveness is a powerful thing. It melts the hardest heart and completely mends people who have been horribly hurt. Forgiveness does not say it was ok for that person to hurt me; but it does say that I refuse to hold bitterness in my heart toward them because I would be only further hurting myself.
So "moving on" means more to me, than perhaps others. Kita, I will miss you my funny, furry friend. Have fun runnin' with the big boys up in doggy heaven, and tell Ginger and Rocky that we miss them too....
I'm done crying now and it's time to move on. You must move on or you become stuck in time and that is never good. People who have never dealt with their past hurts, abuses or pain are still stuck in that period of time. I've learned that you have to "let go" of those things or you get stuck in a type of quicksand, which pulls you further down each day you re-live whatever it is that you are grieving. Grieving is all important when we lose something or someone or experience the pain we have suffered by the hands of someone or something else - but then we have to let it go, or it takes a hold of us and creates bitterness and resentment in our hearts. I know this because I've experienced it for myself.
Several years ago, I was in love with a man who also (or who I thought) loved me as well. We became best friends and planned on marrying and enjoyed each other's company. He made me laugh more than anyone I ever knew, and that's always been important to me. He was a kind, gentle soul, or so I thought, until one day he simply told me that he really didn't love me after all. It was so sudden and came out of nowhere that it all seemed like a dream as we sat and talked. But he was serious and told me that "I wasn't the marrying kind," which confused me even more. He was gentle as he was saying all this but all I could do was leave the restaurant and cry all the way home. I actually stopped the car at a street on the way home because I couldn't see, I was crying so hard. An officer knocked on my window and asked me if I was ok. I said I was, but I really wasn't. I was devastated and had never felt this way before. For months after that, I went through the motions of life but I wasn't living. Work was near impossible to get through each day, and unfortunately, my kids had to bear with me as I mourned this loss.
I pined away after this man for a few years following the breakup, because I felt that we were supposed to be together - until he decided to marry another. I was devastated once again and then I became very bitter and angry. I had such hate in my heart toward him and his new wife. They attended my church, so I had to see them every time I went. I had built a wall of bitterness and hatred around myself and I was so utterly unhappy that all I could do was think about them and their happiness. Until someone preached a message on bitterness and unforgiveness. It was then that I realized what I was doing to myself; no one was being hurt here except me.
I didn't want to feel this way any longer - I had wasted too many years on this and I was done. I gathered up all the dignity I could and went up to this man and asked if I could talk to him. I stood there crying and apologized to him and told him that I had been very angry and bitter towards him and I asked him to forgive me. He began to cry as well and apologized too and something broke that night. It was like a huge load was lifted off of me. I left that conversation feeling wonderfully free. I can't explain it - I just know how I felt that night. God healed my heart when I took the steps to make it right with this man. It doesn't even matter whose fault it is; like my mom always said, it takes the bigger person to apologize first.
That was a lesson I will never forget. Not that I've done that every time someone hurts me - I haven't. But eventually I get around to remembering my lesson and how it changed me and I try to make things right - even if I wasn't the one who was wrong. Nothing, absolutely nothing and no one is worth living a miserable life over. Forgiveness is a powerful thing. It melts the hardest heart and completely mends people who have been horribly hurt. Forgiveness does not say it was ok for that person to hurt me; but it does say that I refuse to hold bitterness in my heart toward them because I would be only further hurting myself.
So "moving on" means more to me, than perhaps others. Kita, I will miss you my funny, furry friend. Have fun runnin' with the big boys up in doggy heaven, and tell Ginger and Rocky that we miss them too....
Friday, December 2, 2011
Thankful for a Broken Heart
This day began like any other; I made breakfast for my dad and myself and then retreating to my room to sip on my coffee and look on the internet. After an hour or two, the doorbell rang and I heard my dad say, "I'll get it - I'm coming, just a minute!" The next thing I heard was my dad swearing and calling Kita to come back - she had slipped out the front door and went sniffing around the driveway. At that point, my mom went wheeling out to the door and I got to the door and went outside and yelled for Kita to come back. Being the stubborn dog that she is, she wouldn't come back, and every time I walked closer to her, she moved away that much more. First, I yelled at her like she was going to be in big trouble; then I called out nicely and offered her a cookie. Neither worked. The next thing I knew, she was wandering out into the street and I was yelling, "No, No, No!" as loud as I could. I saw a car come reeling around the corner and didn't even slow down. By the time I got to her, the car had already hit her and kept on going. I was screaming out "No" still and when I went down to pick her up, blood was coming from her mouth and head. I picked her up and her tongue was hanging out and her eyes were open wide and glazed over.
I brought her into the house and couldn't stop crying. I knew she was dead as I held her in my arms and my dad took her from me, put her in the car and drove to the vet. A little while later, he called me from the vet and asked me if I wanted her cremated and if I wanted her ashes. Well, of course I don't want her ashes, that's ridiculous to me, and all I could do was cry. My little friend of over a year, who laid by my side every night, was gone. That fast and without any regard. The guy who hit her was probably 90 years old and blind as a bat. She's black -- it would be obvious to see her on white pavement. Whether he did or not, I'll never know and it doesn't matter anyway. I'm only glad she didn't suffer, because I think she died instantly. It would have been nice, however, for him to stop and come back and at least apologize. But if people won't do that for human beings, I guess why would they for a dog.
I laid in bed all afternoon after calling my kids and telling them what happened. I slept on and off and kept feeling like my heart was broken. Anyone with a love for animals knows what I mean and has probably been there. I wondered, how many times can a heart be broken? It breaks over so many disappointments in life that sometimes it seems it can't break anymore. But then time goes by and your heart must heal because somewhere down the line it breaks again.
I think if your heart breaks, sometimes over and over again, then you must be a compassionate person who lends themselves to be put in the position of being heartbroken. At first that sounds crazy or even ridiculous, but I don't think it is. A person with a broken heart, has a heart to be broken. Those people who don't feel this way about anything, have a hard, inpenetrable heart which lacks compassion and love. I would much rather be the former, in all ways and for all reasons.
But in the meantime, I hurt with real heartache. Will I get another dog? Yes, somewhere down the road, I most probably will. Why would I do that to myself, to endure yet another heartache one day? Because the love and devotion that comes from a dog is something that can't be explained, but only felt and experienced. And because I love to be loved and return it back again. It's the very essence of human need. And so, I must say, today I'm thankful for a heart that is broken...
I brought her into the house and couldn't stop crying. I knew she was dead as I held her in my arms and my dad took her from me, put her in the car and drove to the vet. A little while later, he called me from the vet and asked me if I wanted her cremated and if I wanted her ashes. Well, of course I don't want her ashes, that's ridiculous to me, and all I could do was cry. My little friend of over a year, who laid by my side every night, was gone. That fast and without any regard. The guy who hit her was probably 90 years old and blind as a bat. She's black -- it would be obvious to see her on white pavement. Whether he did or not, I'll never know and it doesn't matter anyway. I'm only glad she didn't suffer, because I think she died instantly. It would have been nice, however, for him to stop and come back and at least apologize. But if people won't do that for human beings, I guess why would they for a dog.
I laid in bed all afternoon after calling my kids and telling them what happened. I slept on and off and kept feeling like my heart was broken. Anyone with a love for animals knows what I mean and has probably been there. I wondered, how many times can a heart be broken? It breaks over so many disappointments in life that sometimes it seems it can't break anymore. But then time goes by and your heart must heal because somewhere down the line it breaks again.
I think if your heart breaks, sometimes over and over again, then you must be a compassionate person who lends themselves to be put in the position of being heartbroken. At first that sounds crazy or even ridiculous, but I don't think it is. A person with a broken heart, has a heart to be broken. Those people who don't feel this way about anything, have a hard, inpenetrable heart which lacks compassion and love. I would much rather be the former, in all ways and for all reasons.
But in the meantime, I hurt with real heartache. Will I get another dog? Yes, somewhere down the road, I most probably will. Why would I do that to myself, to endure yet another heartache one day? Because the love and devotion that comes from a dog is something that can't be explained, but only felt and experienced. And because I love to be loved and return it back again. It's the very essence of human need. And so, I must say, today I'm thankful for a heart that is broken...
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
My Parents' Relatives
I've been looking at (I say "looking at," because I'm generally not a reader per se), a book called, "Hooray for Yiddish" by Leo Rosten. He's also the author of "The Joys of Yiddish" I've spoken about before, that if you ever want a good laugh, pick up and read these books. It's true that if you're Jewish that would help to understand this humor, but even if you're not, you will enjoy the sounds and meanings of Yiddish words. Yiddish is a very old language consisting of Hebrew, German and Slavic languages -- a "fusion" of languages. It was a language I was raised with, since all of my older relatives spoke it and especially spoke it when they didn't want us kids to know what they were saying. Pretty much all of those people have passed on and so this is very rarely spoken in my parent's house now unless she's talking to an old friend. We do say certain words in Yiddish, of course, but I haven't heard a whole conversation in a long, long time.
My mother has another doctor appointment this Wednesday. Their office called to confirm today and I'm glad they did because of what happened last week. My mom had told me that she had a doctor appointment on Monday at 1:30, so I took her over there on time. It's quite a schlep from the car to the office and so I dropped my mom off at the door so she could go on up. I parked the car and then went up to the office only to find my mom standing there sheepish-looking, smiling and saying, "Oh honey, I thought the appointent was today! (Uncomfortable chuckle.) It's tomorrow at 1:30." I sat down to catch my breath and didn't say anything to my mom because I wouldn't have said anything kind, so I bit my tongue. Then, down we went, back to get the car and go home. This has happened more than 3 or 4 times now. So from now on, I'm asking my mom to confirm her or my dad's appointments ahead of time.
I guess I have to blame this on my mom's early dementia. She seems confused about a lot of things, and then clear about others. On Thanksgiving, when we had all those people over, she sat there eating and said only a few words. It was kind of strange, but she seemed perfectly content to just eat and basically ignore everyone. She sat next to me and across from a friend of hers and seemed to be quite comfortable. My dad sat at the other end of the table and was stuck by my mother's cousin who is loud and obnoxious. He looked pretty miserable. My dad also just basically ate and said very little. It was all very odd. My mom's cousin monopolized the whole conversation. I said a few things I probably shouldn't have to this woman because she was getting on my nerves. She brought two pies - a berry and chocolate cream and she kept telling me that we didn't need the chocolate cream one since I made Tiramisu and I kept telling her we would still be able to use it. She kept arguing with me about it and I just put it out anyway. Why did she bring the bloody pie if she didn't want me to put it out? I envisioned pushing the whole pie in her face. Ah, but alas, I'm a grownup and you can't do those kinds of things when you're a grownup. My dad really liked it and I was going to give him some the next day, but it was gone. She had taken it home. Idiot.
I've never really liked my parents' relatives, from the time I was a young girl. Some of them were "too Jewish" or obnoxious or geeks. I guess I thought I was too cool for any of them. I hated family holidays when our relatives came to our house and even worse, if we had to go to theirs. I would hole myself up in my room if they came over to my house. I just sat and waited to leave if we had to go to theirs. It was never fun because my brothers and I had nothing in common with any of them. I really don't know why - we just didn't.
I'm looking forward to going home and spending the holidays with my kids and grandkids. That's who I'm the most comfortable with. Even though we do a lot of arguing and fussing, I missed my family on Thanksgiving. And Christmas is my favorite holiday, and I'll be spending it with them. I love to see my grandkids light up with joy when they open their Christmas presents - it gives me a lot of joy too. It's really true that it's better to give than to receive. That is, if it's not a chocolate cream pie...
My mother has another doctor appointment this Wednesday. Their office called to confirm today and I'm glad they did because of what happened last week. My mom had told me that she had a doctor appointment on Monday at 1:30, so I took her over there on time. It's quite a schlep from the car to the office and so I dropped my mom off at the door so she could go on up. I parked the car and then went up to the office only to find my mom standing there sheepish-looking, smiling and saying, "Oh honey, I thought the appointent was today! (Uncomfortable chuckle.) It's tomorrow at 1:30." I sat down to catch my breath and didn't say anything to my mom because I wouldn't have said anything kind, so I bit my tongue. Then, down we went, back to get the car and go home. This has happened more than 3 or 4 times now. So from now on, I'm asking my mom to confirm her or my dad's appointments ahead of time.
I guess I have to blame this on my mom's early dementia. She seems confused about a lot of things, and then clear about others. On Thanksgiving, when we had all those people over, she sat there eating and said only a few words. It was kind of strange, but she seemed perfectly content to just eat and basically ignore everyone. She sat next to me and across from a friend of hers and seemed to be quite comfortable. My dad sat at the other end of the table and was stuck by my mother's cousin who is loud and obnoxious. He looked pretty miserable. My dad also just basically ate and said very little. It was all very odd. My mom's cousin monopolized the whole conversation. I said a few things I probably shouldn't have to this woman because she was getting on my nerves. She brought two pies - a berry and chocolate cream and she kept telling me that we didn't need the chocolate cream one since I made Tiramisu and I kept telling her we would still be able to use it. She kept arguing with me about it and I just put it out anyway. Why did she bring the bloody pie if she didn't want me to put it out? I envisioned pushing the whole pie in her face. Ah, but alas, I'm a grownup and you can't do those kinds of things when you're a grownup. My dad really liked it and I was going to give him some the next day, but it was gone. She had taken it home. Idiot.
I've never really liked my parents' relatives, from the time I was a young girl. Some of them were "too Jewish" or obnoxious or geeks. I guess I thought I was too cool for any of them. I hated family holidays when our relatives came to our house and even worse, if we had to go to theirs. I would hole myself up in my room if they came over to my house. I just sat and waited to leave if we had to go to theirs. It was never fun because my brothers and I had nothing in common with any of them. I really don't know why - we just didn't.
I'm looking forward to going home and spending the holidays with my kids and grandkids. That's who I'm the most comfortable with. Even though we do a lot of arguing and fussing, I missed my family on Thanksgiving. And Christmas is my favorite holiday, and I'll be spending it with them. I love to see my grandkids light up with joy when they open their Christmas presents - it gives me a lot of joy too. It's really true that it's better to give than to receive. That is, if it's not a chocolate cream pie...
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thanksgiving
Today is November 24, 2011 and considered Thanksgiving in the United States. It's a great holiday that most of us think about all the things that we are thankful for, and a lot of us are thankful to God for these things. If you look on Facebook, you see many people telling others what they are thankful for. I'm not sure who or what athesists attribute their thanks to. I am thankful to God every day, not just on one particular day. I actually think most people are. Except, I suppose, for those who think their lives are miserable. But I've discovered, that there is always someone else who is worse off than me. Always. Keeping that in mind, I am always thankful for my life, my children, my circumstances and my little world. God has blessed me in numerous ways, and I am ever thankful to Him.
I have to remember to also thank Him for the things which are not such a blessing. Like my health, for instance. There's a reason for all things, and truthfully, I'm to blame for the most part regarding my health. If I had taken better care of myself all these years, I probably wouldn't have so many issues today. But I'm still thankful for my health. I could be dying from cancer in hospice, but I'm not.
I thank Him because we will have friends and relatives of my mom over today for dinner, even though I would much rather be with my childen and grandchildren. I miss them terribly. But for today, we invited people over who have no where else to go and who are alone. I did that for every Thanksgiving when I was raising my kids. My house was always filled with single, alone people who had no family around. It bothers me to think of people who are not with friends or family on holidays.
I thank God because I was able to spend so much time with my parents when they needed me the most, even though it meant being away from my children and grandchildren. It's a blessing to be able to do these things and still be able to support myself with disability checks. I imagine that some people would disagree. But until you've walked in another person's shoes, it's impossible to pass judgment on that person. I've learned that too.
I thank God because even though I get depressed at times, I feel an undergirding joy within myself that is hard to explain. Joy and peace are "things" that you can't purchase or borrow or beg for. They come only and exclusively from God. You can be in the middle of a hurricane with problems surrounding you, but if you're in the will of God, you're in the palm of His hands, and you can have this joy amidst all the confusion.
So the list is endless of what I am thankful for. I don't have enough room in this Blog to describe each and every thing. I'm only 56, but I've learned a lot in my short life. I've learned that you can't make someone love you, but you can still love them. I've learned that you can't shove the Word of God down someone's throat, but you can pray for them and be there for them when they need you (or God). I've learned that you always love your children more than they love you - something a good friend told me a long, long time ago, and I've found out that this is true. I've learned that I am blessed beyond measure, but I'm not as thankful as I should be at times. And I've learned that life is truly so short that we should always tell each other we love them and how we feel about them. Next to our relationship with God, is our relationship with others that is so paramount. Our husbands, our wives, our children, our friends, our family. And so, I must say that I am very thankful for you...
I have to remember to also thank Him for the things which are not such a blessing. Like my health, for instance. There's a reason for all things, and truthfully, I'm to blame for the most part regarding my health. If I had taken better care of myself all these years, I probably wouldn't have so many issues today. But I'm still thankful for my health. I could be dying from cancer in hospice, but I'm not.
I thank Him because we will have friends and relatives of my mom over today for dinner, even though I would much rather be with my childen and grandchildren. I miss them terribly. But for today, we invited people over who have no where else to go and who are alone. I did that for every Thanksgiving when I was raising my kids. My house was always filled with single, alone people who had no family around. It bothers me to think of people who are not with friends or family on holidays.
I thank God because I was able to spend so much time with my parents when they needed me the most, even though it meant being away from my children and grandchildren. It's a blessing to be able to do these things and still be able to support myself with disability checks. I imagine that some people would disagree. But until you've walked in another person's shoes, it's impossible to pass judgment on that person. I've learned that too.
I thank God because even though I get depressed at times, I feel an undergirding joy within myself that is hard to explain. Joy and peace are "things" that you can't purchase or borrow or beg for. They come only and exclusively from God. You can be in the middle of a hurricane with problems surrounding you, but if you're in the will of God, you're in the palm of His hands, and you can have this joy amidst all the confusion.
So the list is endless of what I am thankful for. I don't have enough room in this Blog to describe each and every thing. I'm only 56, but I've learned a lot in my short life. I've learned that you can't make someone love you, but you can still love them. I've learned that you can't shove the Word of God down someone's throat, but you can pray for them and be there for them when they need you (or God). I've learned that you always love your children more than they love you - something a good friend told me a long, long time ago, and I've found out that this is true. I've learned that I am blessed beyond measure, but I'm not as thankful as I should be at times. And I've learned that life is truly so short that we should always tell each other we love them and how we feel about them. Next to our relationship with God, is our relationship with others that is so paramount. Our husbands, our wives, our children, our friends, our family. And so, I must say that I am very thankful for you...
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Decisions
I refuse to eat the peanut butter that we have in the house, because my dad insists on scooping it out with his knife and licking it off. I told him that was disgusting and he just laughs with his mouth wide open and peanut butter stuck to his tongue. When we were kids, he would drink the milk from the milk bottle and put it back in the refrigerator. I thought it was cool that he could do that, but we couldn't. He also used to sit down with a half-gallon box of ice cream and eat right out of it. My dad was really lucky, as far as I was concerned.
I didn't know about germs then, but now, I'm a bit of a freak when it comes to some germs. Like, I don't allow anyone, not even Shanti, to drink from the same bottle, can or glass that I'm drinking from because I just find that gross. I suppose if I were in the desert or on a deserted island and I had to share my drink with another person, I would. But that would be the only exception.
The past few days I've been thinking about how long I should actually be here. After much thought and prayer, I decided to see how things go after the month I will be gone in December/January. If my parents do ok, I decided to switch this around and be in Madison full time, but go to my parents for a couple weeks at a time when I'm needed. I discussed this with them and they seem to be just fine with it. My mom appeared to be a little apprehensive about it, but she said that was fine, that she knows I miss my kids and grandkids and she understands. The fact is, she is doing much better. She needs to, however, get over her fear of falling. She uses the wheelchair most of the time because she's afraid to fall, but she should be using her walker more. She has many friends who live on the same street or who she can call to help her with small things she can't do or go to the grocery store or pharmacy for them. And they both have that necklace thing that if you push it, it calls emergency. She's a long way from where she was when I first got here. It's hard to believe I've been here nearly 6 months.
I told them both that neither one of them should drive. My dad can't see past his nose and besides that, he has road rage, and with both combined, he is a lethal weapon. My mom can see but she's confused most of the time and has given me the wrong direction now more than one time. I end up going miles out of the way when she tells me where to go, and getting frustrated because she simply doesn't remember where places are at. They don't use a cell phone, so I fear she would get lost and simply not know what to do. So I will be talking to a few of her friends to offer their assistance with grocery shopping and going to Walgreens. Those are really the only places they go. Last time we went shopping, she nearly knocked down a tall display by backing up and going forward in the same place. I had to go back and tell her to turn the handle so she could clear it. She was clearly frustrated and embarrassed, and I shouldn't have laughed, but it really was funny watching her contine to bash into the food display.
What will I do and where will I go when I go back home? Well, Leah wants me to stay with her and so Shanti and I would share her room, which I will love. It will be tight quarters but as long as I keep my opinions to myself, we'll get along just fine. I'm looking forward to being with my grandchildren more often, as I really miss them. Living with old people who can't hear and don't do or go anywhere, becomes a bit depressing at times. I can only listen to the Military Channel so much, then I become nauseated. I know I was supposed to come here when I did, and I knew I would know when it was time to go back home. After next month, it will be the determining factor to see if my parents will be able to get along without me for longer periods of time. I really wish they would consider assisted living, but they refuse to leave their home. I understand that, but at some point, they will probably have no other choice.
In the meantime, Bob and Eun will have to learn once again how to live with each other alone in the house. I think they'll be fine, as long as they behave themselves.
I didn't know about germs then, but now, I'm a bit of a freak when it comes to some germs. Like, I don't allow anyone, not even Shanti, to drink from the same bottle, can or glass that I'm drinking from because I just find that gross. I suppose if I were in the desert or on a deserted island and I had to share my drink with another person, I would. But that would be the only exception.
The past few days I've been thinking about how long I should actually be here. After much thought and prayer, I decided to see how things go after the month I will be gone in December/January. If my parents do ok, I decided to switch this around and be in Madison full time, but go to my parents for a couple weeks at a time when I'm needed. I discussed this with them and they seem to be just fine with it. My mom appeared to be a little apprehensive about it, but she said that was fine, that she knows I miss my kids and grandkids and she understands. The fact is, she is doing much better. She needs to, however, get over her fear of falling. She uses the wheelchair most of the time because she's afraid to fall, but she should be using her walker more. She has many friends who live on the same street or who she can call to help her with small things she can't do or go to the grocery store or pharmacy for them. And they both have that necklace thing that if you push it, it calls emergency. She's a long way from where she was when I first got here. It's hard to believe I've been here nearly 6 months.
I told them both that neither one of them should drive. My dad can't see past his nose and besides that, he has road rage, and with both combined, he is a lethal weapon. My mom can see but she's confused most of the time and has given me the wrong direction now more than one time. I end up going miles out of the way when she tells me where to go, and getting frustrated because she simply doesn't remember where places are at. They don't use a cell phone, so I fear she would get lost and simply not know what to do. So I will be talking to a few of her friends to offer their assistance with grocery shopping and going to Walgreens. Those are really the only places they go. Last time we went shopping, she nearly knocked down a tall display by backing up and going forward in the same place. I had to go back and tell her to turn the handle so she could clear it. She was clearly frustrated and embarrassed, and I shouldn't have laughed, but it really was funny watching her contine to bash into the food display.
What will I do and where will I go when I go back home? Well, Leah wants me to stay with her and so Shanti and I would share her room, which I will love. It will be tight quarters but as long as I keep my opinions to myself, we'll get along just fine. I'm looking forward to being with my grandchildren more often, as I really miss them. Living with old people who can't hear and don't do or go anywhere, becomes a bit depressing at times. I can only listen to the Military Channel so much, then I become nauseated. I know I was supposed to come here when I did, and I knew I would know when it was time to go back home. After next month, it will be the determining factor to see if my parents will be able to get along without me for longer periods of time. I really wish they would consider assisted living, but they refuse to leave their home. I understand that, but at some point, they will probably have no other choice.
In the meantime, Bob and Eun will have to learn once again how to live with each other alone in the house. I think they'll be fine, as long as they behave themselves.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Kita's Stuff
As I sit in my room, at the computer, out of the corner of my eye, I see Kita come slowly trotting in, carrying my dad's slipper and hiding behind my bed. Today it's his slipper. She has snuck in tissues, socks, popsicle sticks, wrappers from ice cream cones, pieces of wood and an assortment of articles I know not what they are. It all goes behind my bed, and if I try to get them, she scurries under the bed with them, where I cannot reach. So, under my bed lies all kinds of treasures only a dog would appreciate. I just hope nothing that smells gets under there, because then I would have a problem.
The way she comes in with her treasures, amuses me. She acts like she's invisible and that I can't see her and trots proudly right over to her little corner of the world. She almost looks surprised when I go back there and reach out to pick up what she's brought in. She's usually faster than I am to pick it up, and down she goes under the bed. At that point, I give up. It's just not worth it to get on the floor and try to retrieve it from under the bed.
Today, my mom and I went to the Jewish Community Center in Venice, that my mom and a few of her friends actually started about 30 years ago. She's real proud of that, but hasn't been to services there in a long time due to all of her ailments. We went today because tomorrow they are having a large rummage sale, and I always like to look at the art in rummage sales, and since she knows the people there, we went before the sale started so I could see what they had. I bought a large oil painting by Charles Stepule (1911-2006) and I really like it. It's a painting of an ocean bluff with a house and tree on the side of the bluff. It's kind of dark, but I took a quick photo of it below. The colors he used in it are amazing.
The way she comes in with her treasures, amuses me. She acts like she's invisible and that I can't see her and trots proudly right over to her little corner of the world. She almost looks surprised when I go back there and reach out to pick up what she's brought in. She's usually faster than I am to pick it up, and down she goes under the bed. At that point, I give up. It's just not worth it to get on the floor and try to retrieve it from under the bed.
Today, my mom and I went to the Jewish Community Center in Venice, that my mom and a few of her friends actually started about 30 years ago. She's real proud of that, but hasn't been to services there in a long time due to all of her ailments. We went today because tomorrow they are having a large rummage sale, and I always like to look at the art in rummage sales, and since she knows the people there, we went before the sale started so I could see what they had. I bought a large oil painting by Charles Stepule (1911-2006) and I really like it. It's a painting of an ocean bluff with a house and tree on the side of the bluff. It's kind of dark, but I took a quick photo of it below. The colors he used in it are amazing.
I love art - the creating of it, looking at it and watching others create it. I wanted to be an art teacher when I was younger, but I wasted my youth. My dad was willing to put me through the Art Institute of Chicago, but I was young then and thought I wanted something different for my life. So instead, I ended up being a boring secretary out of necessity, because that was the only skill I had learned that would sustain my children and I. I have a lot of regrets in my life, and that is one of them.
I think I should be more like Kita. Trot around like I'm invisible and hide the good stuff so no one can find them. Kind of like my Butterfingers. But moreso, hide the things that mean the dearest to me, most of which are invisible anyway, so that no one can steal them away. Hide them in a special, protective place where no one can enter unless I let them. I suppose that place would be my heart.
Or, in the case of Butterfingers, the second drawer to my dresser.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Traffic
I was drinking my coffee this morning, looking out the window and I saw what looked like a cat or big bird, perched on the roof of a house across the street. So when I went out later in the afternoon, I drove right next to the house and sure enough, there is a cement statue of a large cat or a huge owl - I couldn't tell which - lodged right there on their roof. How odd, I thought. Why would someone do that? Some peoples' sense of art or decoration is very odd. I love art and I love exotic and peculiar things, but that just looks stupid.
It goes along with the yards of some people that are made out of white stones. I mean, the yard isn't grass, but it's all stones. Who would want to walk on that, and how is that appealing? You see a lot of that in Florida, and I would guess it's because the people don't want to upkeep their lawns, but if I spent the money on a house, I would definitely have a nicely landscaped lawn as well. It's more inviting. The houses with the stones look like the Flintstones live there, and very unappealing. It's like you're waiting for their car made out of rocks to come reeling out of the garage.
I said before that the people drive here, generally, very slow, because of course, they're all old. But every now and then, I get someone behind me who sits right on my tail trying to get me to drive faster. This happened the other day, and I looked in the rear view mirror and this little old lady, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, was right on my tail, looking agitated because I was going 5 miles over the speed limit - too slow. The picture of her in my mirror made me laugh, so just to annoy her a little more, I drove a bit slower. I can be mean like that at times. When I drove my car in Madison, I would shout out the window to the driver in back of me, "Go ahead and hit me, you moron; I need a new car!" Of course they never do. Anyone who has ever ridden in the car with me can readily see that I got my license in Chicago. I'm definitely a Chicago driver. Not that that's a bad thing - it just means that I yell a lot and drive like a maniac at times. After all, I learned to drive on the Dan Ryan, and if you don't know what that is, ask someone. It's a crazy highway in Chicago and you have to be crazy to drive on it.
And now, it's the "season" down here, and traffic has picked up considerably. So now all the crazy nothern drivers are here, combined with the slow-poke old people who live here year round, which causes great chaos. As much as I can't stand Florida, I must admit the weather right now is beautiful. And so I understand why the northerners trapse (another Yiddish word, much like "schlep") down here. My choice, however, would be California - not Florida. Because it's beautiful there with low humidity and no mosquitoes. I love to sit outside and at night, it's unbearable in Madison because of all the mosquitoes. Sometimes there are so many that they could probably carry you away - or at least bite you away. The same is true for Florida. I don't know why God made mosquitoes. They're obnoxious and serve no good purpose.
One of these days, I want to go and look at motorhomes at a business closeby. My dream has always been to travel the country in a motorhome when I retired. Who knows, maybe I'll actually get that opportunity one day. When Micah was a little boy, he would always tell me that he was going to get me a motorhome when he was a big boy. Hmmm... Maybe I should go and hit him up on that now....
It goes along with the yards of some people that are made out of white stones. I mean, the yard isn't grass, but it's all stones. Who would want to walk on that, and how is that appealing? You see a lot of that in Florida, and I would guess it's because the people don't want to upkeep their lawns, but if I spent the money on a house, I would definitely have a nicely landscaped lawn as well. It's more inviting. The houses with the stones look like the Flintstones live there, and very unappealing. It's like you're waiting for their car made out of rocks to come reeling out of the garage.
I said before that the people drive here, generally, very slow, because of course, they're all old. But every now and then, I get someone behind me who sits right on my tail trying to get me to drive faster. This happened the other day, and I looked in the rear view mirror and this little old lady, clutching the steering wheel with both hands, was right on my tail, looking agitated because I was going 5 miles over the speed limit - too slow. The picture of her in my mirror made me laugh, so just to annoy her a little more, I drove a bit slower. I can be mean like that at times. When I drove my car in Madison, I would shout out the window to the driver in back of me, "Go ahead and hit me, you moron; I need a new car!" Of course they never do. Anyone who has ever ridden in the car with me can readily see that I got my license in Chicago. I'm definitely a Chicago driver. Not that that's a bad thing - it just means that I yell a lot and drive like a maniac at times. After all, I learned to drive on the Dan Ryan, and if you don't know what that is, ask someone. It's a crazy highway in Chicago and you have to be crazy to drive on it.
And now, it's the "season" down here, and traffic has picked up considerably. So now all the crazy nothern drivers are here, combined with the slow-poke old people who live here year round, which causes great chaos. As much as I can't stand Florida, I must admit the weather right now is beautiful. And so I understand why the northerners trapse (another Yiddish word, much like "schlep") down here. My choice, however, would be California - not Florida. Because it's beautiful there with low humidity and no mosquitoes. I love to sit outside and at night, it's unbearable in Madison because of all the mosquitoes. Sometimes there are so many that they could probably carry you away - or at least bite you away. The same is true for Florida. I don't know why God made mosquitoes. They're obnoxious and serve no good purpose.
One of these days, I want to go and look at motorhomes at a business closeby. My dream has always been to travel the country in a motorhome when I retired. Who knows, maybe I'll actually get that opportunity one day. When Micah was a little boy, he would always tell me that he was going to get me a motorhome when he was a big boy. Hmmm... Maybe I should go and hit him up on that now....
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Cottage Cheese
I was trying to take a nap with Kita this afternoon and my door was closed, when my mom opened it, saying, "Sis? Sis?" I said, "What?" through my breathing machine. She said, "Oh, honey, I didn't know you were sleeping. I'm sorry. But do you know where the cottage cheese is?" I thought if I was standing up I would deck her, but I just said, "No, but I'm sure it's in the refrigerator somewhere." "Oh yes, of course, ok, I'll ask dad to see if he can find it..." as her voice trailed off while she wheeled herself away. She couldn't see I was sleeping? Well, the first clue was that my door was closed. The second clue was that I was lying prostrate on my bed with my CPAP machine hissing as it was blowing air in and out of my nose. So if I was sleeping, she would make sure I wasn't by the time she was done.
She not only woke me up, but then she took Kita with her, which irritated me. She had told me some guy was coming over to check the fire alarms and so she had to "put Kita on her lap so she wouldn't bark at the guy." I told her I would just bring her in my room and keep her in there until the guy left. She "preferred" taking the dog out of my room, after waking me up, and keeping Kita on her lap to show everyone that she doesn't bark at all when she's on her lap. I got up from the bed and kind of slammed my door because if that guy was walking around the house, I didn't want him coming into my room as I'm lying in bed. For some unknown reason, my mom didn't close the door after she took Kita.
I fell asleep, thus forgetting all about Kita, the guy or my mom, until I heard Kita's little wimper as she stood outside my door. She wanted to come in to be with me, of course, as my mom went to take her nap. So I got up, brought Kita in and muttered some unmentionable things.
My mom has taken a real liking to Kita, which is good and weird at the same time. She says to me, "Sis - watch," and she "drives" her wheelchair over to the chair Kita is perched on, and Kita gets on her lap, which she calls a train. "Let's go for a ride now Kita, on this train, down the tracks, blah, blah, blah..." I think it's cute that Kita knows to get on her lap from the chair, but I think part of my mom is acting like a kid in a carnival. It's kind of weird. But Kita is good company for my mom and I'm glad she is attached to her.
My mom's memory is deteriorating fast, which is really distressing. One day, she yelled at me for asking her to do something in the kitchen. I just sat there because I was stunned and she laughed it off like it was supposed to be funny, but it wasn't. I think she may even be aware of her personality changing, but her memory is so bad, she won't remember.
When I was making dinner tonight, I said, "Mom, look - the cottage cheese is right here on the top shelf." She said, "Oh yes, honey, I did find it." I'm glad she did. I wouldn't want her to be without her cottage cheese.
She not only woke me up, but then she took Kita with her, which irritated me. She had told me some guy was coming over to check the fire alarms and so she had to "put Kita on her lap so she wouldn't bark at the guy." I told her I would just bring her in my room and keep her in there until the guy left. She "preferred" taking the dog out of my room, after waking me up, and keeping Kita on her lap to show everyone that she doesn't bark at all when she's on her lap. I got up from the bed and kind of slammed my door because if that guy was walking around the house, I didn't want him coming into my room as I'm lying in bed. For some unknown reason, my mom didn't close the door after she took Kita.
I fell asleep, thus forgetting all about Kita, the guy or my mom, until I heard Kita's little wimper as she stood outside my door. She wanted to come in to be with me, of course, as my mom went to take her nap. So I got up, brought Kita in and muttered some unmentionable things.
My mom has taken a real liking to Kita, which is good and weird at the same time. She says to me, "Sis - watch," and she "drives" her wheelchair over to the chair Kita is perched on, and Kita gets on her lap, which she calls a train. "Let's go for a ride now Kita, on this train, down the tracks, blah, blah, blah..." I think it's cute that Kita knows to get on her lap from the chair, but I think part of my mom is acting like a kid in a carnival. It's kind of weird. But Kita is good company for my mom and I'm glad she is attached to her.
My mom's memory is deteriorating fast, which is really distressing. One day, she yelled at me for asking her to do something in the kitchen. I just sat there because I was stunned and she laughed it off like it was supposed to be funny, but it wasn't. I think she may even be aware of her personality changing, but her memory is so bad, she won't remember.
When I was making dinner tonight, I said, "Mom, look - the cottage cheese is right here on the top shelf." She said, "Oh yes, honey, I did find it." I'm glad she did. I wouldn't want her to be without her cottage cheese.
Abortions
I watched a show tonight called "Cold Case," and it had to do with a group of people who helped young women back in the 60's when abortion was illegal. They would take the women to see a real doctor who performed a more humane "procedure" than charletons who used hangers, bike spokes and the like. The doctor had to do this "underground," otherwise he would be arrested and lose his license. The show really bothered me as it always does when I hear about abortion.
I had forgotten it was illegal back in the 60's. When I had the first abortion, it was 1974 and it cost me $300. I borrowed the money from my great uncle who gave it willingly, even though I told him I needed the money to fix my car. I decided to have the abortion because the father of the baby didn't want anything to do with "it" and actually told me that it was my problem. I was 18 at the time, and a very young 18, so I figured it really was my problem.
The procedure itself was very uncomfortable. It felt like a vacuum cleaner sucking my insides out and my stomach moved involuntarily. I really had no idea what I was doing and did it because I felt like I had no choice. When I got to the recovery room, there was another girl in there doing her nails. I was in so much pain and bleeding heavily, all I could do was lay down. She told me that this was her 7th or 8th abortion. I remember thinking how in the world could she do this that many times? I laid there on the bed with my back toward her and cried quietly, but I had no idea why I was crying. I felt alone and abandoned and in a great deal of pain and all I could do was cry. And part of me felt guilty, but I don't know why, because I was never taught that it was wrong. After awhile, they checked me and told me I was good to go, and so I just drove home. It was all very unceremonious. I got home and went to sleep to avoid feeling what I was feeling that day. Because I knew tomorrow would be a better day.
The second abortion I had, I did so because I felt that I had to. I became very sick and had pneumonia with a lung infection and the doctor put me on steroids and other strong medication. I knew I was pregnant, but I couldn't breathe, so I decided this was all I could do. This was when Jason was about 4 years old. I was living in the Verona Hotel at the time and couldn't breathe so I stayed in bed the whole time, while the tv was my babysitter, until I found a doctor who knew what to do. One day, I told Jason to go across to the manager's office and ask them for a roll of toilet paper. He was gone for a long time and I was beginning to get worried, when the manager came and knocked on my door. I called to say "Come in," and the manager had Jason by the hand. She told me that he walked across Verona Road, which was a highway back then, walked up to the nearest house, rang the doorbell and asked them for a roll of toilet paper. I was mortified that he had walked across the road and beside myself that he could have been very easily hit by a car. God's angels were watching over him even back then. I finally saw a doctor in Verona who knew what was wrong with me, after going to all three hospitals in Madison, and he gave me the correct medication to cure me. I don't have a memory of this abortion, probably because I felt like I had no choice but to do it. Or maybe it's because I pushed it to the furthest parts of my mind so I wouldn't be able to recall it. Or it could be a combination of both.
If you know someone who is contemplating an abortion or is confused on what to do, send them my way. I had no one to help me back then, no one to talk to about it and get counsel from. I was all alone and I had to make 2 very significant decisions. I regret those decisions and will until the day I die. I think sometimes what it would have been like if I had let those babies grow to full term. I wonder if I will see them in heaven. I try not to think a lot about them because it makes me very sad, but the reality is that they were a reality at one point, but are not any longer.
Like lots of things you can't change, I place them in the hands of God. He knows and He cares and He even forgave me for what I did. I don't know how I could live without His mercy and grace, with all of the poor decisions and actions I've made in my lifetime.
And yet, He loves me still...
I had forgotten it was illegal back in the 60's. When I had the first abortion, it was 1974 and it cost me $300. I borrowed the money from my great uncle who gave it willingly, even though I told him I needed the money to fix my car. I decided to have the abortion because the father of the baby didn't want anything to do with "it" and actually told me that it was my problem. I was 18 at the time, and a very young 18, so I figured it really was my problem.
The procedure itself was very uncomfortable. It felt like a vacuum cleaner sucking my insides out and my stomach moved involuntarily. I really had no idea what I was doing and did it because I felt like I had no choice. When I got to the recovery room, there was another girl in there doing her nails. I was in so much pain and bleeding heavily, all I could do was lay down. She told me that this was her 7th or 8th abortion. I remember thinking how in the world could she do this that many times? I laid there on the bed with my back toward her and cried quietly, but I had no idea why I was crying. I felt alone and abandoned and in a great deal of pain and all I could do was cry. And part of me felt guilty, but I don't know why, because I was never taught that it was wrong. After awhile, they checked me and told me I was good to go, and so I just drove home. It was all very unceremonious. I got home and went to sleep to avoid feeling what I was feeling that day. Because I knew tomorrow would be a better day.
The second abortion I had, I did so because I felt that I had to. I became very sick and had pneumonia with a lung infection and the doctor put me on steroids and other strong medication. I knew I was pregnant, but I couldn't breathe, so I decided this was all I could do. This was when Jason was about 4 years old. I was living in the Verona Hotel at the time and couldn't breathe so I stayed in bed the whole time, while the tv was my babysitter, until I found a doctor who knew what to do. One day, I told Jason to go across to the manager's office and ask them for a roll of toilet paper. He was gone for a long time and I was beginning to get worried, when the manager came and knocked on my door. I called to say "Come in," and the manager had Jason by the hand. She told me that he walked across Verona Road, which was a highway back then, walked up to the nearest house, rang the doorbell and asked them for a roll of toilet paper. I was mortified that he had walked across the road and beside myself that he could have been very easily hit by a car. God's angels were watching over him even back then. I finally saw a doctor in Verona who knew what was wrong with me, after going to all three hospitals in Madison, and he gave me the correct medication to cure me. I don't have a memory of this abortion, probably because I felt like I had no choice but to do it. Or maybe it's because I pushed it to the furthest parts of my mind so I wouldn't be able to recall it. Or it could be a combination of both.
If you know someone who is contemplating an abortion or is confused on what to do, send them my way. I had no one to help me back then, no one to talk to about it and get counsel from. I was all alone and I had to make 2 very significant decisions. I regret those decisions and will until the day I die. I think sometimes what it would have been like if I had let those babies grow to full term. I wonder if I will see them in heaven. I try not to think a lot about them because it makes me very sad, but the reality is that they were a reality at one point, but are not any longer.
Like lots of things you can't change, I place them in the hands of God. He knows and He cares and He even forgave me for what I did. I don't know how I could live without His mercy and grace, with all of the poor decisions and actions I've made in my lifetime.
And yet, He loves me still...
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Mike (the Pike) Heitler
There is an old movie/play called "Our Town," that when I watch it, I cry every time. Every time. If you don't know the story, I encourage you to read the book or watch the film. It was written by Thornton Wilder and he received a Pulitzer Prize from it. It's a very thought-provoking story and you can't read or watch it without expressing some kind of emotion. At least, I can't.
I said that to say that life is very short. We hear that all the time, but it doesn't start sinking in until we get older. When you watch the movie, you'll understand why I say this. I can't go back to my youth, or the "way it used to be." I have to keep moving forward because the past will literally never be repeated. If you had a miserable past, this is a good thing. If you had an enjoyable past, sometimes this is hard to bear.
One of these days, I'd like to do a family history with a genealogy chart. I'd like to know more about my ancestors, as I think it's very interesting to learn where you came from. History fascinates me and I wish I would have paid more attention in school. It was all so boring to me at the time. But then, we learned boring historical events - like the years that certain wars started and all that. Who cares?? Maybe if they had made it more personal, it would have been more interesting to learn. There's a thought.
I do know a little bit about one of my relatives who happened to be a gangster and worked for Al Capone. His name was Mike (the Pike) Heitler. He was my grandmother's uncle - my great-grandmother's brother, on my dad's (mother's) side. He was a pimp who ran a whorehouse and for this reason, my grandmother would never speak of him. He worked for Al Capone, and because Mike testified against Capone, he was murdered. He was in fact, torched in his vehicle. In my research, I found that he had a brother and a daughter, but I couldn't find any information on them. There isn't a whole lot written about Mike, but what I found, I printed out and the photos I obtained, I've pasted below.
Not the greatest lookin' guy in the world. These photos were published in the Chicago Daily Newspaper.
This is the dump he held his prostitution business at. Yuk.
In court for probably one of many times.
His mug shot. He kind of looks like my grandmother. :)
Now here, he really looks like my grandmother.
This is what Wikipedia says about him:
I said that to say that life is very short. We hear that all the time, but it doesn't start sinking in until we get older. When you watch the movie, you'll understand why I say this. I can't go back to my youth, or the "way it used to be." I have to keep moving forward because the past will literally never be repeated. If you had a miserable past, this is a good thing. If you had an enjoyable past, sometimes this is hard to bear.
One of these days, I'd like to do a family history with a genealogy chart. I'd like to know more about my ancestors, as I think it's very interesting to learn where you came from. History fascinates me and I wish I would have paid more attention in school. It was all so boring to me at the time. But then, we learned boring historical events - like the years that certain wars started and all that. Who cares?? Maybe if they had made it more personal, it would have been more interesting to learn. There's a thought.
I do know a little bit about one of my relatives who happened to be a gangster and worked for Al Capone. His name was Mike (the Pike) Heitler. He was my grandmother's uncle - my great-grandmother's brother, on my dad's (mother's) side. He was a pimp who ran a whorehouse and for this reason, my grandmother would never speak of him. He worked for Al Capone, and because Mike testified against Capone, he was murdered. He was in fact, torched in his vehicle. In my research, I found that he had a brother and a daughter, but I couldn't find any information on them. There isn't a whole lot written about Mike, but what I found, I printed out and the photos I obtained, I've pasted below.
Not the greatest lookin' guy in the world. These photos were published in the Chicago Daily Newspaper.
This is the dump he held his prostitution business at. Yuk.
In court for probably one of many times.
His mug shot. He kind of looks like my grandmother. :)
Now here, he really looks like my grandmother.
This is what Wikipedia says about him:
Mike Heitler
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Michael "The Pike" Heitler (died April 30, 1931) was a Prohibition gangster involved in prostitution for the Chicago Outfit.
Heitler began operating brothels in Chicago during the early 1900s based out of west Madison Street. By 1911, he had become a leading crime figure and a top lieutenant to Chicago racketeer Jacob "Mont" Tennes, later driving rival Jack Zuta out of business, with then ally Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzik. Although arrested briefly for white slavery, Heitler continued to run independently of James "Big Jim" Colosimo and later independently of Johnny "The Fox" Torrio, until the early 1920s, after the formation of the Chicago Outfit.
Reluctantly joining Capone's organization, Heitler began informing Chicago police of criminal activities after rival Guzik gained control of the organization's prostitution operations, informing Judge John H. Lyle of extortion and other illegal activities in the Four Deuces nightclub. Heitler was soon found out and fired by Capone after he received a letter to the state's attorney office detailing his prostitution operations. Heitler continued to send information to police later claiming Capone's involvement in the death of Chicago Tribune reporter Jake Lingle, which, the letter was received by Capone.[citation needed] Heitler may have also been involved in the conviction of Guzik and Ralph "Bottles" Capone for tax evasion, in 1930. Heitler was last seen with Capone associate Lawrence "Dago" Mangano and was later found dead after a fire in his home, on April 30, 1931.
I think this article is wrong, in that he was found dead in his car which was torched. In any event, it's interesting to find colorful characters like this when you do genealogy research. My relatives would never talk about him when we were kids, because, God forbid, you shouldn't mention such a thing. They would start talking Yiddish so us kids couldn't understand what they were saying. It's the same thing I used to do when my kids were young. At first I would spell everything out so they didn't know what I was talking about. Then when they started to learn how to spell, I tried pig-latin, but that was too hard to keep up, so I would just yell and tell them to go outside and play.
The irony of Mike (the Pike), is that with his "ill-gotten" money, he was able to bring all of my grandmother's relatives to the United States from Russia. They allowed him to buy their way here, but just wouldn't talk about or acknowledge him because of what he did. Not that I condone his profession, but that is highly contradictory. Or maybe it's just the way people are. All I know is that if I lived back then, I would most likely get to know this dude and pick his brain. Or at the very least, acknowledge him. Everyone, from the greatest to the least, needs to be acknowledged.
Heitler began operating brothels in Chicago during the early 1900s based out of west Madison Street. By 1911, he had become a leading crime figure and a top lieutenant to Chicago racketeer Jacob "Mont" Tennes, later driving rival Jack Zuta out of business, with then ally Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzik. Although arrested briefly for white slavery, Heitler continued to run independently of James "Big Jim" Colosimo and later independently of Johnny "The Fox" Torrio, until the early 1920s, after the formation of the Chicago Outfit.
Reluctantly joining Capone's organization, Heitler began informing Chicago police of criminal activities after rival Guzik gained control of the organization's prostitution operations, informing Judge John H. Lyle of extortion and other illegal activities in the Four Deuces nightclub. Heitler was soon found out and fired by Capone after he received a letter to the state's attorney office detailing his prostitution operations. Heitler continued to send information to police later claiming Capone's involvement in the death of Chicago Tribune reporter Jake Lingle, which, the letter was received by Capone.[citation needed] Heitler may have also been involved in the conviction of Guzik and Ralph "Bottles" Capone for tax evasion, in 1930. Heitler was last seen with Capone associate Lawrence "Dago" Mangano and was later found dead after a fire in his home, on April 30, 1931.
I think this article is wrong, in that he was found dead in his car which was torched. In any event, it's interesting to find colorful characters like this when you do genealogy research. My relatives would never talk about him when we were kids, because, God forbid, you shouldn't mention such a thing. They would start talking Yiddish so us kids couldn't understand what they were saying. It's the same thing I used to do when my kids were young. At first I would spell everything out so they didn't know what I was talking about. Then when they started to learn how to spell, I tried pig-latin, but that was too hard to keep up, so I would just yell and tell them to go outside and play.
The irony of Mike (the Pike), is that with his "ill-gotten" money, he was able to bring all of my grandmother's relatives to the United States from Russia. They allowed him to buy their way here, but just wouldn't talk about or acknowledge him because of what he did. Not that I condone his profession, but that is highly contradictory. Or maybe it's just the way people are. All I know is that if I lived back then, I would most likely get to know this dude and pick his brain. Or at the very least, acknowledge him. Everyone, from the greatest to the least, needs to be acknowledged.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Another Day in the Life of Eunice
Yesterday, I was going to write about how quiet and peaceful it's been around here and then of course, things changed. My dad called me to go look in on my mom because he couldn't hear her. I went into her bedroom and she was standing, holding onto her walker next to her bed. I said, "Mom, are you ok?" and she said, "No, I don't feel good," without looking up at me. I asked her, "Are you going to throw up?" and she said, "Yes." So I quickly grabbed the bathroom garbage can and just when I turned around, she started sliding down her walker. I threw the garbage can on her bed and tried to hold her up under her arms, but I couldn't, and so I told her, "Just slide down to your knees, mom." She did, with her eyes closed and then when I tried to talk to her she didn't respond. At that point, my dad came in the room and looked at me as if to say, "What do we do?" and I said to lay her flat. So my dad laid her on the floor and straightened out her legs, all the while trying to get her to respond. A minute later, she opened her eyes and asked what had happened.
I called 911 and the EMT came out and looked at her. She looked an awful color of gray and although she didn't want to go to the hospital, they convinced her to, so off she went. I followed along in the car and my dad stayed behind. He still hasn't been feeling well either. I thought about this later, but when I had my mom in my arms, I felt like God was saying, "This is why you're here." I guess it really is.
So I sat with mom in the emergency room and they hooked her up to all kinds of tests and gave her anti-nausea medicine, as she had been sick to her stomach all day. The doctor came in and said they were going to keep her overnight to watch her and do more tests. So far today, they still don't know what is wrong, but because she has had severe diarrhea, they are keeping her another night.
I thought she might have had a stroke, but they haven't said anything. And now with her stomach issues, I don't know what that would be from. They took a test to see if she still has Mersa, but the test hasn't come back yet.
I'm not a person who deals with death well. Other than my great Uncle Irwin (who I named Micah after) and my Papa, no one close to me has ever died. I briefly thought of this when I looked at my mom and her face looked gray. It was very strange, but I didn't freak out. I was unusually calm. I know death will come to all of us, one way or the other, but it's always been something that I can't wrap my mind around. And when I did see my mom like that, I realized that one day she will die, and that's just the reality of it.
But not yet. She's alive and kickin' and although very sick, still makes annoying jokes to the nurses. My mom has a very unusual sense of humor. Most people don't get her humor at first - it takes them a minute for them to undersand what she's talking about. And then they say, "Oh.... hahahah." Not a hearty ha ha ha, but more like "Ok, I understand now, but that's really not so funny...." But of course no one is that rude to say it. She tells whoever will listen that I am her "favorite daughter," and will wait for their reaction. They inevitably say, "Ah, but then she's your only daughter, right?" My mom will chuckle and she gets a big kick out of this. I can't tell you how many times I have heard this in my lifetime. I just smile and pretend I'm amused. At least she tries; that's the important part.
I called 911 and the EMT came out and looked at her. She looked an awful color of gray and although she didn't want to go to the hospital, they convinced her to, so off she went. I followed along in the car and my dad stayed behind. He still hasn't been feeling well either. I thought about this later, but when I had my mom in my arms, I felt like God was saying, "This is why you're here." I guess it really is.
So I sat with mom in the emergency room and they hooked her up to all kinds of tests and gave her anti-nausea medicine, as she had been sick to her stomach all day. The doctor came in and said they were going to keep her overnight to watch her and do more tests. So far today, they still don't know what is wrong, but because she has had severe diarrhea, they are keeping her another night.
I thought she might have had a stroke, but they haven't said anything. And now with her stomach issues, I don't know what that would be from. They took a test to see if she still has Mersa, but the test hasn't come back yet.
I'm not a person who deals with death well. Other than my great Uncle Irwin (who I named Micah after) and my Papa, no one close to me has ever died. I briefly thought of this when I looked at my mom and her face looked gray. It was very strange, but I didn't freak out. I was unusually calm. I know death will come to all of us, one way or the other, but it's always been something that I can't wrap my mind around. And when I did see my mom like that, I realized that one day she will die, and that's just the reality of it.
But not yet. She's alive and kickin' and although very sick, still makes annoying jokes to the nurses. My mom has a very unusual sense of humor. Most people don't get her humor at first - it takes them a minute for them to undersand what she's talking about. And then they say, "Oh.... hahahah." Not a hearty ha ha ha, but more like "Ok, I understand now, but that's really not so funny...." But of course no one is that rude to say it. She tells whoever will listen that I am her "favorite daughter," and will wait for their reaction. They inevitably say, "Ah, but then she's your only daughter, right?" My mom will chuckle and she gets a big kick out of this. I can't tell you how many times I have heard this in my lifetime. I just smile and pretend I'm amused. At least she tries; that's the important part.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
A Broken Heart
Tonight, I'm thinking about a friend of mine who is incredibly hurting. I wish I could make all the pain go away, and help in some sort of physical fashion, but I can't. What I can do is pray for you, which I will. I will pray that God upholds you with His right arm and gives you peace.
I know what it's like to have a broken heart. Mine has been broken many times. Love is truly and absolutely blind, but then when we get side-smacked with a bit of reality, the hurt seems to burn like fire. My "heart" or whatever that place is where we feel emotions, has felt that fire more than one time. It sears through, taking your breath away and feels like you must be dying. And you think that dying would be easier than bearing this pain. And in some ways it would be, I think. But you're not going to die, not yet, and eventually you'll get up and press on as we all do. Each heartache, each pain, makes us that much stronger in the end. Our pain is what helps us have compassion for others.
Being brokenhearted is not romantic nor poetic, although I've written many poems through my brokenness. Those poems were written in despair and depression and are a precise description of how I felt every time. Being brokenhearted is being broken - completely. And not understanding why this has happened. It breaks a person down to the very core of your being and you are left with a smoldering fire. But it's still smoldering. It flickers. There's still hope when you feel the most hopeless. Not hope for the thing that broke you. But hope because tomorrow is a new day, and little by little, that hope grows. Because the only thing that heals a broken heart is time.
I wrote this many years ago, but this is for you now, my friend:
it seems my breath is almost gone,
my life all torn apart.
You say you understand my grief
and feel my pain indeed,
but you are nowhere near me
when I cry myself to sleep.
He's ever-present in a crowd
and stays when all have gone.
He sees my tears and feels my pain
around my badly shattered heart
to shield me from more harm.
Jesus is the only One who mends
by love so great
that's been in place
the moment I was born.
I know what it's like to have a broken heart. Mine has been broken many times. Love is truly and absolutely blind, but then when we get side-smacked with a bit of reality, the hurt seems to burn like fire. My "heart" or whatever that place is where we feel emotions, has felt that fire more than one time. It sears through, taking your breath away and feels like you must be dying. And you think that dying would be easier than bearing this pain. And in some ways it would be, I think. But you're not going to die, not yet, and eventually you'll get up and press on as we all do. Each heartache, each pain, makes us that much stronger in the end. Our pain is what helps us have compassion for others.
Being brokenhearted is not romantic nor poetic, although I've written many poems through my brokenness. Those poems were written in despair and depression and are a precise description of how I felt every time. Being brokenhearted is being broken - completely. And not understanding why this has happened. It breaks a person down to the very core of your being and you are left with a smoldering fire. But it's still smoldering. It flickers. There's still hope when you feel the most hopeless. Not hope for the thing that broke you. But hope because tomorrow is a new day, and little by little, that hope grows. Because the only thing that heals a broken heart is time.
I wrote this many years ago, but this is for you now, my friend:
I can't believe the pain I feel
and hurt that seers my heart,it seems my breath is almost gone,
my life all torn apart.
You say you understand my grief
and feel my pain indeed,
but you are nowhere near me
when I cry myself to sleep.
There's only One Who truly understands
my loss of hope;He's ever-present in a crowd
and stays when all have gone.
around my badly shattered heart
to shield me from more harm.
by love so great
that's been in place
the moment I was born.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Back to Folly
My trip to Madison felt like a whirlwind as I tried to cram a lot of stuff into one week. Unfortunately, I only saw Donovan and Jade for about 15 minutes. I couldn't connect with Jason, so Naleen, his ex-wife, brought the kids to see me at Leah's. I really appreciated her doing that, because otherwise I wouldn't have seen them at all.
It was a good time. I saw some friends, got to my doctor appointments and spent time with Leah, Parris and Ashanti. Leah and I bought a blow-up mattress which Shanti and I slept on. It was a lot more comfortable than the couch. Except when I had to get up in the morning. That was an ordeal. I had to roll over onto the floor and get on my knees, then hold onto something sturdy and pull myself up. I felt like an elephant trying to get to a standing position. I'm sure it was a sight to behold.
The flights to and from Milwaukee were smooth and comfortable, and except for the people sitting in back of me, was enjoyable. I'm not one to talk to another person on the plane - I just want to go to sleep as it makes the flight shorter, and frankly, I don't feel socialable after downing Dramimine and my other drugs. But the flight going there, I had the most obnoxious people sitting in back of me. They talked so loud that I heard their whole conversation. I kept rolling my eyes and sighing and it was all I could handle as they expounded on every issue of life. Finally I fell asleep and blocked the rest of it out, but I kept waking up and falling back to sleep to the sound of their New York accents. I don't have anything against New Yorkers, but sometimes their accent is a little too much for me to take. For me, it's like a fingernail scratch on a blackboard. Very irritating and obnoxious. And they probably feel the same way about my Chicago accent. Da Bears.
Anyway, I got back safely home and noticed that there was very little food in the house. I had prepared a lot of food for them for when I was gone and the refrigerator was just about empty. So it was off to the grocery store with my mother in tow. First we had to stop at the pharmacy for our drugs. Then we went to Panera bread where they have the best bagels in town. Then we went to the grocery store and we each got an electric cart to drive. My mother still has a difficult time driving the thing. She crashes into displays and goes real slow - unrealistically slow - and I had to keep waiting for her to catch up to me. Finally we were done and I was in line to pay for the groceries when I couldn't believe my eyes. I looked up and my mother, with the help of a store employee, was getting out of the cart to step on the huge scale at the front of the store. I said, "Mom, what are you doing?" and she said, "Don't worry honey," and proceeded to get on the scale to weigh herself. I honestly couldn't believe she was doing that. We threw out the scale she had at home because when she fell the last time, it was because she was trying to step up on the scale. Then she yelled out to me, and to the whole store, "I weigh 117 pounds," with glee in her voice and a smile on her face. My mother is a freak about weight. Hers, mine and everyone else's in the world. I call her the "Weight Nazi."
My father fell the day I left and refused all week to go to the doctor or the hospital. He said, " I'll wait for Sharon to take me." Why? I don't know. I must have magical powers others don't have. In any event, I have to take my mom to her follow-up appointment with the surgeon tomorrow and my dad will come along with us, in hopes that this doctor will look at him too. He's had a whole week to do this, but wanted to wait until I returned. In the meantime, he's barely walking and his wrist is swollen. I'm just praying that he didn't break his hip. He will refuse to go to rehab, which means I'll have to deal with it, and that may put me over the edge.
It's really good to be back in Florida, with all the lunacy and absurd incidents that happen here. My parents are an unending resource for writing this blog.
It was a good time. I saw some friends, got to my doctor appointments and spent time with Leah, Parris and Ashanti. Leah and I bought a blow-up mattress which Shanti and I slept on. It was a lot more comfortable than the couch. Except when I had to get up in the morning. That was an ordeal. I had to roll over onto the floor and get on my knees, then hold onto something sturdy and pull myself up. I felt like an elephant trying to get to a standing position. I'm sure it was a sight to behold.
The flights to and from Milwaukee were smooth and comfortable, and except for the people sitting in back of me, was enjoyable. I'm not one to talk to another person on the plane - I just want to go to sleep as it makes the flight shorter, and frankly, I don't feel socialable after downing Dramimine and my other drugs. But the flight going there, I had the most obnoxious people sitting in back of me. They talked so loud that I heard their whole conversation. I kept rolling my eyes and sighing and it was all I could handle as they expounded on every issue of life. Finally I fell asleep and blocked the rest of it out, but I kept waking up and falling back to sleep to the sound of their New York accents. I don't have anything against New Yorkers, but sometimes their accent is a little too much for me to take. For me, it's like a fingernail scratch on a blackboard. Very irritating and obnoxious. And they probably feel the same way about my Chicago accent. Da Bears.
Anyway, I got back safely home and noticed that there was very little food in the house. I had prepared a lot of food for them for when I was gone and the refrigerator was just about empty. So it was off to the grocery store with my mother in tow. First we had to stop at the pharmacy for our drugs. Then we went to Panera bread where they have the best bagels in town. Then we went to the grocery store and we each got an electric cart to drive. My mother still has a difficult time driving the thing. She crashes into displays and goes real slow - unrealistically slow - and I had to keep waiting for her to catch up to me. Finally we were done and I was in line to pay for the groceries when I couldn't believe my eyes. I looked up and my mother, with the help of a store employee, was getting out of the cart to step on the huge scale at the front of the store. I said, "Mom, what are you doing?" and she said, "Don't worry honey," and proceeded to get on the scale to weigh herself. I honestly couldn't believe she was doing that. We threw out the scale she had at home because when she fell the last time, it was because she was trying to step up on the scale. Then she yelled out to me, and to the whole store, "I weigh 117 pounds," with glee in her voice and a smile on her face. My mother is a freak about weight. Hers, mine and everyone else's in the world. I call her the "Weight Nazi."
My father fell the day I left and refused all week to go to the doctor or the hospital. He said, " I'll wait for Sharon to take me." Why? I don't know. I must have magical powers others don't have. In any event, I have to take my mom to her follow-up appointment with the surgeon tomorrow and my dad will come along with us, in hopes that this doctor will look at him too. He's had a whole week to do this, but wanted to wait until I returned. In the meantime, he's barely walking and his wrist is swollen. I'm just praying that he didn't break his hip. He will refuse to go to rehab, which means I'll have to deal with it, and that may put me over the edge.
It's really good to be back in Florida, with all the lunacy and absurd incidents that happen here. My parents are an unending resource for writing this blog.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Fun and Games
So my dad had an appointment yesterday for minor surgery on his eye. We woke up late, about 6:30 and the appointment was at 7:00. I raced trying to get dressed and hurried him along as much as I could. We didn't get out of the house until 6:50 and I tried to speed, but the speed limit all around here is 30 or 35, and my dad is always reminding me that "This street is always patrolled," even though I've only seen a cop once or twice the whole time I've been here. So we finally get to the building where he told me it was at and I dropped my dad off first because we were late. I parked the car and went in after him, and saw him coming from the "Cardiac Department" ( he was told he was in the wrong area and there is this huge sign saying it was the "Cardiac" department), as he was taking the elevator to the second floor. I came up after him and I noticed that all the offices were dark and no one was around. He walked down the hall and thought he knew where he was going, but I sat down and called the number on the sheet he was given. We were in the wrong building and she told me that they were just "next door."
We drove "next door" and my dad got out and went in and I stayed in the car to see if it was the right building. It was, but it was the wrong door. So my dad got back in the car and we drove around this building and I dropped him off and I went to park. We got there around 7:35. There was a room full of people and we waited about 20 minutes when he was called in. The procedure took all of 5 minutes and we were on our way home. Never believe an old person when they tell you they "know where they're going." Politely say, "That's good," and do a Google search anyway.
I made a huge mistake and now I'm feeling really guilty, especially leaving so soon. My dad can't reach the trunk to close it so he always asks me to do it, and I totally spaced it last night. He was just in the garage and he turned the garage door opener on to get the garbage cans, but he was looking down and he smacked right into the garage door. It didn't go up because it got stuck from the trunk door. He was just shouting to me from the garage and I went out there and he was on the cement. He said he got knocked down from the door. I tried to pick him up but he wouldn't let me and he struggled for several minutes to hold on to a wheel chair to help himself up. He finally pulled himself up to a stand, holding onto the chair and I brought the garbage cans in. He's sitting in his chair now and he says his hand and hip hurts, as he fell on his butt. He said, "Wouldn't that be funny if I broke my hip too?" I said, "NO, not at all."
So now I am ready to go see my kids and grandkids and my dad will probably be pretty bruised up and hurting for several days. I only pray he didn't break anything. That would do us both in. And I feel guilty because I didn't close the trunk. What a parting gift.
So I need to just take a deep breath and keep on going. I'll be back all too soon and will resume the fun and games in Florida. I never knew how entertaining my parents could be. They weren't this fun when I was a kid. But then, neither was I...
We drove "next door" and my dad got out and went in and I stayed in the car to see if it was the right building. It was, but it was the wrong door. So my dad got back in the car and we drove around this building and I dropped him off and I went to park. We got there around 7:35. There was a room full of people and we waited about 20 minutes when he was called in. The procedure took all of 5 minutes and we were on our way home. Never believe an old person when they tell you they "know where they're going." Politely say, "That's good," and do a Google search anyway.
I made a huge mistake and now I'm feeling really guilty, especially leaving so soon. My dad can't reach the trunk to close it so he always asks me to do it, and I totally spaced it last night. He was just in the garage and he turned the garage door opener on to get the garbage cans, but he was looking down and he smacked right into the garage door. It didn't go up because it got stuck from the trunk door. He was just shouting to me from the garage and I went out there and he was on the cement. He said he got knocked down from the door. I tried to pick him up but he wouldn't let me and he struggled for several minutes to hold on to a wheel chair to help himself up. He finally pulled himself up to a stand, holding onto the chair and I brought the garbage cans in. He's sitting in his chair now and he says his hand and hip hurts, as he fell on his butt. He said, "Wouldn't that be funny if I broke my hip too?" I said, "NO, not at all."
So now I am ready to go see my kids and grandkids and my dad will probably be pretty bruised up and hurting for several days. I only pray he didn't break anything. That would do us both in. And I feel guilty because I didn't close the trunk. What a parting gift.
So I need to just take a deep breath and keep on going. I'll be back all too soon and will resume the fun and games in Florida. I never knew how entertaining my parents could be. They weren't this fun when I was a kid. But then, neither was I...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
A Grandma Who is Loved
I woke up the other day to the noise of what sounded like banging on a table. I asked what was going on and my mom said dad was trying to open the relish jar. I called in the other room and told my dad to just give me the jar and I would try to open it. My dad handed it to my mom and my mom handed it to me and I saw that the plastic was still wrapped around the top. They couldn't get it open because the plastic was sealed around the top.
It's this kind of frolic and games that we play in the Schwartz household. Except they're not playing. I have to laugh, but I do so quietly, because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Sometimes I roll my eyes, sometimes I just shake my head and sometimes I sigh really big. I do a lot of sighing.
Tonight, we needed more napkins at the table. You wouldn't believe how many napkins are used in this house. My dad goes through about 10 at each meal. He has to wipe his face several times and then he has to blow his nose a few times. He ends up with a little, neat pile of napkins next to his plate, that get thrown in "his" garbage basket at the end of the meal. Somehow, Kita got ahold of one of those napkins and chewed it to pieces, while my dad sat swearing at her because she made a mess. I just left the room with my dog and closed my door. I figured he could clean it up.
I can tell I need a vacation from all of this craziness. It's way overdue, but I'm going "home" in two days and I can't wait. I miss my kids and my grandkids terribly and I need to talk with people who can hear me and not have to repeat myself over and over. When I get back, I'm going to find a hearing doctor and make an appointment for both of them. I'm sure they both need hearing aids.
My suitcase is packed and sitting on my bed. The last minute stuff I have to pack I will do on Friday, because my flight is in the evening. I will be waiting patiently for Danny, who will be taking me to the airport and we'll probably laugh the whole way there, talking about the antics that go on in this household. He is the only one who truly understands what I write about, as he "lived" it too.
My parents have graciously agreed to watch Kita while I'm gone. I'll only be gone a week, but I would rather have her here with them, then with strangers I don't know. I hope she behaves for them. She whines and watches the door when I leave and is very distracted until I get home. I hope she settles in for them, or I will hear it from my father when I get home. I'll probably hear it anyway. He likes to complain, just to complain.
Which brings me to Sunday. The pastor preached an excellent message on being positive and keeping negativity out of your life. I tend to be a negative person and I hate that. Seriously, I wish I was more positive and looked at things with more optimism. I tend to blame the way I was raised on my personality, but that can't be all of it. True, my father is Mr. Negative of the Year, but my mom has always been Ms. Optimism of the Year. They are truly two exact opposite individuals. My brothers and I take more after my dad than my mom, which is unfortunate. My dad has some awesome qualities, like his sense of humor, his laugh and his business sense. But it's my mom who is gentle, quiet and generally positive. She never liked quarreling and it used to drive me crazy when I was young, because she would never stand up to my dad. But that's just not in her makeup.
As much as I point out my parents' weird idiosyncracies (I have no idea if I spelled that right or not), and all of the craziness that goes on in this household, I really do love them very much. Unfortunately, it always wasn't that way for me and I regret that now. I wasted a lot of time being angry with them and resenting the way I was raised, which now I find so silly. As a parent, we all do what we think is right, one way or the other, and it's usually Russian ruolette. I can read a million books on parenting, and that will never help me be a parent. You have to live it and make mistakes and learn and love and even ask your kids to forgive you every now and then. Just because I'm the mom, doesn't always make me right. I learned that early on, and although it was hard to do, I have had to apologize to my kids more than one time. The bottom line, is you do the best you can with what you have and lean on God for the rest. He always makes up the difference.
And now I am a grandmother and I absolutely love it. It's the best. I asked Shanti if she was going to sleep next to me when I am there, and she said, "Of course." There was no thinking about it on her part. And the thing is, she will have to sleep on the floor because I will be sleeping on the couch. But she will get her little blankets and pillow and camp out right next to grandma because she loves me. Love that is pure. Love that doesn't have to think about the answer to the question because it's never a question. And when I see Donovan and Jade, they will come running to me like I never left. Like I'm this soft, cuddly person who they can hug and I'll hug back. And of course give lots of kisses to until they giggle over and over and over.
I love being a grandma who is loved.
It's this kind of frolic and games that we play in the Schwartz household. Except they're not playing. I have to laugh, but I do so quietly, because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Sometimes I roll my eyes, sometimes I just shake my head and sometimes I sigh really big. I do a lot of sighing.
Tonight, we needed more napkins at the table. You wouldn't believe how many napkins are used in this house. My dad goes through about 10 at each meal. He has to wipe his face several times and then he has to blow his nose a few times. He ends up with a little, neat pile of napkins next to his plate, that get thrown in "his" garbage basket at the end of the meal. Somehow, Kita got ahold of one of those napkins and chewed it to pieces, while my dad sat swearing at her because she made a mess. I just left the room with my dog and closed my door. I figured he could clean it up.
I can tell I need a vacation from all of this craziness. It's way overdue, but I'm going "home" in two days and I can't wait. I miss my kids and my grandkids terribly and I need to talk with people who can hear me and not have to repeat myself over and over. When I get back, I'm going to find a hearing doctor and make an appointment for both of them. I'm sure they both need hearing aids.
My suitcase is packed and sitting on my bed. The last minute stuff I have to pack I will do on Friday, because my flight is in the evening. I will be waiting patiently for Danny, who will be taking me to the airport and we'll probably laugh the whole way there, talking about the antics that go on in this household. He is the only one who truly understands what I write about, as he "lived" it too.
My parents have graciously agreed to watch Kita while I'm gone. I'll only be gone a week, but I would rather have her here with them, then with strangers I don't know. I hope she behaves for them. She whines and watches the door when I leave and is very distracted until I get home. I hope she settles in for them, or I will hear it from my father when I get home. I'll probably hear it anyway. He likes to complain, just to complain.
Which brings me to Sunday. The pastor preached an excellent message on being positive and keeping negativity out of your life. I tend to be a negative person and I hate that. Seriously, I wish I was more positive and looked at things with more optimism. I tend to blame the way I was raised on my personality, but that can't be all of it. True, my father is Mr. Negative of the Year, but my mom has always been Ms. Optimism of the Year. They are truly two exact opposite individuals. My brothers and I take more after my dad than my mom, which is unfortunate. My dad has some awesome qualities, like his sense of humor, his laugh and his business sense. But it's my mom who is gentle, quiet and generally positive. She never liked quarreling and it used to drive me crazy when I was young, because she would never stand up to my dad. But that's just not in her makeup.
As much as I point out my parents' weird idiosyncracies (I have no idea if I spelled that right or not), and all of the craziness that goes on in this household, I really do love them very much. Unfortunately, it always wasn't that way for me and I regret that now. I wasted a lot of time being angry with them and resenting the way I was raised, which now I find so silly. As a parent, we all do what we think is right, one way or the other, and it's usually Russian ruolette. I can read a million books on parenting, and that will never help me be a parent. You have to live it and make mistakes and learn and love and even ask your kids to forgive you every now and then. Just because I'm the mom, doesn't always make me right. I learned that early on, and although it was hard to do, I have had to apologize to my kids more than one time. The bottom line, is you do the best you can with what you have and lean on God for the rest. He always makes up the difference.
And now I am a grandmother and I absolutely love it. It's the best. I asked Shanti if she was going to sleep next to me when I am there, and she said, "Of course." There was no thinking about it on her part. And the thing is, she will have to sleep on the floor because I will be sleeping on the couch. But she will get her little blankets and pillow and camp out right next to grandma because she loves me. Love that is pure. Love that doesn't have to think about the answer to the question because it's never a question. And when I see Donovan and Jade, they will come running to me like I never left. Like I'm this soft, cuddly person who they can hug and I'll hug back. And of course give lots of kisses to until they giggle over and over and over.
I love being a grandma who is loved.
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