Riveredge Hospital Part 2

I began to write poetry during the time I spent in the hospital.  I would sit in my room and look out the huge window that overlooked the Des Plaines River and I would think a lot about life, God, death and the meaning of it all.  I’ve always had to “figure everything out” and I’m still that way.  It frustrates me when things don’t make sense.
 

I made many friends in the hospital.  In fact, funny as it may seem, I was popular in the mental hospital, which certainly says something about my personality.  I was the “head” of a gang that would go after girls who were picking on other kids, and would threaten them if they didn’t stop.  I wouldn’t tolerate anyone like that and made it very clear to the others on the ward. 

 

Back in those days, contrary to today, the workers they hired who were not medical personnel, were definitely not qualified to be in those positions.  One worker, who we called “Hambone” brought us liquor and drugs on an ongoing basis.  He was always high, in fact, when he came to work.  Another worker, was always having sex with the girls on our ward.  He once came on to me, but I didn’t trust him, so I didn’t let him get any further. 

My temper was so uncontrollable back then, that they had to put me in the “quiet room” which was solitary confinement, strap me down to the bed and shoot me up with Thorazine, a powerful tranquilizer that actually knocked me out until late the next day.  When I finally came to, it was like a real bad hangover and lasted for a couple days.  They did that to me a few times when I lost my temper.  It was such a drag, so I learned to put a lid on my anger, for the most part. 

One of the girls on the ward who was in there because she was pregnant and using drugs, had a boyfriend who brought us liquor one day and we got very drunk in her room.  I ended up vomiting all over the bathroom.  She told me her father had sex with sheep on his farm and I thought she was kidding until I found out it was really true.  And she was the one in the mental hospital? What a weird world, and the older I was getting, the weirder it became.  One boy was a schizophrenic who drew pictures of faces inside of faces inside of eyeballs, on and on in such detail.  He was really an excellent artist, but very disturbed.  One boy considered himself a “white witch,” and was strung out on drugs.  Most of the kids there were either on drugs, suicidal or really mentally ill. 

I took my whole junior year of high school at the hospital, but cheated most of the way through it, as the teacher of our very small class didn’t pay much attention.  We were required to attend “group therapy” in which a large group of us sat in a circle and told, or yelled, at each other how we felt about ourselves and others.  It was always a very intense situation, and some people even had physical fights during these sessions. 

One positive thing I did acquire during my stay in the hospital, was to acknowledge my feelings and emotions and to express myself to others.  I also learned to listen and to listen with my “heart,” which I still consider to be most important of all.  I learned to “see beyond” what another person was saying -- see the intent rather than what was being said, as many times is totally different.  In other words, I learned a lot about people in this place, which has helped me tremendously during the course of my life.  However, the purpose I was admitted there in the first place, was not resolved until many years later. 

My mother had me come home on a pass for my 16th birthday, and she had a surprise party for me with a few of my friends.  We had a lot of fun that day, in the basement of our home, carrying on the way teenagers do.  My friends all pitched in and bought me a wonderful picture book of Andrew Wyeth’s prints, which I loved.  My parents had purchased a German Short-Haired Pointer puppy around that same time, named him “Satan” of all things, and he eventually lived up to his name, becoming a very mean and ornery dog.  I loved him and would talk to him like a person all the time.  I guess I felt like he understood me on some level, where no one else obviously did.

When my parents came to visit me, I treated them terribly and hurried through the visit as I didn’t want to be with them.  One time, my mother had come to do my laundry, and I saw her briefly in the laundry room and made a snide comment to her and walked away with a group of kids.  I realized I shouldn’t have said what I had said, and returned to the laundry room, only to see her with her head in her hands weeping.  I said nothing, turned around and walked away, but I never forgot the way I felt that day.  I wanted so much to apologize to her, but for some reason, couldn’t bring myself to do it.  To this day I don’t know why I hated my mother so much, and I have no explanation for the way I treated her.  I guess I felt like she was never “there” for me the way I wished she would be, and so I closed myself off from her.  Even today, we have awkward moments because our relationship has always been a bit estranged, but it is getting better since I've been down here and working so close with them.  God has a way of healing relationships when you put forth the effort and let Him.

My experience in the hospital is one in which I will never forget.  I learned a lot about myself.  I learned how to love deeply and I learned how to be honest with myself.  I learned that life is a total drag in a lot of ways, but there were so many good, caring, and honest people to get to know, that it made the difference between living and dying for me.  The most beneficial thing I learned during this time, was the monumental importance relationships were in my life.  That revelation would be the precursor to my evolving relationship with God.

Riveredge Hospital Part 1

My dad and I got into an argument this morning; not the kind we used to have - big blow outs with guns drawn - but a small one, as we are both pretty pig-headed, but more mellow now.  No one won but that's okay; we both spoke our opinion, rather loudly, and sometimes you just have to do that: blow off steam and give your unsolicited opinion as we both tend to do.  And then we carry on like it never happened.  "What do you want for lunch, dad?"  "Uh, I'm really not hungry right now."  "Ok," and I continued to work on my laptop.

I've thought a lot about temperament and how one releases their frustrations or anger and I've come to the conclusion that it's far better, in most cases, to express how you feel (hopefully in a mature way), rather than keeping it all inside.  When you keep emotions inside like that, they seem to fester and one day, they will eventually come out one way or the other.  My feeling is that it's better to let it out now, deal with it and move on.  Of course not everyone shares in my philosophy.  And not everything should be said out loud.  Like I wouldn't tell a friend who's having a bad day that "You're a lousy friend and right now I really can't stand you."  I may think it, but it wouldn't prove beneficial to me or them if I spoke it.  My father and I argued about his grandchildren and I felt he was totally wrong, so we both voiced our opinions with zeal, but then we were both able to move on from there after we finished.  I think people who hold back on expressing their feelings, get sick or depressed or angry and then that could turn into bitterness.  That is my psychological opinion for the day.

I do actually have quite a lot of experience in the psychological realm, as it were.  I was a pretty screwed up kid, did a lot of drugs and drinking and was very angry and depressed.  (No, I didn't repress my feelings; I was very verbal about how I felt, so I was an exception to the rule about what I said above.)  During the summer of my sophomore year, my parents took me to a psychiatrist who turned me off immediately.  He tried his best to talk to me but I trusted no one and I certainly wasn’t going to pour my heart out to some old, Jewish guy who thought he knew all about me.  He had a condescending manner about him that just aggravated the situation, and I was, to put it mildly, very rude and obnoxious to him.  I cussed him out and would not cooperate with all his little tests he wanted me to complete.  (I told him his ink blots looked like ink blots.)   At the end of our session, he informed my parents that I needed to be immediately put into a psychiatric hospital, otherwise he feared I would kill myself.  I really didn’t think they’d do it, but the following week I found myself in the Intensive Care Unit of Riveredge Hospital, a psychiatric hospital in Forest Park, Illinois.

I was 15 years old when I was admitted to Riveredge.  Everyone that is first admitted goes to ICU, then placed in a different ward, if you behave.  I remember the first evening I was there, a worker who eventually became my friend (I used to draw his hands), locked my door behind him and left me alone in my room.  It was a very creepy feeling.  All that was in the room was a bed and a little table.  I remember looking out the window and crying, but not really knowing what I was crying about -- I just didn’t have the desire to live anymore. 

ICU was an interesting ward.  When I thought of being in a hospital, I thought of lying around all day watching TV or something.  On the contrary!!  The nurses on this ward must have come from the Army because they ran the ward like an army troop!  They woke us up early in the morning, and from the time we were up until the time we went to bed, we were on a strict schedule, which included cleaning, schoolwork, therapy and quiet time.  On this ward, there was NO PHYSICAL CONTACT as they yelled out occasionally to remind those of us who forgot.  They assigned me a “shrink” who I considered a real idiot, and would not cooperate with.  They tried switching shrinks on me several times, but there wasn’t one I liked or would trust.  There was one teenage boy on this ward, who would stay there probably the rest of his life because he had “fried” his brain on acid and he had no idea what was happening around him.  There was an autistic boy, Charles, about 8 or 9, who I grew to love on this ward.  I didn’t know what autism was, I just felt like he needed someone to love him, so I did.  Back in those days, kids or people who had disorders like autism were placed in psychiatric hospitals because they didn't have a clue how to treat them.

One time, another teenage girl called one of the female workers a “nigger” and when I heard it, I came flying out of my room to beat her up.  In the process, I slammed my finger in the door and they had to take me to the emergency room to get it stitched up.  Mrs. Tolbert, who this kid called a nigger, calmly ignored her which made me even angrier.  I couldn’t understand why she didn’t slap her up or something.  Mrs. Tolbert rebuked me and scolded me instead of her for losing my temper and reacting in such an immature way.  She explained that it’s inappropriate to act that way toward people, and that you can’t change them, but you certainly can control yourself and the way you respond to others.  I learned a valuable lesson that day, and the scar I still have on my finger, which is now arthritic, is a constant reminder of that.

After awhile, I learned how to “get around” on this small ward, and do the things that would eventually move me to the adolescent ward where all the kids wanted to be.  The shrink had me on Valium, I guess because he thought I was too volatile.  That was ok with me, because I would save them up and then take several at one time and get high -- right there on the ward.  During “group therapy” we would toss a medicine ball back and forth to one another (which was a big, leather, very heavy ball), and I would try to deck the girl who called Mrs. Tolbert a nigger.  Back then, I was very strong (from my tomboy days) and that combined with the pent-up anger inside, I had the ability to do some damage.  I couldn’t stand her, and I tried my best to nail her, although I couldn’t get very far with workers and nurses constantly watching every move I made. 

I finally “earned” my way off of ICU and was relocated to the adolescent ward, which was much more relaxed and without all the rules and schedules I had to abide by before.  I had a larger room, with a roommate and our own bathroom.  There was a large “dayroom” in the center of the ward, where there was a TV, pool table and card tables.  I became a very good pool player, as well as proficient at Pinochle.  I stayed on this ward the remainder of the time, (with the exception of a short period of time that I relapsed and was sent back up to ICU) and I was in the hospital for approximately 10 months.  It got to the point that I was having so much fun, I didn’t want to leave. 

Hair and Borsht

So I noticed yesterday, that my mom is growing a pretty heavy mustache.  Yikes.  That's what I have to look forward to at that age.  I wanted to take a razor and shave it off for her, but alas, none was around. She probably wouldn't be too keen on me doing that anyway.  This hair thing is crazy.  She's growing a mustache and I'm growing a goatee.  Tell me it's not true!  What did we do to deserve this?  I mean, we've been females all our lives, so why does this have to change now?  Is it part of the curse or just God's sense of humor?  Probably neither; more than likely, it's our ridiculous hormones, and the older you get, the more hair you grow (uh, not in all places though).  Men don't have weird changes in their bodies like we do, do they?  Well, maybe I don't want to know the answer to that. 

In any event, I pluck each long brown hair, and some of them are actually gray to further mock me.  I guess I need to find someone who waxes all this stuff off, because I don't want to walk around with a mustache and a goatee.  I mean, gravity has taken ahold of the rest of my body, so give me a break here.  Pretty soon everything will be hanging down where they once were standing at attention; I don't want facial hair to add insult to injury.  On the other hand, the hair on my head keeps getting thinner and shorter each day. It all comes out in my brush and I quietly freak out because I don't want to be bald when I'm 60.  I guess I could order some wigs from Paula Young just in case, but why can't the hair be growing on my head instead of my chin?  Speaking of hair, I saw a chain that was made a few hundred years ago, of human hair, attached to a small picture as a momento, on Antiques Roadshow.  I suppose I could braid up all the hair that comes off my brush, but then who would want it? 

I watched as the nurse changed my mother's dressing from the surgery.  Boy, I, in no way, could have been a nurse.  It totally grossed me out.  I mean, there are actual staples holding her skin together - staples like you use at the office.  These are heavy duty ones, I'm sure - but staples nonetheless.  So I can see the doctor tell the nurse, "Stapler, please," and she hands him (or her) a stapler they just picked up from Office Depot, and he begins to staple her skin together like a 30-page report.  And I guess when her skin heals shut like it's supposed to, the doctor goes in there with a giant staple puller and yanks them out.  They probably have to take a clerical class in med school to do this daunting task.  The whole thing blows my mind.

Tonight when we visited mom, her roommate had visitors.  She's from New Jersey and her sons came to visit her.  I thought Chicago people were loud.  These people were obnoxiously loud.  They probably drive crazier than Chicago drivers too.  I want to go to New Jersey one day because the Cake Boss has his shop in Hoboken, New Jersey and I really want to visit there.  I want to order all kinds of Italian baked goodies that I've seen him and his crew bake on his show.  I could never work in a place like that - I would become the Goodyear Blimp - but boy, would it be fun.  Baked treats are definitely my downfall - that and pasta.  And rice.  And ice cream.  And, well, I guess just about everything except liver, tongue and borsht.

When we were comin' up, my mother would make liver or tongue and force us to eat borsht - which is beet soup.  Some little Jewish bubbe (grandma) long ago, in some faraway place perhaps sat down one day and said, "Oh! Some beets I have here. Soup we should make out of them!" (And it's been a staple in Jewish homes ever since.)  I gagged on the borsht and refused to eat it until she finally relented and didn't make me finish it.  And when I found out that liver was a real cow's liver and that tongue was actually his tongue, it grossed me out so much that no punishment would get me to eat them.  Back in those days, you ate everything on your plate, and my mother would announce, "This is not a restaurant," so you couldn't get any substitutions.  If you didn't eat it, you didn't eat.  Period.  There were plenty of nights I went to bed hungry, because of the weird dishes she made or just the way my mom cooked the meal.  She doesn't believe in salt or salted seasonings, so BLAH would be a good way to describe her cooking.  In the past several years, she's done very little cooking, which is a good thing because then my dad won't expect much from me.  And I've been putting it off, but I have yet to figure out what's for dinner tonight, so I should probably go and stare into the freezer for some inspiration...

The 60's

I had a hard time falling asleep the other night, and memories flooded my mind.  The brain is an amazing machine.  It can take you to the furthest reaches of your mind and makes it feel like you're re-living the experience.  Sometimes that's good; sometimes, not so good.

I went to Thomas Edison Elementary School in Morton Grove, Kindergarten through 7th grade.  I must have had bad feet when I was little, because my mother made me wear black and white “saddle shoes” which I hated, and all the other kids would make fun of.  In those days, the girls had to wear skirts or dresses to school -- never slacks.  In fact, it wasn’t until I was a freshman in high school that they changed that dress code and began allowing the girls to wear pants to school. 

A teacher I remember at this school was Mr. Johnson, who my brothers and I all had for 5th grade.  His breath always smelled of coffee, he wore a crew cut (which my brothers always had to wear also), and he had this weird enjoyment of making me write definitions out of the dictionary like “run,” when I was caught talking or something equally annoying to him.  Unwittingly, I would actually write the whole definition out of the dictionary (not realizing he couldn’t possibly be checking it), as it is a really long definition -- and I would make sure I would get every comma, semi-colon and period correct.  How ridiculous.  That never did stop me from talking when I wasn’t supposed to.

Mrs. Stephens, my third grade teacher, used to tape our mouths shut with masking tape, when we were caught talking or laughing.  Sometimes, she would pass us by at our desks and spray us with water, or slap our hands with a ruler.  I remember vividly being in her class when the principal made an announcement over the loudspeaker that someone had just shot President John F. Kennedy.  Mrs. Stephens began to cry and we all just sat there feeling numb and not knowing what to do.  The school then sent everyone home early that day, and when I got home, the news of the assassination was on television, with actual footage of the president being shot. 

It seemed that the whole country was in a state of shock.  I remember seeing on television, Lee Harvey Oswald, who was the accused assassin, being whisked through a group of officers and FBI personnel, and all of a sudden Jack Ruby reached out in front of everyone and shot and killed Oswald.  It was so strange that it was actually captured on television.  Of course Ruby was then apprehended, but I don’t recall what happened to him after that.  It was like total bedlam.  It seemed like the whole country stopped what they were doing for this, and the tremendous funeral which would follow.  I remember trying not to cry, watching the president’s son, John, a little boy, standing on the steps of the White House, waving good-bye to his father as the hearse drove slowly in the procession.  It was very sad.

Soon after that, Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered and I remember my dad telling my mother something about the fact that “the blacks” will be in an uproar because of it -- and sure enough, riots broke out all over the United States because of his murder.  It was a time of racial tension anyway, but that just added fuel to the fire.  I remember feeling very angry and not understanding why a man would kill another man because of the color of his skin.  I never have figured that out, except to reason that people are basically evil, without the power of the Holy Ghost in their lives, anything is possible.

Looking back on it now, it seemed that hell let loose all its demon spirits to cause havoc on an already confused world.  The war in Vietnam was very ugly -- “hippies” protested against it and the servicemen who fought there felt like they had to defend themselves as well as their country. It was soon after that, that Robert Kennedy was also murdered, and again the country went into shock -- three famous people being murdered during the space of a short period of time. The 1960’s and 70’s were a strange, turbulent time. Rebellion and drugs were promoted and “the establishment” was scorned. My brother Richard was drafted during that time, but never did have to go to Vietnam, which I’m sure he was thankful for.  Night after night, on the evening news, graphic footage of the war was televised, forcing a portion of this tragedy directly into our living rooms.  No matter what one’s views were about the war, it was clear that countless human beings were tortured, suffered and died as a result.  If there was a positive resolution for the meaning of this war, I have yet to hear what it was.....

Despite the fact we owned a television, my mother did not allow us to watch it very often.  She referred to it as “the box” and would only let us watch certain programs at certain times.  I remember when I desperately wanted to watch the television premier of “The Wizard of Oz,” (even though the witch scared me to death and I always closed my eyes when she appeared on the screen), but that same evening, Ed Sullivan was to have the "Beatles," a new singing group from England, on his show, and my mother insisted on watching them!  I was so disgusted.  As we sat there and watched them, all I could think of was “big deal.”  They didn’t do a thing for me at the time, but that’s probably because I was such a “tomboy.”  No doubt my father made snide comments about them, as I’m sure to him they looked like “sissies.”  Any boy with hair longer than an inch was too feminine for him!  Young women were actually screaming and crying in the studio audience, reaching out to touch these guys!  It wasn’t until a few years later that I understood the reason for all that, although rock stars never had that same affect on me...

Sticks and Stones

The pool was wonderful, as usual.  As I moved around, I remembered when I was a freshman in high school.  I joined a group of swimmers that made pictures in the water - water synchronization.  It was called Aqua Sprites.  I loved to swim so this fit perfectly with what I thought I wanted to do.  We prepared hard for the program coming up.  It looked easy, but it wasn't.  It took a lot of strength as well as flexibility and gracefulness in the water.  My mom came to see the program and I was proud she was in the audience.  We started the program, the bleachers were filled and it went really well.  During the middle of our routine, I happened to look up into the bleachers and there were two high school boys pointing at me and laughing.  At one point, they actually yelled out something about how fat I was and kept laughing.  I don't know if my mom heard or saw it, but I did.  I was mortified, but kept swimming the routine, even though I wanted to go under the water and never come back up.  When we were done, I left there feeling so crushed because instead of watching what I was doing which was incredibly difficult, they were laughing and making fun of me.  The ironic thing is that I really wasn't fat - I wasn't thin, but I had a strong body because I was tomboy when I was young.  I never forgot that, and it's been over 40 years ago.  Some things really stick with you, for good or bad.  My mom used to say, "Sticks and stones may break your bones but names will never hurt you."  That's simply not true.  Sometimes names hurt more than any stick or stone. 

I'm learning a lot from the Military Channel!  My dad narrates each show and he also reminices about his term in the Marines.  He told me tonight that he was thrown in the brig for a week, and I can believe it!  He was a wild young man.  He told me that he was in a Jewish gang when he was a teenager because the non-Jews would kick them out of the parks where they grew up.  They lived in Humboldt Park in Chicago.  So, my dad being a rabble-rouser, was part of a gang that fought the non-Jews.  He also told me he was expelled from high school because he pushed a teacher out of anger.  I think I get my temperament from him. 

I was a tomboy growing up and would go every day, rain or shine, to Austin Park, to play basketball, softball, football or ice skating in the winter.  I lived at that park.  I would go there early in the morning during the summer, and wouldn’t come home until suppertime, and then go back again after supper.  I would head up there after school and join in with the other “guys” who were already there.  The boys were generally older than I and seemed to tolerate my presence, even though I was a girl.  I actually got very good at basketball and used to beat them in games we would play, and they included me as “one of the guys.”  I had a “crush” on a couple of the boys at the park, but never let them know it, as it even embarrassed me; and truthfully, it was more fun just to be there and play sports than to have their individual attention as a “girl.”

My dad and I picked up dinner and a little cake and brought it to the nursing home tonight. It's my parents' 62nd anniversary today and I thought we should have a little celebration. My mom looked good tonight. She's on a stronger med and I think that it's helping her move a little easier. Hopefully now she'll be able to help herself get up and do more in physical therapy. I know she wants to come home, but she has to be able to help herself up because I can't lift her. When that happens, I think she'll be ready.

My mom asked me to take a little old lady home from the nursing home before we ate. Her name was Beulah and she was 99 years old. I always find it amazing to talk to someone who is so old. I can't imagine living that long. She must have seen a whole lot in her lifetime. I have a lot of respect for the elderly - they've been through things we can only imagine and I believe they deserve our honor and respect.

Today was a good day - a peaceful day, even remembering about the past.  The older I get, the more I think about the past, which I suppose is natural.  I think as we get old, like perhaps Beulah, we reflect on our memories more than anything else - we rely on them.  That's probably why my dad can remember what happened to him 70 years ago, but has a hard time remembering what he did yesterday.

Emotions

My mom called this morning,  She's in a great deal of pain and now she has bed sores.  I called her primary doctor and asked him if he would increase her pain meds and let him know about the bed sores.  I guess that's par for the course, but it infuriated my dad - he was so angry, I thought he was going to cry.  But I haven't seen him cry since my Papa died in 1975.  He just doesn't cry.  But he gets angry - his anger shows his emotions, both sad and angry.  Emotions are strange.  When I get really angry or furious - I begin to cry.  That seems like a strange response, but perhaps they're closely related.  I remember one time that I was so happy and thankful, I actully started crying.  Humans are so intricately made, that just examining our emotions, besides the complexity of our bodies, makes me wonder why anyone in their right mind would believe in evolution.  It doesn't make sense, and as Judge Judy says, "If it doesn't make sense, it's not true."

I love Judge Judy!  I miss watching her, but she's on around the time I'm either in the pool or visiting my mom.  She says it like it is - sometimes too harshly - but nails it right on the head.  Another judge show that I like watching is Judge Marilyn Milian.  She is younger than Judy, but she makes it plain as well.  My favorite quote that she says is, "Quit whining (or grow up) and get your big boy pants on."  I love that quote!  I can't wait to use it!

I burnt the grilled cheese sandwiches I made for lunch today.  I put them in a small pan and the margarine I use is DIET, so it doesn't melt good like genuine butter or margarine.  And so they burnt and stuck to the pan and I had to do it all over.  I asked my dad if he would eat them like that and he said, "Uh, probably not." So I told him I'd make another batch.  I pulled the onions and tomatoes out of each to put on the new sandwiches and turned the fan on to get rid of all the smoke.  What a mess.

The pool water was really warm today - it was a maCHia.  (Remember, it's like the sound before you spit.)  My mother would say that the pool was like "pish water."  Pish is another Yiddish word for pee.  So the question is, did my mother ever FEEL pee pee?  I don't know, but I grew up with her saying that when the water for our bath was nice and warm.  I think it was just another one of those phrases passed down through Jewish mother generations, however, I don't remember if I ever used it myself.

It may seem that I make fun of my Jewish heritage, but I'm really not.  I appreciate it more now than I did when I was younger, for sure.  In fact, when I was a kid, I would lie and tell people that I was half Christian because that seemed better to me than being a whole Jew.  I would tell them that my father was Jewish (because of my name - Schwartz), but my mother was a Christian.  In fact, I was embarrassed about my heritage until I became an adult, and even sometimes now I get a little uncomfortable if the topic is brought up around non-Jews, or "Gentiles," as Jews call them.  I just think now that it is such a rich heritage and hilarious vocabulary, that it's worth writing about.  I get a kick out of hearing from my dad who is Jewish.  I enjoy all the memories of my childhood and remembering my grandma Esther as the typical, cariacature of the Jewish mother.  She was illiterate from Russia, and spoke backwards:  "Grandma, how do you feel today?"  "Oy, such a pain in the neck you should have."  Unfortunately, I didn't appreciate it growing up, but I'm learning how to appreciate it more today.   I think that can be said about most of us.  We don't fully appreciate our upbringing or parents or heritage until we get older.  I'm really thankful that I have this chance to be with my parents now when they need me, as it wasn't always this way.  I'm embarrassed to say that I haven't been the daughter to them I should have been all these years.  Perhaps now I can somehow make it up to them...

Butterfingers and Klondike Bars

I love a lot of aspects of the swimming pool, but by far the best part of being in the pool is the fact that I have absolutely no pain in my body when in the water.  I can stand straight up for hours if need be, my knees feel fine, my back feels great, my hands don't fall asleep - it's wonderful.  I feel like a young person again.  It's a "machia" (pleasure) as my mother would say, although I know I spelled that wrong.  When you pronounce this, you have to say the "ch" with a gutteral sound - like when you gargle.  Hard to explain in writing...

The clouds floated slowly by this afternoon, as I floated slowly in the pool.  I saw many different faces in the clouds and it reminded me of when I was a kid.  In the summertime, I would lay on the grass at the park by my house and make pictures out of the clouds that passed overhead and thought a lot about life and God.  It was about that same time that I started wondering what happens when a person dies, which put a great deal of fear into my heart and mind.  I don’t remember talking about it with anyone, as my parents were never really “there” for me, emotionally.  I don’t think they had the slightest idea of how to really communicate with us.  But I suppose it’s just a vicious circle, because I’m sure their parents were the same, if not worse.  I remember saying “prayers” to God as I laid in my bed at night, crossing myself as I saw people do in movies.  In my own childish way, I was trying to communicate with a God I believed in, but wasn’t taught how to do so by anyone, so I made it up as I went along.  For some reason, I hid the fact that I was “praying” and was very quiet so my mother would not hear; and when she happened to come into my room to tuck me in, I quickly stopped and pretended like I was sleeping.  I had the idea that she would have thought it foolish to be doing what I was doing, and so I kept it to myself.

My dad has been talking a lot to me lately.  He reminicises about his childhood or what he and my mom have done over the years.  He told me today that his grandpa was a very gentle man who was a blacksmith by trade.  My dad was his favorite, as he was the first-born grandchild, and of course, a boy.  My dad's dad, my papa, was a very gentle man as well.  I loved my papa and I think I was his favorite, although that was never said.  Before my papa died of colon cancer, in 1975, I went to visit him at the nursing home and I still remember what he said to me.  He had icy-blue eyes and when he talked, he spoke very slow.  He told me that I had beautiful hair, and that I should never cut my hair no matter who says otherwise.  I thought at the time it was a strange thing to say, but I'll always remember it.  I miss my Papa still...

My mom looked really good today.  She was sitting up in the wheelchair and actually took a few steps in physical therapy.  I'm hoping she'll be able to come home within a few weeks.  And then when she comes home, I'll have to get rid of my candy stash!  God forbid she goes in my room and sees the miniature Butterfingers I have stashed in there!  I'd never hear the end of it!  When we were kids, my mother would always "look" at me when I was about to indulge in something fattening, with the look that says, "Now you really don't need that, do you?"  I would try to ignore her, but her stare could pierce steel.  She's perfected that "look" with the Jewish guilt thing and is highly skillful in its use.  When we were kids, there was a freezer in the basement that had a supply of little pound cakes for my father, and Danny and I would sneak downstairs to eat them, unbeknownst to my mother, stuffing the wrapping at the bottom of the garbage can.  We did this for a long time until she realized they were disappearing quickly.  And then, of course, that was the end of our pound cake orgy.

My parents have this weird obsession with weight.  When describing someone, they will always comment, "Oh my, look how much weight she has gained!" or "Oy vey, he has lost so much weight, I wonder if he is sick" or "She shouldn't eat another drop - she's so overweight, I fear for her health!" or "Have you lost a few pounds, honey? You look 10 years younger!"  Yes, this formed my totally unhealthy self image, and it lingers with me still today.  The proof is in the pudding (and I love pudding).

So tonight my dad and I went grocery shopping, insisting to go with me, because I think he really likes to choose different foods that my mother would not approve of.  I'm sure my mother wouldn't let him get the things I say, "Sure dad, if you want it, let's get it."  He wanted Klondike bars and I showed him that there was sugar-free ones (because that's what my mother insists he eats), and he picked them up then put them back and grabbed the good ones which have the sugar and slyly said, "Don't tell your mother."  Dad, you can be sure I won't!

Florida

Every morning while we're eating breakfast, my father asks me what's for dinner that evening and I have a tiny meltdown cause I don't know what to tell him.  Last night we finished off the leftovers in the frig and so tonight I'm making the chicken I took out yesterday.  My friend Jen told me to of COURSE make BBQ chicken (because it will become BBQ chicken anyway), but I think I'm gonna switch it up and fry the breasts.  I'm sure my mother never fries chicken, as it is too fattening - but I'm gonna go out on a limb and fry them.  Actually, my father is so skinny, he needs fattening up.  His legs look like 2 skeleton bones - a lot like Sponge Bob Square Pants.  He looks a lot like that.  Or really what Sponge Bob will look like when he's 83...

Speaking of breasts, it is SO embarrassing watching a movie with my dad and then a sexual or inappropriate scene comes on the screen.  We both look at each other and start talking at once, "Uh, what did you, uh, think of Mom today," or, "Uh, boy was it hot today."  ANYTHING to take your attention away from the tv for that moment.  When it passes, we go back to watching the movie, like it never happened.

We didn't go see my mom today.  My dad was too tired, and I have to admit, I was too.  It was her suggestion that we stay home today, and so we did.  My dad falls asleep in "his" chair all during the day and sometimes I stop and stare at him to make sure he's still breathing.  He actually sleeps all the time in his chair - he hasn't slept in his bed for over 15 years, because it's too hard for him to lay down and get up from that position.  His chair is motorized to lay down and sit back up to make it easier for him.

The bugs and rodents here are incredibly annoying.  I know God made all creatures, but I have yet to discover the purpose of mosquitoes.  There are armies of mosquitoes here, especially after the sun goes down.  If I happen to be out at night, I run, or rather waddle quickly, back into the house to avoid these creatures.  In fact, when we went to the hospital the other day, inside the first door was a bug zapper on the wall!  They try to zap the little guys before they enter the second door.  How smart is that!

There are these little lizards that crawl all around the pool screen, that gross me out.  In fact, one of them drowned in the pool last week and my dad had to come to my rescue to get the little critter out of the pool.  He took a long pole with a net on the end, scooped him up and laid him out to dry and shrivel up.  Disgusting.

In addition to these little ceatures, there are alligators in the canal, directly in back of my father's house.  Believe it or not, stupid people stand on the banks and fish or throw bread into the water.  I've heard that alligators can run up to 35 mph, so I don't go anywhere near the canal.  If the alligators don't get you, there are also poisonous snakes in the water.  With all of this, plus the heat and humidity, WHY would anyone want to move down here??  Well, tons of old people, that's who.  They're everywhere - especially on the golf courses.  There's a golf course right across the way, next to the canal.  I really don't think an old person can outrun an alligator.  But then maybe when you become old, this stuff doesn't bother you any longer.  I don't know.  But I guess I haven't reached that age yet...

On My Soapbox

What an ordeal down here with the medical profession, insurance and all these elderly, sick people.  Today I took my dad to the doctor because he has spots on his arms that are getting infected.  The doctor took a biopsy, as he thinks it may be skin cancer. Also, because this doctor is their family doctor, recommended to my dad that my mother shouldn't be transferred back to the nursing home she was in because he thought she may have contracted MRSA from there.  So my dad frantically tried cancelling the transport order that was originally made for her without luck.  Apparently the rehab center that the doctor recommended, my dad's insurance didn't cover.  So after a lot of phone calls back and forth, and my dad getting very frustrated and angry, my mom will still be transported back to the original rehab facility that she was in. 

I can't imagine how these folks manuever through their insurance companies, the medical facilities and Medicare - it was all very confusing to me.  In the end, you get put where your insurance covers, and if you don't have insurance, well, you get put wherever the state says you do.  In a lot of ways, these people, are at the mercy of  Medicare and any other supplement insurance policies they may or may not have.  And if they are unfortunate to be on Medicaid, well, I guess they take what they can get.  The more I see it, and the closer I get to this age, the angrier I get at our health care system.  Yes, I'm thankful for what we have, but why can't it be more forgiving as in Canada or in Europe?  What aggravates me is that if you have a lot of money, you get the best in care; if you are less fortunate, you are at the mercy of your insurance company - or worse, if you have no insurance at all, you literally go without healthcare.  That is imperatively wrong.  In this day and age, and living in one of the wealthiest nations on earth, EVERYONE should be entitled to healthcare - young and old, rich and poor - no matter what your status in life.  It should be a basic, human right.  No one can convince me otherwise.

So I took a long nap this afternoon, because when I get frustrated, I also get tired.  And when I can't change a situation, I would rather sleep through it.  I've always been for the underdog no matter who or what it is - always.  When we were kids, the typical evening meal was something like this:  Richard sat at one end of the black, formica, rectangle table, my mother sat at the other end, Danny and I sat next to each other and my dad sat across from us.  When we tried talking to my mom or each other, my dad would slam his fist down on the table and tell us to “shut up and eat.”  We couldn’t say a word at the dinner table, especially when my dad had a hard day.  Danny did a lot of whining (he was the youngest) and my dad would become irate at him, call him a “sissy” and to “quit acting like a girl,” etc., and eventually Danny would start crying.  I, being the one always to defend my little brother, and every underdog I ever knew, would snap at my dad and tell him to leave him alone -- which was extraordinarly stupid on my part.  My dad would tell me to shut up, which, of course I wasn’t intelligent enough to do, and then demanded I go to my room.  I then would get up from the table, go down the hallway to my bedroom, and slam my door shut.  The next sound I would hear is my father’s chair being shoved away from the table, as he proceeded to come barreling after me in a fit of rage.  I don’t remember him ever hitting me, but there were times when he would pick me up by the collar of my shirt, put me up against the wall and yell directly in my face until I started crying.  Interestingly, Danny has grown up to be a man much like my dad (without the temper), and probably out of the three of us, is the one my dad respects the most.

I don't want to give the impression of my dad being a mean, oppressive man.  He's actually helped me so many countless times in my lifetime that I could never repay him.  He was raised by a very overbearing mother and passive father, and so I think he overcompensated when he raised us.  He wanted to be the head of the house because his own father wasn't.  And so, my brothers and I were raised by a strict, and seemingly cold, father.  He didn't know how to show emotion and felt that was a sign of weakness anyway.  That's changed somewhat over the years.  In fact, he just confided in me the other day that he's afraid to die.  This is very unusual for my father.  He's never talked with me like that.  In fact, I didn't know what to say - I just let him talk.

Tonight, after leaving the nursing home, I noticed a small, elderly lady in a wheelchair staring out the exit door window.  I don't know if she was waiting for someone or just passing the time, but it was sad to me to see her there.  Many years ago, when my grandmother was dying in a nursing home, I wrote the following poem which reminded me of the lady in the wheelchair today:

The rain

it dulls my pain
of looking on age
so frail
so distant-
unacknowledgable
age;
eyes that look
beyond yet wonder
why and who
are you...
one says behind her
it's been a long
day
as if one day here
is any different
than the next.

A Cook, I'm Not

I come from a long line of Jewish mothers who have withstood the test of time, with all of our warnings, solutions, advice-ridden anecdotes, as well as a language that speaks, at times, backwards.  For example, you may say, "I wish you would marry a rich doctor."  A Jewish mother may say, "A rich doctor you should marry."  Or, you may say, "She really isn't pretty."  They may say, "Pretty, she is not."  I'm not a master of the English language, and I realize this seems backward, but because I was raised by people who spoke like this, I understand exactly what they're saying when they say it.  You should know this; or rather, this, you should know.  You also have to put the accent on the right words at the right time or it's wrong.  If you don't know what I'm talking about, have a conversation with an old Jewish person, and you will pick it up rather quickly.  One of my favorite books, and I barely read, is "The Book of Yiddish."  It's hilarious describing different words and phrases that you might not know but perhaps have heard like shlep, putz, tushie and keppy.  Now, I may not spell these words correctly, but if you sound them out, you'll get the gist.  When we were young, my parents would begin to talk Yiddish when they didn't want us to hear what they were saying. I still don't understand the language, but I do know a few words to spice up my vocabulary.

My mother has now been diagnosed with MRSA.  I looked up what it meant and I'm copying and pasting the description from Wikipedia here:  MRSA is, by definition, any strain of Staphylococcus aureus that has developed resistance to beta-lactam antibiotics which include the penicillins (methicillin, dicloxacillin, nafcillin, oxacillin, etc.) and the cephalosporins.  MRSA is especially troublesome in hospitals and nursing homes where patients with open wounds, invasive devices and weakened immune systems are at greater risk of infection than the general public.

So, more than likely, she obtained this nasty infection from the rehab center, which is where she is being transferred back to tomorrow.  On the bright side, she'll have her own room because of the infection, so she'll have more privacy.  My mother is usually very friendly and social, but since she's been in the rehab center, she just wants to be alone.  I can't blame her at all - I would be the same way.  She just wants to come home, but I think it will be several weeks before she'll be able to come home.  I wish I could change that for her, but obviously I can't.  In the meantime, I take care of my father who is also very needy.  Spoiled, would also be a good word for him.  My mother has done literally everything for him all their married life.  But I guess that was the day and age, the era, they lived in.

I'm not used to making breakfast, lunch and dinner every single day.  I haven't cooked like that since my kids were little, and even then I made a lot of frozen pizzas, ramen noodles and macaroni and cheese.  I've never been a great cook, and never really had the urge to be, and now I'm in the position of trying to figure out what to make that my father will eat. Again, it doesn't have to be a gourmet meal, because of his love affair with BBQ sauce, but it has to be edible and I find myself staring into the freezer trying to figure out what to cook.  Thank God for frozen food that I just have to read the label on how to cook.  My mother freezes everything.  She has little margarine containers of milk in the freezer that are the exact measurement she puts in her oatmeal.  She freezes FLOUR, bread and all kinds of leftovers in little baggies, most of which have been labeled as to what the contents are.  That's a good thing since it all looks the same from the outside.  Tonight, I "made" frozen lasagne, which was ok but left a lot to be desired.  I took out some chicken breasts from the freezer for tomorrow, but I'll have to really think about what to do with them. 

Well, I just got a phone call from Jason asking where the hospital is in Stoughton.  Apparently, Donovan slammed the door and Jade's hand was in there.  Oh the joys of raising children.  I wish I could transport myself home at this moment and be with my grandkids...

In case you were wondering, shlep means to drag, putz means like an idiot or clumsy, tushie is your behind and keppy is your head.  So if I were to say, "That putz schlepped his tushie in here and hit his keppy," you'll know what I said... 

Sunday

My mom is doing much better today, however, she now has staph infection.  We spent the evening with her and she is obviously tired of being bedridden.  We talked about bringing her home, but she will need antibiotics intravenously for 6 weeks, the doctor told us.  In addition to that, she will need to be able to pick herself up to the point I can help her into the wheelchair, or to bathe or clothe her and she's not at that point yet.  I think, as much as she doesn't want to, she may have to return to the rehab center to get stronger. 

The church I went to this morning was at first, so much different than what I'm used to.  This church was very small in a very nice building and they had about 30 people there.  What I liked was that there were Hispanics, blacks and white folks there -- not just one race.  I've never liked churches that were all white or all black -- something is wrong with that.  When I was a kid growing up, there was a lot of prejudice that I experienced, directly and indirectly, which tainted me forever.  To this day, I have absolutely no tolerance for prejudice, no matter who it’s directed toward.  As far as I’m concerned, blacks are just as guilty as whites, “Christians” as non-Christians, and so forth and so on.  Every “group” seems to justify their positions of prejudice or racism, yet neglect the indisputable fact that scripture plainly states “God is no respecter of persons.

I also liked the pastor.  He preached an excellent message for fathers on Father's Day.  I think this will be the church I will be attending as long as I'm down here.  I'm also excited about the fact that Micah and Jasmine will be coming here in July and preaching for the pastor.  Micah is my youngest son and an associate pastor of Christian Life Center in California.  He and his wife Jasmine, make a great team as she has a beautiful voice and sings before Micah gets up to preach.  And Micah can really preach!  I'm really looking forward to them coming.  I know my mom will be thrilled to see them too.  My parents love my kids and enjoy when they can see them as they don't travel any longer. 

Speaking of traveling, the drivers down here are CRAZY.  I mean, they're crazier than Chicago drivers, and I am one, so I should know!  People cut you off and drive like maniacs.  Where is everyone going?  They're all in a big rush like there's a grand-opening sale going on down the street.  And of course, most of them are elderly, so either they are racing in between cars or driving so slow, walking beside them would be faster.  I really wonder if they are seeing where they are going.  I sure hope so.  The bottom line is you have to drive defensively here more than anywhere I've been.  Except for maybe Los Angeles...

Laughing is Good

My mother's surgery was scheduled for 8:00 this morning, but she had to wait until almost noon before they started.  Danny was on his way to the hospital when I called him to say they haven't even started yet. So, he came over to the house to hang out and we decided to go to Wal-Mart.

The Wal-Mart in Venice is always jam-packed with people running to and fro and it is impossible to get a close parking space anywhere near the front door.  You would think they were giving things away, there were so many people.  I drove the scooter and Danny took a cart as we loaded up all the necessities that we both needed.  We scooted through the store as quickly as possible and went back out into the Florida heat.

It has been in the 90's with probably 100% humidity since I've been here.  Albeit, this is good weather for swimming and for the beautiful trees and flowers, but not for anything else.  I don't know how people live down here without air conditioning.  I would simply die.  It feels like a huge sauna.  To look at it positively, I guess all this sweating is good -- I may even lose some weight, which would really please my mother.

My parents, but especially my mother, have always been overly-obsessed about weight.  I was a chubby kid from infancy.  Most kids are well-fed but not overfed, as my mother felt necessary with my brothers and I.  But I really can’t blame her too much for that -- the thought in the fifties was that it was healthy for a child to be well fed.  And of course, the “Eat all of the food on your plate, because there are children dying of hunger in China” syndrome, mixed Jewish guilt with that distorted view of physical health.  To this day, I have a compelling force to finish everything on my plate, whether I am stuffed or not.  The irony of all of this is that when I became an adult, I was ostracized by my own mother for being overweight!!

My mom came through surgery well and is resting tonight.  She was pretty out of it when we left her earlier.  Hopefully they keep her in the hospital a few days so she can rest and heal.  I took my dad home and then Danny and I went out for dinner at an Italian restaurant and had a delicious dinner.  He tried to explain the stock market to me, which I still don't understand.  We had a good talk - we make each other laugh and that's always good.  Laughing, I believe, is one of the best forms of medicine.  I read once that "laughing is exercise for the soul."  I believe that.  I also believe God has a sense of humor.  I think it pleases Him to see us happy. 

I ended this busy day by floating around in the clear, smooth pool as the sun was going down.  It was very peaceful and refreshing.  Tomorrow, I am checking out a church to go to in Englewood.  The church I went to last week was ok, but made me feel uncomfortable.  The preacher shouted his sermon from start to finish and I don't mean preached -- he shouted.  I tried to follow him, but he lost me halfway through.  The person in front of me kept turning around, touching my shoulder, to make sure I was following the message, since I was a "visitor."  They called out all the visitors in the beginning and I, of course, had to raise my hand.  When I left, a young man followed me out to the car and wanted to pray with me in the parking lot and I politely thanked him but said I had to leave.  As I was driving out, I saw him praying with a couple who were visitors also, on the sidewalk outside of the church.  That type of church "friendliness" is not my style - I would never do that to someone else - it feels like you're being accosted.  God wants us to be known by our love for one another.  Love is what draws people to Him - not cowboys trying to hog-tie and corral people in.

Being Jewish

If you ever want to know if someone is Jewish or not, just ask my dad.  He keeps a running tally in his head of famous people and those not so famous, who are Jewish.  In fact, if we introduce him to someone new, he always leans over and whispers, "Is she Jewish?"  Today we discussed James Caan and he believes that he's Italian, so he couldn't be Jewish, because he played in a lot of mafia movies.  It's an overwhelming curiosity that all Jewish people have, because we want to be "special."  You'll see it alot, especially where old Jewish people gather together; if you see them whisper to one another, they are probably asking if someone in their vicinity is Jewish.  We want the popular ones to be Jewish so that makes us feel "special" - the good ones, anyhow.  I guess that's how it works. It makes no difference to me, but I have to admit that every now and then I wonder if the person I just met is Jewish. Or from Chicago. I'm not bragging, but I can usually guess both before ever asking.

The "lousy" Jews are those who embarrass other Jews, like the idiot politician that just stepped down from office because he was "sexting" females.  My father had nothing good to say about him, except that he's an idiot.  A real meshugunah (spelling is probably wrong).  It's Yiddish for idiot.  "Idiot" was a standard term in my household growing up.  We were called idiots on a daily basis, as well as others who my father felt were actually idiots.  My brothers and I never thought of ourselves as idiots - it was more of an endearing love call from my father when we did something stupid.  Unfortunately, I carried that tradition on with my own kids and used it just as my father did.  I never considered my children idiots; I just called them that when they did something stupid.  My children are, in fact, a whole lot smarter than I ever was, so the word only applied to whatever dumb thing they were doing at the time.  I hope they realize that. 

When my parents, including my grandmother Esther on my dad's side, found out I was pregnant with Jason and his father was not only BLACK but NOT a JEW, Esther passed out on the living room floor.  Thankfully, I wasn't there, but I can imagine what happened.  My father probably swore angrily, my mother cried and my little brother, Danny, had to hear all about it.  My family, and probably most Jewish families, are very dramatic and high strung.  Everything is always on high gear, with opinions blaring and arguments galore.  This is how I was raised.  And being from Chicago just added to the octave level.  Watch them and you'll see:  people from Chicago are just naturally louder.

My dad and I met my mom at her doctor's appointment this morning and it wasn't good news.  The doctor showed us an x-ray of her hip and it appears that the ball joint thing they put in her 2 weeks ago, has protruded from her bone.  So now she has to have surgery again - tomorrow.  She was very depressed by this news, but she really has no choice at this point - it has to be fixed.  So they transported her directly to the hospital to prepare her for surgery.  Her main concern is that she hallucinates from the medication they give to sedate her.  I told her this evening to just pretend like she's getting high and enjoy it.  She didn't think that was funny.  I think part of the hallucinations are because she has the beginnings of dementia.  This morning she called my dad at 7:00 am and told him she was already at the doctor's office and wanted to know where he was, when in fact she was still in her bed at the nursing home.  At least she gets a reprieve from the nursing home for a few days. 

After the appointment, we went to pick up my dad's glasses.  They are large, round multi-focal lenses that I don't know how he's been managing without.  The style is from the 80's when the frames were bigger than your head, but he doesn't care.  At least now he can see better, but I still won't let him drive.  I do all the driving because he still can't see well enough to drive.  He insists he can, but I told him we're not even going to argue about that.  It's bad enough that he's constantly telling me when and where to turn, to "Watch out!" "Stop!" and various other commands, as if I was just learning how to drive.  He tells me to turn up at the right, and so I say, "Here?" and he says no; I say, "HERE?" and he says no, and then suddenly starts screaming, "HERE, HERE!!"  There are 2 rights before the one I am supposed to turn right at!  A few days ago, he asked who taught me how to drive; I told him that he did, and I remember that day clearly.  He sat in the passenger seat screaming at me to stop, start, turn, over and over, so much so, that it was a very short-lived lesson.  I remember getting out of the car, slamming the door and walking home.  A short time later, I took Driver's Ed through summer school.  Patience has never been my father's strong suit.

Oh, and by the way, in case you were wondering, James Caan is not Italian -- he's Jewish...

My Father's House

My dad's house was built in the late 70's, early 80's by a really big Swede, as I recall.  What I find humorous about that is the fact that the bathroom sinks are so low, you practically have to squat to use them.  They come up to a little over my knees - and I'm short.  The master bedroom closet door, which is supposed to be a walk-in closet, is so small that you have to enter it sideways.  I don't even think my parents, who have become so tiny, could walk through it straightaway. 

Now the decorating dates back to the 1980's.  Items on shelves, furniture and light fixtures have been the same since they bought them, located in the exact same places.  My mom must dust around everything because they literally don't move.  My mother, who grew up in the depression, throws nothing away.  She still has clothes from the 70's and a couch that was recovered from the 50's.  My parents photographed my older brother and I on this same couch when I was an infant and he was about 4.  They're not antiques or retro - they're just "too good to throw out."  I understand that - to a certain extent.  Because I was raised this way, however, I still have a compulsion to save tin foil that was wrapped in a food object, because it could be used for something else, and besides - it's too good to throw out.

One wonderful aspect of my father's house is a really nice, in-ground pool, that I partake in almost every day.  I LOVE the way my body feels totally weightless in the water and I can move around in ways I could never on land.  And so I have been taking advantage of this and exercising to hopefully help my joints and muscles move with greater ease.  I also use this time to pray as this is my quiet, alone time of the day.  I enjoy talking to God, floating around the pool in the warm sunlight.  It's very peaceful. 

Today, my mom looked much better than yesterday.  I think the bleeding has stopped, but she still has a mild fever.  She sees the doctor tomorrow and my dad and I will be going there to meet her.  Hopefully, he will give us some idea when she can come home.  I know she's sick of being in the nursing home - I would be too - but I want her to stay as long as she needs to, to promote her healing.  One thing I did notice today was, and I've seen this before, but today it seemed magnified, is the fact that she talks very sharply to my dad.  She seems very bitter towards him, although the day she was hallucinating and thought he had died, she cried -- it's a weird dichotomy.  She obviously loves him, but resents him at the same time.  I guess that could be true for a lot of people.  I just saw it tonight and it came out in an ugly way.  Bitterness is truly a wicked root that should be plucked up as soon as it starts.  The longer it continues to grow, the stronger and tougher that root becomes.

Tonight, I made Tuna Tettrazini for dinner, and like a true Marine, my father covered it in BBQ sauce.  Disgusting.  He puts it on everything.  It used to be ketchup, but then he discovered BBQ sauce and switched.  I don't worry too much about seasoning the food because, well, after all, everything will ultimately taste like BBQ sauce anyway.

If my dad is not sleeping in his chair or working on his computer in his office, he is watching TV.  I set up my laptop next to him in my mother's "chair" so we could talk if he wanted to.  What I end up listening/watching is the news - in every type and fashion imaginable.  He's constantly switching channels until he finds what he's looking for.  He has to watch the stock reports on several different channels, and likes the BBC channel, as well as Public Broadcasting.  Those he watches, without fail, every day.  The other channel that he loves is the Military Channel, which I didn't even know existed until I came here.  So for the most part, I tune it all out unless I hear something interesting. 

At the end of the day, he is usually in his office working on his computer, and I am on my laptop enjoying a little bit of quiet.  We go to bed at different times and when I do go to bed, I say goodnight to him and he says, "Goodnight sis (or sweety)."  The same names he has always called me.  Like I'm 12 again.  Except I'm not.  And I realize through my tears that life goes simply too fast and how did we get this old?  I only know that for right now, I am exactly where God wants me to be...

Beginning the Journey -- A Little Late...

After a week of living back with my parents, at the age of 55-almost-56, I decided to write a "Blog," for a daily diversion and sense of reason - and for anyone who wishes to read along. Writing has always been a great outlet for me, and so with laptop in hand, I begin.

After the past few years, my health has continually spiraled downward and I finally decided to file for disability through the job I work for. To obtain this, I had to be off of work for at least 6 weeks, and so I'm using all the sick and vacation time I have built up over 24 years, and am now on leave of absence. I sent my application in for disability and am awaiting their response.

At the same time, my parents have also spiraled downward, as my mother broke both of her hips (within a few months) and my father is basically helpless alone. They are both 83. I felt a great tug on my heart to go down to Florida (where they live) and help them as long as I can.

And so that is what I've done. I'm here in Florida, living with my father, as my mother is still in rehab, slowly healing - taking care of him and visiting my mother. Interestingly, my parents and I have never been close, but that is changing slowly. Actually, I was the "black sheep" as a teenager and young person and I owned that title until just recently. Now, I am actually the "Chosen One" among my brothers and I. It's all very funny and shows you how your life can turn on a dime, as they say. It surely can.

The title of my Blog refers to the fact that I am SURROUNDED by old people. They are all around me! At first it was a little unnerving, but I'm beginning to settle in and accept it as my current reality. After all, I wasn't born yesterday. And it makes it worse that I use a cane, because they nod at me and smile as if to say, "Oh yes, my dear, we do understand..." I guess they really do.

Anyway, I wish I would have started this the first day I arrived, as there have been some interesting, funny and sad things to happen this past week. Rosemary Hopkins, mother to my good friend David Reninger, passed away. She was my mother's best friend when we all lived in Chicago, and one of the sweetest and funniest ladies I know. It's always a reality check when someone dies. My father became angry and cursed when I told him and my mother just sighed. It simply made me sad.

The nursing/rehab center is an interesting place. Last night when my dad and I were there, we had entertainment by a lady in the hallway that was singing Broadway show tunes and humming when she forgot the words. There were 3 of these ladies sitting in the middle of the hall talking REALLY loud and singing and making no sense. It was hard to ignore them, and I kind of enjoyed it really. They were happy, so it didn't matter to them that they weren't making sense; they made sense to each other.

Tonight, my mother wasn't doing very well. She has an infection where her incision is and lost a lot of blood for some reason. She has a fever, which I am attributing to the infection and she's on antibiotics. Her doctor can't see her until Friday, which is irritating to me. She has to wait 2 days in this condition. I've noticed that alot here - the doctors don't seem to rush to get you in. I left her sleeping as she was real tired. She looked so small, old and vulnerable in that bed...not the tall and strong woman who raised me...