So This Ends an Era

I'm not sure how to title this, as I am ending this blog and beginning another.  This has been a blog about living with my parents and surrounded by old people every day, and that has now changed.

My dad's funeral was short and very sad.  There was a Marine honor guard there who blew taps and handed my mother a flag.  It was very emotional.  I couldn't stop crying through it all and hardly heard what the rabbi was saying.  It didn't matter.  My dad was in that closed coffin and I would no longer be able to talk, argue and debate with him.  I would no longer hear his laughter or his scowl and it all seemed very surreal to me.  I am just now coming to grips with it, but even so, it brings tears to my eyes when I think about him.  He was not a great man who achieved worldly recognition - but he was MY dad and I loved him very much for all he did and did not do for me.  He taught me how to be strong and without that, I would never have been able to raise three children by myself, or live the life I've lived.  I wish I would have told him that before he died.  I'm not good at talking to people - I'm much better at writing.  Maybe he knew - maybe he just knew.

Jasper came down to Florida to help me clean out my parents' house and move me back to Madison.  It was a huge undertaking.  The house was full of dust and stuff all over the place.  We had an estate sale for three days and sold a lot, but there was still a lot left over.  Salvation Army came and took most of it away, and the lady who cleaned the house, took the rest of it away.  Finally, the house was empty and when I looked around, it was a very weird feeling indeed.  I wasn't raised in that house, but it was the place my children and I came to every year to visit my parents.  Now it was an empty shell and even if I wanted to live in Florida and buy the house, I wouldn't.  It was my dad's house, and I felt very uncomfortable in there without him.

My mom went to live in an assisted living apartment and it turns out she loves it.  She's happier than I've ever seen her, in fact.  And so, with my responsibility of taking care of my parents over, we packed up all that I own in a U-Haul trailer and my car, and began the long trek back to Madison.  Before we left, I hugged and cried with my mom and said we loved each other, but know this is best for both of us. This was difficult, but knowing my mom is happy where she is, made it that much easier.

It took us 25 hours to get back to Madison because of hauling the trailer.  Jasper put all of my stuff in a storage unit and I stayed with Jason for a few days, enjoying Donovan and Jade.  On Saturday, I flew out to California to be with Micah and Jasmin, and that is where I am now.  I will be spending a month here because for once in a very long time, I realized I have no responsibilities to take care of anyone anymore.  After being a single parent for so many years and working at the same time, then taking on the responsibility of caring for my parents, it is an overwhelming feeling of peace.  I can't describe it - you just have to feel it.  It's wonderful.  I love my parents, I love my children and I love my grandchildren - but to be free of daily responsibility, is a gift from God.

So this ends an era that I learned much from.  Much from my parents and those around me.  I treasure the time I spent with my dad and I will always be grateful that I bonded with him.  I'm grateful that I had this time with my mom as well, and I'm very happy that she's finally happy.  I guess it's never too late to find happiness.  My mom is living proof of that.

So now I begin a new phase in my life, which I've not known before.  I'm excited and looking forward to what God has in store for me.  Whatever it may be, I know if I follow His plan, I can never go wrong.  He is my Rock and my Redeemer and the Lover of my soul. I am ever grateful to God, who gives me strength and will to carry on.  Keep on, keepin' on, and never give up.  You never know what's around the next corner...

Good Night, Dad

My dad died last night around 1:00 am.  His funeral will be this Wednesday, early to accommodate the Rabbi because Rosh Hashonna begins at sunset that day.  Rosh Hashonna is a high holy day and it lasts several days.  

I find myself at a loss of words, which is unlike me.  Writing words, anyway.  My heart hurts so bad that it feels like it is going to explode.  I've never experienced this kind of loss before.  Those of you who have, know very well how it feels.  And there's nothing anyone can do or say that will make it better.  

My dad and I had a rocky relationship most of my life.  I rebelled against him for who knows why, and feared him greatly.  It wasn't until 2 years ago June, that we actually bonded as we were alone when my mom was in the nursing home.  We actually talked together and expressed feelings, angry ones at times, but feelings nonetheless.  It turns out that my dad was very sensitive inside under all the anger and meanness that he showed.  Who would have known?  Not me - not until the very end.  He expressed fear and love and appreciation, all attributes that he had never displayed before.  My dad, after all, was a good man, father and husband.  He planned for my mom to be secure when he passed, and now she is.  He loved his children and his grandchildren and hopefully they know that now.

I will never again hear him say, "Good night, sis" or "Good night, sweety."  That is what I will miss most about my dad.  Because in those words he always told me that he loved me without actually saying it.  

Good night, Dad.  I love you and I always will.

Waiting

It's been 3 days since my dad was brought to Hospice.  We are watching him dying slowly, as pneumonia, a urinary tract infection and c-diff, an infection in the bowels, is ravaging his body.  He is being given large doses of morphine and hasn't eaten or had any liquids for several days.  He is not responsive to us and just lays there with his mouth wide open. We are just sitting here waiting. Waiting for his body to succumb to death. Waiting and watching and realizing that this is the reality that we all have to face eventually. When I was in the mental hospital, the staff used to cry out "face reality! Face reality!" Now I guess I know what they were talking about.  It's much easier to live in a fantasy world...

I want my dad to be the strong, angry man he was when we were coming up. I want him to be the dad who sat at the kitchen table when I was out late at night, waiting for me to come home.  I want him to be the man again who laughed out loud with a hearty laugh that was contagious to all around him. I want him to be with me again in the bathroom with all the hot water running because I had asthma attacks and it was thought that steam to be good for asthmatics. I want him to look at my paintings and see his pleasure as he critiqued each one. I want to talk with him again like we have these past 2 years, as he opened up about his feelings.

But that's all past now and all that is left is a frail man holding on to his last breath. And I'm having an incredibly difficult time facing this reality. I've come to really love my father and I just don't want to let him go.

But the reality is I have to....

My Parents

My father called today.  He told me that he was scared and that he didn't think he could make it.  I had to hang up the phone quickly and then I cried a good, long cry.  He was never one to show emotion, much less fear.  It was something I wasn't prepared for, and all I could do was cry.  My father was always strong and stern, if not mean, and never wore his feelings for anyone to see, except for anger.  I told him I loved him before I hung up and he actually told me that he loved me too; something that has never been easy for him to say.  He has changed a great deal, not only physically, but emotionally as well.

My parents have decided to go into an assisted living facility here in Venice.  My dad is getting discharged from the nursing home this Thursday, and they will both be moving into a very nice, 2 bedroom apartment at that time.   My dad wants to sell the house, so I will be having an estate sale and trying to sell the things they won't be bringing to the apartment.  This is a huge undertaking, since they've lived in this house for over 35 years.  I plan on doing this the next several weeks, and then I will return to the Madison area to be near my grandchildren.  My parents no longer need me and I'm finished with why I came here in the first place.

There are a lot of memories here and I will miss this old house.  The pool has been a lifesaver in the heat of the summer and I will miss that for sure.  My children came down here for weeks at a time, spending it with their grandparents.  My grandparents were here at times and for awhile there, it was filled with a lot of noise, loud talking, laughing and arguing.  Jews are very loud, and especially those from Chicago.  If you get a bunch of us together, it just turns into a high-pitched fiasco.  Quiet people can't handle it, and certainly don't understand it.  I was raised in this type of environment, so it is very commonplace for me.  In fact, quiet people make me a bit uncomfortable themselves, because you just don't know what they're thinking.  It's unnerving really.

But now it's all quiet, except for my mom's pitter-pattering on the floor with her walker. Her old one dragged along the floor like a tractor and you could hear her coming from far away, it was so loud.  I finally convinced her to get a new one that glides so it is effortless for her to push.  Everything has changed and it will be a new season for my parents.  One that is needful and one that creates sadness in me to have to deal with.   It's very difficult to watch your parents deteriorate and become the old people you've always seen around the neighborhood, but never paid much attention to.  We live our lives so quickly and self-absorbed that when it happens to our own parents, we stop and wonder "when did they get so old and how come I never noticed this before?"  I hear myself telling myself that "it's just the circle of life and that's the way it is and always has been."  But that's easy to say or think and much more difficult to witness.  And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.  For people like me, who like to be in control all the time, that is very frustrating.

Life is just what it is, and the progression of age just keeps marching on, regardless of how we feel about it.  One day, I'll be the one hobbling to the assisted care center and hanging out with people of the same age.  And I will look back on all of these memories and hold onto them deep in my heart.

Possibilities

I can't believe what I did the other night, I really can't.  I was coming home from the Art Center in a torrential downpour, driving 35 mph on a 55 mph highway.  I couldn't see in front of me, it was raining so hard.  And when it rains here in Florida, there is absolutely no where for it to go, because this state is already on sea level, so the streets flood really quickly.  On the side streets, I tried driving in the center of the road to avoid the swelling gutters.  I got to the house and I sat in the car for a minute, but then my mom opened the garage door for me to run in there from the car.  I grabbed my purse and made a mad dash for the garage, getting soaking wet in the meantime.  I can't run, and I didn't want to slip and fall, so I kind of just waddled quickly, but it was coming down so heavy that getting soaked was unavoidable.

I talked to my mom for a bit, then I went into my room to dry off.  About 45 minutes later, we ate dinner and after I cleaned up, I went into my room and got on the computer and watched some TV.  My mom yelled from the kitchen about 8:00 that my car lights were on and I thought, "Oh shoot, I somehow left the lights on and my battery will be dead."  I looked for my car keys and they weren't on the counter, and then I said, "OH NO" out loud, waddled out the door to my car and found it was still running.  It had run for over 3 hours, as I forgot to turn it off.  Half of the gas was gone because the air conditioner was still on.  I couldn't believe I did that - I've never done that before, but because of the rain, I was more worried about getting WET than turning my car off.  I felt like a real idiot and I'm mad at myself because now I have to fill the gas tank again.  A perfect example of being distracted by the trivial, thereby ignoring the important stuff.  Unfortunately, that happens a lot in life....

The thing about Florida, is that in the summer, it rains every single day.  Every late afternoon, thunder rolls across the dark sky and sometimes lightening strikes and then a torrential downpour comes and goes, usually quite quickly. After the rain, the sun comes back out and acts like it never rained, and the streets dry fast under this oppressive heat.  I mean, you've never felt anything like it.  If the air conditioning in my car goes out, I will be doomed.  In fact, I won't drive because it's so hot and humid, that I can hardly breathe.  I feel terrible for people who don't have air conditioning in their cars or in their houses.  I have no idea how they live like that.  And as far as homeless people go, I can't even imagine their lives.  It bothers me so much to think that they don't even have a fan or protection from the bugs and other nasty creatures crawling around.  I just can't handle the fact that they have no where to go for shelter from the elements, storms and mosquitos as big as a Volkswagen.

I remember when I worked in downtown Madison, for a judge at the time, and there was a small, older lady who would be huddled up in a corner of the lower level.  She was homeless and I don't know where she went when they closed the courthouse up, but she was there every day when I went to the cafeteria to get some coffee.  She had garbage bags filled with all of her belongings and she sat, hunched up in the corner of the wall, while hundreds of people passed her every day.  I always felt so bad for her and I wanted to help her, but she wouldn't talk to anyone or respond if you did talk to her.  I don't know if she was mentally ill or just tired of living in a society where she was shunned and avoided.  It's easier to look away and avoid people like that, and I'm sure she was used to being rejected.

But she was someone's mother, or sister or daughter.  She was one or all of those things.  But where were her relatives?  And did they care, or was she all alone in the world?  I didn't know the answers to those questions, but do I know this much:  that Jesus came for her as much as He came for me, or the wealthy aristocrats living in mansions.  He is no respecter of persons, so why are we?

We are so ignorant over that which we are not familiar with.  We are prejudice against those who are not like us.  We fear those things that could possibly happen to us too, therefore we limit ourselves from all kinds of possibilities.  Help me Lord, to be the woman who You want me to be - not a by-product of our twisted and perverted society.

The Dentist

Yesterday began with a 9:00 dental appointment; the place I never wish to go, but must out of necessity.   First of all, the bed/table you lay on has been designed with arms that you can clench as you are reeling with pain.  The bed gets tilted low and my head tilts almost upside down.  I can feel my weight falling to my chin with the gravity of the position I am in.  With that in place, and after the dental assistant x-rays the tooth in question, and makes an impression, the dentist comes in to do the task at hand.  She first inserts a needle in my gums causing me to groan.  She is injecting pain meds in three parts of my mouth and the needle itself causes pain.  Soon, though, I can't feel the upper side of my mouth.  The assistant puts a vacuum cleaner type hose on one side of my mouth, another on the other side, and squirts water in my throat the whole time.  The assistant pulls my mouth one way and the dentist pulls it the other way and I probably look like Bozo the Clown, with my mouth wide open in all directions.  And then, the drilling begins.  And she drills, and drills and drills.  She is trying to crack  the crown on my old tooth, whereby she can pull it off, but the cement holding it is very stubborn.  I kept swallowing the water the assistant was constantly squirting in my mouth, which makes the drill jump and squeal on another tooth and I had to keep apologizing, but laying upside down with water in my throat, I couldn't help but swallow.  After one squirt, I thought I was going to drown, until the dentist told her assistant to stop with the water already, at which point I thanked God.  It took her a LONG time to finally yank the crown off of my original tooth.  After that, there was still more drilling and cleaning and more impressions, because I had a cavity that was behind the crown and reached into the tooth next to it.  When the assistant said she was finally done, I paid the bill, took a deep breath and waddled out to my car, proud that I endured to the end.  I have to go back in a month for them to cement the permanent teeth in, so I have time to recuperate and gain my courage once again.

This whole ordeal reminded me of when I was a kid and my mother would take us to my uncle, the dentist.  He worked in downtown Chicago, and so we would drive and park at the Skokie Swift, a small train that stopped in Skokie and proceeded into the city.  We would have to transfer to the "L" at some point, and that train was much longer.  It would take us into the heart of the city, down into the subway, which was really creepy.  The lights would flicker on and off and there were always weird looking people on the train.  We got off in the subway and walked upstairs to the street level which was really cool to see.  If you look up, you can barely see the sky because of all the skyscrapers.  It was all overwhelming for a kid my age.  My uncle worked in the old Marshall Fields building and we would go up the elevator to his office.  Back then, when he squirted water in your mouth, you turned to your left and spit it out in a bowl swirling with water.  After you endured the trauma of the dentist, you were given a little toy out of his "treasure chest," which usually broke by the time we got home.  Before we left to go back to the train, we always had to go to the bathroom to"make."  The toilets in this building were locked and you had to put a dime in the door lock to open it.  I will always remember that, because I would wonder what if you didn't have a dime and you really needed to "go."

My children and I actually witnessed this problem one day, when we were driving on the South Side of Chicago.  We all, except Micah, had to "go" and so we stopped at a Burger King off of the Dan Ryan Expressway.  The bathrooms in this restaurant were locked and you had to have a key to get in, but to get the key, you had to buy something.  So I bought a pop and we waited because there was a line to get into the bathroom.  A woman came in very distressed and yelled that she had to go to the bathroom, but the workers told her that there was a line and besides, she would have to buy something in order to "go." Instead, she barreled out the door, and per Micah who witnessed this from the car, pulled her pants down and "made" right there in the parking lot.  She walked away like nothing happened and I think it put Micah into a mild shock.  My personal opinion is that bathrooms should be free and open to avoid unfortunate incidents such as this.

So be forewarned:  if you are driving in Chicago, keep in mind the toilets in fast food restaurants and gas stations are all locked, so you may want to "go" before you reach the city.

Buckets

Sometimes I laugh at my mom because she can actually be funny.  Several months ago, around 10:30 pm, my mom and I were watching the news. Suddenly, my father came hobbling in with the intention of putting my mom to bed.  He didn't ask her; he just assumed she was ready for bed and he was coming to "tuck her in" and give her a goodnight kiss.  So he comes in, goes over to my mother and proceeds to help her out of the wheelchair, while my mom says nothing.  I watch this because it's sweet after all these years, even though my dad is telling her to, "Hurry up and get your legs into the bed; c'mon, hurry up."  My mom complies, lies down and my dad covers her up and gives her a kiss.  He says goodnight to both of us and retreats back to his office, at which time, my mom gets up and sits back up in the chair.  Like it was a routine they do every night, except my dad doesn't know that she doesn't actually go to bed when he tucks her in.  I thought that was so funny and cute.  My mom let him feel like he was doing something needful and responsible, meanwhile she gets back out of the bed to continue watching the news, because she wasn't ready to go to sleep yet.  She catches and understands more than I give her credit for.  Ashanti would say that GiGi (for great-grandma) was filling Papa's bucket.

You can learn a lot from children if you really listen to them, either by talking directly to them or by overhearing their play.  Ashanti came home from school one day and started talking about "buckets."  She said that she had "filled her friend's bucket" at school that day.  I asked her what she meant and this is what she told all of us at the dinner table, "Everyone has a bucket.  When you do something nice or say something nice to another person, then you are 'filling' their bucket.  When you do something mean or say something means, you are 'dipping' into their bucket, and taking something out of it.  Wow.  How simple and yet so profound.  So Shanti began to ask each of us every day if we were filling or dipping into each other's bucket.  It does give us cause to pause before we speak to each other.  After all, who wants the reputation of a "bucket dipper?"

I was raised by saying, "please" and "thank you," and calling adults and my parents' friends by "Mr. or Mrs so-and-so," or responding with "Yes ma'am or No sir."  These small yet very important types of etiquette are so essential when we deal with one another.  They show respect for others, as well as for oneself.  When my children's friends called on the phone for them, I always asked who it was if they didn't tell me first, and grilled them before I would let them talk to my kids.  I think it's rude when you call someone's home and don't identify yourself first, and then ask to speak to so and so.  My kids caught on fast and they warned their friends to do this when they called so they wouldn't get the first degree from me.  I wasn't really mean - I just don't like when people, no matter who they are, call up and immediately ask for so and so.  I always stop them and ask who they are first.  I also taught my children that they should always have a firm handshake.  I told Leah that if her boy friends shook my hand, they better have a strong handshake, so she probably warned them about that too.  I just think that it shows part of a person's character if their handshake is limp and insincere.  A firm handshake tells me that this person is focusing on the person whose hand they are shaking and is sincere.  Petty?  I think not.  It's better than standing in the doorway with a shotgun waiting for the boys that would try to enter my house.

I did not like my son-in-law when I first met him.  He had long braids and looked like a thug and he was in no way going to date my daughter.  Of course, I had lost control over that by then and she dated him anyway.  His saving grace at the time was his firm handshake.  I thought - but didn't say out loud - "Hmmm.  Maybe there's more to this guy than what it looks like on the outside...."  I did put him through a lot of questioning and observation, but he passed with flying colors and it turns out that he is one of my favorite people in the world and I love him very much.

So please.... if you greet me, please don't give me a limp handshake.  That actually creeps me out.  Fill my bucket and I will fill yours with a firm handshake and love.  The two go hand in hand.  Better yet, give me a hug because we always need that.  Everyone in the world needs and wants to feel loved, and what better way, than to give a sincere hug.

In fact, if I could, I would give you all a sincere hug right now.  Nonetheless, I do so in the spirit of filling your bucket today.  In Jesus' Name.

Royalty

I think I'm the only person in the world that could care less about a baby born to the royals in England.  I don't mean to be mean, but is it really that big of a deal for us as Americans?  If I lived in England, I probably would feel the same way; it just doesn't mean a whole lot for me.  It's history, that's true - but so is everyday life here, even the most mundane situations.

I remember when Princess Diana died and how "shocked" the world was and how everyone said she was the most spectacular person that ever lived, etc., etc.; and at around the same time, Mother Theresa died and there was definitely not the same amount of television coverage and hullabaloo about her as there was about Diana.  I actually got into an argument with someone about it, as I believed that Mother Theresa, who lived, worked and helped lepers the majority of her life, did more for mankind than a princess in England, and the person I got into an argument with became very angry at me and stormed off.  I really didn't understand.  I'm sure Diana did noteworthy things in her role and even humanitarian things - I'm not doubting that.  I just think that a little nun who was humble and kind and never sought personal attention, but gave herself to a country of very sick and contagious people, deserved as much, if not more, accolades from us when she died.  That's all I was saying.

So going back to this royal birth, I think it's great, as all newborns are precious in God's sight.  I just don't view movie stars or royalty or sports figures as something to worship, in any sense of the word.  I think people who are born into wealth or power or privilege are very fortunate and also have a great responsibility to those less fortunate than themselves.  I always wondered what I would do if I won the lottery or became suddenly wealthy.  I could never live in a huge, ostentatious mansion with a million rooms - I would constantly feel guilty for those who live daily on the streets.  I could never keep that much money to myself, knowing that there are people still starving here and across the world.  It would bother me so much, I would probably give my fortune away, until I had enough for my family and I to be comfortable.  I guess I don't have to worry about it - I don't play the lottery, and I have no rich relatives.

Shanti stayed over last night.  We went swimming in the dark with the pool light on.  She was so excited about it, at one point, she told me that this was the best night of her life.  She said she will never forget it.  I had to chuckle inside.  We made a memory for her to always remember, and we had fun doing it.  Before that, she brought over a box of shells she had collected and she painted them, while I worked on a picture I'm painting.  We always paint quietly side by side and she talks to herself or sings quietly and I listen.  Before she left today, she saw me scratching a rash I have on my arm and she said, "Grandma, please don't scratch that."  She said it with such sincerity because she was concerned I would make it worse.  Oh, to have the heart of a child...

My brother, Richard's wife, is on life support tonight.  I don't know what's wrong with her, and I don't know if the doctors even know, but she's only a few years older than me.  He, and her kids, have to make the difficult decision of if and when to remove the support.  She doesn't have a living will, so the decision will be left up to them, and ultimately with my brother.

It seems - no - life is, more difficult the older you get.  It's more complicated and distressing as people become ill and your family and friends start disappearing.  If my hope was in this life only, how sad my life would be; but I'm a child of the King and so my hope lies in His Royalty....

The Cheap Chillow

I was so excited to get the package in the mail the other day - I knew exactly what it was.  It's called a "Chillow."  It's a type of pillow that cools you off, when you're sleeping.  It helps people like me whose heads explode with sweat.  I quickly tore open the box to find a plastic blow-up kind of thing and I was disappointed, because I thought it would have gel in it or something.  I was surprised to find out that it had to be filled with water.  So I followed the directions carefully, filling the thing up with the right amount of water and letting it sit on the countertop to even itself out, for 4 hours.  It was a very technical procedure.  After that, I was to roll it up and push the air out of the little spout like thing that has a plug on it.  I did that, but water also came out, spilling all over the place, but I managed to push as much air out of it that I could and happily went to use it the other night.  You're supposed to be able to slip it in the pillowcase and lay on it, which I did the first night.  It felt fantastic when I went to sleep, but by the time I woke up in the morning, it was all bunched up in the bottom of my pillow.  So, I thought I would out smart this thing and lay my head on top of it, instead of putting it in the pillowcase, the next night.  There is a plastic side and a soft side, like fake suede, and I laid on the plastic side to get all the coolness I could.  I had a dream that night that I was, well, making, as I used to call it, and when I woke up, the whole front of my nightgown was soaking wet.  "Oh no," I thought, thinking the obvious.  I stood up and the whole side of the bed was soaking wet and lo and behold, the "Chillow" was almost flat with no water.  It had leaked during the night, and had slipped down off my pillow and created a huge wet spot on the sheet and mattress.  Needless to say, the "Chillow" was cheap and is now in the garbage can.  So much for my initial excitement and hope of a better night's sleep.  I will just have to sweat on.

I turned the ceiling fan on higher last night, but it sounds like it will fly right off the ceiling, so I am a little leery of that.  It wobbles around and around and the lamp part is crooked.  I think the fan came with the house 38 or so years ago when my parents purchased it.  I would say it's time for a new fan, so I don't get chopped in half in my sleep.

I went to see my dad on Saturday.  He has lost so much weight that he looks emaciated.  They weighed him and he weighs 136, which would normally thrill my mother, but in this case I think she is just worried about him.  He says he's just not hungry and eats very little.  His cheeks look sunken in and his legs, although they have always been skinny, looked like sticks.  He sat up in the bed to talk to my mom and I and he was clearer than on other days, however.  His mind seemed to be back to reality for the most part.  I just wish he would eat more so he could gain strength.  He says he can't walk because his legs "don't work."  I'm not sure what that means, but I do know he is very weak so maybe he just doesn't have the strength to make them work.  He is in his own room now and in seclusion because he has an infectious disease in his bowels; but, that's okay - he actually prefers being alone.

My mother questions him, every day I'm sure, about his bowels and the details thereof.  She keeps close tabs on that as well as how much and what he is eating.  The two go hand in hand, of course, and she has always been the Food Monitor in our house, but now she has become the Bowel Movement Monitor as well.  It gives her something to do, as I know she feels pretty helpless.  The nursing home did an x-ray of his stomach today and they found nothing abnormal about it.  In other words, the balloon is no longer in there, but the question remains why he isn't hungry.

It's so incredibly difficult watching my parents become this old and broken.  I know I signed up for this, but I didn't know it would affect me in such a powerful way.  It would have been a lot easier to have stayed up in Madison and try to ignore what was happening down here, but then that wasn't God's will - and I knew it.  Sometimes, you just can't hide from the hard stuff.  Sometimes, it smacks you right in the face and your response to it makes all the difference in the world.

Hope Floats

I watched a movie the other night, called "Hope Floats."  It's a good movie, but I like the title even more.  I thought about how hope floats, and I pictured it on top of water, floating.  Water is dense, heavy and dangerous.  In a flood, it could move land, destroy trees and even move houses out of place. I've seen houses cave in through the pressure of the water pushing on them, and the whole house got carried away with the flood.  You can drown in water if you're not careful.  There are dangerous creatures in the waters of seas and oceans, that you have to be aware of.  Water is a powerful source that could easily overtake us if we are not watchful.

And yet, water is a dichotomy.  It is a cleansing agent for not only our bodies, but for so many things.  It provides nourishment for plants and trees and all vegetation, as well as animals.  It provides nourishment for our bodies, for without it, we would die.  Our bodies are, in fact, filled with water.  When I was pregnant, I retained so much water, that I looked like a sumo wrestler - without the thong.  My legs looked like elephant trunks, which made it very hard to walk - all because of the water that was accumulated in my body.  It was very attractive, I'm sure, but thank God it was a temporary situation.  The point is, water can be our foe, but it is also our necessity.

We all have "trials" or situations that come against us, sometimes in full force, but if you can float above those trials, with your face breathing in air and sunshine, you will always be the victor.  I love to float on my back with my face to the sunshine.  It's really not easy - you have to work at it.  Our bodies do naturally float, but our faces can go under if you're not careful.  You have to move your arms and legs slowly so you don't sink part way.  You will float if you put your mind to it.  In fact, when the kids and I play a game of diving for the ball that sinks to the bottom of the pool, where it is 8 feet deep, I try and try so vigilantly to get there, kicking my feet and flailing my arms to reach the ball, but always,  except once, does my body start floating back up to the surface and the ball is out of reach.  My little 8 year old granddaughter, Ashanti, can swim down there with no problem and get the ball, like a little fish.  She really puts her grandma to shame.  In fact, her and I race all the time and she is most always the one who finishes first - and I'm really trying to win.

So hope floats.  It floats above all the problems and issues in our lives that try to destroy us, or bring us down.  It's like an anchor that we can hold on to when all else fails.  And our hope, to be powerful and lasting, should be that which we treasure most in our lives.  My hope is in Jesus Christ, and most of you know that already.  He will always hold me up above the issues in my life, if I keep my face securely fixed on Him.  When Jesus told Peter he could walk on water too, Peter started off fine, but then he took his face off Jesus, and sank.  He quickly forgot Who his hope had been.

Do I always sound like I'm preaching?  I don't want to come across that way.  It's hard though, when I'm expressing myself with this medium, not to speak about God because He is laced through and through my life.  Frankly, without Him, I would be the saddest soul without a shred of hope.

But I do have hope, and it is what I base my life upon.  And it floats me by my past, to a brighter future, by living day to day in the Light.  That's probably why I love the sunlight so much.  It feels so good to have the warm sun shine on your face, and the cool water on your back.  I know I'm taken care of, so I just continue to float....

Times Past

When did I get old?  That question keeps haunting my mind as I think back over the years.  It seems I was just a young mother, schlepping a baby with a giant diaper bag and ushering two small children into church with me.  After church was over, I felt like a cowboy trying to round everyone up.  Jason and Leah were always somewhere I was not, and it was challenging to find them, with Micah on my hip.  I could carry a lot back then.  I was really strong, probably from my years as a tomboy.  Eventually I would get everyone together and then into the car for the ride home.  Inevitably, everyone was asleep by the time I got home, so I had to maneuver like an acrobat, getting everyone in the house in one piece.  It got to the point that I put my kids in their pajamas for the night services, because it was too hectic trying to change them when they were half asleep.  I was a quick learner.

My youngest, Micah, was a very strong willed child.  I would carry a wooden spoon with me to church and kept it in my jacket pocket.  I don't think there was a service that went by where he didn't get a spanking for acting up.  One particular night, we were sitting in our normal pew, 3 rows from the front on the right, and the pastor was preaching a long sermon.  Micah was about 4 or 5 and was getting very restless.  When there was a pause in his preaching, Micah stood up and looked at Pastor Grant and asked out loud, "Are you done yet?" I, of course, was mortified, but everyone in the front who heard him started to laugh.  Even Pastor Grant looked down at Micah and said, "I'm almost done, Micah."  I swiftly carried him out of the sanctuary before he could say anything else.

Another time, I sat in the back of the church and there was suddenly someone speaking out in tongues - the gift of tongues.  The church became silent, and then Micah, being around the same age, said out loud, "Oh my people, my people," and before he could get anything else out, I closed his mouth with my hand and ushered him quickly out.  The gift of tongues, one of the fruits of the spirit, is followed by an interpretation, and here my 5 year old thought he would interpret for the church.  Needless to say, Micah brought me many interesting and humorous times, but it is noteworthy to say that today he is an associate pastor of a large church in California, and married to a wonderful daughter-in-law.

My daughter, Leah, was very well-behaved when she was young - I never remember having to spank her.  She was a very congenial child and it wasn't until she turned into a teenager that we seriously bucked heads.  One time I was so angry at her, she was too old to spank, so I picked up a chair and threw it at her.  It missed, of course, but that was the beginning of a long, contentious relationship.  Apparently, her friends were afraid of me, which I was unaware of.  I really wasn't that bad - I just had a bad temper, especially when it came to boys who were interested in my daughter.  I tried to protect her from the idiots she would introduce me to, but it was futile.  I'm just thankful she ended up married to a great man who loves her dearly.  That is the most I could have asked for.

My oldest son, Jason, was dedicated, along with Leah, when Leah was born and Jas was 4.  He slept on the front pew, as Pastor Grant dedicated them both.  Jason was a very sensitive young boy, much like his son, Donovan.  He cared if I cried or was sad, and always tried to make me feel better.  It's hard for me to believe that he will turn 37 this month.  It seems he was just a baby I held, not knowing what to do with.  I had no one to guide me or look to when I began raising him and I did what I thought made the most sense.  I must have done something right, because he is a responsible, God-fearing man today and I'm very proud of him.

I'm, in fact, proud of all three of my children.  What they've done in their lives and who they've become.  I don't know how that happened, except that I have always depended on God to help me raise them and see me through.  And in turn, they also looked to God for their needs and have all become successful, God-fearing individuals.  What more could I ask for?

So then why does the past make me cry tonight?  I have so many happy memories, but many times I wish they were small again, so I could do a better job and so they would need me.  It's a wonderful feeling to be needed, and I see why many older people become disillusioned or depressed.  When you get old, your children move on in their lives and have families of their own, and you are happy for them.  Sometimes, you can't wait til they grow up and get out.  But then one day, you sit alone in a quiet room with only your thoughts and you realize that that chapter of your life is long gone, never to be lived again.  And you wish beyond words, that you appreciated those times more when they were happening, instead of now when they are gone....

M&M's

Sleep escaped me last night - I literally tossed and turned,  and every time, I had to flip the hose to my CPAP machine back and forth to avoid laying on it.  The hose attaches to my nose and I breathe through that as I keep my mouth closed, clenching my teeth.  I clench my teeth because I don't want to move them as I sleep, but inevitably when I awake in the morning, I have bitten my tongue and/or the inside of my mouth.  It's very annoying and I don't know why I do this.  I think I must be dreaming of pasta or something equally enjoyable that I miss, because my mouth does eventually pop open and drool settles on my pillow.

Now my pillow is another story.  I'm way past the big "M," but I still have ridiculous hot flashes.  I have to turn my pillow over during the night because it gets so hot I could fry an egg on it.  I want to buy the "Chillow" advertised on TV.  It's made of gel or something like that and keeps you cool all night, or so it claims.  It's very weird, these hot flashes.  My whole head heats up and I feel my face get flush, then sweat rolls down in flood force.  It's so flattering, especially when I'm around other people.  It probably looks like my head is about to explode - it feels like that anyway.  I carry a handy handkerchief in my purse for moments like this.  Thank God for cotton.

I went to see my dad yesterday.  When I came into the room, he was sleeping with his mouth wide open. He looked dead, so I said, "Dad!" kind of loud and he woke up.  He was glad to see me which was nice.  In fact, he didn't want me to leave - he just wanted me to sit there with him and watch TV towards the end of my visit.  I brought him a big bag of M&M's, which my mother, of course, scorned.  She didn't say anything, but her looks say it all.  Danny and I know that look. It's a look that says, "You really shouldn't eat that because it's fattening and you will just continue to gain weight, and you know, you should not be FAT."  My mom has a real and long-standing problem with fat people.  Or even people who are slightly overweight.  She will describe a person's size before anything else.  "You remember Rose who is my sister's friend, she's the heavy one in their family...."  My dad will describe a person as to if he or she is Jewish or not.  "He's a hard worker, but is he Jewish??"  You can be a wonderful person, but if you're overweight or not a Jew, well then, for some reason, you are substandard.

Anyway, he loved the M&M's.  My mom told me to only bring him half the bag, and I scoffed at the idea.  Why?  So he doesn't get fat?  Good grief, I brought him the whole bag and enjoyed watching him eat something he missed.  They don't give you M&M's in hospitals and nursing homes.  My dad and I had a thing about sweets when my mom was in the nursing home.  My mom was away, so we could play!! I bought all kinds of goodies when I went shopping and my dad was like a kid in a candy store when I returned home.  I can't eat like that now, of course, with this diabetes thing, but I can watch my dad gobble each piece down with delight.

He did a little more talking than in past visits.  He tried to make conversation with me, which is something really hard for my dad to do.  He's a loner at heart and would much rather just watch TV or diddle on his computer by himself.  He has no friends.  The one he did have passed away.  In fact, all of my parents' friends, except for two of my mom's, are gone.  I guess that's what happens when you're 85 going on 86 - friends drop off like flies, and you wonder how you got to be so old.  It seems like it was just yesterday.....

He asked the nursing aide to pull his bed up so he "could see his daughter."  That made me feel special.  You would just have to know him.  If he is sentimental or emotional, he hides it deep inside.  But he didn't want me to leave yesterday.  I felt bad that I had to go, but good that he didn't want me to.  I thought about it, and it is amazing to me that just over a month ago we were preparing for his death, and now he is rehabilitating in a nursing home.  Prayers work.  No doubt about it, and my dad is living proof of that.

Hope, Revisited

I learned something about diabetes yesterday.  I took my blood sugar in the morning and it was 297.  I've been using insulin and other medication and I was getting frustrated that my numbers weren't coming down, and I've been trying to eat right and watching my carbs and sugar intake (which of course is a real drag).  Well, yesterday I was watching Ashanti and we spent 2 and 1/2 hours in the pool, swimming, exercising and playing.  It was a lot of fun with my precious granddaughter.  When I finally came out of the pool, I took my blood sugar again and it showed 168.  I couldn't believe it.  I was down that many points in just a few hours, and it all had to do with exercising.  Wow - I didn't know that could happen, and I felt really good.  So now, I plan on being in the pool and swimming as many chances I can get.  Exercising on land is very hard for me to do, so swimming is perfect.  Shanti was my exercise instructor and we were having a blast by exercising at the same time and racing across the pool.  She, of course, won every time. To think I used to swim 100 lengths a night back when I was a teen, is incredulous to me now.  And that pool was an olympic size pool.  Boy, the things we did when we were young...

I can hardly wait until I have my surgery.  I'm more than ready to start feeling better, get this diabetes under control and start walking and doing things I haven't done in a long time.  We take so many things for granted that some folks are simply unable to do - whether they are paralyzed or disabled.  I am so thankful I have all my faculties, limbs and strength.  God has blessed us all in different ways, and I need to remember to thank Him for all His natural and supernatural blessings.

 How people believe we evolved from a big bang or some kind of matter, is totally beyond me.  I can't wrap my mind around that because it's so ludicrous.  There is a God, and He is One, to Whom I give all the worship and all the praise.  "He made us and not we ourselves," paraphrasing from the Bible.  I believe it's an arrogant and self-centered person who believes they are the master of their own lives.  I've talked with Atheists before, and although I care for the person, I totally disagree with their philosophy.  I need the Lord in my life, and as the old song goes that I used to sing, "I can't even walk without holding His hand."   I've said this before, and I say it again, I don't know how people go through life without the hope Jesus gives.  I would be a total mess, if I was even here by now.  But with hope I live my life and I wish I could convey this to all the people I know - I wish they could feel what I feel and know what I know, to show them what they are missing.  I believe we are all born with an empty place in our soul or heart that only the Spirit of God can fill.  We live our whole lives striving to fill that empty place, but until it's filled with God's Spirit, our attempts are futile and in vain.  I'm definitely not a good verbal communicator, and that's one reason I speak through this blog.  I pray I don't offend anyone because that isn't my intent.  If I could, I would open up my heart and soul so you could see what I'm talking about.  

Well, it is almost time for my daily swim and exercise class with Miss Ashanti.  Yesterday, I asked her, complaining, why do we have to exercise?  Her response was, "We just have to, grandma. Those are the rules."  I didn't get a chance to ask whose rules those are, because she was a stern taskmaster and kept me moving.  At least it feels good in the water.  I love the way the water lifts your weight and there is a feeling of being weightless.  Similar to the love and joy God gives - it makes you feel light, peaceful and complete...

That Deep, Dark Hole

My dad has now been moved to the nursing home my mom was in when I first moved down here.  He  shares a room with a man who is hard of hearing because his tv blares next to him.  A curtain stays closed between them, as my dad is not a social guy.  He just prefers to be left alone.

I'm really worried about him.  He has no emotional affect whatsoever.  I had to sign papers to have him admitted there and he just sat there and stared while the admissions officer explained each page to me which I had to sign.  His eyes just stare with no emotion and it's very weird to see.  I expounded in detail to him afterward how much the nursing home will cost (their co-pay) for how many days he is there and he had no response.  I did this three times and I made a point that I don't want my mom to be left without any money, because if it comes to that, the cost will take their assets until my dad is eligible for Medicaid.  I was kind, but firm and yet all he did was shake his head.  Absolutely no response, and that was always my dad's greatest fear.  He just gazes into space and only looks at you if you ask him something.  He either nods his head or gives you one word responses.

I was thinking last night that maybe I need to physically shake him and tell him to "snap out of it," but this is my dad we're talking about.  A man who always bred fear in those around him.  He was always an angry, ex-marine who tolerated very little.  But he also had another side that loved to laugh at funny tv shows, comedians and antics he found humorous.  He was a man with two faces and as I loved to hear him laugh, I always tried to be funny when I was young so he would laugh at me.  Now he neither has anger or humor - he just stares and his blue eyes look like faded glass. When I do catch him looking at me, it seems he looks right past me and doesn't grasp what I'm saying.  It's very disconcerting to say the least.

I want my dad to be my dad again - with anger and humor and all.  It seems like I've lost him and I talk to him to try to bring him back, to no avail.  I'm afraid to get right up in his face and try to push him back into reality, but I almost want to do just that.  He's deeply depressed in addition to what's going on in his mind, and I so want to reach him inside that place.  I know what depression is like - I've been there and it's a deep, dark hole that some people can't manage to crawl out from.  And of course, everyone experiences it differently.  But I would be amiss if I don't at least try to reach him in there and pull him out if I could.  After all, I am his daughter and he and my mom are the reasons I came down here.  I didn't always feel this way, but I love him for who he is and for what he's done for me.  The least I can do is try to help him in his time of need, just as he did for me so many times I've lost count...

My Church

When I said in my last post that Florida was a God-forsaken place, I forgot all about my church.  In fact, besides my kids and granddaughter living here, and of course my brother and parents, my church is absolutely awesome. I am thankful for that, even if it is in Florida.  That's what keeps me afloat when I start missing old friends and children who live far away; when I feel overwhelmed taking care of my parents; when I feel so much pain in my body that it hurts to move a muscle.  My church and my pastor are heaven-sent.  I know that sounds corny, but it's really true.  God knew I would need a strong pastor and strong church to help me through the hard times - we all do, in fact.  And He has blessed me with just that.

It's a small congregation, relatively speaking, but everyone is so friendly and kind, from the first moment I attended  there.  The building is clean and pretty and it has really good central air, which I am extra grateful for.  Even though, the only person there that sweats more than me, is my pastor.  He works up such a sweat preaching, that he's usually very wet when he's done and has to change shirts right after service.    I feel we have something in common, albeit our sweating, and we both use something to wipe our faces.  He uses a towel - I use a handkerchief.  It's embarrassing, really, but at least I'm in good company.

Pastor Dagan is a true man of God.  He lives what he preaches, and it's obvious to everyone.  I couldn't have asked for a better leader.  I truly love him for his example, even when he's stepping on my toes.  He doesn't actually literally step on my toes, of course - that's just a matter of speech.  And some of my friends would be surprised to know that I now sit on the front pew - mainly so I'm not distracted by anyone in front of me (as I get easily distracted) and also because I really want to be involved in the service.  I really enjoy sitting up there, except for the occasional spit from his mouth when he really gets revved up.

Pastor Dagan's wife is very sweet - a real southern gal from Louisiana, and they have 3 boys.  The church has several children in fact and is mixed with old people, young people and some in-between.  It also has black and Latino families as well as white.  I appreciate that very much.  Bro. Hightower said many, many years ago that there is something wrong when a church is all white or all black - it should be a mixture of all - and I totally agree.  The exception to that would be a church that caters to a group of people who don't speak English, like a Spanish church.  Otherwise, I believe all churches should be multi-cultural.  That's the way the world is, so why should the church be different?

So when I'm in church, I get to worship God and God blesses me in return and I forget about all my worries and problems for awhile.  It's a reprieve - a little island in the midst of a crazy world - that refreshes and renews my mind and heart.

Frankly, I don't know how people get along without it...

Doctors

I'm sure my parents were sore that I didn't marry a doctor, as a good Jewish girl should do.  And my brothers aren't doctors, so that leaves them plum out of luck in our family.  Doctors (and no offense to anyone) are not always what they're cracked up to be.  The best doctor I ever had is in Madison, Wisconsin and I miss her very much.  She was a caring, listening, informative doctor, and I haven't found one like her here in this God-forsaken state.  Well, it's really not God-forsaken, but it leaves a lot to be desired.  Besides the heat and humidity, mosquitoes and old people, the health care system here is atrocious.  Of course, this is all my tainted opinion, but I came from a place where I had excellent health care and an excellent doctor.

Old people will just take anything.  I mean, they don't question the doctor, they take it all in stride, believing that he or she is all-knowing, and it drives me nuts.  I mean, you're paying this guy hundreds of thousands of dollars, or Medicare is, and he should at least sit down and discuss your healthcare options.  He or she should at least listen to you and ask if you have any questions.  This is where my belligerent personality kicks in and I get very annoyed when I see people shuffled around like a deck of cards.  And it's usually old people because for one reason or another, they're too tired or too depressed or just don't care any more.  But I care.  And I especially care when it happens to someone I love.

My dad has been in the hospital for over 5 weeks now.  His doctor, who I do not like, never talks to me or my mom.  He only talks to my dad or my brother - he's an old-school chauvinist.  Incredibly, I usually keep my mouth shut if he ever happens to pop into my dad's room.  He never looks at me or my mom and barely acknowledges my mom.  It's quite disturbing.  She's the wife, for pete's sake.  Well, he is about to go on a 2-month vacation and so is probably frantically trying to wrap up his cases before Thursday.  My dad called tonight and said to my mom, "They're transferring me to a nursing home tomorrow," and got off the phone quickly for some reason.  My mom called the nurse and asked if that was true because no one notified us of this.  The nurse said that his transfer is in the works, but it won't be tomorrow.

My dad tends to do that.  He called Danny one night and told him he was going to die.  Danny called me so I called my dad.  I said, "Dad, what's going on?"  He said, "I'm going to die tomorrow."  I said, "Dad, what are you talking about?"  He said, "They told me I was going to die tomorrow."  I said, "Who told you that, Dad?"  He said, "That dark skinned doctor, you know, the one from India.  He also said I have mastitis." I heard the nurse in the room say, "Robert, you're not going to die tomorrow, it's ok."  I asked to talk to the nurse and apparently one of the aides told my dad that Hospice was coming to visit the next day and he took that to mean he was dying tomorrow.  As far as the mastitis goes, I still have no idea what he was talking about.

So the doctor has decided there is nothing more they can do for him and they will be moving him to a nursing home.  We are assuming, although it hasn't been told to any of us, that the bubble in his stomach has dissipated by itself.  That's good news.  It would have been nice to be told that by the doctor.  Even when you ask the nurses what is going on, they will not tell you - they say only the doctor can tell you about such things.

My dad will be transferred to the same nursing home my mom was in when I first came down here.  So here we go again.  Maybe he will have a crazy roommate and it will motivate him to work with physical therapy to start walking again.  As of this date, he hasn't walked at all, except for one brief moment, and either lays in bed or sits in a chair all day, every day.  If he doesn't work with physical therapy, Medicare won't pay for his nursing home care and that won't be a good thing.  We will cross that bridge if and when we come to it, but I plan on telling him again that he has to cooperate at the nursing home to get walking so he can come home.

We can only hope for a crazy roommate who will push him out the door quicker, and that will also make for interesting visits for the rest of us.

Papa's Eyes

When I was 18, I went to the nursing home where my Papa (my father's dad) was living.  He was a very quiet and peaceful man - quite the opposite of my own dad. I loved my Papa very much.  It was really hard to watch him get so old and feeble, as it is now watching my dad.  I remember taking a walk around a circle of windows with my Papa, and he looked at me with clear, blue eyes that seemed to look beyond me, and yet he was talking to me.  He spoke very little, but he always loved to walk.  At one point, he stopped and looked into my eyes and told me to never cut my hair, no matter what anyone says.  I told him I wouldn't, but thought that was a strange thing for him to say.  His eyes were like a blue, milky glass as he looked at me and I will never forget that day. That was the last time I saw him alive.

I saw my dad today.  He had that same look in his eyes.  I noticed it right away and it made me think of my Papa.  His eyes are blue and milky, like he's ready to cry - but I've only seen my dad cry once in my life, and that was when my Papa died.  When I saw him cry, that made me cry harder.  It was too hard to bear all the sadness of that day, and so I turned it into anger.  I was angry at everyone - my cousins, my other relatives and the rabbi who performed the service.  He spoke about my Papa saying that "Louie loved everyone...." and I said under my breath that that was a lie. I don't know if anyone heard me, but my Papa was prejudice against blacks, and I knew that, so I was angry that the rabbi "lied."  I was just angry because someone I loved, died, and there was nothing I could do about it.

My dad has started eating and we all, including the doctors, thought he was really making headway, until today.  He sat with a glazed look on his face, with oxygen in his nose.  He knew we were there and when Danny explained his options, he seemed to completely understand.  His mind is now clear, but his body is not cooperating.  He's on medication for high blood pressure, insulin  for diabetes, gas pills for his stomach, nutrition bags and a myriad of other medications through his IV.

They did a cat scan yesterday and found the balloon of air in his stomach has gotten bigger - that's why he has so much pain in his stomach. Along with that, he also has some fluid in his lungs.  Apparently, his stomach is not "working" and so he has two options to try to squeeze the air out.  One option is having the tubes going back in his nose down to his stomach, trying to draw the air out.  The second option is to put a tube in his side, into his stomach, to draw the air out.  Either option could take weeks or even months.  And then, there is the possibility that it won't work at all.  So my dad has to make the decision which one to do.

The doctors don't know what else to do.  They've exhausted all their resources and my dad's doctor has consulted with all his colleagues.  He said that only time now will either release the air, or not.  So my dad has an even lengthier time of recovery.  It will either be in the hospital, where he's already been for 5 weeks, or in a nursing home.

What lousy choices he has.  And yet, I'm thankful because he's still alive to make these choices.

A Light in the Clouds

Jason drove down here and I was so happy to see him and my grandchildren, Jade and Donovan.   It's a short visit - he came to see my dad - but I don't care - I'm just thankful to see them.  Jade is 3 and Donovan is 5.  They are both very active and I was exhausted by the end of the day, but with a good exhaustion.

Tonight at the dinner table, my mom asked Jade for her plate so she could put more food on it and Jade looked at her with a scowl and said, "What do you say?"  My mom (who was very big on manners when we were coming up) said, "Oh, right, please can I have your plate?" and she proceeded to give her the plate.  I just about died laughing - she is hysterical.  Now Donovan points out every blemish on your body and says, "What's that? What's that? What's that?" until he's located every blemish and mark that he can see.  At the dinner table, they were a tag team asking my mom and I all kinds of questions:  "Where is black Papa -- no, I mean Papa Shortz?  What is this red thing on my plate?  When is daddy coming back?  Where are the alligators?  Where is the chicken on my plate?  Where are the potatoes?   What is this red thing on my plate?  Why do I have to eat this?  Are you tired?  Why is your eye like that?  It went on and on and on.  I tried to answer every one of their questions, but finally, I just said, "Ok, now put food in your mouth and finish your dinner."  Food didn't stop the questions - they spoke through the food!  I just had to laugh.  I don't remember my children asking me so many questions, but I'm sure they did.  I was a lot younger then and it definitely helps being young to raise kids.  I can't imagine how I did it now.

After dinner, I suggested they run around the table on the porch 15 times - and they did.  Donovan pooped out, but Jade kept a runnin'!  Donovan followed me around asking me questions as I tried to clean up the kitchen.  Jade was looking for a tissue because "my nose is leaking."  Thankfully, Jason came home a short time after that, and I sighed a big sigh of relief.

We all went out on the porch and the kids swam in the pool with the light on.  It's been raining so hard here, the pool is overflowing.  It was fun watching them enjoy the pool, as Jas enjoyed the motorized wheelchair my parents own.  We had fun tooling around the house in them, and I just couldn't get the hang of it.  It's harder than it looks.

It was a nice evening after a difficult day.  We went up to the hospital to see my dad about noon and he was where they x-ray and he didn't come back to his room until 3:30.  The kids were going crazy, as it was way too long to wait, but we all wanted to see him.  When we did see him, he didn't look good - they made him drink barium so they could do an upper GI and it took 3 hours because he couldn't get the stuff down.  I don't know how they thought he would be able to, as he hasn't eaten or drank anything in almost 4 weeks.  But I assume he did, because he was nauseated when he came back and wasn't in the mood to talk.  He smiled and said hi to Jas and saw the kids, but he was in pretty bad shape.  He just wanted to sleep.  He wanted to hold my mom's hand and sleep.  I have a really difficult time seeing that and not crying.  That's a tender gesture my dad is not known for.  But it's obvious he feels comfort holding her hand and knowing she's right there with him.  They've been married 63 years the 25th of this month, and my dad finally shows her how much he loves her.  And I'm thankful that he has.

Teeter Totter

I think that's how you spell it.  It's one of those contraptions at the park that I dreaded to get on when there was someone else at the other end sitting on the ground.  My experience was that the other kid gleefully jumped off just as I managed to climb on the high part, sending me plummeting to the dirt.  When the other kid was a good kid, we went up and down and up and down and it was fun.  It was always very tricky getting off that thing, though.  You had to level it in the middle, then each get off very carefully - quite a tightwire act of low proportions.  

That's how I feel today. My brother and mother were up at the hospital for most of the day today, meeting with Hospice and then eventually speaking with my dad's doctor and a neurologist.  My dad signed the papers in the morning to go into Hospice, and he was all ready to get transferred, and then the doctor stepped in and decided to put the IV lines back in my dad, giving him drugs and nutrition, so he can see if there is more he can do for him.  He now wants yet another doctor to look into why he has a balloon in his stomach, why he is puking and why he is nauseous.  Mind you, there have been doctors for his heart, his blood pressure, the surgeon who did the bowel obstruction, the surgeon who took the stones out, an internist, a neurologist and now he wants a gastro guy to examine him (shortened it because I have no clue how to spell it).  

I don't know what to think.  They  are keeping my dad alive on tubes, which he specifically did not want, but he says he wants to live if you ask him.  I'm totally confused and my mother is beyond confused.  She's exhausted physically and emotionally and I really feel bad for her.  She wanted this all to end in a neat little box, by going to Hospice and making him as comfortable as possible.  She thought that's what was going to happen and she wanted that to happen, but the doctor isn't quite sure.  The interesting thing is that just yesterday that same doctor told Danny and I that we needed to think about options, such as Hospice, since he didn't think my father was capable of making a decision for himself and they were just keeping him alive.  Now he doesn't know??  I could say a lot of mean, sarcastic things at this point about doctors, but maybe it's not their fault.  After all, they are just practicing...

So my family and I are all crammed up on this teeter-totter on one end, and the medical establishment sits on the other end and we just glare at each other, wondering who will jump off first.  My dad lies in the middle, oblivious to it all, peacefully sleeping and no doubt hallucinating from the cocktail of drugs he's getting.  I know that feeling well, and I'm glad he can at least enjoy his sleep under these circumstances.

Letting Go

I have decided to return to my Blog because I need a release and writing is a release for me. Again, if you choose not to receive these, please let me know and I will remove your name from my mailing list.  Thanks.

My father, who is 85 years old has been in the hospital for over 3 weeks.  He went in for a bowel obstruction and the surgery became more involved and intense, per the surgeon.  He has not eaten or drank anything during the whole time, and he lays in the bed most of the time sleeping and going in and out of reality.  When he is awake, he motions for things instead of talking, and when he does talk, he doesn't make sense.  His doctor talked a long time to my brother and I today and said that he didn't have any "spark" in his eyes - that he didn't think my dad really knows what is going on.  So the doctor said that it is up to my mom and my brothers and I to decide what to do with him now.  He said a nursing home would kill him.  He suggested Hospice.

So I am in the middle of something I never wanted to be in, and that is to help decide my fathers fate.  He has a living will and this is what it says.  But I am just not ready to let him go.  I can't help it.  I cry every time I think about it.

I'm not good at letting go; of arguments, of thoughts, of fears and of people. It's just not in my character - I can be a real bulldog at times, and  can make it all the worse.  I can't let go because I don't want to live in his house that he bought some 40 years ago, without him.  I won't hear the stock market and the Military Channel on tv anymore.  I won't hear the pitter-patter of the computer keys as he types away whatever it is that he does on the computer. I won't hear his critique of my cooking at dinner every night.  I won't be able to share my paintings with him and he always critiqued those with fair criticism.  And the thing I won't hear that I can't let go of, is his telling me, "Goodnight, Sis (or Sweety) when I told him good night in the evening.

My heart hurts.  It feels like someone punched me in the stomach and it aches so bad.  My dad and I finally bonded, for the first time in my life, the past 2 years I've been down here, and now I have to let him go.

And I can't.