I watched a show tonight called "Cold Case," and it had to do with a group of people who helped young women back in the 60's when abortion was illegal. They would take the women to see a real doctor who performed a more humane "procedure" than charletons who used hangers, bike spokes and the like. The doctor had to do this "underground," otherwise he would be arrested and lose his license. The show really bothered me as it always does when I hear about abortion.
I had forgotten it was illegal back in the 60's. When I had the first abortion, it was 1974 and it cost me $300. I borrowed the money from my great uncle who gave it willingly, even though I told him I needed the money to fix my car. I decided to have the abortion because the father of the baby didn't want anything to do with "it" and actually told me that it was my problem. I was 18 at the time, and a very young 18, so I figured it really was my problem.
The procedure itself was very uncomfortable. It felt like a vacuum cleaner sucking my insides out and my stomach moved involuntarily. I really had no idea what I was doing and did it because I felt like I had no choice. When I got to the recovery room, there was another girl in there doing her nails. I was in so much pain and bleeding heavily, all I could do was lay down. She told me that this was her 7th or 8th abortion. I remember thinking how in the world could she do this that many times? I laid there on the bed with my back toward her and cried quietly, but I had no idea why I was crying. I felt alone and abandoned and in a great deal of pain and all I could do was cry. And part of me felt guilty, but I don't know why, because I was never taught that it was wrong. After awhile, they checked me and told me I was good to go, and so I just drove home. It was all very unceremonious. I got home and went to sleep to avoid feeling what I was feeling that day. Because I knew tomorrow would be a better day.
The second abortion I had, I did so because I felt that I had to. I became very sick and had pneumonia with a lung infection and the doctor put me on steroids and other strong medication. I knew I was pregnant, but I couldn't breathe, so I decided this was all I could do. This was when Jason was about 4 years old. I was living in the Verona Hotel at the time and couldn't breathe so I stayed in bed the whole time, while the tv was my babysitter, until I found a doctor who knew what to do. One day, I told Jason to go across to the manager's office and ask them for a roll of toilet paper. He was gone for a long time and I was beginning to get worried, when the manager came and knocked on my door. I called to say "Come in," and the manager had Jason by the hand. She told me that he walked across Verona Road, which was a highway back then, walked up to the nearest house, rang the doorbell and asked them for a roll of toilet paper. I was mortified that he had walked across the road and beside myself that he could have been very easily hit by a car. God's angels were watching over him even back then. I finally saw a doctor in Verona who knew what was wrong with me, after going to all three hospitals in Madison, and he gave me the correct medication to cure me. I don't have a memory of this abortion, probably because I felt like I had no choice but to do it. Or maybe it's because I pushed it to the furthest parts of my mind so I wouldn't be able to recall it. Or it could be a combination of both.
If you know someone who is contemplating an abortion or is confused on what to do, send them my way. I had no one to help me back then, no one to talk to about it and get counsel from. I was all alone and I had to make 2 very significant decisions. I regret those decisions and will until the day I die. I think sometimes what it would have been like if I had let those babies grow to full term. I wonder if I will see them in heaven. I try not to think a lot about them because it makes me very sad, but the reality is that they were a reality at one point, but are not any longer.
Like lots of things you can't change, I place them in the hands of God. He knows and He cares and He even forgave me for what I did. I don't know how I could live without His mercy and grace, with all of the poor decisions and actions I've made in my lifetime.
And yet, He loves me still...
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Mike (the Pike) Heitler
There is an old movie/play called "Our Town," that when I watch it, I cry every time. Every time. If you don't know the story, I encourage you to read the book or watch the film. It was written by Thornton Wilder and he received a Pulitzer Prize from it. It's a very thought-provoking story and you can't read or watch it without expressing some kind of emotion. At least, I can't.
I said that to say that life is very short. We hear that all the time, but it doesn't start sinking in until we get older. When you watch the movie, you'll understand why I say this. I can't go back to my youth, or the "way it used to be." I have to keep moving forward because the past will literally never be repeated. If you had a miserable past, this is a good thing. If you had an enjoyable past, sometimes this is hard to bear.
One of these days, I'd like to do a family history with a genealogy chart. I'd like to know more about my ancestors, as I think it's very interesting to learn where you came from. History fascinates me and I wish I would have paid more attention in school. It was all so boring to me at the time. But then, we learned boring historical events - like the years that certain wars started and all that. Who cares?? Maybe if they had made it more personal, it would have been more interesting to learn. There's a thought.
I do know a little bit about one of my relatives who happened to be a gangster and worked for Al Capone. His name was Mike (the Pike) Heitler. He was my grandmother's uncle - my great-grandmother's brother, on my dad's (mother's) side. He was a pimp who ran a whorehouse and for this reason, my grandmother would never speak of him. He worked for Al Capone, and because Mike testified against Capone, he was murdered. He was in fact, torched in his vehicle. In my research, I found that he had a brother and a daughter, but I couldn't find any information on them. There isn't a whole lot written about Mike, but what I found, I printed out and the photos I obtained, I've pasted below.
Not the greatest lookin' guy in the world. These photos were published in the Chicago Daily Newspaper.
This is the dump he held his prostitution business at. Yuk.
In court for probably one of many times.
His mug shot. He kind of looks like my grandmother. :)
Now here, he really looks like my grandmother.
This is what Wikipedia says about him:
I said that to say that life is very short. We hear that all the time, but it doesn't start sinking in until we get older. When you watch the movie, you'll understand why I say this. I can't go back to my youth, or the "way it used to be." I have to keep moving forward because the past will literally never be repeated. If you had a miserable past, this is a good thing. If you had an enjoyable past, sometimes this is hard to bear.
One of these days, I'd like to do a family history with a genealogy chart. I'd like to know more about my ancestors, as I think it's very interesting to learn where you came from. History fascinates me and I wish I would have paid more attention in school. It was all so boring to me at the time. But then, we learned boring historical events - like the years that certain wars started and all that. Who cares?? Maybe if they had made it more personal, it would have been more interesting to learn. There's a thought.
I do know a little bit about one of my relatives who happened to be a gangster and worked for Al Capone. His name was Mike (the Pike) Heitler. He was my grandmother's uncle - my great-grandmother's brother, on my dad's (mother's) side. He was a pimp who ran a whorehouse and for this reason, my grandmother would never speak of him. He worked for Al Capone, and because Mike testified against Capone, he was murdered. He was in fact, torched in his vehicle. In my research, I found that he had a brother and a daughter, but I couldn't find any information on them. There isn't a whole lot written about Mike, but what I found, I printed out and the photos I obtained, I've pasted below.
Not the greatest lookin' guy in the world. These photos were published in the Chicago Daily Newspaper.
This is the dump he held his prostitution business at. Yuk.
In court for probably one of many times.
His mug shot. He kind of looks like my grandmother. :)
Now here, he really looks like my grandmother.
This is what Wikipedia says about him:
Mike Heitler
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Michael "The Pike" Heitler (died April 30, 1931) was a Prohibition gangster involved in prostitution for the Chicago Outfit.
Heitler began operating brothels in Chicago during the early 1900s based out of west Madison Street. By 1911, he had become a leading crime figure and a top lieutenant to Chicago racketeer Jacob "Mont" Tennes, later driving rival Jack Zuta out of business, with then ally Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzik. Although arrested briefly for white slavery, Heitler continued to run independently of James "Big Jim" Colosimo and later independently of Johnny "The Fox" Torrio, until the early 1920s, after the formation of the Chicago Outfit.
Reluctantly joining Capone's organization, Heitler began informing Chicago police of criminal activities after rival Guzik gained control of the organization's prostitution operations, informing Judge John H. Lyle of extortion and other illegal activities in the Four Deuces nightclub. Heitler was soon found out and fired by Capone after he received a letter to the state's attorney office detailing his prostitution operations. Heitler continued to send information to police later claiming Capone's involvement in the death of Chicago Tribune reporter Jake Lingle, which, the letter was received by Capone.[citation needed] Heitler may have also been involved in the conviction of Guzik and Ralph "Bottles" Capone for tax evasion, in 1930. Heitler was last seen with Capone associate Lawrence "Dago" Mangano and was later found dead after a fire in his home, on April 30, 1931.
I think this article is wrong, in that he was found dead in his car which was torched. In any event, it's interesting to find colorful characters like this when you do genealogy research. My relatives would never talk about him when we were kids, because, God forbid, you shouldn't mention such a thing. They would start talking Yiddish so us kids couldn't understand what they were saying. It's the same thing I used to do when my kids were young. At first I would spell everything out so they didn't know what I was talking about. Then when they started to learn how to spell, I tried pig-latin, but that was too hard to keep up, so I would just yell and tell them to go outside and play.
The irony of Mike (the Pike), is that with his "ill-gotten" money, he was able to bring all of my grandmother's relatives to the United States from Russia. They allowed him to buy their way here, but just wouldn't talk about or acknowledge him because of what he did. Not that I condone his profession, but that is highly contradictory. Or maybe it's just the way people are. All I know is that if I lived back then, I would most likely get to know this dude and pick his brain. Or at the very least, acknowledge him. Everyone, from the greatest to the least, needs to be acknowledged.
Heitler began operating brothels in Chicago during the early 1900s based out of west Madison Street. By 1911, he had become a leading crime figure and a top lieutenant to Chicago racketeer Jacob "Mont" Tennes, later driving rival Jack Zuta out of business, with then ally Jake "Greasy Thumb" Guzik. Although arrested briefly for white slavery, Heitler continued to run independently of James "Big Jim" Colosimo and later independently of Johnny "The Fox" Torrio, until the early 1920s, after the formation of the Chicago Outfit.
Reluctantly joining Capone's organization, Heitler began informing Chicago police of criminal activities after rival Guzik gained control of the organization's prostitution operations, informing Judge John H. Lyle of extortion and other illegal activities in the Four Deuces nightclub. Heitler was soon found out and fired by Capone after he received a letter to the state's attorney office detailing his prostitution operations. Heitler continued to send information to police later claiming Capone's involvement in the death of Chicago Tribune reporter Jake Lingle, which, the letter was received by Capone.[citation needed] Heitler may have also been involved in the conviction of Guzik and Ralph "Bottles" Capone for tax evasion, in 1930. Heitler was last seen with Capone associate Lawrence "Dago" Mangano and was later found dead after a fire in his home, on April 30, 1931.
I think this article is wrong, in that he was found dead in his car which was torched. In any event, it's interesting to find colorful characters like this when you do genealogy research. My relatives would never talk about him when we were kids, because, God forbid, you shouldn't mention such a thing. They would start talking Yiddish so us kids couldn't understand what they were saying. It's the same thing I used to do when my kids were young. At first I would spell everything out so they didn't know what I was talking about. Then when they started to learn how to spell, I tried pig-latin, but that was too hard to keep up, so I would just yell and tell them to go outside and play.
The irony of Mike (the Pike), is that with his "ill-gotten" money, he was able to bring all of my grandmother's relatives to the United States from Russia. They allowed him to buy their way here, but just wouldn't talk about or acknowledge him because of what he did. Not that I condone his profession, but that is highly contradictory. Or maybe it's just the way people are. All I know is that if I lived back then, I would most likely get to know this dude and pick his brain. Or at the very least, acknowledge him. Everyone, from the greatest to the least, needs to be acknowledged.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Another Day in the Life of Eunice
Yesterday, I was going to write about how quiet and peaceful it's been around here and then of course, things changed. My dad called me to go look in on my mom because he couldn't hear her. I went into her bedroom and she was standing, holding onto her walker next to her bed. I said, "Mom, are you ok?" and she said, "No, I don't feel good," without looking up at me. I asked her, "Are you going to throw up?" and she said, "Yes." So I quickly grabbed the bathroom garbage can and just when I turned around, she started sliding down her walker. I threw the garbage can on her bed and tried to hold her up under her arms, but I couldn't, and so I told her, "Just slide down to your knees, mom." She did, with her eyes closed and then when I tried to talk to her she didn't respond. At that point, my dad came in the room and looked at me as if to say, "What do we do?" and I said to lay her flat. So my dad laid her on the floor and straightened out her legs, all the while trying to get her to respond. A minute later, she opened her eyes and asked what had happened.
I called 911 and the EMT came out and looked at her. She looked an awful color of gray and although she didn't want to go to the hospital, they convinced her to, so off she went. I followed along in the car and my dad stayed behind. He still hasn't been feeling well either. I thought about this later, but when I had my mom in my arms, I felt like God was saying, "This is why you're here." I guess it really is.
So I sat with mom in the emergency room and they hooked her up to all kinds of tests and gave her anti-nausea medicine, as she had been sick to her stomach all day. The doctor came in and said they were going to keep her overnight to watch her and do more tests. So far today, they still don't know what is wrong, but because she has had severe diarrhea, they are keeping her another night.
I thought she might have had a stroke, but they haven't said anything. And now with her stomach issues, I don't know what that would be from. They took a test to see if she still has Mersa, but the test hasn't come back yet.
I'm not a person who deals with death well. Other than my great Uncle Irwin (who I named Micah after) and my Papa, no one close to me has ever died. I briefly thought of this when I looked at my mom and her face looked gray. It was very strange, but I didn't freak out. I was unusually calm. I know death will come to all of us, one way or the other, but it's always been something that I can't wrap my mind around. And when I did see my mom like that, I realized that one day she will die, and that's just the reality of it.
But not yet. She's alive and kickin' and although very sick, still makes annoying jokes to the nurses. My mom has a very unusual sense of humor. Most people don't get her humor at first - it takes them a minute for them to undersand what she's talking about. And then they say, "Oh.... hahahah." Not a hearty ha ha ha, but more like "Ok, I understand now, but that's really not so funny...." But of course no one is that rude to say it. She tells whoever will listen that I am her "favorite daughter," and will wait for their reaction. They inevitably say, "Ah, but then she's your only daughter, right?" My mom will chuckle and she gets a big kick out of this. I can't tell you how many times I have heard this in my lifetime. I just smile and pretend I'm amused. At least she tries; that's the important part.
I called 911 and the EMT came out and looked at her. She looked an awful color of gray and although she didn't want to go to the hospital, they convinced her to, so off she went. I followed along in the car and my dad stayed behind. He still hasn't been feeling well either. I thought about this later, but when I had my mom in my arms, I felt like God was saying, "This is why you're here." I guess it really is.
So I sat with mom in the emergency room and they hooked her up to all kinds of tests and gave her anti-nausea medicine, as she had been sick to her stomach all day. The doctor came in and said they were going to keep her overnight to watch her and do more tests. So far today, they still don't know what is wrong, but because she has had severe diarrhea, they are keeping her another night.
I thought she might have had a stroke, but they haven't said anything. And now with her stomach issues, I don't know what that would be from. They took a test to see if she still has Mersa, but the test hasn't come back yet.
I'm not a person who deals with death well. Other than my great Uncle Irwin (who I named Micah after) and my Papa, no one close to me has ever died. I briefly thought of this when I looked at my mom and her face looked gray. It was very strange, but I didn't freak out. I was unusually calm. I know death will come to all of us, one way or the other, but it's always been something that I can't wrap my mind around. And when I did see my mom like that, I realized that one day she will die, and that's just the reality of it.
But not yet. She's alive and kickin' and although very sick, still makes annoying jokes to the nurses. My mom has a very unusual sense of humor. Most people don't get her humor at first - it takes them a minute for them to undersand what she's talking about. And then they say, "Oh.... hahahah." Not a hearty ha ha ha, but more like "Ok, I understand now, but that's really not so funny...." But of course no one is that rude to say it. She tells whoever will listen that I am her "favorite daughter," and will wait for their reaction. They inevitably say, "Ah, but then she's your only daughter, right?" My mom will chuckle and she gets a big kick out of this. I can't tell you how many times I have heard this in my lifetime. I just smile and pretend I'm amused. At least she tries; that's the important part.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
A Broken Heart
Tonight, I'm thinking about a friend of mine who is incredibly hurting. I wish I could make all the pain go away, and help in some sort of physical fashion, but I can't. What I can do is pray for you, which I will. I will pray that God upholds you with His right arm and gives you peace.
I know what it's like to have a broken heart. Mine has been broken many times. Love is truly and absolutely blind, but then when we get side-smacked with a bit of reality, the hurt seems to burn like fire. My "heart" or whatever that place is where we feel emotions, has felt that fire more than one time. It sears through, taking your breath away and feels like you must be dying. And you think that dying would be easier than bearing this pain. And in some ways it would be, I think. But you're not going to die, not yet, and eventually you'll get up and press on as we all do. Each heartache, each pain, makes us that much stronger in the end. Our pain is what helps us have compassion for others.
Being brokenhearted is not romantic nor poetic, although I've written many poems through my brokenness. Those poems were written in despair and depression and are a precise description of how I felt every time. Being brokenhearted is being broken - completely. And not understanding why this has happened. It breaks a person down to the very core of your being and you are left with a smoldering fire. But it's still smoldering. It flickers. There's still hope when you feel the most hopeless. Not hope for the thing that broke you. But hope because tomorrow is a new day, and little by little, that hope grows. Because the only thing that heals a broken heart is time.
I wrote this many years ago, but this is for you now, my friend:
it seems my breath is almost gone,
my life all torn apart.
You say you understand my grief
and feel my pain indeed,
but you are nowhere near me
when I cry myself to sleep.
He's ever-present in a crowd
and stays when all have gone.
He sees my tears and feels my pain
around my badly shattered heart
to shield me from more harm.
Jesus is the only One who mends
by love so great
that's been in place
the moment I was born.
I know what it's like to have a broken heart. Mine has been broken many times. Love is truly and absolutely blind, but then when we get side-smacked with a bit of reality, the hurt seems to burn like fire. My "heart" or whatever that place is where we feel emotions, has felt that fire more than one time. It sears through, taking your breath away and feels like you must be dying. And you think that dying would be easier than bearing this pain. And in some ways it would be, I think. But you're not going to die, not yet, and eventually you'll get up and press on as we all do. Each heartache, each pain, makes us that much stronger in the end. Our pain is what helps us have compassion for others.
Being brokenhearted is not romantic nor poetic, although I've written many poems through my brokenness. Those poems were written in despair and depression and are a precise description of how I felt every time. Being brokenhearted is being broken - completely. And not understanding why this has happened. It breaks a person down to the very core of your being and you are left with a smoldering fire. But it's still smoldering. It flickers. There's still hope when you feel the most hopeless. Not hope for the thing that broke you. But hope because tomorrow is a new day, and little by little, that hope grows. Because the only thing that heals a broken heart is time.
I wrote this many years ago, but this is for you now, my friend:
I can't believe the pain I feel
and hurt that seers my heart,it seems my breath is almost gone,
my life all torn apart.
You say you understand my grief
and feel my pain indeed,
but you are nowhere near me
when I cry myself to sleep.
There's only One Who truly understands
my loss of hope;He's ever-present in a crowd
and stays when all have gone.
around my badly shattered heart
to shield me from more harm.
by love so great
that's been in place
the moment I was born.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Back to Folly
My trip to Madison felt like a whirlwind as I tried to cram a lot of stuff into one week. Unfortunately, I only saw Donovan and Jade for about 15 minutes. I couldn't connect with Jason, so Naleen, his ex-wife, brought the kids to see me at Leah's. I really appreciated her doing that, because otherwise I wouldn't have seen them at all.
It was a good time. I saw some friends, got to my doctor appointments and spent time with Leah, Parris and Ashanti. Leah and I bought a blow-up mattress which Shanti and I slept on. It was a lot more comfortable than the couch. Except when I had to get up in the morning. That was an ordeal. I had to roll over onto the floor and get on my knees, then hold onto something sturdy and pull myself up. I felt like an elephant trying to get to a standing position. I'm sure it was a sight to behold.
The flights to and from Milwaukee were smooth and comfortable, and except for the people sitting in back of me, was enjoyable. I'm not one to talk to another person on the plane - I just want to go to sleep as it makes the flight shorter, and frankly, I don't feel socialable after downing Dramimine and my other drugs. But the flight going there, I had the most obnoxious people sitting in back of me. They talked so loud that I heard their whole conversation. I kept rolling my eyes and sighing and it was all I could handle as they expounded on every issue of life. Finally I fell asleep and blocked the rest of it out, but I kept waking up and falling back to sleep to the sound of their New York accents. I don't have anything against New Yorkers, but sometimes their accent is a little too much for me to take. For me, it's like a fingernail scratch on a blackboard. Very irritating and obnoxious. And they probably feel the same way about my Chicago accent. Da Bears.
Anyway, I got back safely home and noticed that there was very little food in the house. I had prepared a lot of food for them for when I was gone and the refrigerator was just about empty. So it was off to the grocery store with my mother in tow. First we had to stop at the pharmacy for our drugs. Then we went to Panera bread where they have the best bagels in town. Then we went to the grocery store and we each got an electric cart to drive. My mother still has a difficult time driving the thing. She crashes into displays and goes real slow - unrealistically slow - and I had to keep waiting for her to catch up to me. Finally we were done and I was in line to pay for the groceries when I couldn't believe my eyes. I looked up and my mother, with the help of a store employee, was getting out of the cart to step on the huge scale at the front of the store. I said, "Mom, what are you doing?" and she said, "Don't worry honey," and proceeded to get on the scale to weigh herself. I honestly couldn't believe she was doing that. We threw out the scale she had at home because when she fell the last time, it was because she was trying to step up on the scale. Then she yelled out to me, and to the whole store, "I weigh 117 pounds," with glee in her voice and a smile on her face. My mother is a freak about weight. Hers, mine and everyone else's in the world. I call her the "Weight Nazi."
My father fell the day I left and refused all week to go to the doctor or the hospital. He said, " I'll wait for Sharon to take me." Why? I don't know. I must have magical powers others don't have. In any event, I have to take my mom to her follow-up appointment with the surgeon tomorrow and my dad will come along with us, in hopes that this doctor will look at him too. He's had a whole week to do this, but wanted to wait until I returned. In the meantime, he's barely walking and his wrist is swollen. I'm just praying that he didn't break his hip. He will refuse to go to rehab, which means I'll have to deal with it, and that may put me over the edge.
It's really good to be back in Florida, with all the lunacy and absurd incidents that happen here. My parents are an unending resource for writing this blog.
It was a good time. I saw some friends, got to my doctor appointments and spent time with Leah, Parris and Ashanti. Leah and I bought a blow-up mattress which Shanti and I slept on. It was a lot more comfortable than the couch. Except when I had to get up in the morning. That was an ordeal. I had to roll over onto the floor and get on my knees, then hold onto something sturdy and pull myself up. I felt like an elephant trying to get to a standing position. I'm sure it was a sight to behold.
The flights to and from Milwaukee were smooth and comfortable, and except for the people sitting in back of me, was enjoyable. I'm not one to talk to another person on the plane - I just want to go to sleep as it makes the flight shorter, and frankly, I don't feel socialable after downing Dramimine and my other drugs. But the flight going there, I had the most obnoxious people sitting in back of me. They talked so loud that I heard their whole conversation. I kept rolling my eyes and sighing and it was all I could handle as they expounded on every issue of life. Finally I fell asleep and blocked the rest of it out, but I kept waking up and falling back to sleep to the sound of their New York accents. I don't have anything against New Yorkers, but sometimes their accent is a little too much for me to take. For me, it's like a fingernail scratch on a blackboard. Very irritating and obnoxious. And they probably feel the same way about my Chicago accent. Da Bears.
Anyway, I got back safely home and noticed that there was very little food in the house. I had prepared a lot of food for them for when I was gone and the refrigerator was just about empty. So it was off to the grocery store with my mother in tow. First we had to stop at the pharmacy for our drugs. Then we went to Panera bread where they have the best bagels in town. Then we went to the grocery store and we each got an electric cart to drive. My mother still has a difficult time driving the thing. She crashes into displays and goes real slow - unrealistically slow - and I had to keep waiting for her to catch up to me. Finally we were done and I was in line to pay for the groceries when I couldn't believe my eyes. I looked up and my mother, with the help of a store employee, was getting out of the cart to step on the huge scale at the front of the store. I said, "Mom, what are you doing?" and she said, "Don't worry honey," and proceeded to get on the scale to weigh herself. I honestly couldn't believe she was doing that. We threw out the scale she had at home because when she fell the last time, it was because she was trying to step up on the scale. Then she yelled out to me, and to the whole store, "I weigh 117 pounds," with glee in her voice and a smile on her face. My mother is a freak about weight. Hers, mine and everyone else's in the world. I call her the "Weight Nazi."
My father fell the day I left and refused all week to go to the doctor or the hospital. He said, " I'll wait for Sharon to take me." Why? I don't know. I must have magical powers others don't have. In any event, I have to take my mom to her follow-up appointment with the surgeon tomorrow and my dad will come along with us, in hopes that this doctor will look at him too. He's had a whole week to do this, but wanted to wait until I returned. In the meantime, he's barely walking and his wrist is swollen. I'm just praying that he didn't break his hip. He will refuse to go to rehab, which means I'll have to deal with it, and that may put me over the edge.
It's really good to be back in Florida, with all the lunacy and absurd incidents that happen here. My parents are an unending resource for writing this blog.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Fun and Games
So my dad had an appointment yesterday for minor surgery on his eye. We woke up late, about 6:30 and the appointment was at 7:00. I raced trying to get dressed and hurried him along as much as I could. We didn't get out of the house until 6:50 and I tried to speed, but the speed limit all around here is 30 or 35, and my dad is always reminding me that "This street is always patrolled," even though I've only seen a cop once or twice the whole time I've been here. So we finally get to the building where he told me it was at and I dropped my dad off first because we were late. I parked the car and went in after him, and saw him coming from the "Cardiac Department" ( he was told he was in the wrong area and there is this huge sign saying it was the "Cardiac" department), as he was taking the elevator to the second floor. I came up after him and I noticed that all the offices were dark and no one was around. He walked down the hall and thought he knew where he was going, but I sat down and called the number on the sheet he was given. We were in the wrong building and she told me that they were just "next door."
We drove "next door" and my dad got out and went in and I stayed in the car to see if it was the right building. It was, but it was the wrong door. So my dad got back in the car and we drove around this building and I dropped him off and I went to park. We got there around 7:35. There was a room full of people and we waited about 20 minutes when he was called in. The procedure took all of 5 minutes and we were on our way home. Never believe an old person when they tell you they "know where they're going." Politely say, "That's good," and do a Google search anyway.
I made a huge mistake and now I'm feeling really guilty, especially leaving so soon. My dad can't reach the trunk to close it so he always asks me to do it, and I totally spaced it last night. He was just in the garage and he turned the garage door opener on to get the garbage cans, but he was looking down and he smacked right into the garage door. It didn't go up because it got stuck from the trunk door. He was just shouting to me from the garage and I went out there and he was on the cement. He said he got knocked down from the door. I tried to pick him up but he wouldn't let me and he struggled for several minutes to hold on to a wheel chair to help himself up. He finally pulled himself up to a stand, holding onto the chair and I brought the garbage cans in. He's sitting in his chair now and he says his hand and hip hurts, as he fell on his butt. He said, "Wouldn't that be funny if I broke my hip too?" I said, "NO, not at all."
So now I am ready to go see my kids and grandkids and my dad will probably be pretty bruised up and hurting for several days. I only pray he didn't break anything. That would do us both in. And I feel guilty because I didn't close the trunk. What a parting gift.
So I need to just take a deep breath and keep on going. I'll be back all too soon and will resume the fun and games in Florida. I never knew how entertaining my parents could be. They weren't this fun when I was a kid. But then, neither was I...
We drove "next door" and my dad got out and went in and I stayed in the car to see if it was the right building. It was, but it was the wrong door. So my dad got back in the car and we drove around this building and I dropped him off and I went to park. We got there around 7:35. There was a room full of people and we waited about 20 minutes when he was called in. The procedure took all of 5 minutes and we were on our way home. Never believe an old person when they tell you they "know where they're going." Politely say, "That's good," and do a Google search anyway.
I made a huge mistake and now I'm feeling really guilty, especially leaving so soon. My dad can't reach the trunk to close it so he always asks me to do it, and I totally spaced it last night. He was just in the garage and he turned the garage door opener on to get the garbage cans, but he was looking down and he smacked right into the garage door. It didn't go up because it got stuck from the trunk door. He was just shouting to me from the garage and I went out there and he was on the cement. He said he got knocked down from the door. I tried to pick him up but he wouldn't let me and he struggled for several minutes to hold on to a wheel chair to help himself up. He finally pulled himself up to a stand, holding onto the chair and I brought the garbage cans in. He's sitting in his chair now and he says his hand and hip hurts, as he fell on his butt. He said, "Wouldn't that be funny if I broke my hip too?" I said, "NO, not at all."
So now I am ready to go see my kids and grandkids and my dad will probably be pretty bruised up and hurting for several days. I only pray he didn't break anything. That would do us both in. And I feel guilty because I didn't close the trunk. What a parting gift.
So I need to just take a deep breath and keep on going. I'll be back all too soon and will resume the fun and games in Florida. I never knew how entertaining my parents could be. They weren't this fun when I was a kid. But then, neither was I...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
A Grandma Who is Loved
I woke up the other day to the noise of what sounded like banging on a table. I asked what was going on and my mom said dad was trying to open the relish jar. I called in the other room and told my dad to just give me the jar and I would try to open it. My dad handed it to my mom and my mom handed it to me and I saw that the plastic was still wrapped around the top. They couldn't get it open because the plastic was sealed around the top.
It's this kind of frolic and games that we play in the Schwartz household. Except they're not playing. I have to laugh, but I do so quietly, because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Sometimes I roll my eyes, sometimes I just shake my head and sometimes I sigh really big. I do a lot of sighing.
Tonight, we needed more napkins at the table. You wouldn't believe how many napkins are used in this house. My dad goes through about 10 at each meal. He has to wipe his face several times and then he has to blow his nose a few times. He ends up with a little, neat pile of napkins next to his plate, that get thrown in "his" garbage basket at the end of the meal. Somehow, Kita got ahold of one of those napkins and chewed it to pieces, while my dad sat swearing at her because she made a mess. I just left the room with my dog and closed my door. I figured he could clean it up.
I can tell I need a vacation from all of this craziness. It's way overdue, but I'm going "home" in two days and I can't wait. I miss my kids and my grandkids terribly and I need to talk with people who can hear me and not have to repeat myself over and over. When I get back, I'm going to find a hearing doctor and make an appointment for both of them. I'm sure they both need hearing aids.
My suitcase is packed and sitting on my bed. The last minute stuff I have to pack I will do on Friday, because my flight is in the evening. I will be waiting patiently for Danny, who will be taking me to the airport and we'll probably laugh the whole way there, talking about the antics that go on in this household. He is the only one who truly understands what I write about, as he "lived" it too.
My parents have graciously agreed to watch Kita while I'm gone. I'll only be gone a week, but I would rather have her here with them, then with strangers I don't know. I hope she behaves for them. She whines and watches the door when I leave and is very distracted until I get home. I hope she settles in for them, or I will hear it from my father when I get home. I'll probably hear it anyway. He likes to complain, just to complain.
Which brings me to Sunday. The pastor preached an excellent message on being positive and keeping negativity out of your life. I tend to be a negative person and I hate that. Seriously, I wish I was more positive and looked at things with more optimism. I tend to blame the way I was raised on my personality, but that can't be all of it. True, my father is Mr. Negative of the Year, but my mom has always been Ms. Optimism of the Year. They are truly two exact opposite individuals. My brothers and I take more after my dad than my mom, which is unfortunate. My dad has some awesome qualities, like his sense of humor, his laugh and his business sense. But it's my mom who is gentle, quiet and generally positive. She never liked quarreling and it used to drive me crazy when I was young, because she would never stand up to my dad. But that's just not in her makeup.
As much as I point out my parents' weird idiosyncracies (I have no idea if I spelled that right or not), and all of the craziness that goes on in this household, I really do love them very much. Unfortunately, it always wasn't that way for me and I regret that now. I wasted a lot of time being angry with them and resenting the way I was raised, which now I find so silly. As a parent, we all do what we think is right, one way or the other, and it's usually Russian ruolette. I can read a million books on parenting, and that will never help me be a parent. You have to live it and make mistakes and learn and love and even ask your kids to forgive you every now and then. Just because I'm the mom, doesn't always make me right. I learned that early on, and although it was hard to do, I have had to apologize to my kids more than one time. The bottom line, is you do the best you can with what you have and lean on God for the rest. He always makes up the difference.
And now I am a grandmother and I absolutely love it. It's the best. I asked Shanti if she was going to sleep next to me when I am there, and she said, "Of course." There was no thinking about it on her part. And the thing is, she will have to sleep on the floor because I will be sleeping on the couch. But she will get her little blankets and pillow and camp out right next to grandma because she loves me. Love that is pure. Love that doesn't have to think about the answer to the question because it's never a question. And when I see Donovan and Jade, they will come running to me like I never left. Like I'm this soft, cuddly person who they can hug and I'll hug back. And of course give lots of kisses to until they giggle over and over and over.
I love being a grandma who is loved.
It's this kind of frolic and games that we play in the Schwartz household. Except they're not playing. I have to laugh, but I do so quietly, because I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Sometimes I roll my eyes, sometimes I just shake my head and sometimes I sigh really big. I do a lot of sighing.
Tonight, we needed more napkins at the table. You wouldn't believe how many napkins are used in this house. My dad goes through about 10 at each meal. He has to wipe his face several times and then he has to blow his nose a few times. He ends up with a little, neat pile of napkins next to his plate, that get thrown in "his" garbage basket at the end of the meal. Somehow, Kita got ahold of one of those napkins and chewed it to pieces, while my dad sat swearing at her because she made a mess. I just left the room with my dog and closed my door. I figured he could clean it up.
I can tell I need a vacation from all of this craziness. It's way overdue, but I'm going "home" in two days and I can't wait. I miss my kids and my grandkids terribly and I need to talk with people who can hear me and not have to repeat myself over and over. When I get back, I'm going to find a hearing doctor and make an appointment for both of them. I'm sure they both need hearing aids.
My suitcase is packed and sitting on my bed. The last minute stuff I have to pack I will do on Friday, because my flight is in the evening. I will be waiting patiently for Danny, who will be taking me to the airport and we'll probably laugh the whole way there, talking about the antics that go on in this household. He is the only one who truly understands what I write about, as he "lived" it too.
My parents have graciously agreed to watch Kita while I'm gone. I'll only be gone a week, but I would rather have her here with them, then with strangers I don't know. I hope she behaves for them. She whines and watches the door when I leave and is very distracted until I get home. I hope she settles in for them, or I will hear it from my father when I get home. I'll probably hear it anyway. He likes to complain, just to complain.
Which brings me to Sunday. The pastor preached an excellent message on being positive and keeping negativity out of your life. I tend to be a negative person and I hate that. Seriously, I wish I was more positive and looked at things with more optimism. I tend to blame the way I was raised on my personality, but that can't be all of it. True, my father is Mr. Negative of the Year, but my mom has always been Ms. Optimism of the Year. They are truly two exact opposite individuals. My brothers and I take more after my dad than my mom, which is unfortunate. My dad has some awesome qualities, like his sense of humor, his laugh and his business sense. But it's my mom who is gentle, quiet and generally positive. She never liked quarreling and it used to drive me crazy when I was young, because she would never stand up to my dad. But that's just not in her makeup.
As much as I point out my parents' weird idiosyncracies (I have no idea if I spelled that right or not), and all of the craziness that goes on in this household, I really do love them very much. Unfortunately, it always wasn't that way for me and I regret that now. I wasted a lot of time being angry with them and resenting the way I was raised, which now I find so silly. As a parent, we all do what we think is right, one way or the other, and it's usually Russian ruolette. I can read a million books on parenting, and that will never help me be a parent. You have to live it and make mistakes and learn and love and even ask your kids to forgive you every now and then. Just because I'm the mom, doesn't always make me right. I learned that early on, and although it was hard to do, I have had to apologize to my kids more than one time. The bottom line, is you do the best you can with what you have and lean on God for the rest. He always makes up the difference.
And now I am a grandmother and I absolutely love it. It's the best. I asked Shanti if she was going to sleep next to me when I am there, and she said, "Of course." There was no thinking about it on her part. And the thing is, she will have to sleep on the floor because I will be sleeping on the couch. But she will get her little blankets and pillow and camp out right next to grandma because she loves me. Love that is pure. Love that doesn't have to think about the answer to the question because it's never a question. And when I see Donovan and Jade, they will come running to me like I never left. Like I'm this soft, cuddly person who they can hug and I'll hug back. And of course give lots of kisses to until they giggle over and over and over.
I love being a grandma who is loved.
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