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.

The End

I've been in Florida now a year, almost to the day.  It is, I think, a good time to end this blog, but not for that reason.  I've had a hard time to sit down and write like I want to, for various reasons, but not because I don't want to.  I started taking a painting class several weeks ago and I am still taking it and loving it.  I'm learning watercolor and I love the medium, and still have so much to learn, but that is taking up a lot of my time.  Taking care of my parents and having my daughter's family living here also takes up time - but good time.  I love my family, even as dysfunctional as we are.  And of course Howie has me following him to and fro, to try and catch him before he does his "duty" in the house.  That's always a fun game to play.  Some people have suggested I convert this blog into a book, and I just may do that in the future. 

But I have a new idea for a blog that I won't be able to start for another year, at least.  I've decided that when I get on Medicare, I plan on having bariatric surgery (for which I'm not able to afford, nor does my present insurance cover).  I thought I would detail the experience before, during and after the surgery, for my own benefit and anyone else who wants to read it.  That's what my plan is now, but I have to wait for another year or so until I'm eligible. 

Thanks to all of you who have commented on these blogs - they were all very uplifting to me and so appreciated.  It would help me if you are no longer interested in getting my future blogs to please let me know, and I will take you off of my email list.  Thank you.

I leave you with part of a poem by James Russell Lowell, that I was just recently introduced to and I will share it here.  I really like it, and I would be interested in your opinion/explanation of the quote, which is here:

Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record
One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;
Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne,--
Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,
Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above his own.

Peace,
Sharon

Howie

It's been about 3 weeks since Howie has been living here and he is fitting in very well.  He, however, considers the entire house his bathroom and there is no room that is sacred from this function.  Even in my dad's office.  I hear a loud voice, swearing and muttering to himself and I know it's my dad who just encountered a puddle or present under his desk.  My mom and I are both trying very hard to get him to "make" in the enclosed porch that has indoor-outdoor carpeting in it and can be washed very easily.  He agrees to do this to a certain extent - he piddles on the puppy pads out there, but refuses to poopoo on the pads.  I know, I know, TMI.  I'm trying to describe how my current days are, and this is a big part of it.

The day begins at about 2:00 in the morning when I hear him whining like a cat next to my side of the bed, that he wants me to pick him up, which I do, and bring him in the bed with my mom and I.  I put a pillow barrier between her and I and I tuck him in next to me, away from the side of the bed.  He then falls back asleep until about 7:30 or 8:00.  He loves to sleep with me just like my kids used to.  I had to put them in the middle too, worried that they would fall off the bed, just like Howie.  He wakes me (or my mom) up chewing on our hair and licking our faces.  I bring a chew toy into bed at that point to give me a few more minutes of sleep. 

When we do get up, I quickly put him out on the porch for him to "make."  I wait and wait and wait, and then I sit down to wait some more.  Sometimes he produces something, sometimes not.  When he doesn't, as soon as we go back in the house, a puddle and present will appear out of nowhere, like magic.  I talk a lot to myself these days, as he obviously isn't listening to me.  It's far worse than potty training a child.  At least you can bribe them with candy.  These little creatures have a mind of their own.  And apparently, Dachschunds are difficult to potty train.  Great.

When I am not cleaning up puddles and presents, I (finally) started a watercolor class at the Venice Art Center.  I am loving it, even though it is showing me how inept I am at what I thought was going to be relatively easy.  It's a challenge and I like that because it puts my mind in a totally different place.  And I'm learning and that's always a good thing.

My first attempt is a sloppy mess of a sunset.  It's not even good as an abstract sunset.  You could even surmise Howie piddled on it.  But we learn from our mistakes and hopefully I will slow down and get it right.  You must have patience to do watercolor and this will definitely help me with that. 

My second attempt, which is what I am working on now, is a painting of Howie.  I guess I deal with him so much during the day, I thought I would honor him with a portrait.  Leah took the photo of him that I'm painting from, and he happened to be sitting on a potty pad, like a good boy. Ha! Hope springs eternal.

Zayde, Howie, Maxwell, Murphy??

How difficult is it to name a puppy?  Well, when there are lots of people giving you a suggestion, each one sounds good until the next one.  I mean, it's like picking something from a menu.  I quietly freak out when I go to a restaurant that has so many choices, their menu fills up several pages.  My ADD kicks in and I am overwhelmed by what to choose.  And what happens is that I usually choose what I've chosen before, so what a waste of time that was, to go through each page.  I  think I've finally found the name I will use for my new puppy - Howie.  My dad likes that one, and that's the one my mom can remember.  When I named him Murphy, she kept forgetting what it was and was walking around saying, "Mar...Mer...Mr...." and I would have to interject, "Murphy, mom.  It's Murphy."  Well, for some reason "Howie" she can remember, so Howie it is.  Danny and I came up with "Zayde" when we drove home after picking him up somewhere near Ocala.  It was a long drive and we had a great conversation going up, and a puppy-naming brainstorm on the way back.  "Zayde" means grandpa in Yiddish and we both thought he looked like an "old soul" so that was the reason for "Zayde."  However, when I got home, everyone said, "Zayde??  That's stupid!"  Ok, after a lot of arguing and reasoning, I relented and Howie it is.

Howie has settled right in and has stopped whining for the most part.  I'm sure he missed his mom and brothers and sisters the first few nights, but I bought him a kennel and put a bed in there and he retreats to his little house by himself.  I leave the door to the kennel open in case he has to pee, and there are puppy pads on the floor next to his kennel.  In the early morning, he wakes up and whines on my side of the bed until I reach down and pick him up.  Then he wants his tummy rubbed and demands my full attention until he wants "down."

My parents have taken a real liking to Howie, which is good.  And Shanti loves him.  She follows him all around and plays with him until he's pooped, then he retreats to his house.  Last night they went to my brother's house and Howie just moped around here whining, looking for Shanti.  Today, Shanti started school, so he will be bored until she comes home.

Here is a picture of Howie at about 7 weeks.  He will be 9 weeks on April 14.  It says "Dakota" in the corner because that's what his owner named him in the beginning.  I like "Dakota" but there are too many syllables.  I like two syllable names because you can yell or call them easier.  "HOW-IE, come over here now!" is better than "DA-KO-TA, come over here now!"  It takes too much time to yell the three syllables.  And now I'm drifting off into a subject I'm not well versed in because I hated English Grammar in school, so let's just get back on track.  Here's his picture:

He is a long-haired, miniature Dachshund, and oh-so-cute.  He will only get to be about 7-8 pounds, just like Kita. 

I love animals, and especially dogs.  They are loyal and give you unconditional love no matter what.  I think we could learn a lot from dogs, in particular.  Giving love with no strings attached - just because. 

On a greater scale, it's the same unconditional love Jesus showed us by dying on the cross.  No matter who we are, no matter what we do - He suffered and died for every single one of us, and yet most of us are not even aware of that, or much less care.  We wear crosses on our necks or on our dashboards, but do we really understand what that means?  I think not.  He is not just a symbol hanging on a cross.  He is so much more, and yet few of us ever reach deeper to find out who He is all about.  That's truly a shame.  A waste of a lifetime.  A waste of eternity, in fact...

Third Grade

It's been a bit hectic around here the last few days, as my daughter, her husband and my granddaughter came to live with us.  Stuff has been put away and the dust has finally settled and my dad hasn't really lost his temper, yet.  He and I got into an argument last night (he likes perfect silence at the dinner table) but it ended up ok.  I let him blow off some steam, and I did as well.  When we were kids, we had to sit in silence and eat and if we did try to talk about our day, my father would explode, slamming his fist down on the table and tell us all to "Shut up!!"  It didn't quite come to that yesterday, but I could see it was heading in that direction so I thought I better intervene.  All in all, my dad is doing pretty good for having people suddenly descend into his privacy.  Hopefully it won't be for long, as Parris has an interview tomorrow and Leah should be getting a job soon too.  And when they find their own place to live, my dad will be relieved, but he should also look at it as a good thing he's done to let them stay with him for a short time.  It's always good to be a blessing to others, especially when you get nothing back in return.  My dad never learned that lesson, so it's about time he does.

As for me, I am totally enjoying my kids and granddaughter here with me, for however long it lasts.  I will be going back to Madison in July for several appointments, to see my grandkids and friends and to ship some of my stuff back down to Florida.  In the meantime, I'm looking into taking an art class or two at the Venice Art Center.  I have paper, paints, brushes and other supplies and some of it is still boxed up.  I don't know why I haven't taken it out and started using it.  I'm procrastinating for some reason.  I don't have a specific place designated for my stuff, maybe that's why.  I could use the dining room table, but I don't like when people watch me paint.  I may have to just use it there, though, because there really isn't anywhere else in here that will work. 

And then, for some silly reason, I don't want to hear my father's critiques.  When I was in third grade, I remember bringing home a drawing that I thought I did really well, but when I brought it to show my dad, he made suggestions on how I could make it better and critiqued it like I was in art school.  In third grade.  I guess that's kind of stuck with me and although I love to draw and paint and create, I hear my dad's approving or disapproving voice in the back of my head.  That's a really silly reason to procrastinate, but I can't think of any other reason.  It's bizarre that as adults, some of us still try to get our parents' approval.

Maybe it's because my dad was always honest with his opinion of my artwork.  My mother, however, always said, "That's nice, dear," or "That's just beautiful," when what I created was clearly not "nice" or "beautiful."  To my mom, anything I created was "just beautiful," as most moms are with their children.  Looking at it with older eyes, I guess I would rather have an honest critique than a flat, empty opinion.  So maybe I should start creating again.  It should be good to be critiqued to do better.  After all, I'm no longer in third grade.