I just came back from an imaging clinic where I was supposed to have an MRI. I am wildly, breathtakingly claustrophobic and the prospect of having an MRI is one of those big ass fears that can keep me up at night. I understand why I have to be awake for this procedure. I need to periodically hold my breath while the MRI technicians take pictures. Yes, that is correct - they want to stick my entire body inside a narrow, enclosed tube AND they want me to repeatedly hold my breath while they take pictures. Half way through they will then pull me out, inject me full of dye and then stick me back in the tube to do the procedure all over again until I am done. This should only last 35 to 40 minutes they said. I thought: that is about how long Survivor lasts if you take out all the commercial breaks.
The clinic staff are not able to do an MRI on a fully sedated person. You have to go to the hospital for that. I told everyone before and up until I laid down on that damned MRI table, including my doctor when she originally called to recommend this procedure, that I was seriously claustrophobic. I am not sure why they still sent me to the clinic where I would have to be awake for this procedure. Perhaps "seriously" was not a dramatic or descriptive enough adjective. I will communicate more effectively next time. Sometimes it seems like no one really cares enough to listen, though. Or maybe they are listening but they do not really care. Or maybe the burden is on me and the lesson here is to be even more dramatic.
At the time of the procedure I was mildly sedated on Valium, and all ready to go. I felt pretty good, Valium being what it is, but I most certainly did not feel adequately drugged or anxiety free. They were inserting me into the miserable MRI tube and my head was just starting to follow my shoulders inside when the panic hit. And when I say "panic" what I really mean is "terror." And when I say "hit" I mean that I was psychically sucker punched. I simply had to make them stop, which I did. I could not let my head enter that tube. The horror of claustrophobia was too great. I had hoped I could just keep my eyes closed, listen to the music on the headphones and wait it out. I had practiced deep breathing in anticipation of this event. I wanted to get this over with. I wanted to do this. But no, I could not. I just could not do it. Damn.
Just for the record, I did not freak out or fling my body parts all over trying to get up. I simply said "Stop," and they stopped. I then said, "I don't think I am going to be able to do this." I was calm. However, there is no doubt in my mind that if my head had gone inside that miserable tube, I would have destroyed it trying to get out.
The two aides then asked me to relax on the MRI table, wait for a few minutes to see if the Valium would overcome my fear, and then try again. I said OK, because I aim to please. Plus, I really wanted to get this stupid procedure over with. And, of course, I was weighted down on the table with with substantial magnetic throws and I had earphones on. Waiting seemed like the right thing to do. After a few minutes when they came over to me and asked if I was ready to try again, I had to say no. Just the thought of my head once again slowly moving into that miserable tube was enough to make me want to jump out of my skin. Mere Valium was not going to alleviate my fear.
Now I will have to go to the hospital where they will put me out and an anesthesiologist will take charge of monitoring and, when needed, holding my breath for me while I am "asleep." I do not find that reassuring. The clinic staff are not waiting for me to make the appointment (so I can put it off indefinitely), they are making the appointment.
I have been re-watching Star Trek, Deep Space Nine for the past few months. Great series, with a wonderfully bright, genetically enhanced doctor. HE has a hand-held scanner that he uses quite effectively as a diagnostic tool. That is exactly what is needed here.
I wonder if Xanax or Ativan might have been a better sedative choice?
coming out of my shell
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Monday, May 11, 2015
Who ARE these people?
I spend my
days desperately trying to avoid hackers and phone scammers.
They know I am a retired person and they are absolutely determined to come
between me and my money.
Multiple phone scammers call our house each and every day. I no longer answer the phone if I cannot identify the caller. Instead, I look at the phone when it is ringing to take a look at the name and/or number of whoever is calling us. I pretty much know that any call from area code 407 without an identifying name displayed is from a hardened, psychotic criminal. Who else would be calling me from central Florida? My daughter and husband text me. My son-in-law and his parents email me. My 3 year old grandson has recently figured out how to contact me via Facetime on their iPad (sometimes as early as 7:30 am if his parents are out of the room), and my 11 year old granddaughter tries to avoid communicating with me via modern technology at all costs. Those are the only people I know in Central Florida. I think I am safe in assuming everyone else is psychotic.
The other day I picked up on a phone call from a number with a Southern Florida area code. That particular number had been calling every day (sometimes more than once a day) for weeks and I have to admit I was curious to see what this particular scam was going to be. I did not get the satisfaction of yelling at someone because it turned out to be an automated call. It was malicious Mr. Robot Man telling me he had been trying to get a hold of me to settle our account (never saying what his business name was) and if I did not get back to him he would have to take me to court. Then Mr. Robot Man gave me the choice of either pressing 1 to call him back or 2 to leave a message. Hilarious. If only I had magical powers to create a third choice: press 3 to send unbridled bolts of crackling hot electricity through the phone lines to burn Mr. Robot Man's sorry robot circuits to Hell.
The phone rang while we were eating dinner last night. If got up and walked over to the land-line phone to see if it might be a normal human being trying to get in touch with me. I live in hope. Instead, the caller ID screen on our phone revealed it was from "Voter Consumer." Whatever that means? My husband said it should have read from "Consumer Harassment." I concur. But that reminds me. As the general elections approach we will now start getting political phone calls, too! Ouch.
I also get a ridiculous amount of email spam, even though I try to filter it out. I also try VERY hard not to click on any links or open any emails from sources I do not recognize. I am kind of proud of how distrustful I have become. But they are so tricksy, those computer scumbags. The other day I got an email from Federal Express, or that is what I thought. When I opened the email it said to click a link so I could track my package. Well, I sometimes order online, so I thought it was real. I clicked, dammit! It turned out to be just another trickster scam to get me to buy something I do not need nor want. And now my big fear is that legions of demented hackers are sending pornography related email to everyone in my contact list because I was foolish enough to click on that one miserable link. Sheesh. If you get pornographic emails from me, please know they are not really from me, okay? That particular virus is THE one I have always hoped I could avoid.
A kind and gentle man I know was victimized by that virus a few years ago. I think there are still people out there who fear he is a raging pervert. Poor guy. I also know a high school teacher who was victimized by it. Can you imagine how awful that would be? No doubt she had students in her email address list. Just think of the horror and embarrassment innocent people have suffered because of that virus. In my alternate universe the person who created it would have his/her knuckles removed and then be forced to write "I am sorry for the trouble I caused" 100 times before getting them back. Yes, in my alternate universe knuckles can be removed and then re-attached. There are amazing surgeons there.
I suppose now I should just never open any emails I get. Where will it all end? Mr. Natural (old R. Crumb alternative comic character and mystic guru) would have answered, "In the grave, my boy, in the grave."
Wow, I just now got an email from Wells Fargo Bank telling me that a hacker has been trying to hack into my account and if I would just click on the link they provided they would reinstate my account. Funny thing is, I do not have any business dealings involving Wells Fargo. True story, just happened. Unbelievable.
It is odd imagining this is how some people make a living or get their kicks, by deceiving and humiliating innocent people. You have to wonder why they do this? Of course, they are probably some of the narcissistic sociopaths I wrote about last time. Or maybe they hate old people because they had mean grandparents who pinched their childhood cheeks and wrote them out of their wills. Perhaps they were raised in damp caves by drug addled parents who never hugged them or gave them any encouragement. Or, I suppose they could just be the spawn of the devil? Who knows. Armchair psychology is an imprecise science.
Multiple phone scammers call our house each and every day. I no longer answer the phone if I cannot identify the caller. Instead, I look at the phone when it is ringing to take a look at the name and/or number of whoever is calling us. I pretty much know that any call from area code 407 without an identifying name displayed is from a hardened, psychotic criminal. Who else would be calling me from central Florida? My daughter and husband text me. My son-in-law and his parents email me. My 3 year old grandson has recently figured out how to contact me via Facetime on their iPad (sometimes as early as 7:30 am if his parents are out of the room), and my 11 year old granddaughter tries to avoid communicating with me via modern technology at all costs. Those are the only people I know in Central Florida. I think I am safe in assuming everyone else is psychotic.
The other day I picked up on a phone call from a number with a Southern Florida area code. That particular number had been calling every day (sometimes more than once a day) for weeks and I have to admit I was curious to see what this particular scam was going to be. I did not get the satisfaction of yelling at someone because it turned out to be an automated call. It was malicious Mr. Robot Man telling me he had been trying to get a hold of me to settle our account (never saying what his business name was) and if I did not get back to him he would have to take me to court. Then Mr. Robot Man gave me the choice of either pressing 1 to call him back or 2 to leave a message. Hilarious. If only I had magical powers to create a third choice: press 3 to send unbridled bolts of crackling hot electricity through the phone lines to burn Mr. Robot Man's sorry robot circuits to Hell.
The phone rang while we were eating dinner last night. If got up and walked over to the land-line phone to see if it might be a normal human being trying to get in touch with me. I live in hope. Instead, the caller ID screen on our phone revealed it was from "Voter Consumer." Whatever that means? My husband said it should have read from "Consumer Harassment." I concur. But that reminds me. As the general elections approach we will now start getting political phone calls, too! Ouch.
I also get a ridiculous amount of email spam, even though I try to filter it out. I also try VERY hard not to click on any links or open any emails from sources I do not recognize. I am kind of proud of how distrustful I have become. But they are so tricksy, those computer scumbags. The other day I got an email from Federal Express, or that is what I thought. When I opened the email it said to click a link so I could track my package. Well, I sometimes order online, so I thought it was real. I clicked, dammit! It turned out to be just another trickster scam to get me to buy something I do not need nor want. And now my big fear is that legions of demented hackers are sending pornography related email to everyone in my contact list because I was foolish enough to click on that one miserable link. Sheesh. If you get pornographic emails from me, please know they are not really from me, okay? That particular virus is THE one I have always hoped I could avoid.
A kind and gentle man I know was victimized by that virus a few years ago. I think there are still people out there who fear he is a raging pervert. Poor guy. I also know a high school teacher who was victimized by it. Can you imagine how awful that would be? No doubt she had students in her email address list. Just think of the horror and embarrassment innocent people have suffered because of that virus. In my alternate universe the person who created it would have his/her knuckles removed and then be forced to write "I am sorry for the trouble I caused" 100 times before getting them back. Yes, in my alternate universe knuckles can be removed and then re-attached. There are amazing surgeons there.
I suppose now I should just never open any emails I get. Where will it all end? Mr. Natural (old R. Crumb alternative comic character and mystic guru) would have answered, "In the grave, my boy, in the grave."
Wow, I just now got an email from Wells Fargo Bank telling me that a hacker has been trying to hack into my account and if I would just click on the link they provided they would reinstate my account. Funny thing is, I do not have any business dealings involving Wells Fargo. True story, just happened. Unbelievable.
It is odd imagining this is how some people make a living or get their kicks, by deceiving and humiliating innocent people. You have to wonder why they do this? Of course, they are probably some of the narcissistic sociopaths I wrote about last time. Or maybe they hate old people because they had mean grandparents who pinched their childhood cheeks and wrote them out of their wills. Perhaps they were raised in damp caves by drug addled parents who never hugged them or gave them any encouragement. Or, I suppose they could just be the spawn of the devil? Who knows. Armchair psychology is an imprecise science.
Friday, April 24, 2015
It's your thing, do what you wanna do
Third children are rare these days, but back when most families had a third child it was an interesting role to play. I rarely got to make decisions about what we watched on TV or what activities we did as a family. But that was OK. I was usually left to my own devices, and I was able to create a fairly wonderful play-world for my self. There is a lot to be said for a childhood where you are not the focus of everyone's attention. I was able to be myself, whatever that was. My younger brother did not come around until I was four, and I am sorry to say I really was not all that interested in him. For one thing he was a baby, and then he quickly turned into a boy.
Back then I not only thought boys were boring, but I thought they were weird, too. They played with cars and trucks, for crying out loud. What the hell kind of fun are you going to have involving a truck? At least that was my perspective. I was not a "tomboy", nor do I wish I had been one. Good for you if boy stuff is what floated your boat as a child, but it was absolutely not my cup of tea. That is not a judgment on what is better or what is worse. I am a third child and I do not feel strongly about having my way be the right way. That is not the way the world works when you are a third child. I am just stating for the record that I was a girly girl and I loved it. If I could go back and change anything it would to wear more pink. In fact, I may start wearing pink now! What a great color.
I have a grandson and I play with him a lot. I adore him. I would do anything for him. But when he starts in with the cars and trucks my eyes glaze over with supreme boredom. I play with cars and trucks on autopilot, just going through the motions. I am not having fun. Eventually I re-emerge, energized and fully present for tag, hide-and-go seek, drawing, games, and acting like a monster. I love playing with tinker toys and building blocks. I love rolling all over the floor and chasing him in the pool. I fully appreciate the energy that goes into play, and I no longer think boys have cooties. I can see that he is truly creative about car and truck play and it makes him happy. Cars and trucks seems like good play things to me. I simply do not "get" the attraction of things with wheels. However, if that is what he likes, then I am all for it. I love him. That's what you do when you love someone, you accept them even when they are different than you are.
I am thankful for boys! But you know what? I am thankful for girls, too. I am tired of people putting down those sweet little girls who want to wear pink and be ballerinas when they grow up. While we're at it, I like little boys who wear pink and want to be ballerinas, too. And I am very thankful for little girls who like trucks or want to be superheros. I am so happy that everyone is not like me. Most of all, I am thankful for the innocence of children who play with what they like, or wear what they truly love, regardless of whether it is gender appropriate or not. The world is so damn interesting.
Back then I not only thought boys were boring, but I thought they were weird, too. They played with cars and trucks, for crying out loud. What the hell kind of fun are you going to have involving a truck? At least that was my perspective. I was not a "tomboy", nor do I wish I had been one. Good for you if boy stuff is what floated your boat as a child, but it was absolutely not my cup of tea. That is not a judgment on what is better or what is worse. I am a third child and I do not feel strongly about having my way be the right way. That is not the way the world works when you are a third child. I am just stating for the record that I was a girly girl and I loved it. If I could go back and change anything it would to wear more pink. In fact, I may start wearing pink now! What a great color.
I have a grandson and I play with him a lot. I adore him. I would do anything for him. But when he starts in with the cars and trucks my eyes glaze over with supreme boredom. I play with cars and trucks on autopilot, just going through the motions. I am not having fun. Eventually I re-emerge, energized and fully present for tag, hide-and-go seek, drawing, games, and acting like a monster. I love playing with tinker toys and building blocks. I love rolling all over the floor and chasing him in the pool. I fully appreciate the energy that goes into play, and I no longer think boys have cooties. I can see that he is truly creative about car and truck play and it makes him happy. Cars and trucks seems like good play things to me. I simply do not "get" the attraction of things with wheels. However, if that is what he likes, then I am all for it. I love him. That's what you do when you love someone, you accept them even when they are different than you are.
I am thankful for boys! But you know what? I am thankful for girls, too. I am tired of people putting down those sweet little girls who want to wear pink and be ballerinas when they grow up. While we're at it, I like little boys who wear pink and want to be ballerinas, too. And I am very thankful for little girls who like trucks or want to be superheros. I am so happy that everyone is not like me. Most of all, I am thankful for the innocence of children who play with what they like, or wear what they truly love, regardless of whether it is gender appropriate or not. The world is so damn interesting.
Monday, April 13, 2015
Flower Lust
Let me just say right up front, I am greedy for flowers and plants. I must have them if I am to be happy. I need the color, the shapes, the scents, and a variety of types to keep my interest. I go outside every morning and make the rounds, looking at them, loving them, and sending them special "You Are Beautiful" vibes so they will grow lush and happy.
There are SO many trees, shrubs, and flowers I want as we begin landscaping our pathetic little piece of paradise in this Florida subdivision. Up North I could buy and plant just about anything that I wanted. We had a lot of land, and it was fairly private. I sincerely loved that land, but the sheer expanse made it hard for us to rein ourselves in. We had an obscene number of perennial beds and way too many different kinds of flowers. Need herbs? We made an herb garden. Like pastel colored flowers? We had a bed with only pastel blooming flowers in it. T and I fought over what to put in a perennial bed? Easy solution - we would just build our own, separate beds. We had lots of wild land, too. I gleefully developed a type of gardening I called "drop gardening" where I would just drop divided pieces of beebalm and foxglove, daylilies and purple cone flowers into the wild areas knowing they would root and naturalize. The results of my drop gardening were spectacular. Now I know it was also excessive. Of course, I would never have realized this great truth if I had not given up country living for the more constrained life of a subdivision retiree. Now I know. Or at least that is what I am telling myself.
In our old place it took T and me years to fully landscape the property. We initially had a 5 year plan. We were in our early 40's when we bought that house. We were still working 5 days a week and the gardening season is fairly short up north, so a five year plan did not seem unreasonable. Those were our glory days and we figured we had more than half our lives left to get the work done and wait for the flowers and trees to mature, and we did. No big deal. No pressure. Gardening was what we did on the weekends for the few months of the year when it was possible to venture outside and work the soil. It filled our lives. Now we do not have anything else to do except babysit for our grandkids, and we can work outside all year round. But who knows how much time we have left? People in our lives are dropping like flies. I do not mean to sound morbid, but I feel a little pressure to get this landscaping thing done quickly so we have time to enjoy it. We will absolutely not be planting any large shade trees that might take 20 years to mature. We are only looking for short-term gratification now. If I was younger I would definitely plant a Live Oak to grow massively majestic (and spooky) as it accumulated Spanish Moss and eventually shaded the driveway. But since I am old, I will live with the blazing summer sun burning up my car instead. Last summer the sun destroyed our GPS. We did not realize you couldn't leave it in the car down here in August. The Florida sun burned that sucker right up. It would still turn on, but it behaved like a GPS with mental problems. Sometimes we would be half way to our destination before it would start talking to us and giving us directions. Poor thing. We had to get rid of it.
Why not put our cars in the 2 car garage? Well, most people do not use their garage for cars down here for the simple reason these houses do not have basements. There is no worry about digging your car out of a huge snow pile if you leave it in the driveway. Consequently, it is hard not to use the garage like a basement instead. Unless you can afford to store all your useless crap in a storage unit month after month, year after year, world without end, amen... you fill up your garage with the overage. I love it when I am driving past someone's house and they have their garage door open so I can gauge whether they horde more junk than I do. Some of the storage packing techniques are quite impressive, too. Our garage provides space for many boxes of treasures we do not need AND a small candle factory. And our washer and dryer. Oh, and our bikes, too. Oh yeah, and that weight bench and reclining stationary bike we do not use. Hmmm, I am not sure why we brought those all the way down here.
Getting back to gardening, a 5 year plan could mean the difference between one of us being able to lift a 40 pound bag of composted cow manure or not. I think not. I think maybe we are going to have to make do with a two year plan this time. Right now we are working HARD on a couple of beds on either side of the screened birdcage-like pool area, and planting larger shrubs and small trees to hide the fence. Yes, in Florida we keep our pools inside birdcages. It keeps the bugs out. It also defines the area surrounding the space you Damn Yankees might call a patio. Houses down here sometimes have "Florida Rooms" which are rooms inside the house, usually towards the back, with lots of windows kind of like a sun room. Outside the house, the birdcages are usually attached to an outdoor room called a lanai, which has a roof and screened in sides but is still open to the pool on the front. The lanai is especially great because you can sit outside to eat your meals without burning up from the sun. I might start keeping our new GPS out there. It would get lost in the garage. It is a whole new world. We are just trying to figure it out.
This past weekend we went to a fabulous garden sale. We bought loads of greenery we can now check off our garden bucket list. I got a pink camellia tree!!!! And a fire bush, butterfly bush, and shrimp plant. And an air plant. We are both thrilled. The coming week is going to be so much fun digging and planting. I just wish I did not always regret the placement choice after the plants have already gone in the ground. Why didn't I buy that beautiful gardenia at the plant sale? Where in the hell am I going to put a butteryfly bush?
There are SO many trees, shrubs, and flowers I want as we begin landscaping our pathetic little piece of paradise in this Florida subdivision. Up North I could buy and plant just about anything that I wanted. We had a lot of land, and it was fairly private. I sincerely loved that land, but the sheer expanse made it hard for us to rein ourselves in. We had an obscene number of perennial beds and way too many different kinds of flowers. Need herbs? We made an herb garden. Like pastel colored flowers? We had a bed with only pastel blooming flowers in it. T and I fought over what to put in a perennial bed? Easy solution - we would just build our own, separate beds. We had lots of wild land, too. I gleefully developed a type of gardening I called "drop gardening" where I would just drop divided pieces of beebalm and foxglove, daylilies and purple cone flowers into the wild areas knowing they would root and naturalize. The results of my drop gardening were spectacular. Now I know it was also excessive. Of course, I would never have realized this great truth if I had not given up country living for the more constrained life of a subdivision retiree. Now I know. Or at least that is what I am telling myself.
In our old place it took T and me years to fully landscape the property. We initially had a 5 year plan. We were in our early 40's when we bought that house. We were still working 5 days a week and the gardening season is fairly short up north, so a five year plan did not seem unreasonable. Those were our glory days and we figured we had more than half our lives left to get the work done and wait for the flowers and trees to mature, and we did. No big deal. No pressure. Gardening was what we did on the weekends for the few months of the year when it was possible to venture outside and work the soil. It filled our lives. Now we do not have anything else to do except babysit for our grandkids, and we can work outside all year round. But who knows how much time we have left? People in our lives are dropping like flies. I do not mean to sound morbid, but I feel a little pressure to get this landscaping thing done quickly so we have time to enjoy it. We will absolutely not be planting any large shade trees that might take 20 years to mature. We are only looking for short-term gratification now. If I was younger I would definitely plant a Live Oak to grow massively majestic (and spooky) as it accumulated Spanish Moss and eventually shaded the driveway. But since I am old, I will live with the blazing summer sun burning up my car instead. Last summer the sun destroyed our GPS. We did not realize you couldn't leave it in the car down here in August. The Florida sun burned that sucker right up. It would still turn on, but it behaved like a GPS with mental problems. Sometimes we would be half way to our destination before it would start talking to us and giving us directions. Poor thing. We had to get rid of it.
Why not put our cars in the 2 car garage? Well, most people do not use their garage for cars down here for the simple reason these houses do not have basements. There is no worry about digging your car out of a huge snow pile if you leave it in the driveway. Consequently, it is hard not to use the garage like a basement instead. Unless you can afford to store all your useless crap in a storage unit month after month, year after year, world without end, amen... you fill up your garage with the overage. I love it when I am driving past someone's house and they have their garage door open so I can gauge whether they horde more junk than I do. Some of the storage packing techniques are quite impressive, too. Our garage provides space for many boxes of treasures we do not need AND a small candle factory. And our washer and dryer. Oh, and our bikes, too. Oh yeah, and that weight bench and reclining stationary bike we do not use. Hmmm, I am not sure why we brought those all the way down here.
Getting back to gardening, a 5 year plan could mean the difference between one of us being able to lift a 40 pound bag of composted cow manure or not. I think not. I think maybe we are going to have to make do with a two year plan this time. Right now we are working HARD on a couple of beds on either side of the screened birdcage-like pool area, and planting larger shrubs and small trees to hide the fence. Yes, in Florida we keep our pools inside birdcages. It keeps the bugs out. It also defines the area surrounding the space you Damn Yankees might call a patio. Houses down here sometimes have "Florida Rooms" which are rooms inside the house, usually towards the back, with lots of windows kind of like a sun room. Outside the house, the birdcages are usually attached to an outdoor room called a lanai, which has a roof and screened in sides but is still open to the pool on the front. The lanai is especially great because you can sit outside to eat your meals without burning up from the sun. I might start keeping our new GPS out there. It would get lost in the garage. It is a whole new world. We are just trying to figure it out.
This past weekend we went to a fabulous garden sale. We bought loads of greenery we can now check off our garden bucket list. I got a pink camellia tree!!!! And a fire bush, butterfly bush, and shrimp plant. And an air plant. We are both thrilled. The coming week is going to be so much fun digging and planting. I just wish I did not always regret the placement choice after the plants have already gone in the ground. Why didn't I buy that beautiful gardenia at the plant sale? Where in the hell am I going to put a butteryfly bush?
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
When You're a Stranger
It has been a year and a half since I retired and a full year since we sold our house and moved to Central Florida. T and I gave up many things during this time period. We gave up our jobs, our friends, our gardens, Wegmans (!) and more.
The people in my NYS life knew me and what I was capable of. I was respected, appreciated, sometimes disliked, occasionally loved. I was someone specific and unique. I was not a stranger.
In considering retirement it is important to know giving up your job means giving up your identity. Be forewarned so you can be prepared. For our entire adult lives we define ourselves by the titles we hold and the work we perform. Like many retirees, not only did T and I retire but we moved to a strange, far away place where no one knew us, where there was no external memory of who we had once been.
It is true that we live close to family now. That was the purpose of the move and the biggest joy of my post-retirement life. Living near family provides roles to perform rather than a personal identity. Our daughter and her family have a vague idea of who we are and the work we once did, vague being the key word. We are their parents, in-laws, grandparents. I love having those roles. They suit me well.
We are also a husband and a wife. So yes, we still have a variety of roles to fill, and they are satisfying and enjoyable roles. However, I have yet to redefine myself for myself. I once knew how to do that. I am not quite sure how to do that in retirement, but I trust it will happen over time. The fun comes in wondering who I will end up being.
What I learned from experiencing change is this: if you keep going eventually life settles in and evens out. I trust in that notion because in spite of some initial discomfort, I have always acclimated to the cultural norms in each new situations. In the course of those struggles I developed new ideas and learned to adapt and become flexible in my views of what normal might be. Those were valuable real-life lessons. In spite of the underlying sadness and very real loss brought on by each change, I learned to trust my abilities to rise to the occasion. But in my work years, I did not have to be particularly pro-active. Life came to ME. You take a new job and stimulating challenges happen all around you. The outer world takes charge of you.
The difference in retirement is that there are no ready made communities provided by the job you are taking on. Sure, there are institutions I could join and places I could go to build a community, I just have not wanted to "go there" yet. For now I savor the freedom of being an outsider, of being a stranger. In theory, I guess it seems too much like work to join or belong to an institution. In practice, it would take some effort on my part. For now, a day that I have something I must do still seems like a day that is lost to me. I guess the identity one cultivates in the post-retirement years is more personal and private. As we age, it makes sense that we exert more energy exploring our inner life rather than our outer life? There are fewer distractions. That's a thought.
The people in my NYS life knew me and what I was capable of. I was respected, appreciated, sometimes disliked, occasionally loved. I was someone specific and unique. I was not a stranger.
In considering retirement it is important to know giving up your job means giving up your identity. Be forewarned so you can be prepared. For our entire adult lives we define ourselves by the titles we hold and the work we perform. Like many retirees, not only did T and I retire but we moved to a strange, far away place where no one knew us, where there was no external memory of who we had once been.
It is true that we live close to family now. That was the purpose of the move and the biggest joy of my post-retirement life. Living near family provides roles to perform rather than a personal identity. Our daughter and her family have a vague idea of who we are and the work we once did, vague being the key word. We are their parents, in-laws, grandparents. I love having those roles. They suit me well.
We are also a husband and a wife. So yes, we still have a variety of roles to fill, and they are satisfying and enjoyable roles. However, I have yet to redefine myself for myself. I once knew how to do that. I am not quite sure how to do that in retirement, but I trust it will happen over time. The fun comes in wondering who I will end up being.
What I learned from experiencing change is this: if you keep going eventually life settles in and evens out. I trust in that notion because in spite of some initial discomfort, I have always acclimated to the cultural norms in each new situations. In the course of those struggles I developed new ideas and learned to adapt and become flexible in my views of what normal might be. Those were valuable real-life lessons. In spite of the underlying sadness and very real loss brought on by each change, I learned to trust my abilities to rise to the occasion. But in my work years, I did not have to be particularly pro-active. Life came to ME. You take a new job and stimulating challenges happen all around you. The outer world takes charge of you.
The difference in retirement is that there are no ready made communities provided by the job you are taking on. Sure, there are institutions I could join and places I could go to build a community, I just have not wanted to "go there" yet. For now I savor the freedom of being an outsider, of being a stranger. In theory, I guess it seems too much like work to join or belong to an institution. In practice, it would take some effort on my part. For now, a day that I have something I must do still seems like a day that is lost to me. I guess the identity one cultivates in the post-retirement years is more personal and private. As we age, it makes sense that we exert more energy exploring our inner life rather than our outer life? There are fewer distractions. That's a thought.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Wait a Minute!
Hey, wait a minute! Do you remember last time when I said there were no further incidents at the nursing home? I forgot something.
This post is a bit macabre. Please note I am a fallen away, pre-Vatican II Roman Catholic, so I can quite literally go medieval on your ass. I stopped going to church in the late 1960s when the Catholic Church instituted reforms to modernize the mass. Because I stopped being a Catholic at that point in time my religiosity has never been altered or modernized. I take my spirituality straight up and I yearn for dead languages, strong incense, and Gregorian chants. It is a religion that no longer exists in reality, but it is still and always a part of who I am. I am culturally Catholic in the same way that non-religious Jews are culturally Jewish. There is nothing I can do about it. If you do not want to see this side of me then please do not read the following. Wait for my next post where I promise I will leave death and dying aside. I may even write about the beautiful weather we are having.
So much was stolen from my mother's room at the nursing home, at the assisted living place she lived in before she was moved to the nursing home, and at a rehabilitation center she was in for a short time a few years ago after surgery. I am not sure if the wretched thieves were aides, nurses, roommates, or other wandering residents - but multiple people stole things from her rooms in each place. It is a sad fact of life at nursing homes. We learned to move anything of value to my sister ERB's house. What innocents we were at first. I still have a hard time imagining how someone could feel they are entitled to steal an old woman's belongings when she is at her weakest and most vulnerable. The assisted living home where she lived for about 5 years before being moved to the nursing home last year was the worst. Drugs and candy were always disappearing. Before we figured it out someone stole her diamond engagement ring out of her dresser drawer. It was supposed to have gone to my baby sister, ERB, as a reward for spending all those years being her principal caregiver. You might ask, "Why did you let her take her jewelry to a place like that?" I might answer, "Try telling an older woman who is still in her right mind that she can no longer keep her engagement ring with her when she moves into a private, one-bedroom apartment in an assisted living home."
The coup de grâce came when she was dying. Someone stole both of her favorite rosaries from her home-room (let us call it the "living-room") while she lay dying in a different room (let us call that room the "dying-room") in another wing of the nursing home. She was moved from her "living-room" right after she had the stroke, and for the following week she was in the "dying-room," a large private room where the family could maintain a private vigil. Her two rosaries were always draped over a picture frame next to her bed in the "living-room" so she could reach them if needed. One was her special rosary; the one she specifically stated, in writing, was to be buried with her. It was given to her by one of her sisters, and it had been blessed by Pope John Paul II; a man who was also a victim of Parkinson's Disease. He died, has been proposed for sainthood, and will eventually be canonized. He was an absolute rockstar to my Mom.
We should have retrieved those two rosaries and put them by her death bed, I know, I know. If only I could turn back the hands of time. We were all a mess, though. I must confess no one thought of it. We were overwhelmed. We rarely went down to her "living-room." I could probably come up with a few more excuses. However, in retrospect I must say: "mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa," which roughly translates from the Latin as "It's my fault, it's my fault, it is REALLY my fault."
I know theft is a crime, but please humor me for a few minutes while I consider the act as a sin. This rosary theft is a sin not only against my sweet mother and her family, it is a transgression against the nursing home community. The wretched thief exists, but since we do not know who it is we begin to suspect everyone. I really hate that, because the vast majority of the staff and residents there are kind and good. Putting her/his co-workers under the cloud of suspicion is a whopper of a sin, way bigger than a mere venial sin, it is a mortal sin for sure. This sin impacts on many innocent people in many ways. The injustice almost takes my breath away considering the complex repercussions of one casual, selfish, voluntary act.
I like to assume the wretched thief was a twisted Catholic AND a moron who thought she/he was entitled to a memento of my mother. Why else would someone take two rosaries? Because I am a sinner myself, I choose not to forgive the wretched thief. Not now. Hopefully someday, but not quite yet. It is too soon. Instead, I hope this sin haunts the wretched thief in the dark, disturbing her/his sleep continuously until the wretched thief returns the rosaries to the social worker. Then I might forgive her/him. Okay, we all know that's not gonna happen. It is an idle fantasy of a grieving child. It is only in the irrationality of my grief that this fantasy makes me feel better. I hope for justice and, okay - make me say it: revenge. But even if the rosaries were returned, what would we do with them? We will not dig up the casket to put the rosary in her hands if it suddenly appears. She is holding a different rosary now, anyway. It is just not the one she wanted. The time has passed to make this right for my mother. Still, I wish I could let this go.
I have not been a practicing Catholic since the late 1960's; however, it is all coming back to me now. My better self would pray for a miracle, hoping the wretched thief would come to her/his senses, return the rosary, and do penance for her/his sin. Unfortunately, my better self seems to be missing in action along with the rosaries, diamond ring, other jewelry, knicknacks, pills, candy, and cookies that have disappeared over the years. For now, I look for justice. Still, what is justice in this instance?
Hopefully I will eventually realize that if I am still angry about this then I am foolishly allowing the wretched thief to continue to hurt me. My anger merely keeps the sin alive. True forgiveness involves freeing oneself from anger and allowing the sin to rest only with the sinner. Perhaps that is justice? I don't know.
This post is a bit macabre. Please note I am a fallen away, pre-Vatican II Roman Catholic, so I can quite literally go medieval on your ass. I stopped going to church in the late 1960s when the Catholic Church instituted reforms to modernize the mass. Because I stopped being a Catholic at that point in time my religiosity has never been altered or modernized. I take my spirituality straight up and I yearn for dead languages, strong incense, and Gregorian chants. It is a religion that no longer exists in reality, but it is still and always a part of who I am. I am culturally Catholic in the same way that non-religious Jews are culturally Jewish. There is nothing I can do about it. If you do not want to see this side of me then please do not read the following. Wait for my next post where I promise I will leave death and dying aside. I may even write about the beautiful weather we are having.
So much was stolen from my mother's room at the nursing home, at the assisted living place she lived in before she was moved to the nursing home, and at a rehabilitation center she was in for a short time a few years ago after surgery. I am not sure if the wretched thieves were aides, nurses, roommates, or other wandering residents - but multiple people stole things from her rooms in each place. It is a sad fact of life at nursing homes. We learned to move anything of value to my sister ERB's house. What innocents we were at first. I still have a hard time imagining how someone could feel they are entitled to steal an old woman's belongings when she is at her weakest and most vulnerable. The assisted living home where she lived for about 5 years before being moved to the nursing home last year was the worst. Drugs and candy were always disappearing. Before we figured it out someone stole her diamond engagement ring out of her dresser drawer. It was supposed to have gone to my baby sister, ERB, as a reward for spending all those years being her principal caregiver. You might ask, "Why did you let her take her jewelry to a place like that?" I might answer, "Try telling an older woman who is still in her right mind that she can no longer keep her engagement ring with her when she moves into a private, one-bedroom apartment in an assisted living home."
The coup de grâce came when she was dying. Someone stole both of her favorite rosaries from her home-room (let us call it the "living-room") while she lay dying in a different room (let us call that room the "dying-room") in another wing of the nursing home. She was moved from her "living-room" right after she had the stroke, and for the following week she was in the "dying-room," a large private room where the family could maintain a private vigil. Her two rosaries were always draped over a picture frame next to her bed in the "living-room" so she could reach them if needed. One was her special rosary; the one she specifically stated, in writing, was to be buried with her. It was given to her by one of her sisters, and it had been blessed by Pope John Paul II; a man who was also a victim of Parkinson's Disease. He died, has been proposed for sainthood, and will eventually be canonized. He was an absolute rockstar to my Mom.
We should have retrieved those two rosaries and put them by her death bed, I know, I know. If only I could turn back the hands of time. We were all a mess, though. I must confess no one thought of it. We were overwhelmed. We rarely went down to her "living-room." I could probably come up with a few more excuses. However, in retrospect I must say: "mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa," which roughly translates from the Latin as "It's my fault, it's my fault, it is REALLY my fault."
I know theft is a crime, but please humor me for a few minutes while I consider the act as a sin. This rosary theft is a sin not only against my sweet mother and her family, it is a transgression against the nursing home community. The wretched thief exists, but since we do not know who it is we begin to suspect everyone. I really hate that, because the vast majority of the staff and residents there are kind and good. Putting her/his co-workers under the cloud of suspicion is a whopper of a sin, way bigger than a mere venial sin, it is a mortal sin for sure. This sin impacts on many innocent people in many ways. The injustice almost takes my breath away considering the complex repercussions of one casual, selfish, voluntary act.
I like to assume the wretched thief was a twisted Catholic AND a moron who thought she/he was entitled to a memento of my mother. Why else would someone take two rosaries? Because I am a sinner myself, I choose not to forgive the wretched thief. Not now. Hopefully someday, but not quite yet. It is too soon. Instead, I hope this sin haunts the wretched thief in the dark, disturbing her/his sleep continuously until the wretched thief returns the rosaries to the social worker. Then I might forgive her/him. Okay, we all know that's not gonna happen. It is an idle fantasy of a grieving child. It is only in the irrationality of my grief that this fantasy makes me feel better. I hope for justice and, okay - make me say it: revenge. But even if the rosaries were returned, what would we do with them? We will not dig up the casket to put the rosary in her hands if it suddenly appears. She is holding a different rosary now, anyway. It is just not the one she wanted. The time has passed to make this right for my mother. Still, I wish I could let this go.
I have not been a practicing Catholic since the late 1960's; however, it is all coming back to me now. My better self would pray for a miracle, hoping the wretched thief would come to her/his senses, return the rosary, and do penance for her/his sin. Unfortunately, my better self seems to be missing in action along with the rosaries, diamond ring, other jewelry, knicknacks, pills, candy, and cookies that have disappeared over the years. For now, I look for justice. Still, what is justice in this instance?
Hopefully I will eventually realize that if I am still angry about this then I am foolishly allowing the wretched thief to continue to hurt me. My anger merely keeps the sin alive. True forgiveness involves freeing oneself from anger and allowing the sin to rest only with the sinner. Perhaps that is justice? I don't know.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Death and Dying
My mother passed away quite peacefully earlier this week surrounded
by 4 of her 5 living children and a wonderful Hospice nurse.
It was beyond lovely. We were talking about her, telling stories, and
she quite simply took her last breath and "gave up the ghost." It was an unbelievably wonderful experience. She was not in pain, went on her own terms, and she was feelin'
the love.
I had been staying in my mother's room at the nursing home for five nights prior to her death. The nursing home was totally supportive of her and the family. They transferred her to a large private room so we could all come and go as we wished. We maintained a 24/7 vigil so she would never be alone. It was fascinating to observe the organizational behavior in a nursing home, and I came to know many of the staff members. I can tell you they are overwhelmingly good-hearted folks. They all seem to do the very best they can. The nursing home staff spend their days and nights working hard, quietly caring for and about people. I noticed they proudly and carefully built relationships with each patient. I was moved by the many nurses, aides, food service workers, custodial staff, and administrators who came to her room to say their goodbyes, or to see how she was. They all seemed to genuinely like her. They told stories about her. They knew her. Their kindness was an extraordinary gift. Is the nursing home a perfect place? Not by a long shot. But what is? Seriously. Everyone is just trying to find a way to roll with the punches in this mysterious world we inhabit.
It took my mother a week to die. She had been faring poorly for weeks, and had been refusing to eat. She had a stroke during the night and did not wake up on February 24. As always, my younger brother and sister were right there to take care of business. When my older sister and I arrived from opposite coasts on Wednesday, February 25, the nursing home staff was still trying to give my mother morphine for the pain. Unfortunately, she always had a bad reaction to morphine. Wednesday afternoon we called Hospice. A Hospice nurse arrived Wednesday evening to evaluate Mom and to set up her new pain management routine. This particular nurse had started her day at 6:00 am that morning and would not go home until close to 11:00 pm that night. She was determined to stay until she found a better painkiller for Mom than morphine, and she did. She found dilaudid the wonder drug. Thank you, Hospice Nurse.
The Hospice nurse first tried to increase the morphine, because increasing the dosage sometimes works. We tried that, but it did not work for Mom. Morphine made Mom agitated and uncomfortable. The Hospice nurse immediately sat down and did some research. Mom was in the advanced stages of Parkinson's Disease and could not swallow pills. Hospice Nurse found a liquid form of a drug called dilaudid that could be administered to Mom orally. Unfortunately the local pharmacies did not have that particular liquid version on hand. The bad news: it had to be rush ordered from Indianapolis, 3 hours away. The good news: the company would send it out right then and it would arrive before morning. As soon as it arrived she would be administered the dilaudid and she would then be free from pain. In the meantime, Hospice had the nursing home staff continue giving her adavin and morphine to try to relax her and free her of the pain caused by Parkinson's Disease cramping.
That was my first night in the bed next to hers. By the time I awoke at 5:30 Thursday morning, I figured the new drug had arrived. The medications given throughout the night were wearing off and Mom was grimacing and writhing once again. I went to the nurse station twice asking for them to start her on the dilaudid. I had been told the dilaudid arrived in the wee hours of the morning, but it had not been given to Mom yet. Each time I went down there the Night Nurse told me they would get it to her in “a few minutes,” but no one came. I was trying to be a nice person, but you know – my sweet mother was in great pain and I was the only one there to make it stop. It was a job I did not want, but it was a job I absolutely had to do well. I did not want to get angry, but my patience was wearing thin. One of her favorite nurses aides stopped by to see how Mom was doing. I told her what was going on and how many times I had been down there begging for help. She said she would remind the people at the nurse station to bring the drug to us as she passed them walking back to the residential area of the nursing home. She also told me to press the button on the call light for help to get their attention and remind them I was waiting. At this point my sweet mother was literally writhing in agony. I pushed that damn button and waited for 10 long minutes, but the Night Nurse never answered the buzz for help. She never acknowledged it. Damn it! I had to leave Mom alone again and speed walked down to the nurse station to demand the new drug. I think of that movie with Shirley Maclaine running up to the nurse’s station screaming for pain meds for her dying daughter. I get it. I had to get right up in someone’s face to get some attention. I told the Night Nurse not to tell me again she would get the drug to Mom in a few minutes unless she specifically meant she would be there in 180 seconds, because that’s approximately what a few minutes are. I told the two nurses that I understood they were busy and I knew they were understaffed, however, my mother was dying in agony and it was not about us, it was about her. They were undergoing a changing of the nursing staff (from night staff to day staff) at that moment, and they made me wait another 10 long minutes for them in the room as my mother moaned and grimaced in pain. Ten minutes, by the way, is 600 seconds. I was in tears. I was failing her when she needed me most. I was not able to find the right words or do the right things to stop her pain.
When the Early Morning Nurse finally came down with the painkiller, she was clearly angry with me. She told me that she was actually giving my Mom the pain meds 15 minutes before they were due. I could not *&^%$# believe it. Night Nurse had not updated the Early Morning Nurse at the change of guard about what was happening with the change in Mom’s pain meds. I told Early Morning Nurse this was not a routine procedure, so when her drugs were "due" was not relevant. I told her Mom was being taken off the morphine that morning because Hospice had determined it was not helping. I told her Mom had never had the dilaudid previously AND that we had been waiting all night for it. I told her that we had been promised that it would be administered as soon as it arrived. I could not tell Early Morning Nurse exactly what was on my mind right then because, well, Mom was there and who knew what she could still hear.
Early Morning Nurse was clearly hearing this information for the first time. The realization that this was a simple "mistake" (yeah, let's call it a mistake) at the worst possible time nearly did me in. My eyes were rolling back in my head and veins were popping out all over my forehead. Clearly when I was down at the nurse station they were just “handling” me, biding their time until they thought Mom’s meds were due. Why they kept saying they would be down in “a few minutes” instead of just telling me the truth (i.e., “We are not going to give her any more drugs until she is due for more drugs”) I will never understand. It was the most infuriating example of “by the book” mentality and lack of communication I have ever experienced. Had they told me the truth, I could have respectfully solved the problem immediately. It was, as my sweet Mom would say, a sin and a shame.
This was the only bad experience we had with the nursing home during that long week of death and dying. Hospice straightened everything out once they were informed and there were no further issues, nor any pain after that. I made up with Early Morning Nurse (there was some hugging involved) as well as Night Nurse (who I actually came to like by the end). I forgave them, they forgave me, and we got on with the business of dying.
I had been staying in my mother's room at the nursing home for five nights prior to her death. The nursing home was totally supportive of her and the family. They transferred her to a large private room so we could all come and go as we wished. We maintained a 24/7 vigil so she would never be alone. It was fascinating to observe the organizational behavior in a nursing home, and I came to know many of the staff members. I can tell you they are overwhelmingly good-hearted folks. They all seem to do the very best they can. The nursing home staff spend their days and nights working hard, quietly caring for and about people. I noticed they proudly and carefully built relationships with each patient. I was moved by the many nurses, aides, food service workers, custodial staff, and administrators who came to her room to say their goodbyes, or to see how she was. They all seemed to genuinely like her. They told stories about her. They knew her. Their kindness was an extraordinary gift. Is the nursing home a perfect place? Not by a long shot. But what is? Seriously. Everyone is just trying to find a way to roll with the punches in this mysterious world we inhabit.
It took my mother a week to die. She had been faring poorly for weeks, and had been refusing to eat. She had a stroke during the night and did not wake up on February 24. As always, my younger brother and sister were right there to take care of business. When my older sister and I arrived from opposite coasts on Wednesday, February 25, the nursing home staff was still trying to give my mother morphine for the pain. Unfortunately, she always had a bad reaction to morphine. Wednesday afternoon we called Hospice. A Hospice nurse arrived Wednesday evening to evaluate Mom and to set up her new pain management routine. This particular nurse had started her day at 6:00 am that morning and would not go home until close to 11:00 pm that night. She was determined to stay until she found a better painkiller for Mom than morphine, and she did. She found dilaudid the wonder drug. Thank you, Hospice Nurse.
The Hospice nurse first tried to increase the morphine, because increasing the dosage sometimes works. We tried that, but it did not work for Mom. Morphine made Mom agitated and uncomfortable. The Hospice nurse immediately sat down and did some research. Mom was in the advanced stages of Parkinson's Disease and could not swallow pills. Hospice Nurse found a liquid form of a drug called dilaudid that could be administered to Mom orally. Unfortunately the local pharmacies did not have that particular liquid version on hand. The bad news: it had to be rush ordered from Indianapolis, 3 hours away. The good news: the company would send it out right then and it would arrive before morning. As soon as it arrived she would be administered the dilaudid and she would then be free from pain. In the meantime, Hospice had the nursing home staff continue giving her adavin and morphine to try to relax her and free her of the pain caused by Parkinson's Disease cramping.
That was my first night in the bed next to hers. By the time I awoke at 5:30 Thursday morning, I figured the new drug had arrived. The medications given throughout the night were wearing off and Mom was grimacing and writhing once again. I went to the nurse station twice asking for them to start her on the dilaudid. I had been told the dilaudid arrived in the wee hours of the morning, but it had not been given to Mom yet. Each time I went down there the Night Nurse told me they would get it to her in “a few minutes,” but no one came. I was trying to be a nice person, but you know – my sweet mother was in great pain and I was the only one there to make it stop. It was a job I did not want, but it was a job I absolutely had to do well. I did not want to get angry, but my patience was wearing thin. One of her favorite nurses aides stopped by to see how Mom was doing. I told her what was going on and how many times I had been down there begging for help. She said she would remind the people at the nurse station to bring the drug to us as she passed them walking back to the residential area of the nursing home. She also told me to press the button on the call light for help to get their attention and remind them I was waiting. At this point my sweet mother was literally writhing in agony. I pushed that damn button and waited for 10 long minutes, but the Night Nurse never answered the buzz for help. She never acknowledged it. Damn it! I had to leave Mom alone again and speed walked down to the nurse station to demand the new drug. I think of that movie with Shirley Maclaine running up to the nurse’s station screaming for pain meds for her dying daughter. I get it. I had to get right up in someone’s face to get some attention. I told the Night Nurse not to tell me again she would get the drug to Mom in a few minutes unless she specifically meant she would be there in 180 seconds, because that’s approximately what a few minutes are. I told the two nurses that I understood they were busy and I knew they were understaffed, however, my mother was dying in agony and it was not about us, it was about her. They were undergoing a changing of the nursing staff (from night staff to day staff) at that moment, and they made me wait another 10 long minutes for them in the room as my mother moaned and grimaced in pain. Ten minutes, by the way, is 600 seconds. I was in tears. I was failing her when she needed me most. I was not able to find the right words or do the right things to stop her pain.
When the Early Morning Nurse finally came down with the painkiller, she was clearly angry with me. She told me that she was actually giving my Mom the pain meds 15 minutes before they were due. I could not *&^%$# believe it. Night Nurse had not updated the Early Morning Nurse at the change of guard about what was happening with the change in Mom’s pain meds. I told Early Morning Nurse this was not a routine procedure, so when her drugs were "due" was not relevant. I told her Mom was being taken off the morphine that morning because Hospice had determined it was not helping. I told her Mom had never had the dilaudid previously AND that we had been waiting all night for it. I told her that we had been promised that it would be administered as soon as it arrived. I could not tell Early Morning Nurse exactly what was on my mind right then because, well, Mom was there and who knew what she could still hear.
Early Morning Nurse was clearly hearing this information for the first time. The realization that this was a simple "mistake" (yeah, let's call it a mistake) at the worst possible time nearly did me in. My eyes were rolling back in my head and veins were popping out all over my forehead. Clearly when I was down at the nurse station they were just “handling” me, biding their time until they thought Mom’s meds were due. Why they kept saying they would be down in “a few minutes” instead of just telling me the truth (i.e., “We are not going to give her any more drugs until she is due for more drugs”) I will never understand. It was the most infuriating example of “by the book” mentality and lack of communication I have ever experienced. Had they told me the truth, I could have respectfully solved the problem immediately. It was, as my sweet Mom would say, a sin and a shame.
This was the only bad experience we had with the nursing home during that long week of death and dying. Hospice straightened everything out once they were informed and there were no further issues, nor any pain after that. I made up with Early Morning Nurse (there was some hugging involved) as well as Night Nurse (who I actually came to like by the end). I forgave them, they forgave me, and we got on with the business of dying.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Beautiful!
I am sad to say that my mother is dying. I flew to Northern Indiana early Wednesday morning
to be with her and help my siblings care for her in her final days.
We have spent the last few days making sure
all of Mom’s 16 grandchildren have had a chance to talk to (at, really) her on
the phone and give her their love or say their goodbyes from whatever part of
the country they happen to be in.
Mom has been unresponsive for most of the time I have been here. It is best when she is unresponsive, because she is in so much pain when she is semi-conscious. She rarely opens her eyes now.
It is likely she had a significant stroke overnight between Monday and Tuesday. She has a do-not-resuscitate directive in place. Interestingly, terminal DNR patients are not taken to the hospital. The nursing home simply tries to make the patient as comfortable as possible until the end.
The first couple of days she was in agony, and she was not tolerating morphine well to combat the pain. It was awful. My brother called Hospice and a kindly team of nurses and aides came to the nursing home to take over pain management for her. What a truly wonderful organization Hospice is. They care. Of course the nursing home staff care, too. They have been very sweet to all of us. They moved Mom into a private, larger room which can accommodate the many children and grandchildren who are stopping by. We are keeping a constant vigil in her room, day and night.
ERB told me that on Tuesday afternoon a number of family members were in the room with her, including 3 grandchildren. She, of course, is comatose. However, in the midst of their visit she suddenly tried to sit up and open her eyes. Then she laid back down and said "God, it's beautiful!" I was happy to hear this story, and even more happy that some of her grandchildren were there when it happened. That story will stay with them as long as they live, and it will reassure them that death and dying can be a beautiful part of life.
Mom has been unresponsive for most of the time I have been here. It is best when she is unresponsive, because she is in so much pain when she is semi-conscious. She rarely opens her eyes now.
It is likely she had a significant stroke overnight between Monday and Tuesday. She has a do-not-resuscitate directive in place. Interestingly, terminal DNR patients are not taken to the hospital. The nursing home simply tries to make the patient as comfortable as possible until the end.
The first couple of days she was in agony, and she was not tolerating morphine well to combat the pain. It was awful. My brother called Hospice and a kindly team of nurses and aides came to the nursing home to take over pain management for her. What a truly wonderful organization Hospice is. They care. Of course the nursing home staff care, too. They have been very sweet to all of us. They moved Mom into a private, larger room which can accommodate the many children and grandchildren who are stopping by. We are keeping a constant vigil in her room, day and night.
ERB told me that on Tuesday afternoon a number of family members were in the room with her, including 3 grandchildren. She, of course, is comatose. However, in the midst of their visit she suddenly tried to sit up and open her eyes. Then she laid back down and said "God, it's beautiful!" I was happy to hear this story, and even more happy that some of her grandchildren were there when it happened. That story will stay with them as long as they live, and it will reassure them that death and dying can be a beautiful part of life.
Friday, February 20, 2015
Old Wives and Vampire Killers
I am not biking, hiking, exploring, or being active in any meaningful way because I feel like crap. I've had the flu, and Iam not doing much of anything except laying on the couch reading trashy paranormal romance/urban fantasy novels. That sounds great, I know, and it is. But probably not for the reason you think. I no longer read each page because they all pretty much follow the same formula and they are not written particularly well. In fact, I can read one of these books in a day. I have been skipping the sex parts for years. The sex scenes are all pretty much the same.
Why do I still read this genre? Because I love reading the parts where these women beat up bad guys. They kick ass and take no prisoners. These women are not afraid of anything. Should I be ashamed to admit that is MY fantasy? And these heroines always have some kind of magical power that helps them kick bad person ass. Way fun.
I also started reading this great book on Fairy Tales (From The Beast to the Blonde, by Marina Warner). It is chock full of subversive information about what people in the Middle Ages thought of old women. Apparently we are all useless, (i.e., no longer able to conceive children), physically repulsive, scary old gossips who spread "old wives tales." The up-side is that we are also the original source of Fairy Tales.
Imagine grandmothers throughout the centuries telling their grandchildren tales the storytellers heard from their own grandmothers. These stories were dismissed by the literati of their times as the inane drivel old women used to stoke the irresponsible fantasies of young children. Still, the storytelling continued until eventually men like Hans Christian Anderson, Charles Perrault, and the Brothers Grimm decided to collect the old tales, write them down, and sell them for profit and posterity. However, the men who wrote down these stores often changed them, cleaning them up to make them more acceptable to the later Christian reading public.
It seems grandmothers in the Middle Ages used to tell it like it was: weaving and repeating tales that warned their grandchildren about the dangers of violence, greed, brutality, abuse, scam artists, and even incest. They taught children how to use their heads in a crisis and avoid becoming victims. They also taught them to be nice to old hags they might meet in the woods, because those old hags might be fairy godmothers in disguise! What great advice! THEIR grandkids were schooled in street smarts and knew who and what to avoid. Our grandkids, relying solely on Disney to tell them the watered down and revised tales, are naive at best. Our kids mistake the old hag they meet in the woods for an evil old witch who should be ridiculed, ignored, or worse. Talk about bad manners and meanness of spirit! I am surprised more young people today are not spitting out toads when they attempt to speak.
At worst, our granddaughters spend their lives obsessing over their appearance and looking for a gentleman prince who will change their lives. I think we should be telling our granddaughters to forget about getting that Princess makeover at Magic Kingdom and instead we should help them figure out how to spin straw into gold.
Plan for your retirement, my sweet! Give your future husband a break and change your own life. In the meantime, I am going to continue speed reading urban fantasy for the fight scenes. My sweet Grandma only told me Bible stories and I still have a lot to learn.
Why do I still read this genre? Because I love reading the parts where these women beat up bad guys. They kick ass and take no prisoners. These women are not afraid of anything. Should I be ashamed to admit that is MY fantasy? And these heroines always have some kind of magical power that helps them kick bad person ass. Way fun.
I also started reading this great book on Fairy Tales (From The Beast to the Blonde, by Marina Warner). It is chock full of subversive information about what people in the Middle Ages thought of old women. Apparently we are all useless, (i.e., no longer able to conceive children), physically repulsive, scary old gossips who spread "old wives tales." The up-side is that we are also the original source of Fairy Tales.
Imagine grandmothers throughout the centuries telling their grandchildren tales the storytellers heard from their own grandmothers. These stories were dismissed by the literati of their times as the inane drivel old women used to stoke the irresponsible fantasies of young children. Still, the storytelling continued until eventually men like Hans Christian Anderson, Charles Perrault, and the Brothers Grimm decided to collect the old tales, write them down, and sell them for profit and posterity. However, the men who wrote down these stores often changed them, cleaning them up to make them more acceptable to the later Christian reading public.
It seems grandmothers in the Middle Ages used to tell it like it was: weaving and repeating tales that warned their grandchildren about the dangers of violence, greed, brutality, abuse, scam artists, and even incest. They taught children how to use their heads in a crisis and avoid becoming victims. They also taught them to be nice to old hags they might meet in the woods, because those old hags might be fairy godmothers in disguise! What great advice! THEIR grandkids were schooled in street smarts and knew who and what to avoid. Our grandkids, relying solely on Disney to tell them the watered down and revised tales, are naive at best. Our kids mistake the old hag they meet in the woods for an evil old witch who should be ridiculed, ignored, or worse. Talk about bad manners and meanness of spirit! I am surprised more young people today are not spitting out toads when they attempt to speak.
At worst, our granddaughters spend their lives obsessing over their appearance and looking for a gentleman prince who will change their lives. I think we should be telling our granddaughters to forget about getting that Princess makeover at Magic Kingdom and instead we should help them figure out how to spin straw into gold.
Plan for your retirement, my sweet! Give your future husband a break and change your own life. In the meantime, I am going to continue speed reading urban fantasy for the fight scenes. My sweet Grandma only told me Bible stories and I still have a lot to learn.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Sisterhood should have been a lot more powerful
After all these years, feminism still has a long way to go before it becomes acceptable to the masses. If you do not believe me, just wait until Hillary runs for President and the wingnuts start to criticize her outfits and hairdos instead of her political message.
Back in the late 1960s, when the so-called second wave of feminism was young and vital, I was young along with it. The "first wave" was in the early days of the 20th century when the suffragettes were fighting for women to get the right to vote. Anyway, I remember going to hear Dr. Benjamin Spock speak at Notre Dame circa 1968. I am not referring to the Vulcan who was also a pop icon at the time, Dr. Benjamin Spock was the guy who published a book in 1946 originally called The Commonsense Book of Baby & Child Care. This wildly popular child care book was subsequently blamed for permissive child rearing and the resulting radicalism of the baby boomer generation. Indeed, his book was quite radical and forward thinking in the 1940s and 1950s.
Of course he was a man of his time and the gender role stereotypes he pushed in early editions of his book were deemed sexist by the late 1960s. I was a high school student and I vividly remember how exciting it was to hear the college-aged activists in the hall shout him down and call him out on his sexism. Those women were fearless powerhouses like no women I had seen before that night. They were no ladies! They were superheros. You may remember their crazy radical feminist notions, like recognizing that fathers should help out with childcare, that at least half of the children might be female, and that women had the right to work outside the home.
Spock actually listened and later changed his "message" in subsequent editions and even apologized to women for not thinking of us as fully realized human beings. In 1976 the newly enlightened Benjamin Spock divorced his old wife (the mother of his children, the one he married in 1927 and the person who helped research and write that famous book) and he married a woman 40 years younger than him. Concerning his second wife, he was quoted as saying "she gave me back my youth." Gag me with a spoon. I guess no one told him about the sins of ageism.
I attended my share of consciousness raising groups and women's writing workshops back in the day. I tried (and failed) to make my daughter play with trucks instead of dolls. I happily signed up to attend assertiveness training workshops. I wish those still existed, they were quite useful in instructing us how to be women instead of ladies. In case you did not know, second wave feminists did not want to be called or thought of as ladies. "Ladies" tottered around aimlessly on high heels never thinking deep thoughts or challenging authority. Let me be perfectly clear: Ladies have cooties. Women kick ass.
By the mid-1970s I was discouraged by the movement's subsequent focus on the rights and privileges of upper middle class women. It seemed to me that was all the women's movement came to care about in later years; enabling women of means to enter the professions alongside their equally privileged men. I am all for upper class women having the same opportunities as upper class men, of course. However, none of my friends or family members were going to become doctors, lawyers, or professors; not because they were not smart enough to become professionals, but because no one was paying for them to go to college. Let's be honest, working class people do not have parents who can buy them a future.
It would have been nice if the later women's movement had been interested in understanding and supporting the special struggles of working class women. Feminism might be more than just a tired joke in some circles today had the movement embraced all women and not just the elite few. I was not alone in feeling undervalued and ignored. Class struggle was arguably the downfall of the second wave of feminism in the 60s/70s. I would recommend an article written in 1977 by Marlene Dixon. She was a bit of a firecracker and definitely too extreme in her politics, but it is still a good read if you are interested in stepping back in time and immersing yourself in the history of feminism.
In truth, the 1960s/70s women's movement was different at first. Feminist ideology influenced and/or energized organizations that really made a difference in the lives of all women, like Planned Parenthood - an organization that was started by Margaret Sanger, a first wave feminist and onetime labor activist. Some other efforts championed in the glory days of feminism were the creation of professionalized day care centers, job training programs, battered women's shelters. Affirmative Action has its problems; however, women and African Americans would not have been hired into traditionally white male jobs or professions without it. Again, not because they were not capable of doing the jobs, but because they would never have gotten an interview without Affirmative Action stepping on the toes of the white guys in charge of Human Resources.
Second wave feminism WAS successful in altering the cultural landscape and making things a bit better for women. Don't let anyone tell you any different. Why then is the concept of feminism seemingly still a hard sell for young women, women of color, rural women, and working class women? In my opinion, the "second wave" of the women's movement simply did not finish the job, instead becoming decadent, myopic, and self-serving. The leadership failed to stay interested in or establish meaningful dialogue with these disparate groups of women. When that happened, it stopped being relevant to the majority of women. It is all about perception, after all.
Back in the late 1960s, when the so-called second wave of feminism was young and vital, I was young along with it. The "first wave" was in the early days of the 20th century when the suffragettes were fighting for women to get the right to vote. Anyway, I remember going to hear Dr. Benjamin Spock speak at Notre Dame circa 1968. I am not referring to the Vulcan who was also a pop icon at the time, Dr. Benjamin Spock was the guy who published a book in 1946 originally called The Commonsense Book of Baby & Child Care. This wildly popular child care book was subsequently blamed for permissive child rearing and the resulting radicalism of the baby boomer generation. Indeed, his book was quite radical and forward thinking in the 1940s and 1950s.
Of course he was a man of his time and the gender role stereotypes he pushed in early editions of his book were deemed sexist by the late 1960s. I was a high school student and I vividly remember how exciting it was to hear the college-aged activists in the hall shout him down and call him out on his sexism. Those women were fearless powerhouses like no women I had seen before that night. They were no ladies! They were superheros. You may remember their crazy radical feminist notions, like recognizing that fathers should help out with childcare, that at least half of the children might be female, and that women had the right to work outside the home.
Spock actually listened and later changed his "message" in subsequent editions and even apologized to women for not thinking of us as fully realized human beings. In 1976 the newly enlightened Benjamin Spock divorced his old wife (the mother of his children, the one he married in 1927 and the person who helped research and write that famous book) and he married a woman 40 years younger than him. Concerning his second wife, he was quoted as saying "she gave me back my youth." Gag me with a spoon. I guess no one told him about the sins of ageism.
I attended my share of consciousness raising groups and women's writing workshops back in the day. I tried (and failed) to make my daughter play with trucks instead of dolls. I happily signed up to attend assertiveness training workshops. I wish those still existed, they were quite useful in instructing us how to be women instead of ladies. In case you did not know, second wave feminists did not want to be called or thought of as ladies. "Ladies" tottered around aimlessly on high heels never thinking deep thoughts or challenging authority. Let me be perfectly clear: Ladies have cooties. Women kick ass.
By the mid-1970s I was discouraged by the movement's subsequent focus on the rights and privileges of upper middle class women. It seemed to me that was all the women's movement came to care about in later years; enabling women of means to enter the professions alongside their equally privileged men. I am all for upper class women having the same opportunities as upper class men, of course. However, none of my friends or family members were going to become doctors, lawyers, or professors; not because they were not smart enough to become professionals, but because no one was paying for them to go to college. Let's be honest, working class people do not have parents who can buy them a future.
It would have been nice if the later women's movement had been interested in understanding and supporting the special struggles of working class women. Feminism might be more than just a tired joke in some circles today had the movement embraced all women and not just the elite few. I was not alone in feeling undervalued and ignored. Class struggle was arguably the downfall of the second wave of feminism in the 60s/70s. I would recommend an article written in 1977 by Marlene Dixon. She was a bit of a firecracker and definitely too extreme in her politics, but it is still a good read if you are interested in stepping back in time and immersing yourself in the history of feminism.
In truth, the 1960s/70s women's movement was different at first. Feminist ideology influenced and/or energized organizations that really made a difference in the lives of all women, like Planned Parenthood - an organization that was started by Margaret Sanger, a first wave feminist and onetime labor activist. Some other efforts championed in the glory days of feminism were the creation of professionalized day care centers, job training programs, battered women's shelters. Affirmative Action has its problems; however, women and African Americans would not have been hired into traditionally white male jobs or professions without it. Again, not because they were not capable of doing the jobs, but because they would never have gotten an interview without Affirmative Action stepping on the toes of the white guys in charge of Human Resources.
Second wave feminism WAS successful in altering the cultural landscape and making things a bit better for women. Don't let anyone tell you any different. Why then is the concept of feminism seemingly still a hard sell for young women, women of color, rural women, and working class women? In my opinion, the "second wave" of the women's movement simply did not finish the job, instead becoming decadent, myopic, and self-serving. The leadership failed to stay interested in or establish meaningful dialogue with these disparate groups of women. When that happened, it stopped being relevant to the majority of women. It is all about perception, after all.
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