When I was a little girl I liked to hide just
out of sight on the breezeway steps so I could hear my mother and Bernie (the
next door neighbor who also happened to be my adored and adoring godmother) gossip at the kitchen table.
They had a coffee klatch every morning while the men were at work, and I loved to hear those women talk. I learned a lot that way. Most of what I learned while surreptitiously listening to The Women was about human nature, about people and what motivated their actions. It was fascinating and my interest in analyzing people's motives and desires has never waned.
I am fairly certain Mom never realized I was there, listening. She probably never knew what a treasure trove of illicit information she was
for me. Talk about a liberal education in the humanities! Those two women were pretty insightful. Not only did they do a close reading of most people, they deconstructed them to the bare bone. I think that is one of the reasons I did not want to go to
kindergarten. Good stuff was happening at home in the kitchen. That
and I did not want to miss watching Captain Kangaroo. I loved Bunny Rabbit. Not as much as Mighty Mouse, but almost.
One thing I suspected back then, and have since learned to be true, is that some people are just plain mean.
If you do not believe me, move someplace new or start a different job where you do not know anyone and they do not know you. The Big Meanies will step up to bat and reveal themselves to be players, quick as shit.
I am beginning to understand meanness. I think it is a strategy insecure people use to maintain the status quo and to ensure that others will not be mean to them. Big Meanies are cruel to newcomers as a means to establish their authority and mark their territory. We really are just base human animals when we do not take the time to think or feel.
Newcomers suffer accordingly; eventually the Big Meanies throw them a bone of kindness to test the waters and see if they will bite. By then the newcomers are so traumatized by isolation and loneliness they will do anything to make the BM like them, including agreeing with everything the aggressive BM says or does for the rest of their natural born lives. Ick. It is all so disturbingly stupid. I am determined to forgive people when they hurt me, because I know they often cannot help themselves. However, I would have to be an idiot to then want to be around someone like that, or to forget what they are capable of. Cruelty is a social game I prefer not to play.
Try not to take it personal if it happens to you. It is almost always about them (the BM), and rarely about you. You could be anyone and the mean person would respond in the same exact way. They do not realize their insecurities are showing. BMs mistake meanness of spirit for strength. And they want to feel strong. We all want to feel strong, and it is much easier to be mean than to be kind. It just is.
I hate to say it... but exposing yourself to a Big Meanie from time to time might just be good for what my Father used to refer to as "your immortal soul." Allowing yourself to be vulnerable is brave. Only when you are vulnerable will you notice the scarcity of good intentions that exist in this old world. This is information you need to know and can definitely use! Understanding meanness just might tip the scales as to whether you become a Big Meanie yourself or not. We all have that meanness in us. I try to control mine each and every day. Mean is one of those things you have to actually try hard not to be. Making that noble effort is part of our humanity. When we think and feel and empathize, we become more fully human.
You really notice meanness when you become a stranger. Middle class culture did not invent the Welcome Wagon to make newcomers feel welcome, they invented it as a marketing tool to get newbies to spend their money at local businesses and to introduce them to local norms. If your neighbor brings you a cake as a "welcome to the neighborhood present" for no other reason than s/he wants to make you feel welcome, then by all means glom on to her/him. S/he is a kind person - a rare find.
What I really hate are cliques. I hated them a million years ago when I was in high school and I hate them now. Is there anything more distasteful than adults circling the wagons for no better reason than to exclude others so as to maintain the status quo?
I guess I understand how cliques happen and why they exist. Belonging to one is the easy way out. We work hard to build relationships with people who are like us, who share our values. I am not saying values are good or bad, I am just saying all too often what is most important in cliques is that the values are shared.
I know, I know, it feels good when everyone is just like you. But a personality can molder if life is too straight and narrow. All too often "easy" just turns out to mean dumb, and "safe" turns out to mean lazy. Most of us will not put in the effort required to think about an issue unless we are challenged.
So why am I bringing this up? Someone was mean to me, and it got me thinking. See what I mean?
coming out of my shell
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Monday, May 25, 2015
Good Grief and the Good Earth
What is this thing they call dirt in Central Florida? It looks like sand mixed with a little topsoil to me. You should
have seen my face when I first dug up a clump of "grass" only to find salt and pepper underneath trying to pass as dirt. I was perplexed.
I am spoiled when it comes to soil. I grew up in the 1950's and 1960's in the Midwestern corn belt. The dirt was dark and rich and vital. If you stuck a seed in the ground it would never fail to grow. My sweet Mother had a vegetable garden as well as flowers. Getting things to grow was never a problem for her. When I was a little girl, I liked to follow her around to see what she was going to do next. She was everything to me back then. I knew if I stuck close to her, interesting things would happen.
Outside in late spring or early summer, she would sometimes keep me out of her hair by giving me a packet of zinnia seeds to plant. They would most definitely sprout and grow into beautiful flowers. They were my flowers. I helped them grow from tiny seeds. It was magical. That is probably when I first caught the gardening bug. Thank you, Ma!
When T and I first moved to upstate New York, we would often go for long drives in the country to compensate for living our lives as worker bees in town. We could not help but notice the soil when the NYS farmers would till their fields. Those Upstate New York fields were filled with large rocks. How in the world they manage to plant crops I will never know. Apparently it is a constant struggle because with freezing and thawing the ground keeps pushing up rocks from the deepest depths of the earth. If you notice a preponderance of lovely stone walls and fences in NYS it is because each year the farmers have to pull big stones and slabs of rock out of the fields so they can plant seeds. They have to do something with those piles of rocks. Consequently, stone fences are what they used to mark their property lines and field borders. It must have been especially hard and discouraging work for the early settlers with their simple tools. Thankfully they stuck with it and figured out how to work that stubborn land. They created beautiful stone fences with the rocks and stones. The results are unique and amazing, well worth the effort.
Once we moved out of town and into the country we got serious about perennial gardening. In addition to removing rocks, we enriched the heavy clay soil on our land. T was still young back then. He did some impressive "double digging" for numerous perennial beds. We read gardening books. We badgered other gardeners with questions. We made mistakes. We figured it out. We changed. We learned.
The first year on that land my Mom came to visit and brought us small, old-fashioned yellow bearded irises she dug out of her own garden. She also brought us a start from her infamous trumpet vine. The original plant had been in her father's garden. She took a cutting from his trumpet vine before he died in 1961 and she kept it alive all those years. Those were the plants we started with.
For years we mulched with composted horse manure in order to improve that soil. Is there anything more comforting than having a mountain of composted horse manure delivered to and dumped on your property? As I said, we lived in the country. It was fully composted, so it did not smell. No one ever complained about our manure pile. I figured they wished they had one, too. Who wouldn't?
We spent every weekend for 6 weeks each spring shoveling shit into our wheelbarrow and then hauling it all over our land to mulch the flower beds. Eventually the mountain became a mole hill. When it was gone, I would plant pumpkin seeds in the good dirt that remained and it became the source for our Halloween pumpkins.
I am assuming our current HOA will not allow us to have a mountain of composted horse manure delivered to our front yard in this subdivision in Central Florida. Bummer. Where would we put it? In the garage? Oh, that IS an evil thought. Please do not let me do that. Instead, we must buy our composted cow manure in bags, for crying out loud. Like normal people. How did it come to this?
So here we are starting over, not knowing the land nor understanding the soil. Again.
I get up each morning and stroll out through the lanai, peering out of our screened-in "birdcage" to stare at the new plantings in the back yard, imagining they have grown overnight. I need to get my fat ass out the screen door and commune with those plants! I need to walk the land, and stop thinking of it as just a small yard. The Good Earth deserves more respect. I need to surrender to this sandy soil and figure out what likes to grow in it.
A friend once gave me a button that said "I don't know where I am going, but I'm on my way!" It made me smile because it was so true. I like to think this is me at my best, aching and floundering; slouching towards change much like Yeats' rough beast from Bethlehem.
Up North I had daylilies of every type and color I could find. The wild ones started blooming in late June. I thought wild daylilies were the most beautiful wildflower of all; however, now that I have seen Maypops in the wild at Lake Louisa State Park in Clermont, Florida, wild daylilies may have to try harder to get my vote. Maypops are also called passionflower vine. The Latin name for Maypops is "Passiflora incarnata!" I think you get the picture.
Once the wild daylilies were spent Up North, one hybrid variety after another would bloom through the end of August. I loved my daylilies. For 9 long months of every cold, gray year I waited for them. When they poked their way out of the earth and started growing, I was happy. I miss them like an old friend. I heard rumors there are varieties that grow in zone 9. I am not sure if I believe it because I have yet to see a daylily down here.
The last ones I saw were Stella D'Oro daylilies just starting to bloom at a South Carolina rest stop on our way down to Florida in late March 2014. I distinctly remember how happy I was to see them! We were homeless, frazzled, and on the road. And then I saw them. I trilled to T: "Oh, the daylilies are starting to bloom here!" Then I thought, "Oh yeah, WE don't HAVE any daylilies." I got back in the car and we resumed our journey to Central Florida, slouching all the way.
I mourn the loss of my sweet Mother's yellow bearded irises. That is another plant you cannot grow down here. Now that Mom is gone, I wish I could have brought some with me. However, I know they would not have survived. Instead, I am planting Louisiana irises in a wet area next to the house. I think I will like them more than bearded irises anyway. They have a more elegant shape. My mother would understand.
Here is Ma's old fashioned yellow bearded iris:
I am spoiled when it comes to soil. I grew up in the 1950's and 1960's in the Midwestern corn belt. The dirt was dark and rich and vital. If you stuck a seed in the ground it would never fail to grow. My sweet Mother had a vegetable garden as well as flowers. Getting things to grow was never a problem for her. When I was a little girl, I liked to follow her around to see what she was going to do next. She was everything to me back then. I knew if I stuck close to her, interesting things would happen.
Outside in late spring or early summer, she would sometimes keep me out of her hair by giving me a packet of zinnia seeds to plant. They would most definitely sprout and grow into beautiful flowers. They were my flowers. I helped them grow from tiny seeds. It was magical. That is probably when I first caught the gardening bug. Thank you, Ma!
When T and I first moved to upstate New York, we would often go for long drives in the country to compensate for living our lives as worker bees in town. We could not help but notice the soil when the NYS farmers would till their fields. Those Upstate New York fields were filled with large rocks. How in the world they manage to plant crops I will never know. Apparently it is a constant struggle because with freezing and thawing the ground keeps pushing up rocks from the deepest depths of the earth. If you notice a preponderance of lovely stone walls and fences in NYS it is because each year the farmers have to pull big stones and slabs of rock out of the fields so they can plant seeds. They have to do something with those piles of rocks. Consequently, stone fences are what they used to mark their property lines and field borders. It must have been especially hard and discouraging work for the early settlers with their simple tools. Thankfully they stuck with it and figured out how to work that stubborn land. They created beautiful stone fences with the rocks and stones. The results are unique and amazing, well worth the effort.
Once we moved out of town and into the country we got serious about perennial gardening. In addition to removing rocks, we enriched the heavy clay soil on our land. T was still young back then. He did some impressive "double digging" for numerous perennial beds. We read gardening books. We badgered other gardeners with questions. We made mistakes. We figured it out. We changed. We learned.
The first year on that land my Mom came to visit and brought us small, old-fashioned yellow bearded irises she dug out of her own garden. She also brought us a start from her infamous trumpet vine. The original plant had been in her father's garden. She took a cutting from his trumpet vine before he died in 1961 and she kept it alive all those years. Those were the plants we started with.
For years we mulched with composted horse manure in order to improve that soil. Is there anything more comforting than having a mountain of composted horse manure delivered to and dumped on your property? As I said, we lived in the country. It was fully composted, so it did not smell. No one ever complained about our manure pile. I figured they wished they had one, too. Who wouldn't?
We spent every weekend for 6 weeks each spring shoveling shit into our wheelbarrow and then hauling it all over our land to mulch the flower beds. Eventually the mountain became a mole hill. When it was gone, I would plant pumpkin seeds in the good dirt that remained and it became the source for our Halloween pumpkins.
I am assuming our current HOA will not allow us to have a mountain of composted horse manure delivered to our front yard in this subdivision in Central Florida. Bummer. Where would we put it? In the garage? Oh, that IS an evil thought. Please do not let me do that. Instead, we must buy our composted cow manure in bags, for crying out loud. Like normal people. How did it come to this?
So here we are starting over, not knowing the land nor understanding the soil. Again.
I get up each morning and stroll out through the lanai, peering out of our screened-in "birdcage" to stare at the new plantings in the back yard, imagining they have grown overnight. I need to get my fat ass out the screen door and commune with those plants! I need to walk the land, and stop thinking of it as just a small yard. The Good Earth deserves more respect. I need to surrender to this sandy soil and figure out what likes to grow in it.
A friend once gave me a button that said "I don't know where I am going, but I'm on my way!" It made me smile because it was so true. I like to think this is me at my best, aching and floundering; slouching towards change much like Yeats' rough beast from Bethlehem.
Up North I had daylilies of every type and color I could find. The wild ones started blooming in late June. I thought wild daylilies were the most beautiful wildflower of all; however, now that I have seen Maypops in the wild at Lake Louisa State Park in Clermont, Florida, wild daylilies may have to try harder to get my vote. Maypops are also called passionflower vine. The Latin name for Maypops is "Passiflora incarnata!" I think you get the picture.
Once the wild daylilies were spent Up North, one hybrid variety after another would bloom through the end of August. I loved my daylilies. For 9 long months of every cold, gray year I waited for them. When they poked their way out of the earth and started growing, I was happy. I miss them like an old friend. I heard rumors there are varieties that grow in zone 9. I am not sure if I believe it because I have yet to see a daylily down here.
The last ones I saw were Stella D'Oro daylilies just starting to bloom at a South Carolina rest stop on our way down to Florida in late March 2014. I distinctly remember how happy I was to see them! We were homeless, frazzled, and on the road. And then I saw them. I trilled to T: "Oh, the daylilies are starting to bloom here!" Then I thought, "Oh yeah, WE don't HAVE any daylilies." I got back in the car and we resumed our journey to Central Florida, slouching all the way.
I mourn the loss of my sweet Mother's yellow bearded irises. That is another plant you cannot grow down here. Now that Mom is gone, I wish I could have brought some with me. However, I know they would not have survived. Instead, I am planting Louisiana irises in a wet area next to the house. I think I will like them more than bearded irises anyway. They have a more elegant shape. My mother would understand.
I am quite happy to be free of that damned trumpet vine. I loved my Grandpa, but his legacy plant quickly became a greedy gut, invasive weed that wanted to take over my soul. I was tired of fighting it.
I actually bought three Stella D'Oro plants last month and put them in the ground. Not to worry, I enriched the soil. Stella's are small, but they are the mighty workhorses of the daylily world. If any daylily can make it in Central Florida it will be Stella.
Unfortunately, it is only late May and my daylilies already seem to be burning up. I am not used to watering daylilies. I am more of a "survival of the fittest" gardener. But I have been watering these. I am going to give them my all. If I cannot have a daylily on my land I fear I might have to rethink just about everything I believe to be true and good. Then again, maybe it is time to rethink everything. Canna lilies are good. It is also true that I can grow them here.
Here is a photo of everything I believed to be true and good circa 2013 in Upstate New York:
I actually bought three Stella D'Oro plants last month and put them in the ground. Not to worry, I enriched the soil. Stella's are small, but they are the mighty workhorses of the daylily world. If any daylily can make it in Central Florida it will be Stella.
Unfortunately, it is only late May and my daylilies already seem to be burning up. I am not used to watering daylilies. I am more of a "survival of the fittest" gardener. But I have been watering these. I am going to give them my all. If I cannot have a daylily on my land I fear I might have to rethink just about everything I believe to be true and good. Then again, maybe it is time to rethink everything. Canna lilies are good. It is also true that I can grow them here.
Here is a photo of everything I believed to be true and good circa 2013 in Upstate New York:
Here is Ma's old fashioned yellow bearded iris:
Here is a photo from behind the naturalized "drop-gardening" area looking up towards our old garage. Refer to my Flower Lust post for more about my "drop-gardening" technique. The house is hidden behind that Crimson King maple tree on the right. If you look real hard you will see my Grandpa's trumpet vine blooming up in front of the brown garage like a small tree. That garage was great, too. It had garage doors in front (facing the street) and in back (facing the gardens). Brilliant design for riding lawnmowers:
Below is a better shot of that damn Trumpet Vine. T built a pergola for it to climb over, but it really wanted to climb up over the roof and embed its sticky suckers under and over the roofing tiles. It did such damage to the garage. We had to cut it back, hard, every year; but still it persisted. It was WAY stronger and more determined than we were. It dropped seeds that grew all over the ground in front of it, and in every garden bed close by. They always grew and their roots were deep. Trumpet Vine can serve as an inspiration to us all but in someone else's garden, please.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
Claustrophobia
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?
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?
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.
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