Last week my ex-husband died after a long disease. He was the father of my one and only child. She was an absolute champ throughout his illness, taking him to all appointments and researching all possible cures. He was going to tough it out alone because he didn't want to worry her, but she put her foot down, and he was glad she did. When he was in the ICU for many days before he went home to die, she sat by his beside and took such good care of him. And when I had my stroke, I was in the same hospital. I can't imagine her terror. I may have gone stark raving mad given similar circumstances. All this with a pandemic going on, and yes, there was a patient with COVID in the ICU while he was there.
The day after he died the family got together at my daughter's house to cook up one of his favorite meals: pork roll and tomato sandwiches and corn on the cob. Two family members flew in, two drove from California. I had not intended to go inside, but socialize and eat outside. No one followed my desire to do this, and one person kept putting her face five inches from mine even though I explained I was high risk and didn't want to get too close to anyone. She did it repeatedly and I didn't want to make a scene, so I would turn my head, or tilt my head away. Then I was invited inside to eat, where I sat shoulder to shoulder with this person. I did not advocate for myself. I'm still mad at myself for that. I ate, talked, and then hit the road. I had a terrible dream that night that I had caught the virus. In the dream I woke up with a throat on fire and a raging headache. When I did wake in the morning, I wondered if the sore throat had been real. Talk about messing with my mind!
Have I ever told you how much I now hate the 4th of July? For many years I have: the noisy fireworks that scare animals and people with PTSD, and the sheer hypocrisy of it all. Land of the free, my arse. "We" rid ourselves of our oppressors while simultaneously oppressing people we enslaved. Anyway, back to the wacko celebrations: seems like this year everyone was going nuts with their own personal fireworks. Most public venues canceled it weeks ago. So crazy and pent up people let it rip this year. I was on Facebook with friends across the country and it seemed to be the same insane situation everywhere. The great writer, journalist and intellectual Frederick Douglass gave one of his most famous speeches on July 5, 1852. ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY EIGHT YEARS AGO. Youtube has a stirring video of his g-g-g-g grandchildren reading excerpts of this speech. You can watch it here.
Meanwhile, back at the family gathering, the same person who was drinking too much, talking too loud, and getting much too close, began the favorite argument of uninformed white people by saying she was sick of all the protesting and didn't we know that, yes, ALL LIVES MATTER. She got plenty of gentle push back from others at the table. People were civil, but questioning her words. One way she seemed to come around was when I talked about women's oppression and how much marching and shouting had to be done to make any gains at all. She kind of backed down, saying, "I guess you have to walk in somebody's shoes to know what they are going through." Yes, dear, it's called empathy.
I'm thinking of posting this video on FB for her. Kinda says it all. So many white Americans would just like the problem to go away, not understanding that it won't go away until we stop making it a problem. It's always been us, white top dogs, who've kept this ugly system going, after all.
Hoping for a more upbeat post next time around. Bear with me. I'm still recovering!
Be safe. Wear your mask. And don't roll over like I did.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, July 6, 2020
Friday, June 26, 2020
I Nominate 2020 as Shittiest Year Ever
Well, for me at least, and for many many others.
On Wednesday this week I got out of bed and couldn't figure out why I couldn't walk straight -- why was I hurling myself into walls and doors? Why was I having severe double vision, as if I was stone cold drunk? I stumbled around this way for a few minutes before I realized something was really wrong. And yet, I still went next door to feed my neighbor's cats because she is off on a camping trip. It was a surreal trip to make, but cats must be attended to!
I came back home and called my daughter. You can guess what she said. "Call 911 MOM." And so I did. But after I did, I called another neighbor and told her not to be alarmed but there was soon to be sirens and a mob scene of emergency vehicles on our tiny street. I'm so considerate.
After all is said and done, turns out I had an Ischemic stroke, verified by an MRI. I was admitted and administered drugs to help with blood flow. Scary, and yet I had the ability to speak, I had no loss of function and my cognitive function was only mildly impared. I spent the night and was released the afternoon on Thursday. On the way out of the hospital I stopped into the ICU, where my first husband (father of my daughter) has been. He is very ill and he looked it. We have been friends again for the last 10 years, after 20 years of acrimony following our divorce.
My daughter has been so very happy to have both her parents living in the same town that her family lives in. We've had some wonderful holidays together in her home. He's been a fun and connected grandfather (Pop).
And soon, he will be going home to die, supported by hospice and good medications. While I am heartbroken, I'm more concerned for my daughter. I haven't lost a parent, but I know it hurts like hell. We're all in for a hellava week.
And I'm aware that my energy right now is at its lowest ebb. Docs say I'll probably feel extra tired for a week or two. But hell, I'm alive!
We just never know what the future will bring, do we? Life changes on a dime.
These are crazy times, compounded by personal grief. Doing what I can to keep my spiritual and physical equilibrium. And here to support my daughter.
Here's what I've been listening to today to lift my spirits:
On Wednesday this week I got out of bed and couldn't figure out why I couldn't walk straight -- why was I hurling myself into walls and doors? Why was I having severe double vision, as if I was stone cold drunk? I stumbled around this way for a few minutes before I realized something was really wrong. And yet, I still went next door to feed my neighbor's cats because she is off on a camping trip. It was a surreal trip to make, but cats must be attended to!
I came back home and called my daughter. You can guess what she said. "Call 911 MOM." And so I did. But after I did, I called another neighbor and told her not to be alarmed but there was soon to be sirens and a mob scene of emergency vehicles on our tiny street. I'm so considerate.
After all is said and done, turns out I had an Ischemic stroke, verified by an MRI. I was admitted and administered drugs to help with blood flow. Scary, and yet I had the ability to speak, I had no loss of function and my cognitive function was only mildly impared. I spent the night and was released the afternoon on Thursday. On the way out of the hospital I stopped into the ICU, where my first husband (father of my daughter) has been. He is very ill and he looked it. We have been friends again for the last 10 years, after 20 years of acrimony following our divorce.
 | ||||
| Cape Cod with my husband's family, 1979 |
My daughter has been so very happy to have both her parents living in the same town that her family lives in. We've had some wonderful holidays together in her home. He's been a fun and connected grandfather (Pop).
And soon, he will be going home to die, supported by hospice and good medications. While I am heartbroken, I'm more concerned for my daughter. I haven't lost a parent, but I know it hurts like hell. We're all in for a hellava week.
And I'm aware that my energy right now is at its lowest ebb. Docs say I'll probably feel extra tired for a week or two. But hell, I'm alive!
We just never know what the future will bring, do we? Life changes on a dime.
These are crazy times, compounded by personal grief. Doing what I can to keep my spiritual and physical equilibrium. And here to support my daughter.
Here's what I've been listening to today to lift my spirits:
Monday, June 22, 2020
Father's Day
Yesterday I read a lot of tributes to fathers on Father's Day. People on FB also shared old family photos of their dad. So many have lost their fathers, and often times their mothers as well. I am a rarity at my age (63) in that both my parents are alive. They married young - and had three children by the time mom was 25. Imagine!
This guy in the photo with Dad is his oldest friend on earth. They've known each other since they were four years old. They had many adventures during their summers in high school, hitch hiking up and down the state of California doing odd jobs. Sometimes they got home by the skin of their teeth. It may surprise you to know they are polar opposites when it comes to politics. They don't often talk about it, but in private Max will tell me that one day we shall convert my father (wink). Max, like many of my dad's best friends, is a musician and artist, as was his father. My last night in North Carolina almost a decade ago, Max and his wife drove me to a friends house deep into the woods, for a jam with all the regulars. Banjos, guitars, fiddles and an upright bass -- these people drank and played old-timey music into the wee hours. A memorable evening. I was a hung over, bleary eyed passenger on the airplane the next day.
It's always been a wonder to me how my dad can be so conservative and rigid in behavior and appearance and have so many bohemian friends. He always has. It might stem from his Great Aunt, who was an out-loud bohemian and artist herself. He used to rock the chemical trays in her dark room on Orange Avenue in Coronado, California. She photographed celebrities who came to play on the beach and lounge by the pool at the historic Hotel Del Coronado back in the 1930s and 40s.
He took on a lot at a very young age -- marriage and children by the time he was 28. After a lifetime of living with a couple of step-fathers or his grandparents, he longed for stability. I don't remember him as a fun dad, he was a disciplinarian and mostly we children walked on eggshells around him. He regrets that now, and wishes he could have had a more relaxed relationship with us. He still has an extremely controlling nature, and things must go his way or things get very uncomfortable.
Until I moved to Colorado last year, I had spent the previous nine years living close to my parents (sometimes with them). It was difficult for me, I felt duty bound but also newly constricted after a lifetime of living on my own and not under his influence. It was out of economic necessity that I lived with them for two and a half years. We had many blowout arguments, which distressed my mother greatly. I went out for walks -- frequently. Only way to blow off steam. When I moved into my own place, we joked with each other that no one had died.
I'm sure that I, like so many adult children, have a very mixed view of my life with Dad. I love him dearly and sometimes I also hate his guts. He has been terribly hateful at times, and then he does something wonderfully loving. My husband also had a difficult relationship with his children, and they kept their distance as adults. It took me a couple of years after we married for me to fully understand how damaged those relationships were. This was their first Father's Day without their Pop. Just like my dad, Steve could be a lively and interesting friend, but he was very chilly when it came to his children. It's sad. His kids are great and his missed out on so much.
And this is how it is between fathers and their children.
This guy in the photo with Dad is his oldest friend on earth. They've known each other since they were four years old. They had many adventures during their summers in high school, hitch hiking up and down the state of California doing odd jobs. Sometimes they got home by the skin of their teeth. It may surprise you to know they are polar opposites when it comes to politics. They don't often talk about it, but in private Max will tell me that one day we shall convert my father (wink). Max, like many of my dad's best friends, is a musician and artist, as was his father. My last night in North Carolina almost a decade ago, Max and his wife drove me to a friends house deep into the woods, for a jam with all the regulars. Banjos, guitars, fiddles and an upright bass -- these people drank and played old-timey music into the wee hours. A memorable evening. I was a hung over, bleary eyed passenger on the airplane the next day.
It's always been a wonder to me how my dad can be so conservative and rigid in behavior and appearance and have so many bohemian friends. He always has. It might stem from his Great Aunt, who was an out-loud bohemian and artist herself. He used to rock the chemical trays in her dark room on Orange Avenue in Coronado, California. She photographed celebrities who came to play on the beach and lounge by the pool at the historic Hotel Del Coronado back in the 1930s and 40s.
He took on a lot at a very young age -- marriage and children by the time he was 28. After a lifetime of living with a couple of step-fathers or his grandparents, he longed for stability. I don't remember him as a fun dad, he was a disciplinarian and mostly we children walked on eggshells around him. He regrets that now, and wishes he could have had a more relaxed relationship with us. He still has an extremely controlling nature, and things must go his way or things get very uncomfortable.
Until I moved to Colorado last year, I had spent the previous nine years living close to my parents (sometimes with them). It was difficult for me, I felt duty bound but also newly constricted after a lifetime of living on my own and not under his influence. It was out of economic necessity that I lived with them for two and a half years. We had many blowout arguments, which distressed my mother greatly. I went out for walks -- frequently. Only way to blow off steam. When I moved into my own place, we joked with each other that no one had died.
I'm sure that I, like so many adult children, have a very mixed view of my life with Dad. I love him dearly and sometimes I also hate his guts. He has been terribly hateful at times, and then he does something wonderfully loving. My husband also had a difficult relationship with his children, and they kept their distance as adults. It took me a couple of years after we married for me to fully understand how damaged those relationships were. This was their first Father's Day without their Pop. Just like my dad, Steve could be a lively and interesting friend, but he was very chilly when it came to his children. It's sad. His kids are great and his missed out on so much.
And this is how it is between fathers and their children.
Friday, May 1, 2020
Missed Mail and Close Calls
I applied for my Colorado driver's license on February 5, 2020. I have not yet received it so I went on-line to track down its whereabouts. Turns out it was mailed to me February 10, but returned as "un-deliverable." I double checked the address on my temporary card and it is correct. So, I can't get a hold of the DMV because offices are closed until May 18. I then will need an appointment to go into the office to retrieve it. They've got all my contact information, but of course have not contacted me. A bother, but small in comparison to the next bit of news.
Yesterday was my parents' 65th wedding anniversary. I called around lunchtime and got no answer. Odd. But I didn't panic. Maybe they were out walking their hallway at the retirement center.
Then I got the call at 4 pm from my dad: my almost 86 year old mom is in the hospital after having fallen down and hitting her head. Paramedics were needed to get her up, and they took her to the Emergency Room since her hip hurt as well and she's already suffered two broken hips over the last eleven years. Of course Dad can't go into the hospital with her and that is a critical danger for her. She cannot tolerate opioids of any kind, but this is on the medical information sheet the center gave the paramedics as they wheeled her out. She also is cognitively impaired as a result of Parkinson's, and becomes terribly paranoid and panicked in a hospital setting.
My thoughts began to race about all the terrible possibilities that lie ahead. Luckily, and thankfully, dad was able to pick her up at the end of the day and take her home. Whew. We worry about mom; she's very weak from almost thirty years with Parkinson's, and any chest infection would likely kill her. She's also becoming very difficult to move, even for trained caregivers, because she is so stiff and weak of limb. If and when she can no longer be cared for in their apartment she would need to be moved to the skilled nursing unit. In this time of COVID-19, people in that unit cannot receive any visitors. For my mother this would heighten her dementia and cause untold suffering. I was spinning out with worry that she would have to undergo surgery and recover in the SN unit and it would be a nightmare for her.
This is the same unit where my husband died in January this year. They take good care of people there, but it is still something no one would want. There is much sadness, suffering, and death there. Luckily, Steve was there for just over a week. He hated it. It was a blessed relief when he quietly slipped away in the wee hours of the morning.
So now that I've depressed the living shite out of you, how about some soothing music?
Happy May Day! I remember making paper cones of flowers for my mother on May Day when I was in elementary school. Did you do that?
Yesterday was my parents' 65th wedding anniversary. I called around lunchtime and got no answer. Odd. But I didn't panic. Maybe they were out walking their hallway at the retirement center.
Then I got the call at 4 pm from my dad: my almost 86 year old mom is in the hospital after having fallen down and hitting her head. Paramedics were needed to get her up, and they took her to the Emergency Room since her hip hurt as well and she's already suffered two broken hips over the last eleven years. Of course Dad can't go into the hospital with her and that is a critical danger for her. She cannot tolerate opioids of any kind, but this is on the medical information sheet the center gave the paramedics as they wheeled her out. She also is cognitively impaired as a result of Parkinson's, and becomes terribly paranoid and panicked in a hospital setting.
My thoughts began to race about all the terrible possibilities that lie ahead. Luckily, and thankfully, dad was able to pick her up at the end of the day and take her home. Whew. We worry about mom; she's very weak from almost thirty years with Parkinson's, and any chest infection would likely kill her. She's also becoming very difficult to move, even for trained caregivers, because she is so stiff and weak of limb. If and when she can no longer be cared for in their apartment she would need to be moved to the skilled nursing unit. In this time of COVID-19, people in that unit cannot receive any visitors. For my mother this would heighten her dementia and cause untold suffering. I was spinning out with worry that she would have to undergo surgery and recover in the SN unit and it would be a nightmare for her.
This is the same unit where my husband died in January this year. They take good care of people there, but it is still something no one would want. There is much sadness, suffering, and death there. Luckily, Steve was there for just over a week. He hated it. It was a blessed relief when he quietly slipped away in the wee hours of the morning.
So now that I've depressed the living shite out of you, how about some soothing music?
Happy May Day! I remember making paper cones of flowers for my mother on May Day when I was in elementary school. Did you do that?
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Wednesday, February 20, 2019
Wednesday, February 13, 2019
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Tuesday, February 20, 2018
Gack
Can I just say how shitty it is when your elderly parents are in crisis and you have to jump in and coordinate care for them, schedule doc appts., clean their home and do their laundry and make their meals? I know many of you have gone through this yourself.
How can this mess be managed in a better way? I have no answers. I just want some social services support to do the heavy lifting.
My dad's heart is giving out. He can no longer to the physical work of caring for mom. This is difficult for so many reasons, the main one being that he has been "in charge" for decades and has trouble letting anyone else be in charge. He was scared enough after his hospital stay to accept in home support and care for mother. Even someone to be there overnight to help mother to the bathroom. That's BIG for my dad.
They have health insurance to cover this care. They planned ahead. They have resources to pay for caregivers even if they didn't have insurance. Smart and lucky.
I love them so much, and have been very worried about dad dying. My husband is concerned about my health when I am helping them and wants me to back away now that we've arranged for caregivers. He's right. After spending the entire weekend plus taking care of mom, my blood sugars and sky high and I feel like road kill.
And there are people all over the land who are doing the same, and more, for their elderly parents. For their disabled children, or other relative. I'm not made of very sturdy stuff, me thinks. I'm laid low by the tasks demanded of me. I don't know how anybody does it.
In the middle of all of this, we sold our beautiful home on Sunday. It went on the market Thursday. We are now able to move to University Retirement Community (URC). I'm thinking of renaming it Universal Rastafarian Consciousness. Better than "Old Folks Home" or "The Home" or whatever. Better, I suppose than some names for care facilities, like "Sunset Villas" or "The Last Fucking Place You Will Ever Live."
I cannot comprehend living in one place for the next couple of decades. It will be a wholly new experience for me. No doubt I will encounter myself again and again while there, coming to terms with this arrangement. No doubt I shall share my experience with you, dear Reader. Hopefully, and almost certainly, I will find abundant humor in my situation.
Please stay tuned....
How can this mess be managed in a better way? I have no answers. I just want some social services support to do the heavy lifting.
My dad's heart is giving out. He can no longer to the physical work of caring for mom. This is difficult for so many reasons, the main one being that he has been "in charge" for decades and has trouble letting anyone else be in charge. He was scared enough after his hospital stay to accept in home support and care for mother. Even someone to be there overnight to help mother to the bathroom. That's BIG for my dad.
They have health insurance to cover this care. They planned ahead. They have resources to pay for caregivers even if they didn't have insurance. Smart and lucky.
I love them so much, and have been very worried about dad dying. My husband is concerned about my health when I am helping them and wants me to back away now that we've arranged for caregivers. He's right. After spending the entire weekend plus taking care of mom, my blood sugars and sky high and I feel like road kill.
And there are people all over the land who are doing the same, and more, for their elderly parents. For their disabled children, or other relative. I'm not made of very sturdy stuff, me thinks. I'm laid low by the tasks demanded of me. I don't know how anybody does it.
In the middle of all of this, we sold our beautiful home on Sunday. It went on the market Thursday. We are now able to move to University Retirement Community (URC). I'm thinking of renaming it Universal Rastafarian Consciousness. Better than "Old Folks Home" or "The Home" or whatever. Better, I suppose than some names for care facilities, like "Sunset Villas" or "The Last Fucking Place You Will Ever Live."
I cannot comprehend living in one place for the next couple of decades. It will be a wholly new experience for me. No doubt I will encounter myself again and again while there, coming to terms with this arrangement. No doubt I shall share my experience with you, dear Reader. Hopefully, and almost certainly, I will find abundant humor in my situation.
Please stay tuned....
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
Monday Musings (A Day Late)
Last night I watched this short documentary on PBS' POV (Point of View) series. Sweet, poignant, deeply affecting. I highly recommend it.
I've become the family point person to investigate burial plots at our favorite cemetery (yes, we have a favorite) in Monterey, CA. I was supposed to get this information a few years ago, and have now, finally done it. The woman I spoke with, Michelle, was refreshingly straightforward and said we could arrange all of this over the phone. She even looked to see if there was space near the plots of our good friends who are buried there. There is a spot 5 plots away, if we want it. I think we do. It may be silly and sentimental, but it just feels good to be situated close to their remains when we are nothing but ashes and dust.
My parents have already made arrangements with the Neptune Society, and have their cremation boxes on the top shelf in their clothes closet. I deeply appreciate their planning. It's not something anyone likes to think about, but when you think about the grief you will spare those left behind, well, it only makes sense. Decades ago before my parents left for an extended trip abroad, they sat their children down to talk about their will. Teenagers at the time, we all had that "ewwww" response and really didn't want to hear it. It really creeped me out, I remember that. That's teenagers for you. Now, as an elderly person myself (yeah, get over it), I'm much more realistic and practical about death and the attendant issues of what to do with the remains. I used to think I'd like to be scattered to the wind, but as I've aged, and walked many cemeteries, I quite like the idea of having a place with a marker to acknowledge my existence. Maybe I'll even put the URL to my blog on my headstone so anyone who is interested may get to know me better. Wouldn't that be funny?
Dear Reader, have you made your arrangements? What would YOU like to happen to your remains?
I've become the family point person to investigate burial plots at our favorite cemetery (yes, we have a favorite) in Monterey, CA. I was supposed to get this information a few years ago, and have now, finally done it. The woman I spoke with, Michelle, was refreshingly straightforward and said we could arrange all of this over the phone. She even looked to see if there was space near the plots of our good friends who are buried there. There is a spot 5 plots away, if we want it. I think we do. It may be silly and sentimental, but it just feels good to be situated close to their remains when we are nothing but ashes and dust.
My parents have already made arrangements with the Neptune Society, and have their cremation boxes on the top shelf in their clothes closet. I deeply appreciate their planning. It's not something anyone likes to think about, but when you think about the grief you will spare those left behind, well, it only makes sense. Decades ago before my parents left for an extended trip abroad, they sat their children down to talk about their will. Teenagers at the time, we all had that "ewwww" response and really didn't want to hear it. It really creeped me out, I remember that. That's teenagers for you. Now, as an elderly person myself (yeah, get over it), I'm much more realistic and practical about death and the attendant issues of what to do with the remains. I used to think I'd like to be scattered to the wind, but as I've aged, and walked many cemeteries, I quite like the idea of having a place with a marker to acknowledge my existence. Maybe I'll even put the URL to my blog on my headstone so anyone who is interested may get to know me better. Wouldn't that be funny?
Dear Reader, have you made your arrangements? What would YOU like to happen to your remains?
Monday, September 4, 2017
Monday Musings
Thoughts on my Mother.
At 82 years old, she has a body devastated by Parkinson's (PD) and the resulting dementia which is a hallmark of late stage PD. First symptoms noticed by us, her children, when she was 65.
It is becoming increasingly difficult for her to move her limbs. She is rigid and unbalanced and always afraid of falling because she cannot right herself. The typical PD dementia began to take hold a few years ago. We all are coping with it in our own way. Dad tends to scold her for her mental gaps (sad, really) as if she has any control. I have dealt with dementia before, with a old friend, and learned to go with the flow. No point in fighting it. Best to make note of it and move on. Redirect the conversation, or simply ignore the strange incoherent statements. It is present every damn day now. Her long term memory is still very sharp, but when it comes to daily things, she is confused. She'll get an idea in her (she recently thought I was deathly ill) and won't let it go.
My husband and I managed to get my parents situated in a great retirement facility which includes memory care. That has been a great relief to us, and to my parents.
When her body grew me in her womb, and for years after, I was a central focus of her life. It was a mixed bag of love, and adoration interspersed with extreme weariness, frustration and sacrifice. She was young, and already had one child in the world. An 18 month old. I can't begin to imagine. I was a preemie, with underdeveloped lungs and low weight. I grew up with stories of how my father would get up in the night just to make sure I was still breathing. Meanwhile, in another room, their other baby would howl to wake the dead whenever she woke to find her pacifiers missing. More stories there: dad hearing the pacifier hitting the floor and jumping out of bed to retrieve it and lodge it in place before the screeching began (how does one actually here a pacifier hitting the floor?). It's a wonder they got any sleep at all.
Dad got a break of sorts when he left daily for the office. Mom, however, bore the major responsibility for diaper changes, meals throughout the day, activities to keep us busy, naps to enforce (sweet quiet for perhaps an hour), laundry to wash, dry and iron; sibling disputes to sort out and making sure the kids and house were well in order when the master returned home. And then another child came. All before my mother was 25 years old. That's how many did it in the 1950s, wasn't it?
I helped my dad for 3 years take care of her at home. I was happy to do it, but it was exhausting in every way. Dad is 85 and he's starting so slow down and has his own mental confusion going on. Probably because he is doing too much. I sat my parents down last year, explaining that I could no longer help with mom's care while dad was away on week long trips. The sleep disruption was a big thing for me. The constant stress of meeting her needs, which are basic but frequent, was not good for my health and I was suffering physically. I was honest and let them know that I felt I was failing them, I felt guilty for not continuing with her care. It was necessary, however, very much so.
So dad will be going on a trip in September and mom will go into the skilled nursing facility at their retirement community. It's a very nice skilled nursing set up, and they provide respite care for the spouses who need it. Dad needs it. It is likely to be confusing for mom, and she may not be very happy there at all. With her confusion, she may believe she's in the hospital and worry about that. I plan to visit every day, maybe take her on a stroll in her wheelchair, perhaps even go to their apartment for a couple of hours. I'll see what she wants to do.
As many of you have already experienced long term care with your parents, you know how damned difficult it is. Whether you are physically present or far far away.
It leaves me knowing that I would like to go quickly when I do go, and that I do not want extraordinary measures taken to keep me alive. My daughter is an only child, and she will have to contend with a father (who has heart problems) and a mother (with diabetic problems). I'm doing everything in my power to ensure that I have arrangements in place to ease her burden. Her father hasn't thought about it, and I'm urging my daughter to talk with him about it.
Who said, "Getting old is not for sissies"? Too right. Watching someone you love physically and mentally decline is not for sissies either.
There are still plenty of sweet moments. For that I am extremely grateful.
At 82 years old, she has a body devastated by Parkinson's (PD) and the resulting dementia which is a hallmark of late stage PD. First symptoms noticed by us, her children, when she was 65.
It is becoming increasingly difficult for her to move her limbs. She is rigid and unbalanced and always afraid of falling because she cannot right herself. The typical PD dementia began to take hold a few years ago. We all are coping with it in our own way. Dad tends to scold her for her mental gaps (sad, really) as if she has any control. I have dealt with dementia before, with a old friend, and learned to go with the flow. No point in fighting it. Best to make note of it and move on. Redirect the conversation, or simply ignore the strange incoherent statements. It is present every damn day now. Her long term memory is still very sharp, but when it comes to daily things, she is confused. She'll get an idea in her (she recently thought I was deathly ill) and won't let it go.
My husband and I managed to get my parents situated in a great retirement facility which includes memory care. That has been a great relief to us, and to my parents.
When her body grew me in her womb, and for years after, I was a central focus of her life. It was a mixed bag of love, and adoration interspersed with extreme weariness, frustration and sacrifice. She was young, and already had one child in the world. An 18 month old. I can't begin to imagine. I was a preemie, with underdeveloped lungs and low weight. I grew up with stories of how my father would get up in the night just to make sure I was still breathing. Meanwhile, in another room, their other baby would howl to wake the dead whenever she woke to find her pacifiers missing. More stories there: dad hearing the pacifier hitting the floor and jumping out of bed to retrieve it and lodge it in place before the screeching began (how does one actually here a pacifier hitting the floor?). It's a wonder they got any sleep at all.
Dad got a break of sorts when he left daily for the office. Mom, however, bore the major responsibility for diaper changes, meals throughout the day, activities to keep us busy, naps to enforce (sweet quiet for perhaps an hour), laundry to wash, dry and iron; sibling disputes to sort out and making sure the kids and house were well in order when the master returned home. And then another child came. All before my mother was 25 years old. That's how many did it in the 1950s, wasn't it?
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So dad will be going on a trip in September and mom will go into the skilled nursing facility at their retirement community. It's a very nice skilled nursing set up, and they provide respite care for the spouses who need it. Dad needs it. It is likely to be confusing for mom, and she may not be very happy there at all. With her confusion, she may believe she's in the hospital and worry about that. I plan to visit every day, maybe take her on a stroll in her wheelchair, perhaps even go to their apartment for a couple of hours. I'll see what she wants to do.
As many of you have already experienced long term care with your parents, you know how damned difficult it is. Whether you are physically present or far far away.
It leaves me knowing that I would like to go quickly when I do go, and that I do not want extraordinary measures taken to keep me alive. My daughter is an only child, and she will have to contend with a father (who has heart problems) and a mother (with diabetic problems). I'm doing everything in my power to ensure that I have arrangements in place to ease her burden. Her father hasn't thought about it, and I'm urging my daughter to talk with him about it.
Who said, "Getting old is not for sissies"? Too right. Watching someone you love physically and mentally decline is not for sissies either.
There are still plenty of sweet moments. For that I am extremely grateful.
Monday, July 31, 2017
Monday Musings
When I was born, my great grandparents must have been in their early 70s. Oscar and Ada lived in the rolling hills of El Cajon, east of San Diego. Ada's sister, Lou Goodale Bigelow, lived in a cottage that was attached to her sister's house by a breezeway. The house was on a few acres of orange trees on a hill behind the house. I remember the dry clumpy dirt plowed between the rows, and how hard it was to traverse this landscape with my small child feet. I mostly stayed out of the orchard, and spent my time on the tree swing beneath the enormous walnut tree just outside the front of the house. The old tree dwarfed the house and was a prolific producer. My sisters and I would gather up walnuts by the bag full. No doubt these nuts were not ready to eat, but Great Grandmother (which we always called her, as she was very proper) always had walnuts on hand for us to crack, pick, and munch. Such a simple and memorable treat for a child.
Oscar was an exceptionally tall and very broad man, even in his later years. He had a large squarish head with wide cheekbones and a prominent nose. I remember his hands, so large they were, that I doubt I've ever met a living soul with any hands that could rival his. These hands served him well on the farm, and in the auto shop he would later run with his brother Clyde. I never met Clyde, he was gone before my time, but he if shared these physical traits with Great Grandfather, they must have been a formidable pair. Clyde must have been a Herculean man, for as a young man with a new family, he homesteaded a farm for many years. Put it together from scratch, starting with a dirt dugout.
Ada, on the other had, was a petite woman with delicate features and beautiful tapered fingers. As a child I knew her as a white haired, stooped old lady, whose skin was always soft and cool, even on a blistering summer day. Always impeccably dressed, she kept a tidy house that was adorned with Hummel figurines and lace curtains. Fine china on the sideboard never left their nesting place, as far as I could tell. Her house was not one for running in, though I don't ever remember her scolding any of the children. We just knew, whether by parental instruction or pure instinct, that we had to be on our best behavior in her house. The one place we could let our hair down a bit was the back porch. It was a large screened in affair, with a concrete floor painted red, white wicker furniture, and the cat bed. This is where kitty lived, not in the main house. She was a long-haired variety, and elusive even on the porch, which ran the length of the house. It, too, was tidy, but less formal and it allowed us to sprawl on the furniture without risking disapproval. On hot summer days, the concrete floor was cool and inviting, and always spotless. It was a refreshing spot to lie down, and hope the cat would amble over for a pat.
Aunty Lou, as we called her, lived what seemed to be a fairly solitary life across the breezeway. Retired from photography and painting, having sold her studio to her long time friend Jeanette, she lived 30 feet from her family in a cottage that was locked away in time. We didn't visit often, and I never quite knew what to say to her. She was ancient, and eccentric, and her dwelling was filled with heavy Victorian furniture, including a very uncomfortable horse hair couch. Dark curtains kept the light out, and it seemed an altogether otherworldly place to my young self. She died in her sleep when I was young, perhaps 8 years old. Died in that substantial Victorian four poster bed with its dark wood and fancy scroll work. I think this was my first experience of death, and I didn't quite understand how she could be 'gone.'
As an adult I have become knowledgeable about all of their lives when they were young. I have quite a collection of photographs of these ancestors throughout their existence. As newlyweds, young parents, middle aged with grown children and grandchildren. Their lives before I knew them, full of vitality and struggle, travels and tedium, all that living encompasses. I am thinking a lot of them now, now that my parents are experiencing their own great grandchildren. Those kids only know my folks as old folks. And who knows for how long they will know them?
My parents were never overly enamored of spending time with their grandchildren, but they seem to take a keener interest in the latest generation. I wonder what my grand children will remember of them? It's impossible to motivate young children to take an interest in older folks whom they don't visit that often. There is little connection, and little interest in what these somewhat strange grown ups are all about. Better to go lie on the cool concrete floor and play with the cat while the adults get on with their endless conversation.
Oscar was an exceptionally tall and very broad man, even in his later years. He had a large squarish head with wide cheekbones and a prominent nose. I remember his hands, so large they were, that I doubt I've ever met a living soul with any hands that could rival his. These hands served him well on the farm, and in the auto shop he would later run with his brother Clyde. I never met Clyde, he was gone before my time, but he if shared these physical traits with Great Grandfather, they must have been a formidable pair. Clyde must have been a Herculean man, for as a young man with a new family, he homesteaded a farm for many years. Put it together from scratch, starting with a dirt dugout.
Ada, on the other had, was a petite woman with delicate features and beautiful tapered fingers. As a child I knew her as a white haired, stooped old lady, whose skin was always soft and cool, even on a blistering summer day. Always impeccably dressed, she kept a tidy house that was adorned with Hummel figurines and lace curtains. Fine china on the sideboard never left their nesting place, as far as I could tell. Her house was not one for running in, though I don't ever remember her scolding any of the children. We just knew, whether by parental instruction or pure instinct, that we had to be on our best behavior in her house. The one place we could let our hair down a bit was the back porch. It was a large screened in affair, with a concrete floor painted red, white wicker furniture, and the cat bed. This is where kitty lived, not in the main house. She was a long-haired variety, and elusive even on the porch, which ran the length of the house. It, too, was tidy, but less formal and it allowed us to sprawl on the furniture without risking disapproval. On hot summer days, the concrete floor was cool and inviting, and always spotless. It was a refreshing spot to lie down, and hope the cat would amble over for a pat.
Aunty Lou, as we called her, lived what seemed to be a fairly solitary life across the breezeway. Retired from photography and painting, having sold her studio to her long time friend Jeanette, she lived 30 feet from her family in a cottage that was locked away in time. We didn't visit often, and I never quite knew what to say to her. She was ancient, and eccentric, and her dwelling was filled with heavy Victorian furniture, including a very uncomfortable horse hair couch. Dark curtains kept the light out, and it seemed an altogether otherworldly place to my young self. She died in her sleep when I was young, perhaps 8 years old. Died in that substantial Victorian four poster bed with its dark wood and fancy scroll work. I think this was my first experience of death, and I didn't quite understand how she could be 'gone.'
As an adult I have become knowledgeable about all of their lives when they were young. I have quite a collection of photographs of these ancestors throughout their existence. As newlyweds, young parents, middle aged with grown children and grandchildren. Their lives before I knew them, full of vitality and struggle, travels and tedium, all that living encompasses. I am thinking a lot of them now, now that my parents are experiencing their own great grandchildren. Those kids only know my folks as old folks. And who knows for how long they will know them?
My parents were never overly enamored of spending time with their grandchildren, but they seem to take a keener interest in the latest generation. I wonder what my grand children will remember of them? It's impossible to motivate young children to take an interest in older folks whom they don't visit that often. There is little connection, and little interest in what these somewhat strange grown ups are all about. Better to go lie on the cool concrete floor and play with the cat while the adults get on with their endless conversation.
Monday, January 9, 2017
Monday Musings
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| (notice the speed here) |
My delightful weekend with daughter and her family ended badly, as I was stuck on the dreaded and predictably impassable Hwy 17 in the Santa Cruz mountains for 2 hours yesterday afternoon. The storms have been hammering the mountains and brought down power lines along the road. And now, today, there is a large rock and mud slide exactly where we were stranded yesterday. Knowing those mountains the way I do, I was wondering (while trapped on that ribbon of highway) what could we possibly do if the rocks and mud came down while we were sitting there? We'd be toast. From the video I saw this morning (California CHP), one van was toast. My son in law drives that road to work. As do thousands of others each day. I can't imagine how long it will take to clear this slide, but there aren't any alternative routes for most commuters. During the Loma Prieta earthquake, rock slides blocked the highway for a long time. We were cut off, and relied on helicopters to get supplies in.
So I laughed when my husband suggested they 'fix that road.' They've been fixing it since 1940. They will be fixing it until hell freezes over, and perhaps after.
Though ending badly, the weekend was special -- my daughter's 29th birthday, and the next day her baby shower for child #2, a girl. The kids have great friends, many from childhood, and it's always fun to catch up and see what they are doing. There were many many babies there. More babies in one room than at any time since I was in a group for new moms! These kids are gettin' busy with the family thing.
It's exciting to see them at this stage in their lives, starting out, as it were, the world their oyster. I'm too tired to envy it, I'm just glad I got through it. More power to them.
When I finally got home last night, I took a hot shower and opened the box my sister sent. I knew it had come, and I was very excited because it contained 5 pussy hats for the Women's March. How sweet of her to knit them for my friends and me. Generous. Loving. I will carry her with me at the march.
It's fast approaching, and I am flying out soon. Doing my preparation and homework to ensure a smooth experience. I'm marching with a group of Wellesley women, how cool is that? Why, you ask? Why would a true blue Banana Slug do that? Because that's who I'm hangin' with, that's why.
Each passing day of this presidential transition just increases my need to march against this fakakta regime. The Cheeto's tweets today about Meryl Streep are just the latest, daily, unrelentingly stupid things this moron says.
And that's Monday for you.
Monday, December 26, 2016
Monday Musings
What a grand holiday season for us. The last guests have left, and we have a quiet home once again. We entertained steadily from Christmas eve day until this afternoon. All welcomed guests, all loved, all seemed to enjoy themselves.
Love, kisses, hugs and laughter all around. Plus the antics of a 5 year old boy who is a sneaky and cheeky lil' monkey. He and I had a couple of soaks in the hot tub together, which was quite the challenge because we have had some seriously cold weather. Once in the tub, of course, all was fine and dandy. But getting out was agony. I love him a lot.
A couple of days before Christmas, we received this tin of homemade cookies from a friend in France. We spent time with her husband while in Paris this year, but we have yet to met her. And yet, she, the most thoughtful one, put together a wonderful package of tea towels, hand painted mugs, treats and these cookies she made herself.
That's a stellar woman right there.
Christmas eve and the first night of Hanukka happened to coincide this year, so we lit the menorah while a friend of ours said prayers. I haven't done this ritual since my daughter was a toddler and we were living with friends who are Jewish. My husband has had our menorah all his life, and it is a treasure. My husband is not observant, and I'm not Jewish, but I always appreciate customs and rituals.
Here's our cheeky monkey writing a thank you note for Santa. He put it next to the cookies and milk. We were tracking Santa on the NORAD site and it was pretty exciting. When the sleigh got to the United States, we hustled him off to bed so Santa wouldn't skip our home.
Christmas is so much fun when you've got believers in your company!
I have skipped some post as of late, as the general tenor of the country has me worn down. So our wonderful holiday visitors were just what I needed and wanted. After my nomadic and erratic life fades into my background, I am often aware of how lucky I am to have a home, a life partner, a daughter (and her family) and good friends. I have everything I could possibly want. I cling to that these crazy days.
Hope your holidays were filled with love, too.
Love, kisses, hugs and laughter all around. Plus the antics of a 5 year old boy who is a sneaky and cheeky lil' monkey. He and I had a couple of soaks in the hot tub together, which was quite the challenge because we have had some seriously cold weather. Once in the tub, of course, all was fine and dandy. But getting out was agony. I love him a lot.
That's a stellar woman right there.
Christmas eve and the first night of Hanukka happened to coincide this year, so we lit the menorah while a friend of ours said prayers. I haven't done this ritual since my daughter was a toddler and we were living with friends who are Jewish. My husband has had our menorah all his life, and it is a treasure. My husband is not observant, and I'm not Jewish, but I always appreciate customs and rituals.
Here's our cheeky monkey writing a thank you note for Santa. He put it next to the cookies and milk. We were tracking Santa on the NORAD site and it was pretty exciting. When the sleigh got to the United States, we hustled him off to bed so Santa wouldn't skip our home.
Christmas is so much fun when you've got believers in your company!
I have skipped some post as of late, as the general tenor of the country has me worn down. So our wonderful holiday visitors were just what I needed and wanted. After my nomadic and erratic life fades into my background, I am often aware of how lucky I am to have a home, a life partner, a daughter (and her family) and good friends. I have everything I could possibly want. I cling to that these crazy days.
Hope your holidays were filled with love, too.
Friday, November 25, 2016
TGIF
We did it! We made it though Thanksgiving. How about you? We cooked the turkey on the grill for the third year in a row. I've done it every which way, with a roasting pan on top of the grate, bare ass turkey on top of the grate, and turkey in ceramic pot down low next to the coals. I think this years method was the most successful. Down low, you get ash in the drippings. No good gravy from that mess. Up bare ass naked you have the same problem: your drip pan is underneath next to the coals. Ash issues. On top in its own pan, perfect. It blows my mind that a 13 lb turkey only takes 2.5 - 3 hours to cook and you don't have to baste one single time.
We took said turkey over to the kids' in Sacramento. The usual suspects, and boy do we like them! Fun people, smart, humorous, with several smart as a whip kids to boot.
There was the usual after dinner dance off in the living room. We do allow for some digestion before hand, we're not crazy.
The best was the Daddy's Dance -- big strapping guys who barely moved at all. I mean really, they need some belly dancing lessons to loosen up those hips! I laughed until I was coughing. I escaped participation this year. Feeling a tad too full.
Then we stopped by my parents on our way home. Totally different vibe. Quiet civility around the fireplace, polite conversation, dad with his chef's coat on spinning tales we've all heard a gazillion times. Some things never change. And mom, well, she was just wiped out. We didn't stay long. Next year, with any luck, we'll have dinner with them at the retirement home. The other house is more fun, but our time with my folks is short, and so.
We were sent home with homemade Hamantaschen and was I ever grateful. Little triangular cookies filled with preserves, kind of like the thumbprint cookies of my youth. Usually eaten at Purim, Gail decided what the hell, and brought them all the way from New York City. She even made the fillings: apricot jam, poppy seed and fig. Oh. Yum.
Gail and I also discovered we will both be at the Women's March in DC in January. She's only coming down for the day, so it's unlikely we'll meet up, but we exchanged cell phone numbers just in case. She's a feisty lady, a --dare I say it? -- Nasty Woman. Sometimes to the horror of her children. Good job, Gail, I say. If you can still embarrass your children when you're an elder, more power to you!
Now for a quiet weekend. But first, I'm donating blood tomorrow morning. Then, it's all relaxation, all the time. I'll be in my sheepskin slippers and sweat pants. Ah.......
Monday, November 21, 2016
Monday Musings
I visited with my parents today for the first time since the election. I took Lucy over so mom could cuddle with her. They both love it.
We had a nice little lunch, dad shared his new book of memoirs that is in process of being published, and shared some written reports from his school when he was there in 1947, 48, 49. Turns out he was quite the little trouble maker, and not so great with the grades, either. We all had a good laugh about that. Mom smiled a lot when he was telling stories. She didn't talk a lot, and when she did, not much made sense. Parkinson's dementia is a bitch. She was sporting a nice new hair cut, though, and when she said she got it 2 days ago dad corrected her, "That was yesterday!" Five minutes later he chimed in that she was, indeed, correct and it had been 2 days. Mom beamed. So, sometimes her brain is quite sharp. It's perplexing.
We did not talk politics. At all. It won't take much to send me screaming and pulling out my hair. I think perhaps they know this. My husband and I are struggling with our feelings about them, since they voted for der Drumpf. Going over there today felt a bit like sleeping with the enemy. I say this in all seriousness. What good little Germans they are.
I wish I could just take pity on them and love them anyway, but their choice has me grieving at a deep level. Of course I still love them, but I wish their hearts weren't so black. Nothing I can do about it. No point in saying anything at all to them. Every time I read about another school spray painted with swastikas, or a Muslim woman getting her scarf ripped off her head, or our VP Elect who has stated he will roll back marriage equality, well, I just think of my parents and say, "Thanks a lot, assholes."
It's oddly disconcerting to be in the room with them and that big giant elephant lurking in the corner, tapping her toe with impatience. I know a blow up is going to come, I just don't know when. Funny story: the lady who lives in the apartment across the hall from their new place has a Hillary for President sign on her door side table! They are moving to the People's Republic of Davis, one of the most progressive towns in the county. On one trip over to the apartment, dad actually turned the sign over and I promptly righted it. Asshole.
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| F A M I L Y |
There are all kinds of memes and cartoons right now about how awkward this Thanksgiving will be for many families. Duh. We're lucky, though, and instead of going to my parent's home, we're going to my husband's family who are a bunch of freakin' Jewish lefties, with a few from NYC visiting, and a gorgeous man from Senegal who has married into the family. And everyone is incredibly lovely: causal, smart, funny. They are an exuberant bunch and dancing contests have been known to break out in the living room. My people!
They are the ones who will cheer me on in Washington, DC come January. I'm not even sure I'm going to tell my parents I'm going. It might just cause mom too much stress. Our trip to Cuba in 2015 had them extremely nervous (guess they thought we'd be murdered in the streets by those filthy communists) and our 2016 trip to Paris soon after the bombings had them climbing the walls (guess they thought we'd be murdered in the streets by those filthy Muslims).
So, to all of you who may have to spend Thanksgiving with the enemy, I'm sorry. Just eat fast and
S C R A M, is all I can say.
Monday, September 19, 2016
Monday Musings
I woke up with blood sugars (BS) of 445. That's very high. Stress is a bitch when you are diabetic -- it kicks in your fight or flight responses and tells your liver to get ready to release glucose for your muscles in order to, you know, fight or run like hell. It's a mind/body thing.
I stopped by my parents' house yesterday after breakfast, just to chat with them about additional
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| He looks harmless enough |
They have enough on their plates, they don't need to worry about my worry. I have already told them I cannot continue to care for mother while dad is away on extended trips. I wish I could and it was the most painful thing to conclude that my body and brain are simply not up to it. It feels as if I am failing them.
I came home yesterday in a fog. It's a profound frustration to watch them struggle and create some of their own dilemmas. To have a caregiver there that they won't let do the things she could do to make their lives easier. Dad cannot give up control of the kitchen and cooking meals. He is too exacting and too particular about the way food is to be prepared and presented. He harbors grudges against her lack of attention to certain tasks, but doesn't speak to her about it. And so it goes. It's just too painful to watch.
I am fantasizing what it would be like to not see them for weeks on end. An absolutely selfish dream, but one that I have nevertheless. Let their next health crisis happen without me. I'll be on a beach in Costa Rica. Hiking the Ballycotton Cliffs in Cork, Ireland. Or just staring at my navel under the cedar tree out front. In the short term, I'm going to visit my daughter and her family for a little R&R. Chat with my grandson about the joys of Kindergarten. Feel L.'s belly to see if her lil' peanut is rolling around inside. Have a beer with my son-in-law. Ah.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Monday Musings
Many children growing up these days will have not only still photos, but video with movement and sound so when they are in their late fifties they can hear what their childhood voices sounded like. How amazing. Wish I did.
This picture is about 54 years old. I've got some even older that feature my mother as a little girl. A recently uncovered trove. Imagine how she must feel, at 81, looking at her little four year old self! I'm spinning in my head with all this passing time. I'm dizzy with it.
Stop This Train
By John Mayer
No, I'm not color blind
I know the world is black and white
I try to keep an open mind
But I just can't sleep on this, tonight
I know the world is black and white
I try to keep an open mind
But I just can't sleep on this, tonight
Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But, honestly, won't someone stop this train?
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But, honestly, won't someone stop this train?
Don't know how else to say it
I don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own
I don't want to see my parents go
One generation's length away
From fighting life out on my own
Stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But, honestly, won't someone stop this train?
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know I can't
But, honestly, won't someone stop this train?
So scared of getting older
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game
To find a way to say that life has just begun
I'm only good at being young
So I play the numbers game
To find a way to say that life has just begun
Had a talk with my old man
Said, "Help me understand"
He said, "Turn sixty-eight
You'll renegotiate"
Said, "Help me understand"
He said, "Turn sixty-eight
You'll renegotiate"
"Don't stop this train
Don't for a minute change the place you're in
And don't think I couldn't ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly, we'll never stop this train"
Don't for a minute change the place you're in
And don't think I couldn't ever understand
I tried my hand
John, honestly, we'll never stop this train"
Once in a while, when it's good
It'll feel like it should
When you're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
'Till you cry when you're driving away in the dark
It'll feel like it should
When you're all still around
And you're still safe and sound
And you don't miss a thing
'Till you cry when you're driving away in the dark
Singing, stop this train
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know, I can't
'Cause now I see I'll never stop this train.
I want to get off and go home again
I can't take the speed it's moving in
I know, I can't
'Cause now I see I'll never stop this train.
Monday, June 6, 2016
Monday Musings
I recently was loaned a book of old family photos which feature, mostly, my mother. I remember seeing these photos many years ago (like maybe 30) and am delighted to be able to scan them to digital images. It makes my heart glad to see this spunky, funny kid smile out from the past. 1938, and 1939 to be exact, at least these pictures are:
The porch photo reminds of something from the Lil' Rascals. The studio portrait shows she had a wicked sense of humor, even then. The oldest of 5, her last sibling came along when she was in college.
While my mother and I had some strained years when I was a young adult, we are on a good footing now, and have been for many years. It's good to have her as a friend, to share a drink and a meal and talk about good times. My husband is really good at getting her to laugh. Sometimes the tears come up in her little crescent smiling eyes, and her smile is spread as wide as can be. She recently turned 81, which is pretty darned good considering she has been living with Parkinson's since she was 65.
I guess I'm at that age where family ancestry finally seems important. I just joined Ancestry.com and have been looking around on the site. Not a fan of the Church of Latter Day Saints, but they do do a great job in genealogy. I just don't want them to posthumously baptize me, like they do. (What is up with that?) I've already contacted someone on the site, who is the niece of my paternal grandmother.
It's good for me to be reminded that many came before me, and that many will come after me. It's important for me to remember that my stiff and slow moving mother was once an imp of 3 years of age, knit hat and sweater keeping her warm. Cuddling in her father's arms. All dressed up for her birthday party with the neighborhood girls.
I wonder if, some day, my grandson will be looking up my information. Will he find and read some of the scandalous posts I've written? What will he think of his grandmother's life? Will he pass on the information to his children and grandchildren?
Damn but that big ol' wheel just keeps on turning.
Speaking of big ol' wheels, see this recent discovery in Britain. Talk about your ancestry.
Monday, February 15, 2016
Monday Musings (on Family)
Today is my dad's 84 birthday.
This is a passport photo of him with his mother. Must have been about 12. He was traveling between Venezuela and upstate New York, where he went to a Quaker boarding school.
He has very fond memories of that school, and he is now on the Board of Directors. He goes back several times a year for projects and meetings.
Tonight my younger sis and I are making his request: green chili chicken enchiladas with beans and chips and Mexican beer.
My husband took this color photo of my daughter and me yesterday. We had all kinds of family for the weekend. Steve's daughter and her family (whom I had not yet met) from up north, his local daughter and her family, and my daughter and her family from Santa Cruz.
I thoroughly enjoyed myself. All four of the grandchildren got along perfectly. We figured out (because the older grands asked) that Eden is a cousin by marriage.
Steve and I really dig each others' kids. What luck. All of them are smart, sophisticated, liberal, funny and genuinely good people. And the grandkids - whoa. Obviously they reflect their parents' values and personalities. My 'new' grand daughter I met just this weekend is particularly sharp: she was crackin' me up with her wit. I think we have some future cooking projects planned.
I know that not all families get along. I certainly don't with my mother's side of the family. We've been estranged for many decades. No loss there, I assure you. This weekend was so satisfying in so many ways, and makes me incredibly grateful for the current state of family affairs.
My dad is working on his memoirs, and will be ready to go to print very soon. He is a wonderful writer, witty and entertaining. The book will be a treasure for the family, for generations to come. Steve and I will be leaving our kids many books of our photography, and hopefully they will be cherished as well. I love looking back at the generations.
Hopefully our kids and their kids will as well.
This is a passport photo of him with his mother. Must have been about 12. He was traveling between Venezuela and upstate New York, where he went to a Quaker boarding school.
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| photo by Steve Barbour |
He has very fond memories of that school, and he is now on the Board of Directors. He goes back several times a year for projects and meetings.
Tonight my younger sis and I are making his request: green chili chicken enchiladas with beans and chips and Mexican beer.
My husband took this color photo of my daughter and me yesterday. We had all kinds of family for the weekend. Steve's daughter and her family (whom I had not yet met) from up north, his local daughter and her family, and my daughter and her family from Santa Cruz.
I thoroughly enjoyed myself. All four of the grandchildren got along perfectly. We figured out (because the older grands asked) that Eden is a cousin by marriage.
Steve and I really dig each others' kids. What luck. All of them are smart, sophisticated, liberal, funny and genuinely good people. And the grandkids - whoa. Obviously they reflect their parents' values and personalities. My 'new' grand daughter I met just this weekend is particularly sharp: she was crackin' me up with her wit. I think we have some future cooking projects planned.
I know that not all families get along. I certainly don't with my mother's side of the family. We've been estranged for many decades. No loss there, I assure you. This weekend was so satisfying in so many ways, and makes me incredibly grateful for the current state of family affairs.
My dad is working on his memoirs, and will be ready to go to print very soon. He is a wonderful writer, witty and entertaining. The book will be a treasure for the family, for generations to come. Steve and I will be leaving our kids many books of our photography, and hopefully they will be cherished as well. I love looking back at the generations.
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| Aunt Ama Lou in Balboa Park, 1940s. |
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