My friend, Sherry Austin, a highly acclaimed author and genuinely interesting person, has brought up the topic of my blog. As I have said before, I hate to have to write when people pester me to do it, but, since she really hasn't been pestering me and she is the only one who ever mentions missing what I have to say, I guess I will give it another try.
So much has happened since I last wrote in the middle of last year. I am now the grandmother of four children ages 4, 6, 8, and 10, thanks to my son and his wife who adopted them from Brazil. They are beautiful. I loved them from the first time I saw a photo of them and when they arrived at JFK on December 21st, 2009, and ran to greet us it was as though they had been on a trip and were coming home. That was the biggest surprise, that everything seemed so familiar.
After we had wrangled four children into warm coats, scarves, hats, and gloves, and all the baggage for a family of six was squeezed into a minivan, three vehicles made their way to the IHOP in Queens for our first meal together. Thirteen of us around a big table didn't seem at all unusual. We were obviously a family.
I just want to be with my grandchildren all of the time, but I am having to be patient because they have to adjust to being a family in a new place with new routines and they have to learn to rely on their parents for everything.
They came to visit a few days after Christmas. We met at church on Sunday and took up an entire pew right up in the front where we usually sit. The children greeted us in the parking lot with hugs and kisses and 'I love you'. They call us Papi (the Portugeuse version of Poppee, which my husband called his grandfathers) and Vovo (Portugeuse for grandma) and it was such a joy to hear those names. My youngest granddaughter sat on my lap for most of the service and every time the word love was mentioned in scripture, or prayer, or song, or the message, she would reach her hand up to the back of my neck and pull my head down to where our cheeks were touching and say, "Love. I love you." That made my heart leap with joy.
After two days at our house I could sympathize with the people of Richmond after Sherman left! We are definately going to have to discuss Vovo's rules when they come again. Since we had been admonished that everything had to go through parents and not grandparents and any discipline had to come from parents, we just sat back and watched chaos reign supreme. We shook our heads and smiled a lot.
We made gifts for the children -- tool boxes for the two boys, a doll cradle for the youngest girl, and a keepsake box for the oldest girl -- and they seemed to be a big hit. Our youngest son spent a good bit of time on his break from college helping finish the projects. I made bedding for the cradle and had enough fabric left from a big quilt I made for the youngest granddaughter to make a matching quilt for the doll.
All in all, we had a wonderful time together after Christmas and are looking forward to many more visits.
Over the weekend we called to see how the first week of school went since we had resisted the urge to call every day for an update. I always ask anyone I talk to if it is a good time for a chat. The first call was answered by our daughter-in-law and her answer was, "Could you call back in 2 minutes? Or a minute and a half?" The second call was answered by my son, who sounded flustered, and he was willing to chat a few minutes. Only several sentences into the conversation he called to his wife, "Did you know there is a car in our driveway? Hold on a minute. (Background noise.) Can I call you back later when things calm down a bit?" My husband replied, "Sure, son. We'll talk to you in 21 years." That was Saturday and we got a call late on Monday afternoon as our son was walking home from work.
So, that's all I have time for today. Hope that is satisfactory for now.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Trip
Periodically someone will ask me why I stopped writing in my blog. The truth is that everyone would pester me if I didn't write more frequently and that took the fun out of writing. So, I quit entirely. Well, for a good while.
Perhaps it is time to revisit the idea of writing a blog.
The past two weeks have been very busy for me. I took an unexpected trip to Alabama when my brother, Don, was able to rearrange his schedule to be able to get home for a family meeting with my brother, Henry, and our parents. The time is fast approaching when we need to know our parent's wishes for their care and we were addressing the issues involved in making decisions we could all live with.
My mother is in the worst shape of the two as it is evident she is in the beginning stages of dementia. I can only imagine how frustrating it must be for her to realize she can no longer trust her brain to sort things out.
She will be just sitting in her chair and you can see her begin to get angry at some imagined offense. It is like one of those old glass percolators you put on the stove. You begin to see a little bubble here and there and then a blurp, and another blurp, and another blurp until it is at a rolling boil and the water spurts violently over the coffee grounds. Soon everything is black. She just lashes out and one can only guess what her mind has told her she needs to be angry about.
It seems the least little thing has the potential to become a personal affront to my mother. I was cleaning the house for my parents and when I went to use the upstairs vacuum -- an ancient Electrolux -- it had no suction and had that awful smell old appliances have right before they shoot out sparks and die. I just went downstairs to get the other vacuum and Mama wanted to know why I didn't use the one already upstairs. I explained the problem. She heard: You are old and stupid and useless. She launched into a tirade I couldn't believe I was hearing.
The entire ten days I visited my parents was like this. Daddy was trying to learn how to sort out medications for the week and she went ballistic. We all know Mama has been doing the medications for years, but Daddy wanted to be helpful and she saw it as saying we thought she was stupid. I was discussing what to do about the dog with my sister-in-law -- the precious, starved for affection dog they have in a small pen with no grass, limited protection from the elements, and piles of shit all over that they really can't take for good walks and it makes me cry every time I see or think of her -- and Mama launched into the most hateful attack on me ever. Even though my better self knew not to argue with her, she was so brutal and hurtful I wanted to hurt her back. I ended up saying I didn't care if she hated me forever, I thought they should get rid of the dog because it was inhumane the conditions she was kept in. She heard: I don't care about you. And, I hate you.
In looking back I wonder what I did to make my mother dislike me so much. She never hesitates to use me as her dog to kick. This isn't new, only getting worse and more frequent. I remember this pattern going back to my childhood. It is the same with her treatment of my father. She is downright hateful to us. I have tried and tried to think of a time I have ever heard her attack my brothers like she attacks my father and me and I just can't recall one incidence. I have entertained many thoughts as to why she does this and have tried to rationalize it. Whatever my offense, I will never know.
My father just keeps on going even though his bout with cancer left him more frail than he is willing to admit. He sits a lot longer each day and getting up to speed in the morning is a slower process, but he manages to tackle some project every day. He moves slowly and has to have things repeated several times before he hears what you say, but he is still willing to give everything he has to help others. He is so patient and kind to my mother and loves her as deeply as when he was a young man and they were first married. I ache when I see Mama lash out at Daddy because he doesn't deserve to be treated so badly. He is so forgiving and loving and unselfish and generous. I can only hope that the example he has set for me has shaped the person I have become.
I did manage to squeeze in some fun in between tirades and yard work and house work. I kept my two and a half year old twin grand-nieces, Heidi and Cheyenne, for twenty-four hours. It was only the second time they had stayed away from their parents over night and I passed the test in spite of bouts of a small child's projectile vomiting and a couple of barely averted 'I want my mommy' meltdowns. Thank goodness for Wal-Mart that has children's Tylenol, Gatorade, sippy cups, and children's clothing all under one roof at any time of the day or night. They took me to see their camel -- yes, camel -- at the opening of a new feed store. Actually the camel, Cletus, belongs to their father, my nephew, Hank.
Because Cletus was at the end of his allotted time to be able to work when we got to the feed store, they got the last ride of the day with their grandfather, my brother, Henry. I had to wait until the next day to get a ride. A camel ride is just what you would expect it to be.
My friend, Anne, came from Baton Rouge, LA, for the weekend and she got to ride the camel, too. She got to go to the feed store opening, but neither of us won any baby chicks. Somehow, I think the weekend with me was somewhat less exciting than the Mardi Gras celebrations Anne participates in. We got up and went to early church at the little Episcopal church in Magnolia Springs, AL (the little town where my parents live on the Magnolia River). I will have to say that was the most unfriendly bunch of people I have ever seen. They give entirely new meaning to the moniker 'God's frozen people'. I had decided that if anyone bothered to acknowledge us I was going to hint that we were long time 'partners' looking for a summer home where we could one day retire.
After church Anne and I went to the Alabama Gulf Coast Zoo in Gulf Shores, AL. The twins mother, Jo (Jennifer), works there although she was off when we went. It was a nice little side trip and we even got to pet baby tigers -- white and orange. Then we got our camel ride at my brother's farm where my nephew lives and keeps his camel.
I even spent several late afternoons swimming in my brother's pool. It was fun and relaxing to be with the family I only get to see once a year since we moved back to PA two years ago. I will dwell on the fun things I did rather than the unpleasantness.
The last two days of my stay in Alabama were spent with our best friends, Erik and Martha Hansen-Dreijer, in their beautiful home on Mobile Bay. It was relaxing and a good place for me to decompress before coming home. I took a morning walk on the beach with Erik and his Great Dane, Sinbad, and had some time to lull around and get a little sun on my back. I tried to earn my keep by cooking dinner and doing some touch-up painting on Erik's boat, but I can never repay them for the lovely hospitality they offered me. I even rode in to town (Mobile) with Erik -- Martha was doing her volunteer work -- because he had some banking business and we ended up at the Mobile Ship Chandlery for Friday happy hour.
My last big thrill was when we stopped at the storage facility where Erik keeps his perfectly restored '67 Vette and we drove it to the Mobile Yacht Club to meet Martha for dinner. Awesome!! Life really is good. Especially when you have friends with great toys.
I will save the flight delays at the Atlanta airport on my return trip home for another day.
Being back home in my own bed with my own things surrounding me is wonderful.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Techno Greek
Now that my children are gone, I have decided to become a foster parent for tech savy teens. That way I will have an onsight consultant to guide me through the rapidly advancing technology that so overwhelms and baffles me.
It is pitiful when you are so far behind the times you have to send an e-mail to your daughter-in-law and ask her how to do something on the computer. That is just what I had to do when I decided to embed a photo in my blog.
I have no idea how I even got the photo to the blog. I just kept doing stuff over and over and suddenly it appeared. I was a bit uncertain I would even have any success because Kim, my daughter-in-law, began her reply with "easy". Boy, if that isn't a red flag!! "Danger! Danger Will Robinson!"
It is all Greek to me. I come from a time when a blackberry was something you picked in the summer and ate with cream and sugar. When I was in college a computer room housed only the computer -- a monstrosity of a machine three or four times larger than my dorm room -- not desks full of laptops. We had bites back then. Mosquito bites. Dog bites. A bite of food. The net was what you caught fish with and the only website we had was the one in the corner of the living room made by a pesky spider.
Whenever the neighbor's sons come over to play with Will's old Ninetendo I am in fear and dread that I will have to call him at college and ask him how to get the television back to television mode. I have a two year old cell phone for the simple reason I haven't yet learned how to use all of its functions. About the second day I had the phone Jim and I went to see a movie and I had to borrow a teen from another mother to show me how to turn it off in the theater.
Reading the instructions is generally no help to me because they are written in the vernacular of technology. If they had words and phrases like 'thingy dooley' and 'little square thing' and 'squiggly line' I might have a fighting chance of learning how to use the 'whatchamacallit'.
On our last move we bought a new condo. A new condo comes with new appliances. I have learned how to use everything. I had to. Eating is a matter of survival. I guess when your life depends on it, you can learn something new.
It is pitiful when you are so far behind the times you have to send an e-mail to your daughter-in-law and ask her how to do something on the computer. That is just what I had to do when I decided to embed a photo in my blog.
I have no idea how I even got the photo to the blog. I just kept doing stuff over and over and suddenly it appeared. I was a bit uncertain I would even have any success because Kim, my daughter-in-law, began her reply with "easy". Boy, if that isn't a red flag!! "Danger! Danger Will Robinson!"
It is all Greek to me. I come from a time when a blackberry was something you picked in the summer and ate with cream and sugar. When I was in college a computer room housed only the computer -- a monstrosity of a machine three or four times larger than my dorm room -- not desks full of laptops. We had bites back then. Mosquito bites. Dog bites. A bite of food. The net was what you caught fish with and the only website we had was the one in the corner of the living room made by a pesky spider.
Whenever the neighbor's sons come over to play with Will's old Ninetendo I am in fear and dread that I will have to call him at college and ask him how to get the television back to television mode. I have a two year old cell phone for the simple reason I haven't yet learned how to use all of its functions. About the second day I had the phone Jim and I went to see a movie and I had to borrow a teen from another mother to show me how to turn it off in the theater.
Reading the instructions is generally no help to me because they are written in the vernacular of technology. If they had words and phrases like 'thingy dooley' and 'little square thing' and 'squiggly line' I might have a fighting chance of learning how to use the 'whatchamacallit'.
On our last move we bought a new condo. A new condo comes with new appliances. I have learned how to use everything. I had to. Eating is a matter of survival. I guess when your life depends on it, you can learn something new.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Good Day for Baking Cookies
Some days are just better suited for baking cookies than other days and today is one of them. The snow is gently falling, a prelude to a predicted winter storm on the way. Jim came home early and he and George (our dog) are napping on the sofa by the fireplace. The soundtrack to 'Brokeback Mountain' is playing -- country music is a great accompaniment for baking cookies. And, the aroma of freshly baked cookies fills the house.
There is something comforting, satisfying, and happy about freshly baked cookies. That smell is what I think love must smell like. I don't just enjoy baking cookies, I LOVE baking cookies. I love the synergy of cookies. I love how each little part contributes to an amazing end product. I love the individuality of each cookie and their rustic aesthetic. I love the portability of cookies.
I guess I must get my love of baking cookies from my grandmothers. They both had quite a repetoir of cookie recipes. Christmas just wouldn't have been Christmas without the hundreds of cookies they baked.
My grandmother Koehler would fill dozens of the largest Tupperware containers with homemade cookies and she would make up trays of cookies to give to friends and family at Christmas. She would put homemade fudge and Hershey kisses and foil wrapped milk chocolate bells on the trays, too.
My grandmother Holk was a diabetic and never ate any of the cookies she baked. She was amazing at baking cakes, too, which she never touched. She made the most heavenly divinity, an art that is lost to most modern cooks. And, just knowing she would be making orange glazed pecans almost made the task of having to pick up all the pecans in the fall bearable.
I know many people swear cookies from a mix or refrigerated roll are just as good as homemade, and I will confess I have used the refrigerated rolls on occasion. On those occasions I could have just as well baked them from scratch by the time I got finished embellishing them. The sugar cookies are pretty good if you roll them in chopped almonds before cutting them and then baste the tops with a little almond extract prior to baking. Or, roll them in yellow sugar, split the roll lengthwise, cut the cookies, and baste with lemon extract to make lemon slice cookies.
Southern Living, the Bible of gracious entertaining for the Southern woman, had a recipe for cookies that looked like slices of watermelon. They were adorable and tasty. I made them only once. The dough had to be colored bright red and then shaped into a roll. By the time I had colored the dough, rolled it out, cut it into circles, and cut the circles in half I looked like I was wearing red gloves. As soon as the cookies came out of the oven I had to work rapidly to put each tiny mini chocolate chip 'seed' in place and when the cookies had cooled I had to dip the round edges in green frosting to make the 'rind'. Like I said, I made them only once.
Christmas of 2006 we were in Birmingham, AL. James and Kim came down from Connecticuit to celebrate with us. I thought it would be fun for James and Kim and William to decorate the Christmas tree shortbread cookies I had made. I made a big batch of royal icing and divided it into three decorating bags. I assumed I had nothing to worry about because they were all adults. It was a flashback to the old "I Love Lucy" shows. They had fun and I cleaned up the mess, like a good mother. It made a great Kodak moment for my Christmas photo of the three of them.
That's what cookies are for. Fun. Cookies are unpretentious. They don't have to be perfect like other pastries. They are user friendly. I love baking cookies!
Footnote: (February 13, 2008) This morning as I read the comics section of the newspaper I had to smile as my theory about cookies being the smell of love was confirmed. In the first panel of the comic Born Loser the husband is seen sniffing. Panel two has him saying, "AHH... Love is in the air!" And the last panel shows the wife with a pan of piping hot cookies saying, "He says that every time I bake cookies!"
There is something comforting, satisfying, and happy about freshly baked cookies. That smell is what I think love must smell like. I don't just enjoy baking cookies, I LOVE baking cookies. I love the synergy of cookies. I love how each little part contributes to an amazing end product. I love the individuality of each cookie and their rustic aesthetic. I love the portability of cookies.
I guess I must get my love of baking cookies from my grandmothers. They both had quite a repetoir of cookie recipes. Christmas just wouldn't have been Christmas without the hundreds of cookies they baked.
My grandmother Koehler would fill dozens of the largest Tupperware containers with homemade cookies and she would make up trays of cookies to give to friends and family at Christmas. She would put homemade fudge and Hershey kisses and foil wrapped milk chocolate bells on the trays, too.
My grandmother Holk was a diabetic and never ate any of the cookies she baked. She was amazing at baking cakes, too, which she never touched. She made the most heavenly divinity, an art that is lost to most modern cooks. And, just knowing she would be making orange glazed pecans almost made the task of having to pick up all the pecans in the fall bearable.
I know many people swear cookies from a mix or refrigerated roll are just as good as homemade, and I will confess I have used the refrigerated rolls on occasion. On those occasions I could have just as well baked them from scratch by the time I got finished embellishing them. The sugar cookies are pretty good if you roll them in chopped almonds before cutting them and then baste the tops with a little almond extract prior to baking. Or, roll them in yellow sugar, split the roll lengthwise, cut the cookies, and baste with lemon extract to make lemon slice cookies.
Southern Living, the Bible of gracious entertaining for the Southern woman, had a recipe for cookies that looked like slices of watermelon. They were adorable and tasty. I made them only once. The dough had to be colored bright red and then shaped into a roll. By the time I had colored the dough, rolled it out, cut it into circles, and cut the circles in half I looked like I was wearing red gloves. As soon as the cookies came out of the oven I had to work rapidly to put each tiny mini chocolate chip 'seed' in place and when the cookies had cooled I had to dip the round edges in green frosting to make the 'rind'. Like I said, I made them only once.
Christmas of 2006 we were in Birmingham, AL. James and Kim came down from Connecticuit to celebrate with us. I thought it would be fun for James and Kim and William to decorate the Christmas tree shortbread cookies I had made. I made a big batch of royal icing and divided it into three decorating bags. I assumed I had nothing to worry about because they were all adults. It was a flashback to the old "I Love Lucy" shows. They had fun and I cleaned up the mess, like a good mother. It made a great Kodak moment for my Christmas photo of the three of them.
That's what cookies are for. Fun. Cookies are unpretentious. They don't have to be perfect like other pastries. They are user friendly. I love baking cookies!
Footnote: (February 13, 2008) This morning as I read the comics section of the newspaper I had to smile as my theory about cookies being the smell of love was confirmed. In the first panel of the comic Born Loser the husband is seen sniffing. Panel two has him saying, "AHH... Love is in the air!" And the last panel shows the wife with a pan of piping hot cookies saying, "He says that every time I bake cookies!"
Traditional Dance
Today my friend, Dick McCreight, sent me an e-mail with photos he had taken on a recent mission trip to South Africa. I loved living in South Africa. The red earth seems to settle on your body and soul like a ceremonial robe passed down through the family of humankind connecting you with the very beginnings of our collective history. From the time I stepped on the continent of Africa I felt a primative sense of being home. Thinking about South Africa and seeing the people and places I loved represented in Dick's photos really tugged at my heartstrings.
In some of the photos I saw children dancing and it reminded me of a time we visited some native African friends from our little Methodist church in Lichtenburg, RSA. We were invited for dinner and as we were having something to drink and starters (appetizers) I asked the little girls to show me some of their traditional dances. They tried to teach me some of the steps and girations and I soon became tired. They have such a natural sense of rythm and movement and when the music begins everyone seems to instinctively know what to do.
For a while we were entertained by the dancing of the little girls. As they wound down, I asked them if they would like for me to teach them a traditional American dance. They were very excited to learn something new. The adults were interested, too.
We all laughed and laughed as I taught them how to do the Hokey Pokey!
In some of the photos I saw children dancing and it reminded me of a time we visited some native African friends from our little Methodist church in Lichtenburg, RSA. We were invited for dinner and as we were having something to drink and starters (appetizers) I asked the little girls to show me some of their traditional dances. They tried to teach me some of the steps and girations and I soon became tired. They have such a natural sense of rythm and movement and when the music begins everyone seems to instinctively know what to do.
For a while we were entertained by the dancing of the little girls. As they wound down, I asked them if they would like for me to teach them a traditional American dance. They were very excited to learn something new. The adults were interested, too.
We all laughed and laughed as I taught them how to do the Hokey Pokey!
What a Difference a Year Makes
Last year at the end of January I had been in South Alabama for a month as my father began his courageous battle with cancer. After Christmas 2006 he had exploratory surgery which confirmed he had Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. Armed with my mom as researcher, translator, interpreter, advocate, and mediator, he decided that doing nothing was not an option. With the assistance of my brother, Henry, who works closely with local physicians (Director of the Imaging Department -- South Baldwin Regional Medical Center -- Foley, AL), Daddy was able to confidently select a surgeon and oncologist to see him through the process.
As was the case when he battled and conquered Prostrate cancer some years back, my father adopted the attitude that treatment may kill him, but he was not going down without a fight. He was 81 years old at the time of this decision. The prospect of dying did not frighten him. If there was even the slightest chance he would live to enjoy his family a little longer it was worth the effort.
Mentally, my father was prepared. That was a good start. I don't think he ever expected to be taken to death's door in the process. He was aware of everything he might have to face. I don't think he knew it would be so bad. When the little things, like just walking out to get the mail, or getting up to the table to eat, or holding his tiny twin great-granddaughters became overwhelming tasks I think he was truly surprised. He expected not being able to mow the grass, or work in his shop, or do the grocery shopping. It was the little things he never expected that were initially difficult for him to deal with.
Fighting cancer is a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. At some point I think one becomes resolved that cancer and the process whereby it can be cured is in the driver's seat and he or she has to focus all his or her attention and energy on that. It was painful for those around my father to see him go from determination to resolve in so few months. To see him just managing to get up at some point during the day only to be able to sit in his chair, wrapped up in his prayer shawl, sleeping most of the time was heart wrenching. To see an illness rob this once vibrant man of his vitality was crushing and was the catylist for many secret crying sessions.
It was difficult to be upbeat and encouraging every day. My mother and I vowed that anything my father wanted we would get for him. We were desperate to find foods that he might enjoy because nothing tasted good to him. I don't know how many orders of chicken and dumplings we got from Cracker Barrel because that was about all he had a taste for and they were very filling. He couldn't even stand to eat anything sweet and that is when we knew he was really sick because he has always had a sweet tooth. I got up and made eggs and bacon and grits and toast and juice and coffee for days on end because he would eat that in the morning. He even shocked us by going through a hot pepper jelly phase when he thought a little hot pepper jelly might taste good with eggs, etc. He isn't a hot and spicy kind of guy.
Thankfully, I was living in Birmingham, four hours from my parents, when my father's cancer was diagnosed and I was not employed. James was married and in CT and Will was a freshman at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, so I didn't have any child related duties. Jim is resourceful and told me to do whatever I felt was best. Just knowing I was married to a loving and generous man who understood where I felt I needed to be gave me freedom and peace to deal with the daunting tasks ahead.
I spent half or more of February with my parents, sometimes going back within days of arriving home because Daddy had to go back into the hospital for one reason or another. I tried to make a schedule that would allow me to be there about every other weekend to take him to Pensacola for his weekend treatments on Saturday and Sunday so my brother, Henry, wouldn't have to do it all the time. On those weekends we stopped for Hardees steak biscuits after the treatment because it was something daddy seemed to enjoy. If we ever run out of oil reserves, we can just run things on those steak biscuits.
Daddy's oncologist didn't offer the ongoing treatments for its patients on the weekend, so the patients had to go to Pensacola for their Leukine injections. Many of the patients just didn't take their treatment on the weekend because it was too hard to travel that far. My father's attitude was that he had to do everything required to fight his cancer wether he felt like it or not.
On the long drives to Pensacola and back -- usually spending less than ten minutes getting the injection -- I would engage Daddy in talking about his life and family and being in Korea and farming and friends and many other things just to keep him from focusing on how bad he felt. My philosophy is that you need to keep your mind busy with something other than how bad you feel. We would take various routes back from Pensacola, winding through back roads familiar to our youth and observing how some things had changed and how others hadn't. If we saw something interesting, like the day we passed a row of blooming aloe vera plants, we would turn around and look at whatever it was that had caught our eye. Once we stopped at my nephew's to see the progress he was making on the new house he was building. Another time he told me about all the robberies at the bank where he worked for over fourty years, including the time the sheriff and chief of police caught the guys on the way in to the bank and had my father follow them to the police station in the robbers car. My Daddy worked long, hard hours when my brothers and I were young, so I regarded the time I had him all to my self as a great gift.
In the midst of everything, Jim decided to quit his job. He did have another one lined up, thank goodness, or I would have come totally undone, I am sure. A new job meant moving again. Moving meant I wouldn't be able to be readily accessable to my parents on a moments notice. My heart was being torn up. I knew my place was with my husband and I felt I needed to be with my parents. We put our house on the market the first of March 2007. We moved in June. I was still able to continue my trips to my parent's house up until a few weeks before we moved when I needed to get everything prepared to go.
My father's last treatment roughly coincided with the time I was to move, so I knew that would allow my parents to settle down again and, hopefully, not need me. It was still a difficult move. Pennsylvania, where we were moving, seemed so far away.
In August we took William back to Birmingham to school. Jim and I went down to see our families and pet sit for some friends while they took their daughter to school. My father was still frail and ashen looking and had no hair. He had some energy, but nothing like before his illness. I suggested they think about coming to stay with me at Christmas. They could ride up and back with William and James and Kim would come for a few days and we could celebrate Christmas together. It was tentative, but viable if they felt they could travel by Christmastime.
As it turned out, that is just what they did. The trip up even got routed through Tifton, GA., to see my brother and his family and through Rock Hill, S.C. to see my daddy's sister and her family. William was a good sport because all he wanted to do was just come home a.s.a.p.
One day, while my parents were with us, I looked up from what I was eating and started crying as I watched my father. "Daddy," I said, "do you realize that the last time I saw you you had no hair?" He had his color back, his strength was returning, and he had his georgeous wavy white hair back. The twinkle was back in his amazing blue eyes and he was eating all the sweets I could bake!
Although I never had any doubt my father would get a good prognosis when he had his PET/CT scan in January to confirm the status of his cancer and the success of his treatment, it was awesome to get the call and hear my mother's extatic voice telling me Daddy is in remission.
I almost never catch my father at home these days. He is back out doing something for someone and running errands for Mama. When I do talk to him it is a strong healthy voice I hear on the other end of the line. I have never known my father to waste much time, but it is as though he got another chance to squeeze in a little more life and he isn't about to waste it.
When I was little and we sang 'Jesus Loves Me' I thought the part where it says "They are weak but He is strong" was talking about the children of our Methodist Church Sunday School being the weak and my daddy, who was the Sunday School Superentendant, was the strong. When I watched my father become weak (physically) everything seemed out of kilter. My father is getting stronger with each passing day and the world has been set right again for me.
As was the case when he battled and conquered Prostrate cancer some years back, my father adopted the attitude that treatment may kill him, but he was not going down without a fight. He was 81 years old at the time of this decision. The prospect of dying did not frighten him. If there was even the slightest chance he would live to enjoy his family a little longer it was worth the effort.
Mentally, my father was prepared. That was a good start. I don't think he ever expected to be taken to death's door in the process. He was aware of everything he might have to face. I don't think he knew it would be so bad. When the little things, like just walking out to get the mail, or getting up to the table to eat, or holding his tiny twin great-granddaughters became overwhelming tasks I think he was truly surprised. He expected not being able to mow the grass, or work in his shop, or do the grocery shopping. It was the little things he never expected that were initially difficult for him to deal with.
Fighting cancer is a rollercoaster ride to hell and back. At some point I think one becomes resolved that cancer and the process whereby it can be cured is in the driver's seat and he or she has to focus all his or her attention and energy on that. It was painful for those around my father to see him go from determination to resolve in so few months. To see him just managing to get up at some point during the day only to be able to sit in his chair, wrapped up in his prayer shawl, sleeping most of the time was heart wrenching. To see an illness rob this once vibrant man of his vitality was crushing and was the catylist for many secret crying sessions.
It was difficult to be upbeat and encouraging every day. My mother and I vowed that anything my father wanted we would get for him. We were desperate to find foods that he might enjoy because nothing tasted good to him. I don't know how many orders of chicken and dumplings we got from Cracker Barrel because that was about all he had a taste for and they were very filling. He couldn't even stand to eat anything sweet and that is when we knew he was really sick because he has always had a sweet tooth. I got up and made eggs and bacon and grits and toast and juice and coffee for days on end because he would eat that in the morning. He even shocked us by going through a hot pepper jelly phase when he thought a little hot pepper jelly might taste good with eggs, etc. He isn't a hot and spicy kind of guy.
Thankfully, I was living in Birmingham, four hours from my parents, when my father's cancer was diagnosed and I was not employed. James was married and in CT and Will was a freshman at the University of Alabama in Birmingham, so I didn't have any child related duties. Jim is resourceful and told me to do whatever I felt was best. Just knowing I was married to a loving and generous man who understood where I felt I needed to be gave me freedom and peace to deal with the daunting tasks ahead.
I spent half or more of February with my parents, sometimes going back within days of arriving home because Daddy had to go back into the hospital for one reason or another. I tried to make a schedule that would allow me to be there about every other weekend to take him to Pensacola for his weekend treatments on Saturday and Sunday so my brother, Henry, wouldn't have to do it all the time. On those weekends we stopped for Hardees steak biscuits after the treatment because it was something daddy seemed to enjoy. If we ever run out of oil reserves, we can just run things on those steak biscuits.
Daddy's oncologist didn't offer the ongoing treatments for its patients on the weekend, so the patients had to go to Pensacola for their Leukine injections. Many of the patients just didn't take their treatment on the weekend because it was too hard to travel that far. My father's attitude was that he had to do everything required to fight his cancer wether he felt like it or not.
On the long drives to Pensacola and back -- usually spending less than ten minutes getting the injection -- I would engage Daddy in talking about his life and family and being in Korea and farming and friends and many other things just to keep him from focusing on how bad he felt. My philosophy is that you need to keep your mind busy with something other than how bad you feel. We would take various routes back from Pensacola, winding through back roads familiar to our youth and observing how some things had changed and how others hadn't. If we saw something interesting, like the day we passed a row of blooming aloe vera plants, we would turn around and look at whatever it was that had caught our eye. Once we stopped at my nephew's to see the progress he was making on the new house he was building. Another time he told me about all the robberies at the bank where he worked for over fourty years, including the time the sheriff and chief of police caught the guys on the way in to the bank and had my father follow them to the police station in the robbers car. My Daddy worked long, hard hours when my brothers and I were young, so I regarded the time I had him all to my self as a great gift.
In the midst of everything, Jim decided to quit his job. He did have another one lined up, thank goodness, or I would have come totally undone, I am sure. A new job meant moving again. Moving meant I wouldn't be able to be readily accessable to my parents on a moments notice. My heart was being torn up. I knew my place was with my husband and I felt I needed to be with my parents. We put our house on the market the first of March 2007. We moved in June. I was still able to continue my trips to my parent's house up until a few weeks before we moved when I needed to get everything prepared to go.
My father's last treatment roughly coincided with the time I was to move, so I knew that would allow my parents to settle down again and, hopefully, not need me. It was still a difficult move. Pennsylvania, where we were moving, seemed so far away.
In August we took William back to Birmingham to school. Jim and I went down to see our families and pet sit for some friends while they took their daughter to school. My father was still frail and ashen looking and had no hair. He had some energy, but nothing like before his illness. I suggested they think about coming to stay with me at Christmas. They could ride up and back with William and James and Kim would come for a few days and we could celebrate Christmas together. It was tentative, but viable if they felt they could travel by Christmastime.
As it turned out, that is just what they did. The trip up even got routed through Tifton, GA., to see my brother and his family and through Rock Hill, S.C. to see my daddy's sister and her family. William was a good sport because all he wanted to do was just come home a.s.a.p.
One day, while my parents were with us, I looked up from what I was eating and started crying as I watched my father. "Daddy," I said, "do you realize that the last time I saw you you had no hair?" He had his color back, his strength was returning, and he had his georgeous wavy white hair back. The twinkle was back in his amazing blue eyes and he was eating all the sweets I could bake!
Although I never had any doubt my father would get a good prognosis when he had his PET/CT scan in January to confirm the status of his cancer and the success of his treatment, it was awesome to get the call and hear my mother's extatic voice telling me Daddy is in remission.
I almost never catch my father at home these days. He is back out doing something for someone and running errands for Mama. When I do talk to him it is a strong healthy voice I hear on the other end of the line. I have never known my father to waste much time, but it is as though he got another chance to squeeze in a little more life and he isn't about to waste it.
When I was little and we sang 'Jesus Loves Me' I thought the part where it says "They are weak but He is strong" was talking about the children of our Methodist Church Sunday School being the weak and my daddy, who was the Sunday School Superentendant, was the strong. When I watched my father become weak (physically) everything seemed out of kilter. My father is getting stronger with each passing day and the world has been set right again for me.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Some Things You Just Shouldn't Mess With
At our last Dinners for 8 get together I related a story about the only time I can recall calling the police on a neighbor. They committed a heneous crime and I just couldn't let them get by with it.
Let me give you a little background: My plate was very full at the time of the incident. I was back and forth to my parents while my father battled cancer. It was a four hour trip down to Magnolia Springs (AL), where my parents live, and, at this point in his battle, I generally stayed for at least a week at a time and went down about every other week. After the stress of the stay I had to turn around and make the four hour trip back.
Add to that the fact Jim had resigned from his job and taken another one in Pennsylvania. That meant being responsible for everything around the house and keeping everything in perfect order so the house could be shown for sale at any time.
After one trip to South Alabama I was particularly exhausted and looking forward to relaxing and going to bed early. The neighbors across the lake were not so inclined. As I drove into the subdivision around five in the afternoon I saw cars parked up one side of the street and down the other. Cars parked in the cul de sacs. Cars on side streets. Cars everywhere.
William had come home from college to welcome me back and spend the night. As the evening wore on, we could hear the voices of the occupants of the cars get louder and louder.
We could hear more and more laughter. We could hear the music get louder and louder. Could it be copius quantities of alcohol impare one's hearing?
We sat on our lovely deck overlooking the lake and enjoyed some of the music until I decided I was too exhausted and getting a good night's sleep is what I needed most. The master bedroom in our Birmingham house opened to the deck via a large, sliding glass door which, on this evening served to capture and amplify the sounds coming from across the lake. Try as I might, I could not block out the sound and get to sleep. I tossed and turned and finally just got out of bed to otherwise occupy my mind.
William and I finally agreed there was nothing we could do except ignore the noise as much as possible and make the best of it. We reasoned that since the party had started so early they would probably run out of steam, food, and booze around midnight and everyone would go home. The bewitching hour came and went with no signs of the party letting up. "O.K." we said, "The party will surely be over by 1 a.m." By one the karaoki was well under way and, true to form, the singers were far more talented in their mind than they were in reality. We decided to just laugh about it and let the revelers have their fun.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when, nearing 2 a.m., a party goer decided to do his karaoki rendition of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. And the rest of the revelers chimed in with the "Ooo. Ooo. Ooooo." portion. Before long everyone was involved. Some things you just shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Although this was certainly an emergency in my mind, I only dialed the Sherriff's non-emergency number. In my weariest voice I explained about my dad, and my exhaustion, and the party showing no signs of stopping. They promised to respond. William and I turned off all the lights and watched in darkness so no one would suspect we had registered a complaint.. We knew when the deputy arrived because the singing was interrupted with a collective "Awwwwwwwwhhhh."
Some things you shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Let me give you a little background: My plate was very full at the time of the incident. I was back and forth to my parents while my father battled cancer. It was a four hour trip down to Magnolia Springs (AL), where my parents live, and, at this point in his battle, I generally stayed for at least a week at a time and went down about every other week. After the stress of the stay I had to turn around and make the four hour trip back.
Add to that the fact Jim had resigned from his job and taken another one in Pennsylvania. That meant being responsible for everything around the house and keeping everything in perfect order so the house could be shown for sale at any time.
After one trip to South Alabama I was particularly exhausted and looking forward to relaxing and going to bed early. The neighbors across the lake were not so inclined. As I drove into the subdivision around five in the afternoon I saw cars parked up one side of the street and down the other. Cars parked in the cul de sacs. Cars on side streets. Cars everywhere.
William had come home from college to welcome me back and spend the night. As the evening wore on, we could hear the voices of the occupants of the cars get louder and louder.
We could hear more and more laughter. We could hear the music get louder and louder. Could it be copius quantities of alcohol impare one's hearing?
We sat on our lovely deck overlooking the lake and enjoyed some of the music until I decided I was too exhausted and getting a good night's sleep is what I needed most. The master bedroom in our Birmingham house opened to the deck via a large, sliding glass door which, on this evening served to capture and amplify the sounds coming from across the lake. Try as I might, I could not block out the sound and get to sleep. I tossed and turned and finally just got out of bed to otherwise occupy my mind.
William and I finally agreed there was nothing we could do except ignore the noise as much as possible and make the best of it. We reasoned that since the party had started so early they would probably run out of steam, food, and booze around midnight and everyone would go home. The bewitching hour came and went with no signs of the party letting up. "O.K." we said, "The party will surely be over by 1 a.m." By one the karaoki was well under way and, true to form, the singers were far more talented in their mind than they were in reality. We decided to just laugh about it and let the revelers have their fun.
The straw that broke the camel's back was when, nearing 2 a.m., a party goer decided to do his karaoki rendition of 'Sweet Home Alabama'. And the rest of the revelers chimed in with the "Ooo. Ooo. Ooooo." portion. Before long everyone was involved. Some things you just shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
Although this was certainly an emergency in my mind, I only dialed the Sherriff's non-emergency number. In my weariest voice I explained about my dad, and my exhaustion, and the party showing no signs of stopping. They promised to respond. William and I turned off all the lights and watched in darkness so no one would suspect we had registered a complaint.. We knew when the deputy arrived because the singing was interrupted with a collective "Awwwwwwwwhhhh."
Some things you shouldn't mess with. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is one of them.
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