Visiting my dad this past weekend was surreal. I knew what to expect. He's in the part of the nursing home where the people are most invalid. It stinks. It reeks of poop and pee, and other non-descript yuck no matter how much air freshener they try to spray. There is moaning and indistinct sounds of pain and suffering.
What can be hard to quite fathom is that those things are coming from your dad.
Matt said it would be the worst part of my trip home. I'm not sure if visiting dad was the worst, it was the hardest in ways I didn't expect. I wasn't prepared for the bewildered but somehow also expressionless look on his face that either stroke or dementia had created. Being there in person was in many ways exactly like being on the phone. We talked about the kids. I said lots of cheery, positive things.
Then his mind took a turn. He told us he couldn't wait to show us Aunt Ruth's farm. We both said yes we'd like that.
Aunt Ruth's farm, the mecca of my childhood tales, was the best place in the world. They had an orchard and cows and chickens. There was a fruit cellar. Bread was baked. Everyone worked hard. They rose with the sun and went to bed with the sun. On Sunday Night they listened to old timey gospel on the radio. There were small metal heaters that were put into the bedrooms when it was cold. It was a place of Rockwellian perfection, with a wrought iron fence out in front of it. Peace and plenty were in great supply there, and Dad wants to take us there.
He doesn't recall that I've been there. The white clapboard house that needed painted, the three trees that don't quite constitute an orchard I don't think, the scraggly front yard, all of these things were a great surprise to me as a child. The fence was leaning and in disrepair.
There is a great secret about Aunt Ruth's farm, however. A reason it is so magical to him that I didn't divine until I was an adult, having listened to tales from Aunt Ruth's farm for my entire life.
My father was a child born to a teenager and a young man shipping out to war. Unwanted doesn't cover it. My grandmother actually left the hospital WITHOUT HIM when he was born. My great aunt had to go back and get the baby. The way the stories go, my great aunt actually took care of him as a small baby.
My grandparents would dump him off starting when he was a toddler at Aunt Ruth's farm, for months at a time. When he entered school he'd spend whole summers there. It was a place where no one drank nor smoked. He was cared for, fed well and most importantly - he was loved. He was safe and they loved having him there. My spinster great-great aunt Ruth, who was never allowed to marry, and her brothers lived together. One worked in town and the rest of them kept their little farm going. It was the best place he ever was growing up. In many ways it's a tragedy they didn't just leave him there. He probably would have had a much better life all around.
It's no surprise then, as his mind makes it slow and painful exit, that it wanders back to his happiest place. A place where there is no pain, and he's free and loved.
When I left him for the last time, after reminding him repeatedly that no, I had already seen Aunt Suzie I wasn't going to miss her that evening all was well, I took his hand and promised I would be back soon. I took his hand, that was motionless due to stroke and squeezed it, and told him I loved him. He answered, "I love you more."
Now that I'm a parent, I know what he means. He looked me right in the eye when he said it, he was himself at that moment. He meant what Cersei said to Tommen, "I would burn cities to the ground for you." We never really know what I means to love someone so fiercely until we have our own children. My dad hasn't been big with the I Love You's ever.
If that's the last one I ever get, it will also stand as the best one I ever get.
Tweet
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Beneath An Angry Star
Visiting my dad this past weekend was surreal. I knew what to expect. He's in the part of the nursing home where the people are most invalid. It stinks. It reeks of poop and pee, and other non-descript yuck no matter how much air freshener they try to spray. There is moaning and indistinct sounds of pain and suffering.
What can be hard to quite fathom is that those things are coming from your dad.
Matt said it would be the worst part of my trip home. I'm not sure if visiting dad was the worst, it was the hardest in ways I didn't expect. I wasn't prepared for the bewildered but somehow also expressionless look on his face that either stroke or dementia had created. Being there in person was in many ways exactly like being on the phone. We talked about the kids. I said lots of cheery, positive things.
Then his mind took a turn. He told us he couldn't wait to show us Aunt Ruth's farm. We both said yes we'd like that.
Aunt Ruth's farm, the mecca of my childhood tales, was the best place in the world. They had an orchard and cows and chickens. There was a fruit cellar. Bread was baked. Everyone worked hard. They rose with the sun and went to bed with the sun. On Sunday Night they listened to old timey gospel on the radio. There were small metal heaters that were put into the bedrooms when it was cold. It was a place of Rockwellian perfection, with a wrought iron fence out in front of it. Peace and plenty were in great supply there, and Dad wants to take us there.
He doesn't recall that I've been there. The white clapboard house that needed painted, the three trees that don't quite constitute an orchard I don't think, the scraggly front yard, all of these things were a great surprise to me as a child. The fence was leaning and in disrepair.
There is a great secret about Aunt Ruth's farm, however. A reason it is so magical to him that I didn't divine until I was an adult, having listened to tales from Aunt Ruth's farm for my entire life.
My father was a child born to a teenager and a young man shipping out to war. Unwanted doesn't cover it. My grandmother actually left the hospital WITHOUT HIM when he was born. My great aunt had to go back and get the baby. The way the stories go, my great aunt actually took care of him as a small baby.
My grandparents would dump him off starting when he was a toddler at Aunt Ruth's farm, for months at a time. When he entered school he'd spend whole summers there. It was a place where no one drank nor smoked. He was cared for, fed well and most importantly - he was loved. He was safe and they loved having him there. My spinster great-great aunt Ruth, who was never allowed to marry, and her brothers lived together. One worked in town and the rest of them kept their little farm going. It was the best place he ever was growing up. In many ways it's a tragedy they didn't just leave him there. He probably would have had a much better life all around.
It's no surprise then, as his mind makes it slow and painful exit, that it wanders back to his happiest place. A place where there is no pain, and he's free and loved.
When I left him for the last time, after reminding him repeatedly that no, I had already seen Aunt Suzie I wasn't going to miss her that evening all was well, I took his hand and promised I would be back soon. I took his hand, that was motionless due to stroke and squeezed it, and told him I loved him. He answered, "I love you more."
Now that I'm a parent, I know what he means. He looked me right in the eye when he said it, he was himself at that moment. He meant what Cersei said to Tommen, "I would burn cities to the ground for you." We never really know what I means to love someone so fiercely until we have our own children. My dad hasn't been big with the I Love You's ever.
If that's the last one I ever get, it will also stand as the best one I ever get.
Tweet
What can be hard to quite fathom is that those things are coming from your dad.
Matt said it would be the worst part of my trip home. I'm not sure if visiting dad was the worst, it was the hardest in ways I didn't expect. I wasn't prepared for the bewildered but somehow also expressionless look on his face that either stroke or dementia had created. Being there in person was in many ways exactly like being on the phone. We talked about the kids. I said lots of cheery, positive things.
Then his mind took a turn. He told us he couldn't wait to show us Aunt Ruth's farm. We both said yes we'd like that.
Aunt Ruth's farm, the mecca of my childhood tales, was the best place in the world. They had an orchard and cows and chickens. There was a fruit cellar. Bread was baked. Everyone worked hard. They rose with the sun and went to bed with the sun. On Sunday Night they listened to old timey gospel on the radio. There were small metal heaters that were put into the bedrooms when it was cold. It was a place of Rockwellian perfection, with a wrought iron fence out in front of it. Peace and plenty were in great supply there, and Dad wants to take us there.
He doesn't recall that I've been there. The white clapboard house that needed painted, the three trees that don't quite constitute an orchard I don't think, the scraggly front yard, all of these things were a great surprise to me as a child. The fence was leaning and in disrepair.
There is a great secret about Aunt Ruth's farm, however. A reason it is so magical to him that I didn't divine until I was an adult, having listened to tales from Aunt Ruth's farm for my entire life.
My father was a child born to a teenager and a young man shipping out to war. Unwanted doesn't cover it. My grandmother actually left the hospital WITHOUT HIM when he was born. My great aunt had to go back and get the baby. The way the stories go, my great aunt actually took care of him as a small baby.
My grandparents would dump him off starting when he was a toddler at Aunt Ruth's farm, for months at a time. When he entered school he'd spend whole summers there. It was a place where no one drank nor smoked. He was cared for, fed well and most importantly - he was loved. He was safe and they loved having him there. My spinster great-great aunt Ruth, who was never allowed to marry, and her brothers lived together. One worked in town and the rest of them kept their little farm going. It was the best place he ever was growing up. In many ways it's a tragedy they didn't just leave him there. He probably would have had a much better life all around.
It's no surprise then, as his mind makes it slow and painful exit, that it wanders back to his happiest place. A place where there is no pain, and he's free and loved.
When I left him for the last time, after reminding him repeatedly that no, I had already seen Aunt Suzie I wasn't going to miss her that evening all was well, I took his hand and promised I would be back soon. I took his hand, that was motionless due to stroke and squeezed it, and told him I loved him. He answered, "I love you more."
Now that I'm a parent, I know what he means. He looked me right in the eye when he said it, he was himself at that moment. He meant what Cersei said to Tommen, "I would burn cities to the ground for you." We never really know what I means to love someone so fiercely until we have our own children. My dad hasn't been big with the I Love You's ever.
If that's the last one I ever get, it will also stand as the best one I ever get.
Tweet
Monday, August 24, 2015
Walking Back From Your House
"One foot in front of the other produces the next step. Just take one at a time and see what comes next."
That text arrived on Thursday as I sat at my desk about to depart. I was texting with a friend who was in a place so many thousand miles away that I don't know the number. I only know he is in the future, living a day I am not in yet. I told him I was frozen at my desk, that I didn't think I could handle it.
I was going home tomorrow, home to see my parents both of whom are failing in their own way. I spoke to Mom yesterday and she said the word hospice to me and then when I took a deep breath and said "Why hospice?" she played it off. We all know why hospice. But I let her convince me it wasn't like all that, because I needed that to be true.
I packed my travel backpack and shortly after my kids went to school my husband drove me to Atlanta Hartsfield airport.
When I'm upset, things around me sometimes strike me strangely. Such as we stopped to get this. A bacon shake at a good restaurant might be tasty. A maple bacon shake at the Quick Trip seems like a tragedy about to happen.
I am sure people thought I was weird taking a picture of it. I don't even care.
One foot in front of the other, occasionally snap a picture.
I didn't have enough miles yet (surprisingly) to fly home so my friend Jeff at work gave me some to go. I didn't now how important it was going to be that I go, until I was on the interstate and my brother brought me up to speed before I boarded the plane.
Mom's team of doctors have said no to the transplant. She has a heart defect that would have to be fixed first which would be open heart surgery. They don't believe she can survive that surgery much less the transplant surgery. Her liver is failing, she has a kidney failing (or both I can't even remember). My mom is dying. Whither hospice? Thus, hospice.
I cried my eyes out in a bathroom stall inside Atlanta Hartsfield, then I pulled myself together, fixed my makeup and headed toward security. I'm a pro. Shoes off, laptop out, passport open, right through the busiest airport in the world like an ace.
One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. B gate. B16. Ride the train, two stops, then go up, turn left. Just keep walking, I told myself even though the world got heavy and sometimes seemed like I wasn't in it.
I stopped here. I have never had any desire to own a pair of BEATS by Dr Dre. I don't know what I would do with them. But had I had the money on me that moment, I would've had a pair, probably the green ones although the pink ones are pretty epic as well. Regardless, I know covet these and I don't know why. I stood there looking at them for several minutes, considering how ridiculous it was to even want them. I'm not sure these are actually the ones that are Swarovski crystal but if they are, they're about 800 bucks. Perfect.
It was a welcome few moments of distraction.
My flight to Indy did not include Biscoff cookies and frankly that's a failure on all counts. Stupid Delta, where were my cookies? WHO WANTS PRETZELS NO ONE! I had a coke and my stupid tiny pretzels. Perhaps I was meant to feel like a giant? Unsure. My friend Tim who is simply a good egg all around picked me up and drove me to the hospital to meet Matt and my mom.
Mom looked about the same, and we immediately started speaking of things at hand, in the matter of fact way that is my mom's way. She and my brother had learned that if they started hospice NOW she couldn't get any PT and she needed a little PT to help her be able to get up to go potty. Even as sick as she is, there's no reason she can't do that at this point so why would they NOT want that. She's in her right mind, she doesn't want an army to have to help her go potty. So we have all the hospice paperwork but they had decided, and I agree that while the time to bring them on deck might be coming, it hasn't arrived.
The thing is, Mom isn't going to get "sicker". This is it. this is as sick as she gets until the final turn of the wheel and this thing kills her. She has medicine to flush her ammonia and a new port for us to drain the fluid that gathers inside her due to her failing liver. Matt and I learned how to do it, it's not hard, and it changes EVERYTHING about how she feels. A little PT to grant her a tiny bit of independence and she would have a dignified close out to the journey of her life.
I don't blame her. That's such a small thing that's denied so many older people (like my Dad) due to their illness. Going to the toilet on your own is a dignity, and so I'm hoping that a few days of PT will grant her that back -it will also grant my sister in law and brother a tiny relief.
She always told me that some day when she got old she would live with me. She said she wanted a little room with a bed and a comfy chair and a TV. Matt and April have given her exactly that. I laughed a little when I saw it, they closed off their dining room and made it a special room just for her. I would have had her live with me in a heartbeat, but her doctors are there, her world is there and only mine is here. I just feel bad that my brother and sister in law shoulder the day to day stress of this.
"I'm afraid you're going to be devastated if I don't tell you," my brother started out his text to me, to tell me that there was no hope to save our mother. He was right, he knows me well. I kept it together and managed to keep moving, keep talking, I might not have done so well had I been surprised with the reality of it all face to face.
My niece gave up her room so I could sleep there. I didn't feel tired. I felt heavy. I felt pressed on, like gravity had altered and I was fighting new rules of existence I didn't know. I laid in her bed and thought "I'll never sleep."
I was so very tired, though, I should've known that my body would take control and pull me down in to what it needed. I slept hard, the sleep of someone who's whole person needs rest.
I felt pretty good for about two minutes when I woke up, until I remembered everything.
Tweet
That text arrived on Thursday as I sat at my desk about to depart. I was texting with a friend who was in a place so many thousand miles away that I don't know the number. I only know he is in the future, living a day I am not in yet. I told him I was frozen at my desk, that I didn't think I could handle it.
I was going home tomorrow, home to see my parents both of whom are failing in their own way. I spoke to Mom yesterday and she said the word hospice to me and then when I took a deep breath and said "Why hospice?" she played it off. We all know why hospice. But I let her convince me it wasn't like all that, because I needed that to be true.
I packed my travel backpack and shortly after my kids went to school my husband drove me to Atlanta Hartsfield airport.
I am sure people thought I was weird taking a picture of it. I don't even care.
One foot in front of the other, occasionally snap a picture.
Mom's team of doctors have said no to the transplant. She has a heart defect that would have to be fixed first which would be open heart surgery. They don't believe she can survive that surgery much less the transplant surgery. Her liver is failing, she has a kidney failing (or both I can't even remember). My mom is dying. Whither hospice? Thus, hospice.
I cried my eyes out in a bathroom stall inside Atlanta Hartsfield, then I pulled myself together, fixed my makeup and headed toward security. I'm a pro. Shoes off, laptop out, passport open, right through the busiest airport in the world like an ace.
One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. B gate. B16. Ride the train, two stops, then go up, turn left. Just keep walking, I told myself even though the world got heavy and sometimes seemed like I wasn't in it.
It was a welcome few moments of distraction.
My flight to Indy did not include Biscoff cookies and frankly that's a failure on all counts. Stupid Delta, where were my cookies? WHO WANTS PRETZELS NO ONE! I had a coke and my stupid tiny pretzels. Perhaps I was meant to feel like a giant? Unsure. My friend Tim who is simply a good egg all around picked me up and drove me to the hospital to meet Matt and my mom.
Mom looked about the same, and we immediately started speaking of things at hand, in the matter of fact way that is my mom's way. She and my brother had learned that if they started hospice NOW she couldn't get any PT and she needed a little PT to help her be able to get up to go potty. Even as sick as she is, there's no reason she can't do that at this point so why would they NOT want that. She's in her right mind, she doesn't want an army to have to help her go potty. So we have all the hospice paperwork but they had decided, and I agree that while the time to bring them on deck might be coming, it hasn't arrived.
The thing is, Mom isn't going to get "sicker". This is it. this is as sick as she gets until the final turn of the wheel and this thing kills her. She has medicine to flush her ammonia and a new port for us to drain the fluid that gathers inside her due to her failing liver. Matt and I learned how to do it, it's not hard, and it changes EVERYTHING about how she feels. A little PT to grant her a tiny bit of independence and she would have a dignified close out to the journey of her life.
I don't blame her. That's such a small thing that's denied so many older people (like my Dad) due to their illness. Going to the toilet on your own is a dignity, and so I'm hoping that a few days of PT will grant her that back -it will also grant my sister in law and brother a tiny relief.
She always told me that some day when she got old she would live with me. She said she wanted a little room with a bed and a comfy chair and a TV. Matt and April have given her exactly that. I laughed a little when I saw it, they closed off their dining room and made it a special room just for her. I would have had her live with me in a heartbeat, but her doctors are there, her world is there and only mine is here. I just feel bad that my brother and sister in law shoulder the day to day stress of this.
"I'm afraid you're going to be devastated if I don't tell you," my brother started out his text to me, to tell me that there was no hope to save our mother. He was right, he knows me well. I kept it together and managed to keep moving, keep talking, I might not have done so well had I been surprised with the reality of it all face to face.
My niece gave up her room so I could sleep there. I didn't feel tired. I felt heavy. I felt pressed on, like gravity had altered and I was fighting new rules of existence I didn't know. I laid in her bed and thought "I'll never sleep."
I felt pretty good for about two minutes when I woke up, until I remembered everything.
Tweet
Walking Back From Your House
"One foot in front of the other produces the next step. Just take one at a time and see what comes next."
That text arrived on Thursday as I sat at my desk about to depart. I was texting with a friend who was in a place so many thousand miles away that I don't know the number. I only know he is in the future, living a day I am not in yet. I told him I was frozen at my desk, that I didn't think I could handle it.
I was going home tomorrow, home to see my parents both of whom are failing in their own way. I spoke to Mom yesterday and she said the word hospice to me and then when I took a deep breath and said "Why hospice?" she played it off. We all know why hospice. But I let her convince me it wasn't like all that, because I needed that to be true.
I packed my travel backpack and shortly after my kids went to school my husband drove me to Atlanta Hartsfield airport.
When I'm upset, things around me sometimes strike me strangely. Such as we stopped to get this. A bacon shake at a good restaurant might be tasty. A maple bacon shake at the Quick Trip seems like a tragedy about to happen.
I am sure people thought I was weird taking a picture of it. I don't even care.
One foot in front of the other, occasionally snap a picture.
I didn't have enough miles yet (surprisingly) to fly home so my friend Jeff at work gave me some to go. I didn't now how important it was going to be that I go, until I was on the interstate and my brother brought me up to speed before I boarded the plane.
Mom's team of doctors have said no to the transplant. She has a heart defect that would have to be fixed first which would be open heart surgery. They don't believe she can survive that surgery much less the transplant surgery. Her liver is failing, she has a kidney failing (or both I can't even remember). My mom is dying. Whither hospice? Thus, hospice.
I cried my eyes out in a bathroom stall inside Atlanta Hartsfield, then I pulled myself together, fixed my makeup and headed toward security. I'm a pro. Shoes off, laptop out, passport open, right through the busiest airport in the world like an ace.
One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. B gate. B16. Ride the train, two stops, then go up, turn left. Just keep walking, I told myself even though the world got heavy and sometimes seemed like I wasn't in it.
I stopped here. I have never had any desire to own a pair of BEATS by Dr Dre. I don't know what I would do with them. But had I had the money on me that moment, I would've had a pair, probably the green ones although the pink ones are pretty epic as well. Regardless, I know covet these and I don't know why. I stood there looking at them for several minutes, considering how ridiculous it was to even want them. I'm not sure these are actually the ones that are Swarovski crystal but if they are, they're about 800 bucks. Perfect.
It was a welcome few moments of distraction.
My flight to Indy did not include Biscoff cookies and frankly that's a failure on all counts. Stupid Delta, where were my cookies? WHO WANTS PRETZELS NO ONE! I had a coke and my stupid tiny pretzels. Perhaps I was meant to feel like a giant? Unsure. My friend Tim who is simply a good egg all around picked me up and drove me to the hospital to meet Matt and my mom.
Mom looked about the same, and we immediately started speaking of things at hand, in the matter of fact way that is my mom's way. She and my brother had learned that if they started hospice NOW she couldn't get any PT and she needed a little PT to help her be able to get up to go potty. Even as sick as she is, there's no reason she can't do that at this point so why would they NOT want that. She's in her right mind, she doesn't want an army to have to help her go potty. So we have all the hospice paperwork but they had decided, and I agree that while the time to bring them on deck might be coming, it hasn't arrived.
The thing is, Mom isn't going to get "sicker". This is it. this is as sick as she gets until the final turn of the wheel and this thing kills her. She has medicine to flush her ammonia and a new port for us to drain the fluid that gathers inside her due to her failing liver. Matt and I learned how to do it, it's not hard, and it changes EVERYTHING about how she feels. A little PT to grant her a tiny bit of independence and she would have a dignified close out to the journey of her life.
I don't blame her. That's such a small thing that's denied so many older people (like my Dad) due to their illness. Going to the toilet on your own is a dignity, and so I'm hoping that a few days of PT will grant her that back -it will also grant my sister in law and brother a tiny relief.
She always told me that some day when she got old she would live with me. She said she wanted a little room with a bed and a comfy chair and a TV. Matt and April have given her exactly that. I laughed a little when I saw it, they closed off their dining room and made it a special room just for her. I would have had her live with me in a heartbeat, but her doctors are there, her world is there and only mine is here. I just feel bad that my brother and sister in law shoulder the day to day stress of this.
"I'm afraid you're going to be devastated if I don't tell you," my brother started out his text to me, to tell me that there was no hope to save our mother. He was right, he knows me well. I kept it together and managed to keep moving, keep talking, I might not have done so well had I been surprised with the reality of it all face to face.
My niece gave up her room so I could sleep there. I didn't feel tired. I felt heavy. I felt pressed on, like gravity had altered and I was fighting new rules of existence I didn't know. I laid in her bed and thought "I'll never sleep."
I was so very tired, though, I should've known that my body would take control and pull me down in to what it needed. I slept hard, the sleep of someone who's whole person needs rest.
I felt pretty good for about two minutes when I woke up, until I remembered everything.
Tweet
That text arrived on Thursday as I sat at my desk about to depart. I was texting with a friend who was in a place so many thousand miles away that I don't know the number. I only know he is in the future, living a day I am not in yet. I told him I was frozen at my desk, that I didn't think I could handle it.
I was going home tomorrow, home to see my parents both of whom are failing in their own way. I spoke to Mom yesterday and she said the word hospice to me and then when I took a deep breath and said "Why hospice?" she played it off. We all know why hospice. But I let her convince me it wasn't like all that, because I needed that to be true.
I packed my travel backpack and shortly after my kids went to school my husband drove me to Atlanta Hartsfield airport.
I am sure people thought I was weird taking a picture of it. I don't even care.
One foot in front of the other, occasionally snap a picture.
Mom's team of doctors have said no to the transplant. She has a heart defect that would have to be fixed first which would be open heart surgery. They don't believe she can survive that surgery much less the transplant surgery. Her liver is failing, she has a kidney failing (or both I can't even remember). My mom is dying. Whither hospice? Thus, hospice.
I cried my eyes out in a bathroom stall inside Atlanta Hartsfield, then I pulled myself together, fixed my makeup and headed toward security. I'm a pro. Shoes off, laptop out, passport open, right through the busiest airport in the world like an ace.
One foot in front of the other. Just keep walking. B gate. B16. Ride the train, two stops, then go up, turn left. Just keep walking, I told myself even though the world got heavy and sometimes seemed like I wasn't in it.
It was a welcome few moments of distraction.
My flight to Indy did not include Biscoff cookies and frankly that's a failure on all counts. Stupid Delta, where were my cookies? WHO WANTS PRETZELS NO ONE! I had a coke and my stupid tiny pretzels. Perhaps I was meant to feel like a giant? Unsure. My friend Tim who is simply a good egg all around picked me up and drove me to the hospital to meet Matt and my mom.
Mom looked about the same, and we immediately started speaking of things at hand, in the matter of fact way that is my mom's way. She and my brother had learned that if they started hospice NOW she couldn't get any PT and she needed a little PT to help her be able to get up to go potty. Even as sick as she is, there's no reason she can't do that at this point so why would they NOT want that. She's in her right mind, she doesn't want an army to have to help her go potty. So we have all the hospice paperwork but they had decided, and I agree that while the time to bring them on deck might be coming, it hasn't arrived.
The thing is, Mom isn't going to get "sicker". This is it. this is as sick as she gets until the final turn of the wheel and this thing kills her. She has medicine to flush her ammonia and a new port for us to drain the fluid that gathers inside her due to her failing liver. Matt and I learned how to do it, it's not hard, and it changes EVERYTHING about how she feels. A little PT to grant her a tiny bit of independence and she would have a dignified close out to the journey of her life.
I don't blame her. That's such a small thing that's denied so many older people (like my Dad) due to their illness. Going to the toilet on your own is a dignity, and so I'm hoping that a few days of PT will grant her that back -it will also grant my sister in law and brother a tiny relief.
She always told me that some day when she got old she would live with me. She said she wanted a little room with a bed and a comfy chair and a TV. Matt and April have given her exactly that. I laughed a little when I saw it, they closed off their dining room and made it a special room just for her. I would have had her live with me in a heartbeat, but her doctors are there, her world is there and only mine is here. I just feel bad that my brother and sister in law shoulder the day to day stress of this.
"I'm afraid you're going to be devastated if I don't tell you," my brother started out his text to me, to tell me that there was no hope to save our mother. He was right, he knows me well. I kept it together and managed to keep moving, keep talking, I might not have done so well had I been surprised with the reality of it all face to face.
My niece gave up her room so I could sleep there. I didn't feel tired. I felt heavy. I felt pressed on, like gravity had altered and I was fighting new rules of existence I didn't know. I laid in her bed and thought "I'll never sleep."
I felt pretty good for about two minutes when I woke up, until I remembered everything.
Tweet
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Fortress Around Your Heart
My appointment was one I actually went prepared for with lots of questions. I didn't end up having to ask a lot of them, though. I would like to come off of my blood pressure medicine, and it turns out that with a blood pressure of 104/62 he agreed it was TOO low. I've been having some dizziness after working out, and it's probably related to a too low bp. My pulse was 64 which is apparently a good thing.
He was probably more excited than I was about my weight loss. My heartbeat was actually normal yesterday - I didn't get a pic of the normal. I'm not getting my hopes up about it staying normal, as the nature of my condition is "intermittent" you know - so sometimes I will be normal. Sometimes not.
In going over my history he asked again "no heart conditions in your family" and I answered "Funny you should mention that..." and shared about Dad's saga. When I got done talking about Dad, he said "I'm so sorry to hear that. Is he going to be ok?"
No. He's not. He's not going to be ok at all. So I told him that.
He put his pen down and said, "You realize you're changing your odds right? That won't be you if you continue to change your life now, it's not too late."
That's what I'm counting on.
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Fortress Around Your Heart
My appointment was one I actually went prepared for with lots of questions. I didn't end up having to ask a lot of them, though. I would like to come off of my blood pressure medicine, and it turns out that with a blood pressure of 104/62 he agreed it was TOO low. I've been having some dizziness after working out, and it's probably related to a too low bp. My pulse was 64 which is apparently a good thing.
He was probably more excited than I was about my weight loss. My heartbeat was actually normal yesterday - I didn't get a pic of the normal. I'm not getting my hopes up about it staying normal, as the nature of my condition is "intermittent" you know - so sometimes I will be normal. Sometimes not.
In going over my history he asked again "no heart conditions in your family" and I answered "Funny you should mention that..." and shared about Dad's saga. When I got done talking about Dad, he said "I'm so sorry to hear that. Is he going to be ok?"
No. He's not. He's not going to be ok at all. So I told him that.
He put his pen down and said, "You realize you're changing your odds right? That won't be you if you continue to change your life now, it's not too late."
That's what I'm counting on.
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Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Desert Rose
I guess it was the total disrepair at the Fernbank Gardens that made me decide I should abdicate my title as hillbilly neighbor of the garden world. I have to confess, I HATE GARDENING. I don't find it fulfilling. I don't find it rewarding. I don't get a great sense of peace by creating a lovely garden. I have no great need to work with my hands in the earth.
I just want it to magically look nice all on it's own.
Funny how that doesn't actually work out at all.
When I moved in, the woman who owned the house before me cut the roses by the front steps down into near oblivion. I am guessing she took them with her. I have no green thumb and all I know about roses is what my grandmother taught me - drop coffee grounds and banana peels at their feet and leave them alone. I've done this. I learned from Kirk at work that when I get black spot to pour a beer at their feet and the earth around them - this works, I do this. But there is probably a weeding and pruning part of this that I've been uninvolved in.
Proof.
So yeah, there's a rose plant in this mess. My children came outside for popsicles and I set to work taking out anything that wasn't roses. This was tricky and I've realized that there is something very big with a very thick base growing up that I'm going to have to use some Roundup or something to kill properly as it's growing from under the porch.
I pretty much had everything not roses cleared by this time as you can see. And WOW that looks like crap. I didn't document my next step but I pulled out all the rose branches that were dead, much to my surprise that was most of them, they were brittle and just came away instantly. Who knew? I cut everything down, but now I'm thinking maybe I should cut it down more, I don't even know.
You can see that big ass thick whatever TREE thing growing out from under my porch too. I WILL find the chemical to kill you with. I can't cut it, it'll just keep growing.
So now I'm wondering, should I plant a second rose plant next to this? This looks like hell. This is a small space of yuck. Two rose plants? A trellis? They aren't really climbing roses. Or are they and I don't understand roses? UGH I don't know. All I know if that I gave them some banana peels and some coffee grounds and it rained like hell so I hope they show me some life.
In my work, I had to get down on the ground and got an unfortunate look under my porch.
I found a dead millipede (centipede?) and a gift left behind by our snake neighbor. I haven't seen her in weeks but the fact that she left her skin is an unfortunate reminder that she's now bigger as she was big as hell when I last saw her. I guess now I know where all the bunnies went. Well, I guess the coyotes might have eaten them. Hard to say.
Circle of life.
Now, I have to sort out this gardening shit. Ugh. I wish I was domestic sometimes.
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I just want it to magically look nice all on it's own.
Funny how that doesn't actually work out at all.
When I moved in, the woman who owned the house before me cut the roses by the front steps down into near oblivion. I am guessing she took them with her. I have no green thumb and all I know about roses is what my grandmother taught me - drop coffee grounds and banana peels at their feet and leave them alone. I've done this. I learned from Kirk at work that when I get black spot to pour a beer at their feet and the earth around them - this works, I do this. But there is probably a weeding and pruning part of this that I've been uninvolved in.
Proof.
You can see that big ass thick whatever TREE thing growing out from under my porch too. I WILL find the chemical to kill you with. I can't cut it, it'll just keep growing.
So now I'm wondering, should I plant a second rose plant next to this? This looks like hell. This is a small space of yuck. Two rose plants? A trellis? They aren't really climbing roses. Or are they and I don't understand roses? UGH I don't know. All I know if that I gave them some banana peels and some coffee grounds and it rained like hell so I hope they show me some life.
In my work, I had to get down on the ground and got an unfortunate look under my porch.
Circle of life.
Now, I have to sort out this gardening shit. Ugh. I wish I was domestic sometimes.
Tweet
Desert Rose
I guess it was the total disrepair at the Fernbank Gardens that made me decide I should abdicate my title as hillbilly neighbor of the garden world. I have to confess, I HATE GARDENING. I don't find it fulfilling. I don't find it rewarding. I don't get a great sense of peace by creating a lovely garden. I have no great need to work with my hands in the earth.
I just want it to magically look nice all on it's own.
Funny how that doesn't actually work out at all.
When I moved in, the woman who owned the house before me cut the roses by the front steps down into near oblivion. I am guessing she took them with her. I have no green thumb and all I know about roses is what my grandmother taught me - drop coffee grounds and banana peels at their feet and leave them alone. I've done this. I learned from Kirk at work that when I get black spot to pour a beer at their feet and the earth around them - this works, I do this. But there is probably a weeding and pruning part of this that I've been uninvolved in.
Proof.
So yeah, there's a rose plant in this mess. My children came outside for popsicles and I set to work taking out anything that wasn't roses. This was tricky and I've realized that there is something very big with a very thick base growing up that I'm going to have to use some Roundup or something to kill properly as it's growing from under the porch.
I pretty much had everything not roses cleared by this time as you can see. And WOW that looks like crap. I didn't document my next step but I pulled out all the rose branches that were dead, much to my surprise that was most of them, they were brittle and just came away instantly. Who knew? I cut everything down, but now I'm thinking maybe I should cut it down more, I don't even know.
You can see that big ass thick whatever TREE thing growing out from under my porch too. I WILL find the chemical to kill you with. I can't cut it, it'll just keep growing.
So now I'm wondering, should I plant a second rose plant next to this? This looks like hell. This is a small space of yuck. Two rose plants? A trellis? They aren't really climbing roses. Or are they and I don't understand roses? UGH I don't know. All I know if that I gave them some banana peels and some coffee grounds and it rained like hell so I hope they show me some life.
In my work, I had to get down on the ground and got an unfortunate look under my porch.
I found a dead millipede (centipede?) and a gift left behind by our snake neighbor. I haven't seen her in weeks but the fact that she left her skin is an unfortunate reminder that she's now bigger as she was big as hell when I last saw her. I guess now I know where all the bunnies went. Well, I guess the coyotes might have eaten them. Hard to say.
Circle of life.
Now, I have to sort out this gardening shit. Ugh. I wish I was domestic sometimes.
Tweet
I just want it to magically look nice all on it's own.
Funny how that doesn't actually work out at all.
When I moved in, the woman who owned the house before me cut the roses by the front steps down into near oblivion. I am guessing she took them with her. I have no green thumb and all I know about roses is what my grandmother taught me - drop coffee grounds and banana peels at their feet and leave them alone. I've done this. I learned from Kirk at work that when I get black spot to pour a beer at their feet and the earth around them - this works, I do this. But there is probably a weeding and pruning part of this that I've been uninvolved in.
Proof.
You can see that big ass thick whatever TREE thing growing out from under my porch too. I WILL find the chemical to kill you with. I can't cut it, it'll just keep growing.
So now I'm wondering, should I plant a second rose plant next to this? This looks like hell. This is a small space of yuck. Two rose plants? A trellis? They aren't really climbing roses. Or are they and I don't understand roses? UGH I don't know. All I know if that I gave them some banana peels and some coffee grounds and it rained like hell so I hope they show me some life.
In my work, I had to get down on the ground and got an unfortunate look under my porch.
Circle of life.
Now, I have to sort out this gardening shit. Ugh. I wish I was domestic sometimes.
Tweet
Sunday, August 16, 2015
God's Favorite Creature
One of the things we do is that we don't just tell Julia and Louis about the things we see, we tell Miles and Charlie. Their receptive language is very good. Sure they don't understand how many million or thousand years something lived, but we explain it like they do. We explain everything. Sometimes in simpler terms for them (and Julia) but hey sometimes NOT.
It IS very good. He doesn't understand that it's a cast, or how many million years ago this thing lived but he knows this footprint belongs to a dinosaur. I find that amazing.
It's little things with these guys, little things that I mark as victories in their development. All progress is good.
Really it was spoon bullying as Charlie was being intimidated into giving up his spoon. Why? Autism. Only Autism knows.
Getting out of the house and into distraction and activity was the key. The fighting ceased and everyone was fine all day.
I still wasn't prepared for the gardens.
Oh well, they are apparently trying to grow hipsters. That's an interesting experiment.
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God's Favorite Creature
One of the things we do is that we don't just tell Julia and Louis about the things we see, we tell Miles and Charlie. Their receptive language is very good. Sure they don't understand how many million or thousand years something lived, but we explain it like they do. We explain everything. Sometimes in simpler terms for them (and Julia) but hey sometimes NOT.
It IS very good. He doesn't understand that it's a cast, or how many million years ago this thing lived but he knows this footprint belongs to a dinosaur. I find that amazing.
It's little things with these guys, little things that I mark as victories in their development. All progress is good.
Really it was spoon bullying as Charlie was being intimidated into giving up his spoon. Why? Autism. Only Autism knows.
I still wasn't prepared for the gardens.
Oh well, they are apparently trying to grow hipsters. That's an interesting experiment.
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