One Year

One of the last things that Mom asked for was to go home to Aunt Blanche, who raised her after her mom died. I think, no matter how old we get, we always need our moms. It's true for me, anyway; even now.

 

But, when instant gratification isn't possible, the next best thing is to visit them in memory and know that they really aren't all that far away.

 

 

We miss you Mom, but we remember what you taught us. See you soon.



You Never Know

When our kids were little, Don and I used to celebrate our wedding anniversary after they were in bed by cooking steaks and baked potatoes (sans microwave) and having a late night picnic dinner on our living room floor at Aunt Blanches’ coffee table. Although I tried to plot a way for us to spend an hour or two alone this year, too, it kind of backfired when Mom ended up in the hospital with her second stroke in two months. So, instead of a picnic dinner in the park or a movie, we grabbed a quick lunch at Arby’s between our separate doctor appointments and visiting Mom in the hospital. I guess after thirty-seven years we’ve learned nothing if not how to be flexible.

Luckily, both strokes were light and left Mom with only minor changes. She has lost a little peripheral vision on the right side as well as some short term memory. Speech and swallowing have been slightly affected and there is weakness in her right hand, but the first two have improved noticeably and she works relentlessly at all three. Thankfully, Mom is still able to bear her own weight and take small steps (with assistance) and her mind is still quite sharp. We have Home Health therapists and nurses coming out our ears, but we have learned a lot from them.

These changes are emotional for all of us. Mom fluctuates between being scared, discouraged, thankful, and irritated and I think we all battle moments of claustrophobia because of how enmeshed our lives have become. Even those people or institutions meant to help us sometimes seem to have more control over our lives than we do, which can be disconcerting, to say the least.  But we just keep plugging along and thanking God for each other, family, friends, and time. After all, you just never know.

At the hospital we learned about a shower cap that washes your hair without any dripping.

This pen from Staples gives Mom the greatest control over her writing.

 

This place setting of silverware from "Good Fit" provides a knife that cuts meat by a "rocking" rather than sawing action and utensils that bend at the neck and have thick, rubber handles for greater control for arthritic hands.

Ho, Ho, Ho

Last weekend I joined my shopping buddies in Portland for round the clock fun. We wear out sooner than we did when we started this tradition thirty years ago, but I'm pleased to announce that I can still do a mean mall walk. Jennifer, Sarah, and Danielle joined us at different times. It was really nice to connect with them, but it meant that they had to track us down by cell phone and try to pin us down to a meeting place. It's probably a little like trying to herd cats. As always, they were patient with us and good sports about wearing Betty's "Christmas Crowns" that she says spread cheer and help her find us in the stores when she's lost. We took a moment to let Sarah and Danielle entertain us with their wall climbing and bouldering. They had it worked out with management to give us turns, but we settled instead for taking pictures of them in action. Maybe next year.

I apologize to the family members that I neglected to call. Time always zooms by and I had more trouble than usual keeping my phone charged. We kept ourselves pretty busy hopping between shopping centers and individual stores scattered around the area, trying to at least find the things we could only get in the city. I still have some online ordering to do and some local shopping, but I can breath a little easier. The place where we stayed set up a wrapping room complete with Christmas paper, bows, labels, ribbon, scissors, and tape so we spent our last evening wrapping about half of our packages.

Here Danielle is tutoring Betty in a shirt folding trick that takes a certain flick of the wrist. After giving everyone individual lessons, they practiced on their own clothes the rest of the evening and the next morning when we packed up to leave. I guess we're pretty easily entertained.

Now it's time for the hot tub! What a group. We have so much fun every year, we have come to realize that it is less about the shopping and more about the personal connections. Each of us has had our share of difficult moments, but no matter where life takes us, we always have this time set aside for each other; a time for wise cracks, silliness, commiserating, and fun with a little shopping, eating, and margaritas on the side. Get ready! Only 364 days until we're back!

97 Years Young

Ninety-seven. It's a number that is hard to wrap one's head around in regards to age. Even with her frailty Mom's age surprises people. I think it is because her spirit is still young.

Family and friends were all good about remembering her with flowers, cards, calls, and emails. I am touched by the people in this community who took the trouble to send her good wishes.

Coletta and Bob came up for a few days. Here Coletta is giving Mom a wild ride on her walker (or go cart, as she prefers to call it) into the dining room for a lasagna supper. Steering seemed to be a problem.

SKYPE calls and phone calls came in all day. Mom loved it, but sometimes got confused when too many people talked at once. Here someone called in time to help us sing "Happy Birthday."

Three amaryllis plants will bloom by Christmas.

Happy 97th Birthday, Mom. We love you. You have touched all of us with your gentle, determined spirit of love.

Dear God

I would like to respectfully register a complaint about the lack of adequate communication between us. Although I heartily accept all the responsibility for every misunderstanding, I have to lay the problem of fixing it at your feet because I can’t do it myself. That’s right; I’m happy to openly admit it: I need your help. And, we’re talking about ALWAYS, here, not just once to pacify me for the moment.

This journey we are on takes us through a breathtaking world of harrowing, mysterious, and truly incredible moments. Kudos to you for the planning and imagination that you took to create it. It is certainly quite the ride! I know you have done all of the hard part and I shouldn’t expect any more from you, but, let’s face it…I do. I love that your Son has shown us the way and I treasure the experiences of hearing your Spirit’s breathy whisper in my ear as I try to maneuver through the unknown, but – and I don’t mean to sound unappreciative here – could you please be a little less subtle with the directions?

If I remember correctly, we have had this discussion before. Perhaps you thought I meant just the once…or twice…or three times that I asked, but surely by now you know that I am a slow learner (and stubborn to boot, although, I really am trying to work on that). Besides that, we now have to add slightly deaf in one ear, unsure, self-absorbed, and forgetful to the list of issues that make me short-sighted.

These decisions and choices that I keep stumbling over probably seem simple and clear to you, but I really struggle sometimes in knowing what to do. I don’t mean the black and white, good and evil type of choices, but the gray area decisions about what to do with my life. The ones that are not necessarily right or wrong, but will somehow affect the next choice. As is evident throughout my pilgrimage, a small turn can have a significant impact down the road. So, from here on out, could you please add me to the list of handicapped followers who need obvious signs. Not the little nudges and whispers that are enough for holier people than me, but huge, flashing arrows and bright neon signs that say, “Michelle, go THIS way! Love, God.” Yell it in a voice that I will recognize as yours and, when I stand frozen with indecision, please give me a hard shove in the right direction to make sure I get moving.

Anyway, “Ask and you shall receive, knock and it shall be opened,” so here I am, respectfully asking for some clarification. Please don’t leave me in the middle of any more intersections, dizzy from spinning around as I try to discern which is the best path for me. (You know I will mess it up on my own!) I promise to continue trying to keep myself open to your will, watching for your footsteps, listening for your voice, calling your name, if you will but speak louder, write more boldly in the sky, and grab me by the scruff of the neck and drop kick me into place when I miss the gentler cues. Life is precious and I don’t want to waste any more of it wandering in the wrong direction.

Love,
Your struggling child (M.)

Inspiration

Italy has Michelangelo’ and Bernini’s Davids, France has Rodin’s The Thinker, Washington DC has French’s Lincoln, and Eastern Oregon has Logs to Frogs. What started as a community’s unique way to capitalize on its nickname, Muddyfrogwater, has turned into a contest of creativity. These chainsaw artists are sculpting a lot more than hopping green amphibians these days.

Although I have driven by the event many times, this was the first year that I spontaneously stopped and walked around the booths. Mid-afternoon was much less crowded than when I had driven by in the other direction that morning so it was enjoyable to stroll around and take pictures. Each craftsman was engrossed in his work (Don't even think it, D.; I prefer you keep all your digits!) and no one tried to sell me anything. Grandstands were available for any who wanted to linger and a few finished items were scattered around with price tags attached or marked as items for the evening auction.

It always fascinates me how sculptors can take a lump of clay, or rock, or wood and fashion something beautiful, moving, or intriguing.

This year there was an abundance of bears and eagles as I went through, but one renegade artist was carving a couple turtles that I would have loved to have while another focused on island motifs such as a palm tree.

This character is a great representative of the modern Old West, don’t you think?

I think we are all sculptors when it comes to our own lives. Whether we start out with a master plan or spontaneously look for inspiration in the medium, or both, we are responsible for the outcome. Through our goals and our choices we gouge and carve and scrape our way through life, honing and smoothing our skills, beliefs, and values as we go. Sometimes the environment or media is difficult to pierce, dulling our senses and spoiling our vision, but how we adjust and persevere is what determines the shape of the final product.

Artists are seldom completely satisfied with their work, but I think we need to move beyond our flaws and consider, instead the journey. How did I respond to grains of adversity, to knotholes of selfishness, to unforeseen imperfections in the raw material I was given? What did my design bring to others? What did I learn? What difference did I make? And always: What’s next?

Well Said

 

Rollercoaster Ride

I have decided that this caregiving gig is an unpredictable rollercoaster ride. My days range from being so tame that I am bored to tears, to being a nightmarish, life-changing dilemma about whether to call an ambulance or not. I alternate between feeling sorry for Mom and, God forgive me, being irritated. One minute she is telling me how nice it is to be able to watch a movie together during our lunches and the next she is chiding me for not cleaning my toaster often enough. I think she is also fairly convinced that I don’t ever feed the fish or the cat and that, roughly once a month, my marriage is on the rocks because Don and I aren’t smiling when she happens to look over. *Sigh.* This morning she was concerned that maybe the doctor might have to remove her big toe because it is so sore. “It’s an ingrown toenail, Mom, not gangrene!” “Really?” she asks. *Oi.*

And yet, how can I really be mad at these mere aggravations when Mom so clearly has more than her share of frustrations? Although I didn’t think it was possible, she is slower and has become even more fragile over the last three months. Sometimes I hold my breath as she moves, watching with sadness how much effort it takes her to pick up a foot and shuffle it a few inches. It takes her a minimum of 3 ½ hours to get dressed on the mornings that she doesn’t shower. Of course, that includes makeup and at least three types of moisturizer because one must always be presentable. My feelings of guilt at these moments, for ever having been impatient, drive away the irritation and open the door to appreciation again.

Mom’s vulnerability reminds me how precious life is and, as I stare at her sleeping form in the chair or under her covers, holding my breath until I detect hers, I am thrown around the curve of that ever-moving rollercoaster into thankfulness that we have another day together.

Note: Last night, as I typed the last word of the last sentence above, Mom’s frantic voice barely reached my ears and sent me running into her bedroom. She had fallen and was shook up and in need of assistance in getting up. Thank goodness she was on the carpeted floor and not in the bathroom, so a scrape, some bruises and sore muscles should be the worst of it. Buckle up; we're headed for another go-round!

Dust Bunnies

This week I have been cleaning a few corners here and there around the house. I don’t know what has come over me, but I don’t think it will last long. For some reason, when I walked through the house the other day, I saw it as a visitor would and cringed at some of the intermittent chaos that is my own doing. My dresser, for instance, was a collection of piles and dustbunnies, while the closet in the guest room was much like Fibber McGee’s proverbial chamber. Ironically, most of the guest room bedding was carefully piled next to the sofabed rather than residing on the closet shelf just a few feet away. So, I decided to tackle a new vignette every day until I no longer feel like a slob.

I should probably do the same thing with other parts of my life. It seems to me that the act of living is messy, leaving strewn emotions and untended dreams piling up in corners, lost relationships gathering dust under beds of distraction. I have a tendency to ignore such clutter until I trip over it. Who or what have I put on hold, neglected, or hurt? Is there someone who needed me to listen, but I was preoccupied? Or needed me to act, but I held back or missed the cue? Have I become too self-centered and missed the opportunity to do good for someone else? Why do I want things that seem to conflict? How can I soothe my restlessness? Do I focus too much on criticism and not enough on joy? Why is that? Where is my joy? What are my dreams? Who is my treasure? Where am I going? How will I know?

Yep. It is time to clean house – one corner at a time.