In a Blink

January 7th, 2019
I'm not sure where this one will take me nor do I know how long it will take to get there.  There is so much to say but I'm having difficulty putting words to the emotions ravaging my mind and heart at this moment in time.  I suppose a good place to start is at the beginning.

Nearly six years ago, I moved in with my parents to watch over them in their elder years.  As of 2018, my father turned 91 and my mother, 85.  They have both had various health issues that are typical of their age but nothing immediately life-threatening.

My father has age-related dementia that mostly affects his speech and memory.  His ability to form words is a struggle and has had on-going speech therapy for a year.  It really hasn't helped much, but he enjoys it; likely because the therapists are young, good-looking ladies.  His most concerning health issue is a abdominal hernia that cannot be repaired due to his age and inability to tolerate anesthesia.  He has a bit of hypertension and an indwelling urinary catheter.

My mother had a pace-maker placed in early 2018 and had issues with hypertension, hypothyroid, and COPD.  She was on oxygen at night but still maintained the ability to cook and go on her weekly shopping trips to Walmart.

Both parents stopped driving soon after I moved in.

I had accepted the fact that dad would be the first of the two to reach the end of the line; kick the bucket; buy the farm; give up the ghost; die.  If he didn't wake up and be out of his room by 8am, I was making entry, slowly and carefully in expectation of finding him deceased.  There have been plenty of times I've walked passed him, as he slept in his recliner, when I have stopped to see if his chest was rising and falling.  I had prepared myself.  I wasn't ready for it, but expected it and was prepared.

On December 28th, mom fell.  Actually, the chair she was getting on, moved out from under her and she fell onto her butt.  I asked if she wanted to go to the hospital and she declined stating she would wait to see how she felt in the morning.  The next morning, December 29th, she was in a great deal of pain, so I called the ambulance and off we went to the ER.  There were no broken bones and her hip replacements looked fine on x-ray.  She had a lot of pain and was given an injection of a mild pain reliever and a prescription of anti-inflammatory and mild narcotic.

Once home, she was barely able to walk and was in a lot of pain.  I made her eat and I gave her one of the anti-inflammatory tablets.  I helped her to and from the bathroom many times as the medication made her nauseated.  Later that night she asked for one of the other medication they gave her. I had given her a bell to ring, which she did many times, and I was in and out of her room many times throughout the night until she fell asleep around 3am on December 30th.  I fell asleep and woke at around 8:30.  I got my coffee and went in to see how mom was doing and to see if she wanted coffee.  And that is when my life shifted in such a way that words cannot fully describe what I felt.

She looked like she was sleeping; she wasn't.  She was in the position she slept in every single night for the past hundreds of nights; curled up in the fetal position.  As I moved closer and touched her body, I knew; I knew.  I called out to her; then I screamed to her.  I walked out of the room as my dad was coming down the hall.  I guided him back to his chair and asked him to sit down.  He said he knew what I was going to say.  Everything after that is kind of a blur until EMS arrived and then the coroner.

I made those difficult calls nobody wants to make.  I called my brothers, my children, my aunt in California.  My father, always so stoic, sat calmly in his recliner as people came in and out doing official business; the kind of official business you don't want going on at your house.  My children came to my rescue, although they were as grief-stricken as I was.  My brothers were there.  Friends and neighbors came by.  The world was spinning a million miles a second and I could not catch my balance.

The next day, my daughter went with me to make the arrangements.  My mother's wishes called for cremation and scattering of the ashes on the beaches of California, Florida, and Massachusetts.  There would be an open casket service but it would have to wait until family from out of town could arrive.  The service was scheduled for January 5th, 2019; a full six days after her passing and the longest six days of my entire life.

Everywhere I look in this house, I see my mom.  She was a collector of many things and she didn't get rid of much.  As I begin the daunting task of going through clothes, papers, and all sorts of personal items, I have run across many wonderful things.  I've also come across things that caused me pause and a good chuckle.  The book "Everything You Wanted To Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask" was hidden deep inside one of her drawers.  I found a speeding ticket from 1992, which didn't surprise me a bit as mom always had a heavy foot, but made me see her as a real person and not just my mother.  I also found a letter I wrote her 16 years ago that made me ugly-cry for a good 20 minutes.  Below, find the last paragraph of that letter and I dare you not to cry yourself:

Here I am, tears rolling down my face, reading those precious words that I know had to have meant so much to my mother for her to keep them in her drawer for all these years.

Nothing will ever be normal again as in how things have been for all my life.  I never imagined my life without my mother; I just refused to take myself there.  I never imagined myself without my father, but the reality of that has been made ever-so-clear.  I know I am on borrowed time with him and I intend to not squander it away.

I believe I served my mother well.  I was her voice when she couldn't speak.  I did my best to protect her and to make her life as fulfilling as it could be in her final years.  I loved/love my mother deeply although we did butt heads often.  We are much alike as my daughter reminded me the other day in Walmart as I snapped at her for some reason or another. (she will certainly remember why).  I heard myself laugh yesterday and it jolted me because it sounded just like my mothers' laugh.  Many people say I look just like my mother.  In fact, (and I'm not sure if this is a compliment or not) at the visitation at the funeral home, as people came up to view my mom, many said, "you look just like your mother" and now I'm wondering exactly what they meant.

My mom will continue to impact my life until I take my last breath.  I will continue her legacy of cooking holiday meals, using her recipes, and hopefully, keeping her memory alive for ever.

I will leave you with one of my most favorite stories about mom:

On one of her birthdays, quite a few years ago, dad forgot to get her something.  She was visibly upset and yelled at him, "At least you could have gotten me a fucking cake".  It was the first and only time I ever heard my mother use that word; my favorite go-to curse word when I am upset.  The next year, he got her a cake and we wrote on it, "here's your fucking cake".  She laughed until she cried.

Florence Helen Strange

5/2/33-12/30/18

Snow

 

     He grumbled as he walked past the bay window off the breakfast nook.  The landscape was covered in a blanket of fresh snow that fell through the night, adding to the previous snow-fall from the last five days.  He despised snow; every flake was an insult and a reminder of what it had taken from him eight years prior.
     Vermont was not an ideal state to reside if one hates snow but he was born there and has lived there all his 78 years and is reconciled to live what remained of his life in the only state and town he has ever called home.

     As a boy, he couldn't wait for the snow although in Vermont, schools seldom close because of snow.  As a teenager, he earned a dime an hour shoveling snow from the neighbors' walkways.  As a man, he earned a good living plowing the streets, parking lots, and major roadways for the city.  Snow was so much a part of his life that people referred to him as  "the snow man".
     He met Emma when he was 22 years old; she worked at the grocery store owned by her family.  He plowed the parking lot three times a day, but only charged Emma's father for two, hoping to catch Emma at the register or stocking shelves as he filled his thermos with hot coffee.  It became a running joke with Emma's father.  "I'm not paying you for three plows", Emma's father would bark and then smile and wink.  "No sir; the third plow is free" he would respond and Emma fell deeper in love every single time.  He proposed that summer and they were married the week following Thanksgiving.  They never had children although they both longed to be parents.  They were never able to conceive but were plenty happy living the next 49 years deeply and completely in love.
     Eight years prior, Emma was waken at 2 am by their dog, Tiny, to go outside.  She put on her bathrobe and boots and stepped out on the door step and let Tiny down to do her business.  As she stepped forward, she slipped on a patch of ice, fell, and hit her head.  She was unconscious in the bitter -8 degree weather for five hours.  He found her and Tiny, both without life; taken by the cold and the snow.
     As he passed the bay window he caught sight of John and Betty's grandchildren playing in the snow.  The family was visiting from Miami, Florida, and the children had never once seen snow in person.  The two year old was crying hysterically and wanted nothing to do with the cold wetness of the snow.

The five and eight year old were building lop-sided snowmen and waging a snowball war on their father.
  Their mother was spooning mounds of snow into a bowl; most likely to make snow cream for the children.  John and Betty watched from the warmth and comfort of their living room window.  It had been many years since their daughter had been home during winter months.  She left Vermont right out of high school to attend college in Florida.  She met and married her husband and they built their lives in Miami.  John and Betty migrated with all the other snowbirds just before the first snow and didn't return until mid-April.  This year, however, they didn't go South for the winter simply because they missed the snow.
     He lingered in front of the bay window for a bit before moving into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of coffee.  As he reached for his mug, his sleeve caught the chipped lip of Emma's favorite cup.

He had found it at a thrift store for a quarter nearly twenty years ago.  He got it for her because of the picture of the penguins sliding in the snow.  She loved penguins; she would always say, "penguins are what smiles are made of".  He took the cup off the shelf, gave it a good wash, and poured his coffee to the rim.  He placed his lips where hers would have been and took a sip of coffee.  He closed his eyes and pictured Emma sitting across from him, hair all messy from a sound nights sleep, sipping coffee and eating toast as she did every morning of their marriage.  It was a sweet memory and didn't hurt him as badly today as other memories had hurt him before.  As he sat quietly with his memory, he could hear the sounds of the children next door.  The laughing, screaming, crying; sounds of life that he had missed so very much.
     He returned to the bay window and watched the children play.  It was the first time in a very long time that the ends of his mouth turned upward into a smile.  His youth came flooding back like a slide show on fast-forward.  The hours he played in and shoveled the snow were some of the best times of his life.  The hours of building snow-forts where his team lay in waiting to ambush the other team with the 200 snowballs they had prepared for the most epic of snowball fights.

He found himself giggling just a bit and realized he was tired of being mad at life and mad at snow.  Emma would be so angry at him for all the time he has lost cursing the things he could never change.
     He pulled on his boots, gloves, hat, scarf, and coat and stepped out into the snow.  He walked around to the side of the house where the children were playing.  He walked to his shed behind the house, pulled open the doors, and drug out the two beautiful sleds he and Emma used every winter until they were too old to walk up Bakers Hill.  He dusted them off and pulled them around the house.  He called the two older children over and handed them the toe-ropes for the sleds. "Ask your mom to take you to Bakers Hill; she knows the best place to go".

   







He walked back to the shed and pulled out his snow shovel.





















   

Tis The Season...For Anxiety, Stress, Depression, and PTSD

I took my mother to Walmart today, as I do every Saturday, and immediately realized, as I pulled into the parking lot, the season of hell had begun.  Anxiety churned in my empty stomach and rose into my throat, prompting my neuro-sensors to go into over-drive.  I literally had to bite my tongue to stop myself from spewing the four-letter words building in my speech center, until I could drop mom off at the front entrance.  As soon as she got out and shut the door, the cursing began and continued on until I found a decent spot to park and could pull myself together.  I despise Walmart on a good day; this time of year magnifies that disdain by a thousand.  Today began my ritual desire to be put into a medically induced coma until December 31st, at which time, I can be awaken, just in time, to give the year a final middle-finger-salute and grasp at some hope for a better year ahead.

As you can see, I don't do Christmas well.  I never fully enjoy it; the best part of Christmas is Christmas night, when it's all over with.  I don't like Christmas music, Christmas decorations, Christmas movies...pretty much anything that pertains to Christmas is not high on my "happy times" list.  

I suffer with PTSD.  I was a single mother, working to make just enough to keep a roof over our head, food on the table, and utilities on.  I never wanted to disappoint my kids and thus I did what I could to make sure they had a decent Christmas.  I stressed for weeks (beginning the week of Thanksgiving) and would stress every day, all day long, until the season was over.  I cried every day worrying about how I was going to pull it off again.  I didn't sleep much and when I did, it was restless and worrisome.  

People often say to me, "but your kids are grown, you have a great job making decent money; why does it still bother you?"  I put myself through hell for years; that kind of mental trauma doesn't just go away.  It is triggered by the things so many love about this time of year.  Music, shopping, cold weather, commercials; these things are hell to me and most of the time I bury it down so I don't bum everybody else out.  If you notice me not being my bubbly self, now you know why.  I am constantly struggling to keep the madness contained and always feel as though, at any given moment, I might have a come-apart to beat all come-aparts.  

There are more people like myself than anybody knows.  We suffer alone, putting on that fake smile and wishing everybody "Merry Christmas" when, inside our brains, we are saying, "Merry F'en Christmas".  We have to give ourselves pep talks any time we have to go into public and especially if we have to go into a store that is blaring "Jingle Bells", "Have a Holly Jolly Christmas", or "Jingle Bell Rock".  I have been known to walk by a speaker in a store and give it the bird.  The only Christmas song we enjoy is "Silent Night" because it is the one song that gives us hope for a silent night.  

I am not a bad person.  I am a really good person who just really hates Christmas and every second of the over-materialized productions that surround it.  Every year, those productions seems to start earlier than the last.  This year, before Halloween was even over, Christmas shit was being stocked onto the shelves.  Anymore they just lump Thanksgiving into Christmas so that they can get a jump on pushing their Christmas cheer.  Assholes.

I am a scrooge; no doubt about it.  I don't enjoy not enjoying this time of year while everybody else is humming their little songs and sending out Christmas cards, and baking Christmas cookies and planning Christmas parties........AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH  If you see me and ask if I'm ok, I'm going to say "yes" but I want to say "no".  I try not to ruin anybody's Christmas cheer; I don't want to be a Debbie Downer.  I can usually hold it together pretty well until a few days before Christmas Day.  Usually because I put off finishing my shopping until I can no longer put it off so I'm already jacked up on anxiety and Drpepper when I go out into the Christmas public.  At least one time a year I let somebody have it.  It's never somebody innocent; I'm not that much of a shit.  It's usually somebody who is being a shit to a cashier and needs a come-to-jesus moment.  All my pent up stress and anxiety comes spewing out in the most beautiful torrents of cursing, spit, and tears.  It is a wonder I have not had the holy crap beaten out of me by now but really, would you mess with a crazed woman at Christmas?  Don't; just don't.

There will be some reading this who will say they had no idea I go through this every year.  I mask it well, up to a point.  There will be some reading this who are probably crying because they might have thought, all these years, they were the only ones that hate this time of year. Along with how much we despise Christmas, we also have the burden of guilt for hating Christmas.  It's complicated and to most, it makes no sense, but to us, it is completely logical.

Don't go out of your way to get out of my way.  Continue on with your thing; I will still smile and say the words and pretend as though all is right in my world.  I promise I will not attack you for wishing me a Merry Christmas, for sending me a Christmas card, and especially for making those Christmas cookies. I appreciate you as I know you are not to blame for my malfunctioning Christmas Spirit.  

I love you all.

Value of Life

The absolute bottom line, as it pertains to the violence we see in society today, is the lack or loss of the value of human life.  

This was the gist of a comment I made in a post pertaining to the violence/killings this past week in Louisiana, Minnesota, and Texas.  I have tried my best to limit my comments on such posts because it opens up a messy can of worms if one agrees with "Black Lives Matter" or "Cop lives Matters"; it seems one cannot agree with both sides of the equation; one must chose one side or the other.  And there lies the problem with society; we are always having to pick sides.  If you are standing up for black lives, then you are assumed to be anti-cop.  If you are standing up for police, you are seen as anti-black.  Let me put this as politely as I can. That, my friends, is complete bullshit.  But, I'll get back to that later.

The bigger issue, as I see it, is the value of life or the lack there of.  When was it, in our society, that we stopped valuing human life? That question isn't hard to answer; we never have valued the lives of others of different cultures, heritage, or race.  From the time this country was stolen from those whom resided here for hundreds of years before us, fair-skinned European individuals ranked higher in life value than those of other race, culture, or heritage.  Throughout the history of our society,  those of European decent, the Anglo Saxon majority, have hunted, slaughtered, bought and sold, and abused those with less life value than their own.  This is not a debatable fact; history has documented these events in an almost glorious light as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with what they have done.

We, as a society, continue to write and re-write the past in our present and future.  We hide behind political correctness as if it is a shield from the truth.  We glorify the firsts such as, "first African American President; first African American coach to win a Super Bowl; bla bla bla.  We glorify these "firsts" as a showcase of our progression but, in reality, we have not progressed at all as a society.  These are mere tokens; facades that hide the ugly truth.  Like putting a fresh coat of paint on an outhouse and believing it is a royal suite bathroom.  It's still a smelly outhouse that will splinter your ass if you don't sit just right.

Why is it that we need social policies such as political correctness and affirmative action?  Why is it that we continue to have check boxes that label individuals based upon race?  Why is it that we continue to glorify all the "firsts"?  The brutal and blunt fact is, is because our social norms are still based upon the cultural beliefs of the "white" majority; the Anglo Saxon dominance still rules our society.  These social policies are an insult; the equivalent to giving a small piece of stale bread to a starving individual who stands outside the expensive restaurant looking in on all those whom are privileged enough to sit and have a meal.  That is not equality; that is a handout by somebody who believes he/she is better than that starving person looking in from the outside.  Let that soak in for a minute; "looking in from the outside".  

I was exposed to the brutal truth of racism and inequality at the age of ten by an aging teacher whom told me, "good little white girls don't sit with the colored kids".  That was a defining moment in my life and I have never forgotten how it made me feel.  I understood immediately that I would be labeled a "bad little girl" if I sat or played with kids with a different skin color than myself.  I did not conform and refused to take on the labels I was given throughout my school years.

Which takes me back to my original thought; the value of life.  There is a credible, factual, and undeniable need to emphasize that Black lives matter.  Yes, all lives matter but, if you understand the history of our society, white lives have always matter more.  To rebuke the "Black Lives Matter" campaign with the "All Lives Matter" slogan, you are, once again, giving a scrap of stale bread to the starving individuals looking in from the outside.  If this society is to ever survive (honestly I am not sure we will) we must see the value of human life as humanity as a whole and not based upon the value as it compares to the white majority.  All humans are 99.5% alike as it pertains to DNA.  Socially, the variance is considerably more.  How is it that .5% makes such a difference between humans?   It doesn't and it shouldn't.

It isn't a coincidence that young, black males are the target of unjustified violence by police; we, as a society, painted this picture for as long as we have been a society.  We have maintained and nurtured the belief that their lives are of less value than the white majority.  Just as all American Indians were profiled as savages and systematically executed in astonishing numbers, young Black men are profiled as "thugs" and receive the blanket label as deviant.  Social assumptions are powerful; not only for those on the inside looking out, but also for those on the outside looking in.  It is impossible for the insiders to understand how it feels to be an outsider.  The insiders say, "I'm a good person because I give you bread to eat" but the outsiders deserve more than bread; they deserve the whole meal.  But more importantly, they deserve to eat the whole meal along with those inside.  It is not enough to give them a meal; you must be willing to share the space.  And this is where society has lost the value of life.  The belief that it is enough to hand out scraps but not willing to share the space and the full meal.  Generation after generation resentment festers.  The insiders don't understand why there is still so much resentment because they continue to handout the scraps.  The divide widens and that .5% difference might as well be 95%.

People are good and people are bad in all facets of life.  To blame the whole for the actions of a few is ignorant.  I support the maintenance of  the law but will always hold those accountable for their actions.  I will always be a voice and advocate for Black lives and all minorities whom still stand on the outside looking in.  If you do not believe this is the truth about our society, I suggest you be careful on your perch because at some point in life, you will have to come down from it.

I love you all!

Oh Baby, Baby!

Since my last entry, a great deal has happened in our country and I am sure most bloggers/writers put in their two-cents-worth on each of those topics.  I, on the other hand, reserve my blog writings to be completely personal so that I can appease my narcissistic side.  So, there will be no talk of gorillas, Orlando, or alligators.  I take that back; there is one thing I will say:  Shit happens; bad shit, to good, decent people and none of us are immune to it.  Resolution to issues will never come about by submitting inappropriate comments from arm-chair-quarterbacks sitting behind a computer screen whom believe they are perfection wrapped in a pretty bow.  Wake up people; our country has gone to hell and all the Twitter and Facebook posts in the world will not change that.

So, back to the more important subject; me.  As of today, the most prevalent topic on my mind is my very pregnant daughter whom is about to give birth to my fourth grandchild.  

   I had been with her for a week, expecting it to happen at any given moment, but this child is holding out; content to stay nice and snug where he or she is.  My daughter and her husband decided to let this baby be a surprise.  They did not find out the gender as they want that "television moment" where the doctor announces "it's a boy" or "it's a girl".  I have to agree; it is quite exciting to finally get to meet this child with all the months of not knowing who it is we will be meeting.  My daughter and husband have names picked out but are not sharing those with us until the arrival.  This only makes me nervous for the fact that I hope it is a name that doesn't take time to get used to.  "Meet your granddaughter, 'Flower Pedal'" or "Meet your grandson Armadillo Blake".  I would have to fake a smile and quickly come up with a nic-name suitable for the child.  I have faith they wouldn't give their child a names like that, but in the age of "North West", you never know.

My first ex-husband is in town for Father's Day.  I have not throat punched, cussed (to his face anyways) or shown my ass...yet.  

 After several years of complete silence, I was finally able to re-connect with one of my most favorite people in the world.  My persistence paid off and we have picked up right where we left off. This is somebody I truly care about and love and over the past few years, I have felt like something was missing.  I feel like that something is no longer missing.  It is very nice to have that person whom will listen to my rants, without judgement, and then return a comment that makes me laugh out loud.  We all need "that somebody" and I am so very happy to have my somebody back.

Short and sweet this blog; daughter is calling and needing her mother.  I'm getting her up walking or, at least, putting her on the trampoline and seeing if gravity will work.

Love to all

Pig Roast, Hospitals, and Murphy's Law

You know what they say about the best-laid plans...

For four months my brother and I had been planning a big birthday celebration for my father.  One month in I realized my brother thought this would be my fathers' 90th birthday when, in fact, it would be his 89th.  Right off the bat, Murphy and his stupid law came into play.  We should have aborted the whole deal right then but we decided to move forward with our plans.

I put in for a vacation day the day before the party.  The pig had been ordered and supplies were purchased.  I got off work Thursday at 8:30 pm, got home, and at 10:30 pm dad needed to go to the ER.  Spent the next four hours hoping to get the situation sorted (and they thought they had) got home, slept for two hours, got up, and headed to finish the shopping.  Two carts of supplies later, I emerge from the battle field of Walmart to the hardest rain I have ever seen.  I waited for 15 minutes because, in theory, there is no way it can keep raining that hard for that long.  Wrong!  It was not letting up...so off I ran, pulling two carts and getting soaked.  Groceries in trunk, I return the cart to its proper place (because I, for the life of me, cannot leave it lingering in the parking lot) I jump in my car, and yes, the rain eased up.  F'you Murphy...you sick SOB.  As I pull into the driveway, I kid you not, it begins another torrential downpour and will not let up.  Soaked again.

I unload all the groceries and start cooking...baked beans, mac'n'cheese, and marinated vegetables.  I have to go back to town two or three more times, between cleaning and cooking, before I get settled in for the night.  I finally get to a place where I can relax for a bit and dad realizes he has another problem.  This is something we can monitor for a bit so at 11 pm I tell him to wake me if the problem persists.  At 3 am (just 2 hours after I fell asleep) the problem persists, so off we go, back to the ER (the same ER as the night before...1st mistake).  They (the doctors) resolve the issue (or so they thought) and four hours later we are on the way home.  My brother is less than an hour away with the pig, so there would be no sleep for me.  I hate you Murphy.

My brother arrives with the pig...they get the grill fired up and the pig goes on the grill.  (PETA will love this picture)

This little piggy went to market

Everything goes well for the next 5 or 6 hours and then the problem we thought was resolved, wasn't resolved at all.  I finally put in a call to my fathers' urologist and explain the issue and he insists that I bring him to the hospital he is with, 30 miles away.  So at 3 pm, as guests begin to arrive, the guest of honor and myself take off to yet another ER for the third time in as many days.  I did manage to get a bite of charred pig ear, (which was tasty by the way), as we headed down the not so yellow brick road.  Murphy, I would stomp your ass if I knew who you were and could find you...or a distant relative of yours...jerk.

Seven hours later he was finally admitted and in his room. I tucked him in, wished him a happy birthday, (in a rather sarcastic tone), and drove myself home to a smoldering pig carcass and a dirty house.  If there was ever a time I wished I could drink alcohol, that was it.  I stared at a bottle of whiskey like it was a naked George Clooney but then decided it wasn't worth the hang-over.  I went into my room, shut the door, and collapsed into bed, too exhausted to sleep.  I flipped through the channels to find something to help me fall asleep and came upon "Sex sent me to the ER" and literally laughed so hard I peed myself.  It was as though Murphy was laying right beside me saying, "I created this law just for this very day".  I punched the pillow beside me and swore, if I ever meet anybody with the name "Murphy" I would punch him in the throat.

That was a week ago, almost to the minute as I type this.  I have spent the last seven days spending the entire day with dad at the hospital and then coming home to make sure mom wasn't trying to do anything she shouldn't be doing.  I have eaten Subway every day (except today) and haven't lost a single pound.  I call bullshit on the whole eating subway to lose weight diet.  But I guess that diet didn't include the three chocolate chip cookies I had along with the sandwiches.

The original issue in which dad was admitted for was resolved after two days but then a new issue came to light and that has not been as easy to fix.  Every day the doctor says, "one more day".  The first few days I was pleasant and patient but now I'm like the worst case scenario of the patient family member that nurses dread most.  I have too much medical knowledge, hospital administrative knowledge, and a nose for bullshit.  By day four I was throwing out clues that I'm no dummy and I want information.  Don't just tell me his sodium is low; I want the numbers.  Don't just tell me you are trying to resolve the issue; I want details of how you plan to do this and what medications you plan to use, how often, and why you think that is a good plan of action.  If I call and ask how my father is doing, don't try to pacify me by saying "not much has changed"; I want to know the lab results from the most recent blood work.  I am my fathers voice; literally, because he is experiencing hospital psychosis and is not completely oriented and can't really speak for himself.

So yes, the best laid plans...bla bla bla...that's life.  Not everything can always go as planned.  Bumps in a road that is also curvy, twisting, covered in snow with a bridge out...but we still find a way through.  I made this commitment to my parents three years ago; to be here for them no matter what.  It doesn't feel like a chore or something inconvenient I have to do.  It feels like the natural and right thing to do.  Nobody should worry about how they are going to get along when they get too old to do everything for themselves. I am not their babysitter.  I am a care-taker/safety net.  I am here when they need me and that gives them the peace of mind they need to enjoy their golden years.  Life is what it is; it's all about making navigation changes to maneuver around the obstacles.  

I still hate you Murphy.

Life as a Single Woman in her 50's

"Are you single or have a significant other?" I say "yes" to both.  They ask, "How can you be single and have a significant other?"  Well let me tell you, but first, a little back-story.

I have been married and divorced three times.  As hindsight goes, those failed marriages were as much my fault as theirs.  I had one long-term relationship since my last divorce and would still be with him if the geography were different.  We had a wonderful relationship but there is too many miles between Michigan and Kentucky; his kids are there and my kids are here and one cannot be in two places at the same time.  In the end, my responsibility and heart-strings pulled me back to Kentucky and that was that.

Since that split, three years ago, I have not dated; not even once.  I haven't even played with the idea of getting into another relationship.  But that does not mean I do not have a significant other.  In fact, I have many significant others.

I have my parents, whom I live with and care for in their golden age.  I have my three wonderful, beautiful, and sometimes demanding grown children.  I have my amazing, loves-of-my-life grand children whom fill my heart with so much love that I sometimes cry because the love is so strong.  I have my brothers; one older, one younger; both very close to me.  I have many nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews.  I have my friends, co-workers, and many, many acquaintances that make every day memorable.  These are my significant others and honestly, my life is amazingly full.

However, some people ask me, "What is it like to be single in your 50's?".   It is liberating, freeing, and pretty damn awesome 99.999% of the time.  Honestly, the longer I am single, the less I think about being in a relationship.  I joke around about wanting to date but when it comes down to it, I can't even imagine starting over again. The investment alone is daunting not to mention all the other responsibilities that come with having a "boyfriend".

These are a few of the questions people ask me about being single.

Don't you miss having somebody to sleep with at night?

No! I rather enjoy having the bed all to myself, hogging the covers, and watching what I want to watch whenever I want to watch it. I do not miss the snoring, farting, and having to be ever-so-quiet because somebody else is trying to sleep next to me.  At those times when I am feeling nostalgic about having a bed partner, I have my oldest granddaughter come stay the night.  She reminds me of why I like sleeping alone with her grinding her teeth and the need to sleep as close to me as she can possibly get.

Don't you miss getting all dressed up and going out on the town?

What? Really?  By 3 pm I am counting the minutes until I can get home and get out of my bra and make up and put on my comfy clothes.  Getting all dressed up sort of sounds like one would have to shave her legs which is not something I do routinely and see no real need to do unless I am having a pedicure or going to the gynecologist.  At this stage in my life, (post-menopausal) the most prevalent body hair I am concerned with grows on my upper lip.

Don't you want somebody to grow old with?

Yes, my kids and grand children.  When I am old, demented, and refuse to shower, I want to live with my children to show them what it was like when they were growing up.  I think it is only fair.  I want them to change my diapers, feed me, and hold me when I cry.  The circle of life and all.

And the inevitable...

Don't you miss the sex?

What part of the whole not shaving thing didn't you understand? I would miss chocolate and Dr Pepper more than I miss sex.  I am devoutly abstinent and am perfectly content as such.

What do you miss then?

I miss him and how he was my best friend.  I miss how we laughed and how we got each other.  He was and still is a good man and a part of me will always love him.  What we had was real and perhaps I don't want to tarnish what that was with something that can never measure up to what that was.  Perhaps I want to end that part of my life on a high note knowing that I did have true love at least once in my life and that is enough.

But life is strange and one never knows what can happen from minute to minute.  I do not plan nor do I seek a relationship but that doesn't me it can't or won't happen.  I am fulfilled in my life.  No love will ever be stronger than what I feel for my grandchildren.  No touch will ever be sweeter than the touch from my grandchildren.  I am perfectly content "single" but not really single.