Of Turkeys and Trucks

Dixie and I have been walking a little further into the neighborhood every day. Now, Dixie is a complete fraidy cat and she balks at the presence of not only garbage haulers and trailers with lawnmowers. Sometimes, she runs from oversized pickups. If it’s dusk, she’ll bark at a new shadow on the street.

A few days ago, just as we were about to reach the large gazebo next to the tennis court about the distance of three city blocks, our resident Tom Turkey gobbled from a patch of trees on a small rise. Dixie wanted nothing to do with that kind of noise. She strained on the leash to get back home.

Oh, no, you won’t!

A couple of days after that, we encountered the sizeable fellow down the hill from the walking trail. I stopped to take pictures. Dixie stared at the big bird, giving him ‘the look.’ She yanked me back to the trail.

This big guy has been here for months now, and we often see the rest of the flock, but he seems to wander around without the other birds. My daughter-in-law informs me that he’s hanging out all over our Nippers Corner area. She and my son live just a half-mile down the road and she’s quite familiar with him, she says.

VB, our closest neighbor, has had more than one visitation to her backyard by the whole flock. She’s taken photos and texted them to me.

I suppose someone has named him already but I figure it was something mundane like Tommy or Gobbler. There are people in our neighborhood, though, who might choose something more stately, say, Turner. When VB heard the story about Dixie being a bit wary of the gobbles, she said, “That poor old thing is looking for a mate.” I told her we could call him Harry the Horny. (I’d heard that title before but didn’t know when or where.)

This morning, Dixie got some early barking in when the truck came for the weekly garbage pickup. She parted the white cafe curtains to give it her best mezzo-soprano crescendo. I waited until she was sure she’d run off the noisy old vehicle before heading out on our morning walk.

Just as we made it to the bottom of our little hamlet to the main road of the development, Harry appeared in all his glory, strutting his stuff in the middle of the road. His tail fanned out and his body inflated like a hot-air balloon. Wobbling on those spindly legs, I imagined that he could float into the air. (Wild turkeys can fly: domestic ones, not so much.) Harry’s swollen hood almost blocked his eyes, and his eight-inch beard swung in the breeze. Two hens picked at the grass of the corner lot, ignoring their suitor just a few feet away.

He danced circles in the street and gobbled, repeating himself after each turn. Dixie pawed me to pick her up. When I heard vehicles coming, I stepped out into the road, my twelve-pound dog under my arm, to slow them down and point to Harry in the middle of the street. Two people rolled down their windows and thanked me. He pranced and gurgled as loud as he could, and the vehicles carefully took what was left of the pavement around His Majesty.

The minute I set Dixie down and said, “Okay, let’s go home,” Harry trotted toward me! Dixie growled and howled at the same time and was in my arms again before I could even yell at him. I broke into my fastest run. He was gaining on us when a car came down the street and honked. He turned toward the hill where the lady turkeys still blithely grazed.

I huffed and puffed, trying to recover from such an outburst of energy, and said, “Okay, Dixie, you are going to have to walk up this hill.” I set her down and that’s when the moving van appeared.

I lifted her again and she wrapped her legs around me. That dog never did pee or poop on that trip. When I got her home, I turned her loose in the part of the backyard I call the Dog Run to do her business. It’s a fenced area just right for a dog playground. I sat down on one of the old rusted lawn chairs to keep an eye on her. Our neighborhood owl could scoop her up–or maybe even one of the hawks we see perching on the fence.

I do love our morning walks. Sometimes I get a good workout. I sat down at my laptop and looked up Harry the Horny. I slammed it shut when something about Horny Harry Potter showed up.

The Rest of the Story

About that Covid stuff. You remember, I thought we were doing great on Day 2?

On Day 3 in Covid Compound, we were both in worse shape than the day before. Seriously worse. Dave was heavily congested and so was I. Neither of us could move around for too long. We tried to continue working. That was a failure. We were down. Stuck to either bed or recliner.

Friday morning, at about 2:00 A.M., I woke with the worst chest pain I’ve ever experienced and nausea that kept my head swimming and my body weaving. I drank half the largest size of Maalox and thought it helped for a while but it was only a short while. By daylight, I knew I should get to the ER. I called 911 and pulled on the first bra I could find and covered it with my pajama top.

I told Dave (can’t remember where we were), “Ambulance is coming.”

“You called 911?” he asked. “Yourself?” He followed close behind me through the house.

I think I might have said, “Fastest way.”

He tracked me to the front door. The ambulance had arrived and the responders roamed the street. (This was at The Compound, where everybody has trouble figuring out where to go, sometimes including the residents.) I staggered across the yard to the ambulance holding my chest with my cell phone and waving with the other.

As I serpentined toward the vehicle, Dave yelled from the front porch, “Call me and I’ll pick you up.”

“Chest pain,” I said as I pulled myself into the side door and up the three steps to what looked like a big reclining chair. I kept adding,”I have COVID.” Nothing exacerbated, but I was about to throw up. The attendant pushed me into the bed thing and handed me a big plastic cup with something that fit under my chin so that nobody would be splashed with vomit. I thought how efficient that little bowl was and wondered why I’d never seen one of those until then. She slapped some wires on me, took vitals, and off we went. Somebody was radioing all my problems. I heard, “Patient is ambulatory” and thought, She won’t be for long.

Poor Dave. No one paid a bit of attention to him. He could have passed out on the floor and no one would have noticed. I bet he didn’t even have his phone in his pocket.

***

When a person claims chest pain, they get a lot of attention at the hospital.

The cool, young, well-tatted doctor said, “Hello, Diana, I’m Stephen and I’m going to get you better.” I like this guy. He knows me. I saw him when I fell in the freezer and broke my ribs. I didn’t remind him. Stephen is his middle name. His first and last names have a whole bunch of consonants. I wondered if he might be from Iceland.

The nurse took vitals while we talked and hooked me up to the equipment that seems to keep tabs on everything–blood pressure, oxygen level, and more. She ran an EKG.

“So you’re not feeling too well,” he said. “Tell me about this pain in your chest.”

I gave him the rundown, whispering, while the pain in the center of my chest intensified. I let him know about my gallbladder issues. (It’s full of stones.)

“Let’s listen to your heart,” he said.

He asked if I was having trouble breathing.

“It’s pretty shallow,” I said, “but I don’t think breathing makes the pain any worse. I’m getting along. The breath only goes down so far. Asthma, you know.”

“Well, we’re going to run a couple of tests, okay?”

“Sure,” I said.

He and the nurse stepped out.

The X-ray people were the first to come to the room. They were fast.

Dr. Stephen came back in with the nurse behind him.

“Your blood pressure is up. Do you take blood pressure medication?”

“Yes, losartan, amlodipine, and HCTZ.”

“Did you take it this morning?”

“Heavens, no, it was never a thought,” I answered.

“We’ll get you some,” he said, and left.

The sweet nurse came in and handed me a pill and a small cup of Maalox. I told her I’d dosed myself generously several times before I got there. “Stephen wants you to have it,” she said, “and I’m going to put some lidocaine in your IV.”

Her effort might have have helped some. But just some.

I think I dozed in between tests, tests, and more tests.

The doctor came into the room to feel me up again. None of the tests offered any diagnosis, he said. Even the gallstones were ruled out. Everywhere he prodded hurt, but my chest pain lingered. My heart was fine, he said. But the squeezing pain was still there. Maybe it just couldn’t get any worse.

“What did you eat for dinner last night?” he asked, pushing on my belly.

I answered, “Chicken, broccoli, potato.”

“I bet that chicken was fried,” he said.

“No,” I said, “as a matter of fact, it was baked in the oven with a few bread crumbs sprinkled on top and sprayed with olive oil. Now I did drink a skinny margarita.”

He chuckled. “Whoaaaa,” he said.”You’re my girl!”

I didn’t know quite what that meant, but I laughed, too.

“I think it was the margarita,” he said.

“I don’t,” I said. “This is not your regular heartburn.”

Well, huh. I had heard that alcohol and Covid do not mix well, but just didn’t think about it when I downed my sugar-free concoction. But I still felt that this was something more. It was like some sort of spasm under my breastbone, and it was still there, only a slight bit less than when I arrived at the ER.

Dr. Stephen released me with the instruction to see my regular doctor in a week.

“This will get better,” he said.

I left the cubicle wondering about the possibility.

I called Dave from the waiting room. When I got in the van, he asked if I was any better.

I shook my head.

***

Dr. Diana remembered that Dr. Ben Smith one time told her the best muscle relaxer in the world is Valium. Of course, no one prescribes it much because it’s so addictive. I was about to go on a hunt.

Mom was given a prescription for the generic by hospice, and there were a couple left over. I found it in the top layer of a box of her clothes on the bedroom floor and swallowed one in a hurry.

In thirty minutes, all pain was gone.

We got well over seven days. Actually, I don’t even remember how Dave was doing. I think he was over it before I was. The virus like me more than him. I wouldn’t wish ill for my sweet man, but I do think life just isn’t fair sometimes. I mean, he had a skinny margarita, too.


A Thanksgiving Story

This story is from my dear friend, Angie Klapuch. I think she wants me to share it.

*****

I was recently asked this question, “Did you ever want a sister?” My answer was that I never even thought about it. I’ve only had brothers. One older half-brother, one full brother, and one younger half-brother. I was the only girl and that was just the way it was.

For a few generations on my Dad’s side of the family, we were always told that we had a great-grandparent that was a full-blooded Cherokee. It certainly explained these high cheekbones. Also, verbal history said that the Hogue’s were of French descent.

In 2018, with curiosity high and the ballooning of DNA tests available, Dad and I decided we would do a DNA test to either confirm or dispute these oral histories that have been embedded into our family’s history.

The results came in and we are mostly Irish and Scottish.🤦🏻‍♀️🤣 No American Indian, no French. So, I don’t know where these cheekbones came from.

Since then, our DNA has just been lying out there without any other major revelations.

Fast forward to September 14, 2022. I received a message from a lady stating that she had recently received her DNA results which showed that I was her half-sister and that my dad was her father. Needless to say, I was floored.

I was then tasked with the decision to either tell my 83-year-old father or not tell him. I didn’t take the decision lightly. Could he handle it? But, he is the only one that could provide some clarity. Maybe. Ultimately, I told him. He may be 83 but he is still very competent, independent, and makes all of his own decisions.

Dad was equally floored by this new information. Dad assured me that he was never aware of this child. But, here we were wrapping our minds around me having a big sister and dad having another daughter. Strange.

Dad’s emotions were all over the place. Angry that the birth mother didn’t tell him. Guilt and sadness that he didn’t raise his own child. Embarrassment that he had to talk about this with me. I kept it positive and non-judgmental. We both agreed that whatever questions or curiosities that this person had deserved to be answered. We were about to pull up our bootstraps!

In 1959, Dad was fresh out of the military and was back in California where his parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, and cousins lived. He was twenty.

He moved back to Louisiana in January 1960. This new daughter was born July 5, 1960. Dad turned 21 that same day. Yes, they share the same birthday!

She and I began exchanging pictures and histories. She was placed for adoption upon birth and was chosen by two loving parents and an older sister. Not only was I able to provide information about our family, but was also able to provide some information about her birth mother.

After a few weeks, I went out on a limb and invited her to our home for Thanksgiving. I really thought I was pressing my luck and was afraid I might have become too pushy. But, after a couple days, she responded back and accepted my invitation. She accepted an invitation to travel from Michigan to Tennessee to meet a bunch of strangers she knew very little about. All she knew was that we shared DNA and that was enough. She is brave and adventurous that is for certain. Maybe even a tad crazy…which just might be an inherited trait.😜

So now I had to tell my Dad that she was coming and ask if he wanted to be here as well. Without hesitation, he said he would be here one way or another. He had a new daughter and nothing was going to keep him from an opportunity to meet her.

We gathered awaiting her arrival. Eli was here from NY. Dad was here from Arkansas. Anxiety was high. What will she look like? Does she look like us? Will she like us? Does she want a relationship? Do we want a relationship? Heads swirling, hearts racing.

Let me just say, Thanksgiving could not have been better. This stranger, who is a stranger no more, is kind, smart, and intriguing. She is incredibly thankful for our willingness to open our hearts to her; and, vice versa.

My dad is a quiet man who internalizes pretty much everything. He has allowed himself to be vulnerable. The two of them talked non-stop for the five days she spent with us. They have talked on the phone multiple times since they’ve both been home. Dad keeps telling me that they have 62 years to catch up on. Yes, they do.

All of Dad’s anxieties have melted away and this experience has been nothing but positive for him. It’s as if a new breath of life has filled him, and I know I made the right decision telling him.

So, back to the question, “Did you ever want a sister?” The question she should have asked was, “Do you want a sister?”

Yes, Barbara Jan Rumple, I do want a sister and I am thankful it’s you.

I think Dad is happy, too! Angie on left, Barbara on right.

Day 2: Not as bad.

It’s not over, but it is better. The fever is gone. The body aches have subsided for the most part. The headache is much improved, although the full, foggy head is still around. I’m eating broccoli salad for breakfast. Now to get the coughing to subside.

I was already having some trouble with my asthma, warranting a visit with the pulmonologist week before last. I had a televisit with my primary care physician yesterday. We talked mainly about the anti-viral drug. It has several side effects that I don’t like. She prescribed it, and if the symptoms should suddenly worsen, I’ll take it later today. I feel like my body can deal with this mild case.

The pulmonologist had a few better ideas. Use the nebulizer. Use the rescue inhaler. Lie on my belly for 30 minutes several times during the day. Evidently, that helps the lung tissue on the back. Huh. And then she told me to take some Vitamin D, some zinc, and Vitamin C. Increase the aspirin dosage to 325.

I think about all those people who had a real case of this cruel virus, so bad that millions died. I’m in the compromised bunch, and I am so thankful that President Trump spurred a quick development of the vaccine.

I’ll do everything they tell me to do. No one told me not to work, so it’s back to packing (and unpacking) a few more things.

It was bound to happen.

So this is an image I downloaded from the Internet, but my lines were there, much more definitive, in about 20 seconds into the 5-minute waiting time for the results.

We moved our SleepNumber bed to the new house yesterday, but it wasn’t set up so we stayed at The Compound last night. We have two beds here, one full, one queen, that will be sold in the estate sale. Dave and I wrestled the sheets and comforter onto the queen bed, and both of us slept there.

At about 2:00 a.m., I woke to a feeling that I had to get out of that bed because everything in my body hurt. I first decided it was the mattress so different from my bed, but about an hour later, I thought, “Oh sh*t, I have Covid.” My throat was sore, and my nose was running so much that I put a wadded-up Kleenex in my C-pap mask under my mouth. I later transferred my tissue to above my lips, since, well, stuff was running down my mouth. I thought maybe my temperature was rising. Cough, cough, cough!

After being awake for two hours in that miserable bed, I got up and thought I’d just quietly pack a few boxes. All I could manage to do was sit in a chair. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so I finally eased back into the bed. I think I dozed a little. 6:00 came quickly.

I started searching for our Covid tests, and don’t you know, that husband of mine had them readily available. He’s a little more organized that I am.

The first test was quick to produce a positive result. I thought, Wait a minute, I better check the expiration date. 07/22. Oh well, we won’t pay any attention to that one. The next two in the medicine cabinet had expiration dates of 11/22. Well. Let’s just see.

Once again, those bright little lines rushed across the test result card. I texted everyone I’d seen in the last five days and told them to watch out!!!

I have a fever. Last time I checked, it was 101. That’s uncomfortable, but bearable. My throat is sore. A homemade diet Margarita makes it feel better. My ears hurt. My head is a bowl of moving rocks that seem to want to find a way out of my skull. Every joint hurts, joints I’d forgotten about or didn’t know existed. I lean on my nebulizer machine.

My mind: There is a big fog surrounding my head, and it takes me twenty seconds to find the name of something I want to talk about. The latter doesn’t bother me too much because I was already a bit wafty with names and words before the virus hit.

The moving continues. Neil went to the Xfinity store to pick up cable boxes, installed those and the network, and assembled and hooked up the TV our realtor gave us as a housekeeping gift. Tomorrow, when I go over there, I’ll have new stuff to work with. Tonight, Neil and his son will move some refrigerators to the garage, and bring back a table and chairs that doesn’t really look good in the new house. He’s already done something like this just a couple days ago. When we moved a table, umbrella, and six chairs to the upper deck, it was obvious they just did not fit. No one could get under the table comfortably. Neil replaced that extremely heavy set with a bistro set I had planned to leave at The Compound.

Neil checked the koi and winterized the irrigation system. He keeps an empathetic attitude and doesn’t complain (too) much. Actually, he doesn’t complain at all.

Dave will sleep in the queen bed again tonight. I’ll sleep on a full bed in my Dad’s room. We’re going to have a freeze tonight. I’ve moved every plant to the walls of the house for safety. Tomorrow we may have to take them all inside. There is a huge palm at the other house that should have been brought inside. Some of my favorites may get indignant or even freeze, God forbid.

I cannot think too much about the plants right now. I’ve done what I can do. Thank God for Neil. Thank God for Dave Revell, the best husband in the world.

This better not take more than a few days.

From the Compound On the Ravine to…

A Cottage…

On a (Smaller) Ravine.

We didn’t intend to move this soon after Mom’s passing, but then this house popped up and three other family members and our realtor saw it just about the time Dave and I saw it (they were searching) and everybody thought it was the perfect house for us!

It was quite the deal but we closed on September 19, and now we’re packing and moving. Packing and moving are now “quite the deal” since we are not taking everything and there is an estate sale in November. Staging the house for sale and preparing for an estate sale are two entirely different things that shouldn’t happen simultaneously.

But we’re known for some chaos.

We’ll tell you more later. There’s so much more to say.

Waiting for Wild Horses

I am healing in this most gracious Airbnb in Fernley, Nevada. My brother lives here, but we hadn’t seen each other in three years. I brought some of Mom’s ashes. Denny says they’ll be buried with him.

I’m not sure what kind of restoration I need, but I think I’m receiving it here. I haven’t wept yet, but I’ve wandered around in some sort of a brain fog for weeks, and sometimes I can see a black hole on the right side of my body. The hole travels with me when I’m walking.

Toni, my host, lives in this 1100-square-foot house on a tiny plot of land here in the desert, but she is a Master Gardener, so she has a front lawn and back and flowers everywhere. She offers her master bedroom as a rest for the weary, a quiet oasis where love abounds and healing is possible. She is a joyful provider of shortbread cookies, muffins, and so many goodies I can’t name them all. She runs a not-for-profit (a real one that makes no money) to feed about eighty seniors in this small town. She used to cast movies and videos with some big names, and I bet she was good at it, but she seems so happy with this life of hers that her grace is contagious.

The kitchen is a bright, cool place to be in the mornings. I open the back door for more light and (dry) air. The same little lizard suns on the privacy fence every day. There is a wide easement beyond that fence where wild horses and one donkey appear every morning. I haven’t seen them yet, but I’ve been watching. One time a few years ago, I saw some wild horses on the drive from Reno to Fernley.

So many familiar reminders have appeared since I arrived. I saw a woman in the grocery store with a huge windcatcher tattoo wrapped around her arm, just like one of the seven Mom attached to her walker handles. At Toni’s house, little things keep popping up: a small, decorative screen door like one I bought (and don’t know if I even still have it), the flour sack towels, a hat that is so much like one that Dad wore in the garden (it took my breath away), a bird print outdoor pillow that is the same fabric I have folded up in a drawer, the identical taupe checked fabric of my bedroom curtains on the dining chairs. The sunflowers.

Oh, there’s more. The one that made me laugh is the bubble gum machine. Jade and John had one. It was just like Toni’s except theirs was red. The story that goes with that one has to do with a certain twelve-year-old son renting out his Dad’s Playboys and stashing the money in the bottom of the bubble gum machine. I only found out about that about thirty years later.

My rental Nissan Rogue sports Tennessee plates. When I arrived at Toni’s house, she was watching the last Hallmark movie I watched with Mom. I didn’t notice the Tennessee license plates until Bev mentioned it. Toni later told me she thought, “Surely that woman did not drive here from Tennessee!” And in Wal-Mart in Fernley, NV, a shirt with Nashville on the front!

We’re having a family gathering tomorrow. Denny, Bev, their children Jim, Angie, Jena, and their grandchildren. I’m not sure who else might be invited, but it’s going to be a large occasion with Olive Garden food, music from the great-grands, and lots of stories! Jim’s wife and the greats will choose which pieces of Mom’s jewelry they would like from a large cache I brought with me, except for Angie–she gets Mom’s wedding rings. Bev got to choose last night.

Mom died peacefully in her sleep on June 24 after a one-month illness. Tomorrow marks one month out. It’s too soon to expect too much restoration on my part, but I feel something working.

I thought Toni said I should look for the horses between 6:00 and 9:00 a.m. (Huh. Duh. Brain fog.) This morning, when I told her I was still watching for them, she said no, it’s between 4:00 and 6:00.

We don’t have wild horses in Tennessee. I’ve set an alarm for tomorrow at 4:00 a.m. It’s almost 11:00 a.m., and my little lizard is still sunning and running from one rail to the other, and I need to shower and get to my brother’s house.

But tomorrow morning, I’ll be waiting for wild horses.

No wild horses yet.

The Space Between

THE SPACE BETWEEN

sumos quo sumos

-Lake Woebegone Official Motto

LARRY RICHARDSON
They say, (the people who know), 
the universe is mostly space. 
An empty place. 
Furthermore, these people who know 
insist that the same is true 
for me and you. 

We are all, it seems, 
just lots of nothing 
between tiny bits of solid stuff, 
just barely enough 
to hold us all somewhat together and,
to the world, make it appear 
that we are here. 

But this one thing I think I know for sure: 
a person needs a God to know 
and room to grow. 
And one place where there’s God and room,  
from everything I’ve seen, 
is the space between. 

Larry Richardson

Physical Therapists came yesterday to get Mom to stand and transfer to the reclining chair. The goals for her care have been the same for several days now. They are written on the dry erase board.
  1. Keep systolic blood pressure under 180.
  2. Increase awareness.
  3. Decrease oxygen demands.
  4. Out of bed.

The two therapists aimed at Goal #4. When they asked if she wanted to get out of the bed for a while (the orders are for two hours,) Mom said “No.” When coaxed about three times, and asked if she would help them get her up, she said, “Okay.” She helped to swing her legs around off the bed, and the female therapist said, “Well, look at you! And you’ve got a pretty pedicure, too!” When each therapist linked an elbow to each of Mom’s for support, she tried to push herself up with her hands, one of which is laden with IV needles and tubes. She got up, sort of, but she had no strength to turn herself to the near right to sit on the chair.

After the third try, they put her back in bed. She bent her knees on command and helped them scoot her up in the bed. Then they adjusted this fancy bed to simulate a chair.

She fell asleep as soon as they left the room. When her head bent dramatically to her shoulder, I lifted her head and re-positioned her pillow to make a support.

I wondered, What are we doing here? And then I thought, She really needs to be at home.

This morning, two nurses used the fancy lift in the room to move her to a chair. That machine is amazing! She ate five spoonfuls of oatmeal, drank half a cup of milk, and has been sleeping ever since. The breakfast tray sent earlier was not touched. At lunch, she tried to drink V-8 juice, but it didn’t taste right to her.

Getting her to eat is not one of the goals, even though she eats very little. I’m pretty sure I can prepare food that she won’t eat as well as the hospital does. (I threw that little funny in to make sure we see a little humor.)

The plan is to move her upstairs to what I have always called a step-down unit, a section of the hospital for those moving from ICU to regular hospital rooms or skilled nursing facilities. The criteria for that move is when she is medically able. While she is there, the caseworkers might usually plan for her move to a rehabilitation center. That is not going to happen, the move to a rehabilitation center. I’ve put that out there for everyone.

This morning, watching Mom sound asleep, crumpled in the bed, vulnerable to whatever treatment she receives and whatever is going on around her, I know she needs to be at home, in her own familiar bedroom, with Dixie, Dave, and Neil, and normal routines. (Well, “normal” for the Compound residents might not look normal, but it’s our normal.) We can plan for Home Healthcare, and we will provide true care at home.

She is more lucid than she has been, and she understands a lot of what I tell her, but she is still not completely in the real world. Or maybe it’s that she is in her world, and who’s to say that’s not the real world.

Now I wonder if she will ever be medically able to leave the ICU and at what point the doctor says, “Okay, I give up.” A nurse told me, “They don’t do that. They just keep trying different things.” Her awareness has increased. Her oxygen demands have been met and could continue at home. She’s helped out of bed each day. But there’s that first goal: If she did not have the high-powered drugs delivered by the needle in her arm, she would stroke within hours.

Today, three nurses tried twice each to start a new IV. Mom’s veins are fragile. I asked, “Okay, what’s the next step?”

A pretty blonde nurse answered, “We call in the professionals, the IV therapists.”

About thirty minutes later, a tiny woman appeared with gear in hand. She looked experienced. I asked if I could watch. On the first try, she couldn’t get the IV in, but on the second try (in the other arm), she made a perfect deep stick and entry. I learned a bit and was glad she let me watch, but that’s not really what I want to look at. I hope I never see another needle in Mom’s arm.

I like to picture Mama sleeping in a gauzy forest bed of flowers between two white veils. Through one of the semi-sheer curtains, she sees and feels the comfortable life in her apartment in the Compound and the beauty of all the blooms and foliage right now outside her kitchen window. Dixie runs over to lie in her lap every morning. Dave cares for her as he would his own mom. Neil fixes things and makes her laugh. I’m always there for her. She drinks orange Gatorade every morning followed by her favorite homemade mocha, enjoys her lunch from a tray on her lap, and eats sliced strawberries soaked in sweetened milk. Her nightgown is laid out on the bed each evening, along with night underwear and hospital socks.

Behind the other veil, there is a beckoning Bright Light, so bright that the semi-transparent drape almost disappears. At some point, the Love in that Light will become irresistible. The soul will make her choice.

At the end of this day, I watch her sleep soundly in her ICU bed. Today, she has fulfilled the requirement of getting out of bed and proven her awareness has increased by remembering her full name and the month she was born every time someone asks. (1931? She doesn’t come up with that.) She receives the oxygen well and is not struggling to breathe.

Her blood pressure spikes again and a nurse starts the IV drip.

I think, for this moment, Mama is warm and happy in the space between.

-0-

Woman of the Years

Just a few short months ago, Mama was truly declining. And then, a couple weeks ago, not long after I wrote the last blog piece, Mama got up from her chair!

Mama didn’t like that motorized wheelchair. Her physical therapist told her if she didn’t want to use that, she better get in gear and exercise those legs! I heard her when she made her first trip to the kitchen sink and did kicks and stretches for fifteen minutes. Then I heard her again the same day. She started walking laps around the apartment with her walker.

She didn’t say it to me, but I heard her. “You just wait and see what I can do.”

After about three days, she started dressing herself in the mornings, cleaning if there happened to be an accident in the night. She layered on the Thrive Causemetics eyeshadow stick to match her shirt, penciled in her eyebrows, and fluffed up her hair. About two days after that, she went to the kitchen and poured her own Gatorade (her way to start the day) and got her pills from the daily box, put her eye drops in, and ate her probiotic gummies.

Then, and only then, did she call me to come up from my downstairs office. (I call it The Study. Dave calls it Your Cave. I try to make it down there by 6:30.) It was close to eight o’clock, which means I have almost an hour and a half to take care of some kind of business before caretaking duties begin.

Now, when I greet Mom, it’s only to finish up daily cleaning tasks in her bedroom and make us both a cup of coffee. Well, she drinks a homemade instant mocha mix that we strive to keep enough of in her canister. We visit about this and that, mostly her reporting what she has learned on the phone with friends and family or the TV. I do housework and laundry in between tales.

On shower day, she helps as much as she can. I wash her back and make sure her hair is rinsed well. We both dry her off and get her ready for the day.

I go back to give her some lunch, or some days, she reheats leftovers from the day before, and I sit down to eat lunch with her about three days a week. About five, I return to make a light supper and do her “turn-down service.” I lay out her gown and night socks and a couple pairs of underwear on her bed, check her c-pap to make sure it has enough water, and place her evening pills in a shot glass on the kitchen counter.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. My mother has been bouncing back her whole life.

March, it turns out, is Women’s History Month and one of March’s days, the 8th, is International Women’s Day. I thought I’d tell you a little story about when Mama made her stand for her rights and equal pay with her male colleagues at Texas Boot Company.

When a new Department Head came in a few years after Mom began her stint as a Regional Credit Manager, he interviewed all the managers, sort of a getting-to-know-you outreach. His name was Jim, and the departing Head, Bill. At the end of their talk, he said, “And I’m going to continue Bill’s work on trying to get your pay up to the men’s.”

I can just see Mom’s eyebrows. “Oh?” she said. “Just how much do ‘the men’ make?”

He said, “I’m not sure of each one, but I can find out.” He reached behind his desk to the credenza, pulled out a black notebook, and thumbed through until he landed on the right page and put it on the desk in front of Mom, upside down, and left the room.

Mom could always read fast, especially if she was looking at numbers, and she got what she needed to know in the few seconds the book lay open.

***

She called me the next day and described what she saw.

“Do you know a lawyer who would take my case?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “but you really need to file a complaint with the EEOC.”

“Alright. How do I get started?”

“I think I’d just call their office downtown and ask what you need to do.”

She did. It didn’t take long for her to get an appointment. She called and asked if I could drive her to downtown Nashville. Always ready for a fun fight and rarely finding one, I was happy to take the day off and oblige.

I’m surprised they let me go into the meeting with her but there I was, listening to Mom give voice to a wrong, headed toward the right.

When she was finished, she crossed her hands in her lap and let out a long sigh. “Do I need to find an attorney?”

“You have an attorney. He’s coming through the door.”

Both of us sized up a very tall, muscled black man standing in the doorway. He introduced himself.

Mom said, “Nice to meet you,” and I said, “Likewise,” and we shook his hand in turn. Mom said later that she was thinking, “Well, if they don’t give him what he says, he could just beat it out of them.” It made me laugh.

Texas Boot was owned by General Shoe Company. Both the EEOC attorney and the General Shoe attorney, a woman, arrived the next day. The EEOC man came first and called General Shoe. The company’s attorney was in New York but arrived just after lunch.

The General Shoe attorney’s assistants started pulling personnel files, Mom said, to try to find something against her that they could use for leverage. There wasn’t anything there.

In less than three weeks, Mom received a check for several thousand dollars from the company’s treasurer, accumulated underpayment for years of service as Regional Credit Manager for the West Coast. Harry Vise, the former owner of Texas Boot, and now GSI’s head of the Lebanon plant, called Mom to his office. He said he wanted her to know there were no hard feelings on his part.

Then they talked about old times. Mom and Dad went way back with Mr. Vise. Both had worked in the factory many years before when he owned the company. Dad had been a Cumberland University married student with a wife and two children and needed part-time work to help support the family. Mom’s income as a fancy stitcher on Western boots was their main income. Mr. Vise, who was Jewish, knew Dad as a minister and called on him often when someone in the factory needed guidance or spiritual help. There was always room in some department when Dad had hours he could work.

At Christmastime, Mr. Vise insisted on a company party, where there was a small show and the singing of carols. He always requested Joy to the World. (We never understood that.) I remember singing for that party when I was about eight years old. I think I performed my rendition of I’m Gettin’ Nuttin’ for Christmas. At the end of every party, every employee received a gift basket from Mr. Vise. There was always a turkey in the basket—and a ham.

The local head of human resources asked Mom if she was really staying with her job. She said yes, and he asked if she would like to be Jim’s Assistant department head.

She wondered aloud what kind of increase in pay might be at hand. He said none, but the duties would change some.

She declined on the spot and said if the company ever intended to pay for a real Assistant Head, she’d like a shot at it.

The General Shoe attorney called every morning for several weeks to ask Mom if she was being treated well. Mom said she hadn’t noticed any difference, that she’d always got along well with all the men.

She kept her position, receiving regular raises until she retired at age 67. She kept in touch with several of the men she worked with and talks to her old department head every couple of months just as she did with Mr. Vise until he died in 2015.

I’ve loved Women’s History Month so far, learning about, or remembering, women who have made rich contributions to life in these United States. This morning, on The Kelly Clarkson Show, a guest said he would like to go back in time — I can’t remember how far — to experience life before technology and such.

“Wouldn’t you?” he asked.

“Well, no, I wouldn’t,” Kelly answered quickly, “because I’m a woman!”

Mom and I both laughed and cheered. Mom said she didn’t want to go back to any place in time because she loves right now and is excited about what changes come in the next few years.

No wonder she’s my International Woman of the Year. Forever.

-0-

Caregiving. Sad.

I am weepy today, and I’m not sure why. There was a power outage last night for a couple of hours. Trying to get air from my c-pap machine woke me in the pitch black at midnight. I was reminded of old dreams of the dark.

I moved slowly to the bathroom just in case something might trip me. “Shower day,” I thought. “Today is Mom’s shower day.”

The alarm sounded at six.

Mom is doing well except for her lack of mobility and searching for words. She asked for something after her shower, but I couldn’t figure out what it was. She said, “I want my …” and I said, “What, Mom, what do you want?” She answered, “I want my …” two times more after the first. One time I said, “Lotion? Do you want more lotion?” She shook her head. “Do you want a different top?” She didn’t answer and didn’t pose another question. I never found out what she wanted.

After we dried her off, I combed and arranged her hair and applied eye shadow and eyebrow pencil. She wanted to do her own lipstick.

She headed for her chair in the den while I got her morning pills and Gatorade and freshened her water bottle. I gathered all the towels, the pad from her bed, nightgown, and hospital socks, took them to the washer, threw in the detergent pod, and set the load for Small so the water and additions would all get mixed together quickly. Then I added the clothes. “I want my…” I said to myself.

Later, we sat together in the den. After coffee, she sipped water from her purple container (We always try to match her outfit of the day) and I drank a Diet Coke. “Do we have any…” she asked. When she can’t find the word, she clasps her fingers and thumb together over and over. She told me that my step-grandmother made that particular motion after her stroke. Her name was Ethel, too, and she’d been married to my mother’s father for sixty-plus years. She was more like family than my real grandmother who died of lung and liver cancer in California a few years ago. Granny Ethel couldn’t ask a question, though. She just said, “Gimmee, gimmee, gimmee,” and made that clasping gesture.

Mom pointed to my Coke again and asked, “Do we have any…” and I said, “Coke?” She shook her head no and I asked, “Iced tea? I just made some fresh tea.”

“No-ooo. Oh, you know…”

I didn’t.

“I drink it,” she said.

“Root beer!”

She was nodding her head. “Yes, yes, yes. Root beer.”

“You have plenty in your supply closet. I’ll put some in the refrigerator, okay?”

I left for the kitchen and forgot why I went before I got there. It always helps to bend over the sink with my head in my hands. If that doesn’t work, I have to retrace my steps.

Ah, root beer. In the closet.

As I finished placing the last of the six-pack, it occurred to me to ask, “Do you want root beer now?”

“Yes, I just want to drink a little root beer now.”

“Here you go,” I said as I set the bubbling glass on the table beside her chair. “Now I’m going downstairs for a bit. I’ll be back to get your lunch.”

“I’m not hungry now.”

“I know. I’ll be back when you get hungry.”

It was 11:50 when I closed the elevator door and pressed Down.

I asked myself, “What is this sadness?”

A friend sent a funny, funny video in a message and I laughed like crazy! It made me think to look on Facebook for some inspiration or another chuckle. I started to write this piece for my blog and thought to change the cover photo. I never know how to do anything in WordPress. It’s always several trials and even more errors.

Media. I needed to go to media to see which photo to use to capture the reader’s attention and give them some kind of insight into my theme. In those pictures, I saw the story of our ten years here on the ravine.

When we first moved here, we had a large skulk of foxes. We watched them with delight for two years, and then they moved on. I retired and lost the years and years of friendships I’d cultivated at work. One deep friendship gave way to the new distance between us. I left church–and relinquished a community. Mom and Dad stopped attending their church and that peripheral group was gone.

We have no more grandBABIES…The oldest one is 18 now, the youngest 6. That happened all too quickly. No more Grammy Days, or rides in GrammyVan, or the little liars telling convincing fictional stories tricking us into believing that they were reality.

Dave’s closest friends have passed away since we moved here, and the Corner Pub, the afternoon gathering spot for them closed. Murphy, our fifteen-year-old Shih-tzu, crossed over the Rainbow Bridge.

Dad died. I almost lost myself.

Mom is sliding away. She tries to be present. I’m still her baby. She’s still funny at times and we laugh and laugh. But I know she’s going. I feel her leaving.

Last week, Neil, the one I called our semi-permanent houseguest, moved on. As frustrated as I could sometimes get, I miss him.

I don’t grieve for the older losses like I did when they first happened. I feel community and warmth from a group of fantastic women in my book club and in my writing group.

There’s a bunch of birds at our feeders. One little house finch lives in the eaves of Mom’s porch and greets me almost every morning.

Dixie, our three-year-old rip-roaring personality in a mix of Shih-Tzu and Poodle, is a gift of affection and loyalty. Maybe she’ll be around twelve more years.

Diana (another Diana) moved into The Cellar and brought a delightful breath–no, a light wind–of fresh air.

And Dave still loves me unconditionally. We’ll be married 25 years in April. Those years passed in fast-forward speed, it seems. Something in me wants to ask, “How many more years will we have?”

This isn’t the regular, or normal, depression. I’d recognize that.

This is different. I just get sad.

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