Recently I Was Really Tired Out

Colin crawled into my lap this evening. He had a rough day at school today. During Library, he got “in trouble” and had his name moved from the Green to the Yellow light on the traffic sign. That’s a bad thing. When you get to Red, you are in deep doo-doo. It took him nearly an hour to let me in on what he had done to result in his traffic light changing. Library days are wonderful and he didn’t come home with a book…what gives?

HIM: “I was sword fighting with my book-finder.  Me and Chorea were swordfighting and got in trouble and we got our books taken from us and we had our names moved to yellow and, and…..and I DON’T WANT TO TELL YOU!!!!!”

ME: “Thank you for telling me what happened. I’m sorry you didn’t get a library book, but I’ll bet you won’t sword fight with rulers again.”

HIM: “NOOOOO!!!! I’ll NEVER EVER do it again.”

Good.

Someone asked me this morning if I was ready to get back into the swing of things. I bit my tongue and smiled rather than telling them that my swing had swung far away many weeks ago.

 I’m looking for it.

Three months ago I was working full time, swimming with my kids, admiring my husband as a stay-at-home caregiver.

 Two months ago, hubby was starting a job and I was ready to be home to care for everyone.

 Six weeks ago I was at the beach.

 One month ago, we were asking Hospice to come care for Charlie as he prepared himself to take his final journey.

Three weeks ago I was managing medicines, phone calls, dr. visits, meals, bedtime, baths for young and old.

Two weeks ago, I was beginning to sit vigil.

One week ago I was planning for a funeral and sharing my home with extended family who rallied around to get through this.

Today, I said goodbye to the last of visiting family. I made calls to Social Security and insurance companies informing them of a death. I mowed the yard. I said goodbye to my husband as he left for a week away. I wiped tears, fed bellies, made beds, washed towels and felt very very lonely.

If this is the new swing….it’ll take some getting used to.

HIM: (On my lap) “Mommy…recently, I was really tired out.”
ME: “Yeah, why?”
HIM: “Cause I ate a whole green apple for supper.”
ME: “Good! I’m tired too.”
HIM: “Why?”
ME: “Cause I’m looking for my swing and I can’t find it.”
HIM: “Well, you can borrow mine.”

The Art of Dying

The art of dying requires a certain finesse. There are prescribed and predicted symptoms that each terminal person may go through, but each of us our own way of ending the journey.

Charlie died less than 2 hours ago. We knew he’d be going soon, but the nurses told us we had hours left. My gut said, it’s time…but we began to talk about taking mom home for an hour or so.

Twenty minutes later, Sue, Fay and I stroked him and talked to him as he took his last breath.

He died well.

He died quietly with no pomp. 

He died with the sunlight and beautiful warm breeze blowing in on him from the open French doors in his room. The nurses had faced his bed to the door and pushed him close to the outdoors.  He hadn’t been outside in weeks…it was perfect.

A Root Canal Would be Easier

Sometimes we fight with every ounce of strength against a thing that we do not want to do.  Control is a hard thing to let go of.

Charlie slept through Monday and Tuesday. I say “Slept” because he snored a lot and wouldn’t respond much unless someone moved him and then he moaned a little. The doctors said it will be a matter of days…but it could be many, many days.

Liam spent some time alone in the room with him crying and talking to him. He wouldn’t tell me what he said to Poppy. His only comment was that “Poppy’s breathing sounds like Darth Vader.”  Every day, Liam’s first question when he gets home from school “Is Poppy dead yet?”  His heartache is anxiety over seeing all of the sad people to come.

This morning, Poppy was awake with his eyes shut and talked to Fay and I for about an hour. He seemed to have a few things to resolve. We told him that everything was taken care of and that he didn’t have to worry anymore. Then, he began to fight against the delusions and confusion that started. He was in line somewhere in New York waiting for his turn to get a role in a play.  He wanted the lid of the jar in his hands opened.  He wanted to know who I was. He said I looked like Santa Claus or something.

“Here’s our escape route….we turn left.”  Really? GREAT!!! Let’s go babe!

He’s fighting this every step of the way. It’s hurting him, it’s hurting her and all of us who wish is wouldn’t be this hard. A root canal would be easier than watching him sometimes. I guess people’s personalities follow them through the death journey too. Always in control, he’s controlling this one too.

Your Chariot Awaits

An ambulance took Charlie to Hospice about 10 hours ago. The goal is to regulate his medications and make him comfortable so he can safely come home.

 He fell twice last night, injuring his wife on the second fall. He hasn’t slept in two days…just cat naps.  Like he said, “No point in living if I have to stay in this bed.”

He couldn’t rest at all this morning.  Can’t get in bed….can’t sit in a chair…gotta pee…gotta sleep…need a snack…need a break.

Nothing is comfortable. Everything’s lousy.

He started throwing ice packs, pillows and water glasses at me this morning when I wouldn’t “get me the hell out of this bed!”

Within an hour of calling Hospice, they had the social worker here to facilitate his admission. Thirty minutes later, the ambulance was on the way to transport him. When they pulled in the driveway I said, “Dad, your Chariot has arrived.”

He grinned, then winked.

“Please make sure you have the right one this time.”

I’m hoping I did that. The Chariot to heaven is the one he wanted.

We Can’t Fix This.

Listening to the Hospice doctor speaking to Fay and I today, I was reminded how serious the job of helping someone die really is. We had our first Hospice consult on Friday last week. Six days later, we’ve had 4 scheduled RN visits and one highly unscheduled visit when Charlie fell. We’ve had two social work visits. Today, Dr. Playfoot came here and stayed until we were ready for him to leave. Nearly 90 minutes.

He cared, he talked, he asked, he questioned, he looked, he examined and observed. But most of all, he was a human treating a human. Not a clinician treating a symptom.

So often in the medical field, we want to fix the thing that bothers our patient by throwing medication or therapy or tests at them. For nearly 30 years, Charlie has been rescued and sustained by an ever-increasing number of medicines. New surgeries, fake heart valves and blood tests. He has a neurologist, cardiologist, urologist, endocrinologist, podiatrist, internist, gastroenterologist and a family doctor who shall remain nameless because he’s the most incompetent physician to walk the earth.

Now, he has a hospice team who will save him from blood tests, unnesecary pills, and stupid ideas of physical therapy. He has a team of people who care about all of us and are willing to help him live comfortably as long as he wants. They are also willing to help him die comfortably when he decides to give that a try.

They are the first people to ask Andy and I how WE are doing.  The social worker stopped by unannounced with information on how the kids can deal with this.

We can’t fix this.  Fay wants to try, but we can’t.

Today she found out that no one can fix it.  Dr. Playfoot told her that he can’t fix each symptom…we’ve lost part of this fight to PD. 

Maybe she’ll get it.

Rules and Obligations

My children’s lives should be full of fun, spontaneous moments, mud, dirt and laughter.

Colin’s world is ruled by rules and obligations.

Tonight he had to spin around 6 times and then “bump into Mommy” before he could enter his bathroom to take a bath and get ready for bed. He refused to eat lunch…he refused to eat breakfast. His reason? The food felt funny on his tongue.

But, he devoured the nachos his sister made and managed two hours in the pool this afternoon as long as everyone was doing what he wanted them to do.

I’m exhausted already and he’s only five.

I worry that he’ll shrivel up into a little old man from malnutrition.  I’m afraid that all the big kids at school next year will think he’s wierd.  I cry when I think about soccer practice and Colin’s inability to play with other kids on a team eve though he’s great at heading the ball and kicks the hell out of it too!!

This week it’s all about how his fingers smell.  He’ll touch something, smell his hands and then let me know if said object is worth paying attention to.

I need vacation. 

Colin needs a Mommy who’ll understand.

I’m trying.

You Can’t Take It With You…

…when you go. And we all will go.

I am sitting in my dining room surround by boxes of someone else’s stuff. I wish I could say that all the boxes contain memories. Some photographs, some drawings. Mostly just stuff. Years of collectibles that would one day be “worth something” are now squarely planted in labeled boxes, bins and bags on my table.

When we moved to our home six years ago, we brought Andy’s parents with us. Andy’s parents brought 70 years worth of stuff with them. No amount of cajoling, bargaining, yard saleing or begging could get them to part with anything they thought might be of value. Over the past 2 years, we have begun to weed through the piles, beginning to hand over sentimental trinkets to others in the family. Granddaughters got lovely china sets as wedding presents. Sons and in-laws picked up pretty vases and John Wayne collectibles.

Over the past ten days, Andy’s sister Sue and I ravaged the garage and the rented storage locker to rid our lives of all the stuff we’re sitting on.

Charlie has spent the last 80 years saving everything and buying more. Anything on sale…we buy seventeen of them. Anything from the Franklin Mint…we’ve got it! Anyone need industrial strength Velcro? I could pull a boat with the amount of that stuff I found in the garage. Charlie’s drawings and cartoons could take up a locker of their own. The guy is an amazing artist…or was. On par with the classic cartoonists from the half century mark, no question. I don’t understand why he didn’t make a living out of it. But he kept it to himself like everything else.

During the last two decades, he has “invested” in coins, stamps and cookie-cutter Hummels and Wysocki items with the idea that some day they would be worth something. Fancy leather-bound albums for the goldleaf  coins and commemorative stamps piled up inside his home. When space ran out, they were boxed and sent to the storage shed where no one looked at them or enjoyed them. Sadly, all the collectibles he has purchased through magazines and marketing gurus are worth nothing monetarily. Tens of thousands of dollars spent on commemorative stamps and coins translate to merely a few hundred dollars in value.

The sadness on his face when I told him that none of his precious collections would earn him any money broke my heart.  He wanted to be rich but failed to do so. He wanted to make investments but bought into scams. He hoarded all his stuff so that he could show others how well he was living but no one sees the stuff in the storage locker. 

And, then I got angry. Hidden away among all the Snoopy characters, Marvel Comic figures, Wysocki villages, gold leaf stamps, Sacagawea coins, state quarters, 26 Model cars and trucks and pristine Hess Trucks was a small box of photographs and family heirlooms. Stuck at the back of the storage locker, in a box of pure junk…precious photos of family. Inside another box in the garage…a beautifully preserved pair of child’s ballet slippers. In another bin…an envelope labeled “Japanese Junk” from Charlie’s time in WWII containing photos of two geisha girls and other relics. All the important stuff was shoved into dark crevices and corners. But…if it’s not worth money, we won’t keep the boxes.

Those things that evoke memories, tears, laughter, joy, puzzlement and heartache are worth keeping.

Those things that sit on a shelf to be dusted off…

You can’t take it with you.

Anyone need burned down, used votive candles??
I’ve got 6 of them!

MUDSLAM!!!

English is a fantastic language.

I have always had a penchant for words. Spelling, reading and writing are exercises I enjoy very much. The Sunday News includes the NY Times crossword and I’m happy for that…otherwise I’d spend up to $10 a month for real news and awesome crossword puzzles.

I must confess to watching the Scripp’s Spelling Bee on TV yesterday. Given the chance, I would have loved to have competed in that competition as a young student. One young girl…who ultimately won…spelled words on her hand while she spoke the spelling out loud. Makes total sense to me. How do you see a word in your head?? It must be written before it can be spoken.

Colin has his own little language. When excited, he combines Spanish and English and Colinese. There is cadence and rhythm to what he’s saying, but none of it makes sense to the naked ear. Words that he has made up are repeated over and over and to him there is a definition, but not to me.

Many months ago he declared “Liam…You’re a MUDSLAM!”

Initially we thought he was calling his brother a Muslim…say “mudslam” 4 times fast and you’ll understand why.  Liam…you’re a mudslam!  POW!  

Blowing bubbles with him yesterday he got so excited with the big bubbles that I made…..

“WOW! Google bam monkey pop!”

Last night Andy gave him the ritual daddy bath. While drying him off, Colin declared daddy a “Goofbagel!!”

Those words wouldn’t show up when he’s ready for Scripps.

So what, you Stinky Poopy Head Bergel Boppy Gop Merkel!!!

I Am From….

Our church asked us to write a poem or verse about where we are from…or who we are. I didn’t have this done in time, nor did I know what it would be.

But tonight it came:

 

I am from the womb of a black haired, dark eyed Jewish woman who shouldn’t but did.

I am from the seed of a brown haired, green eyed man with sawdust on his hands.

My contractions began in the middle of the Goochland Depart of Corrections while she served for crimes I know nothing about.

I am loved by the hips of a lady who fed children by the dozens while they waited for new homes.

I BECAME THE CHILD OF:

Two people who couldn’t but did.
A woman and man who loved and served, yet were left empty handed.

A history of dairy farms, hay bales, tractors and early mornings.
Mountain churches, outhouses, barefoot babies and bullet holes.

Swinging bridges, hollers and Sunday School.
Wagon rides, britches, coverings and Bibles.

Mennonite history.
Grandchild of a Bishop and missionary.
Daughter of ministry.
Child of expectation.

Brought up in the world of buses and taxis.
Vacationed on tropical beaches…surrounded by palm trees, monkeys and sun.

Surrounded by Hindus and Muslims and Pagans.
Sleeping in to the sounds of water on sand.

I AM NOW:

Addicted to water and sunsets and tidepools.
I long for hot sunshine and wine and tomatoes.
Milking cows in my sleep while waitng on surfboards.
My knees are bruised from prayers for my children and
I can’t stand the silence when the Imam calls Time.

My life has spanned countries, nations and cultures.

Yet, at the close of the day….

I am fully the product of where I have come from. The heritage born in me…the culture fed into me….the lifetimes of living sequestered in me…

At the end of the day….
I come from a place I’ll never return to.
I was born in a place that I’ll always call home.
I lived in a place that I’ll always return to.
I am in a place that I’ll make my own.

No Zipper Pockets

Sensory Integration Disorder (SID) is the brain’s inability to correctly interpret the information it receives from the senses. Clothing tags feel like sandpaper.  Vacuum cleaners sound like fire alarms. Food is tasteless.  Monday might be a day for hypersentivity and Tuesday might be a day for hyposensitivity. The rules change with the wind.  SID often rides the waves with ADD/ADHD, OCD and Asperger’s Syndrome or other Autism spectrum disorders. Or, it can stand alone.

SID is also now officially part of our family.

We’ve always known that Colin is “wired” a little differently. We just didn’t know what wiring was used at his creation.

It would explain why he cried as an infant when I dressed him in turtlenecks. Golf shirts or button down shirts are extremely stressful. No collars, no way, no how. Smelling things that no one else can was always what we deemed “weird.”  Did you know how “stinky” the paper on a doctor’s office exam table is?  He can’t sleep under the sheets on his bed. I thought he was just being obsessively neat by not wanting to mess up his bed. Turns out…the sheets make his feet feel hot…so, surface sleeping only.

New clothing goes over like a fart in church.  Colin is never impressed with new clothing. Rather the opposite. He wants nothing to do with it and stresses and cries if we ask him to put something on that he’s never worn before. Makes shopping a true treat. It could be the smell or the texture. It could be anything or nothing at all…but he’ll flat out refuse new shirts, pants and jackets until he can warm up to them a bit.

When he was licking the sidewalk last summer, we thought…how strange!  But, now that he’s moved on to putting toys in his mouth, we know why.  He LOVES superfast rollercoasters and teacup rides…he’d literally jump on our trampoline for hours if allowed… but hates to be swung around by the arms or turned upside down. His perception of where his body is in relation to his surroundings is completely different than ours.

If you offer him a handshake or a high five…don’t be offended if he looks at the floor and blows a raspberry. If you ask him a question, don’t be alarmed if he sits down and shuts his eyes. He’s not being rude…he just doesn’t know if you’ll feel, smell or sound good if he answers you.

If Colin comes to your home and has to eat a meal with you…don’t feel bad if he’ll only eat the foods that are safe in his world. Since he was a baby, food has not motivated him. There is a menu of about seven things that are sure to bring smiles. He discriminates based on texture and he could care less about taste. Home runs for sweet stuff or bland carbs.

He’ll separate himself from a crowd, or cover his ears, shut his eyes and hide away somewhere.  If you look him in the eye, don’t be distressed if he sits down on the floor, hides under the pew or puts his head down when you ask him a question. Eye contact is like nails on a chalkboard when he doesn’t know you.

But…he is five years old and has been reading for more than 2 years. He loves phonics and argued the idea with me today that “ph” should sound like “f.” Made perfect sense to him. He finds complex patterns in words and designs. He loves numbers and is obsessed with anything ending in a 0000.  The hymn books at church are a guaranteed source of distraction while he searches for 100, 200, 300 etc… He does simple addition and subtraction in his head, yet has never been taught how to do math. He plunks out tunes on the piano that he’s heard, but no one’s taught him.

It will be an interesting ride!  

Getting dressed this morning a new rule was introduced. No pants or shirts with zipper pockets. It took three tries through the pants drawer to find a suitable garment.  No explanation as to why…just no zipper pockets.

So…we’re in for a treat with this child. 

An amazing, complex, brilliant, sweet, sensitive, irritating, frustrating, loving and beautiful child.

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