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Juggling Hospital Beds

12
Mar 2010

My mother-in-law is currently hospitalized in Cadillac after unexpected gall bladder surgery last Monday. We had hoped she would be out today, which is her birthday, but she is retaining water, and she might not be released.

On Monday, my father-in-law is scheduled to go to Traverse City for tests before he has heart surgery Tuesday. He is getting a pig valve to replace a faulty heart valve. He had a triple bypass about 19 years ago. He will also be hospitalized for a week or so.

The original plan was that the MIL would take him, stay overnight Monday and Tuesday, and we’d go from there. But if she isn’t out of the hospital, things are going to have to be rearranged.

My husband will also be working out of town next week.

Regardless, it is going to be an interesting time over the next couple weeks. I wish I could do something to make my in-laws feel better and for my husband. He is not himself as he worries about his parents, and I just want a button I can push to make it all better for him and them.

Category: Life with Linda  Tags: , ,  Comments off

Missing You

29
Oct 2009

fmd
Yesterday, I met with a surgeon to talk about what can be done about my ankle. Eleven years have gone by since I broke my ankle, and as I sat there answering questions about it, I realized that I was talking about a time in my life when you were still alive.

I remember how you and Mom came to the hospital with new sweat pants and sweat shirt that you’d bought for me, so I would have something to wear home after my pants were cut and my ankle was bound.

Without being asked, you realized I needed help watching the kids, and you arranged to have Heidi stay, and you paid her to do it. That first week, I was on pain meds and spent most of my time sleeping on the couch. Steve still had to go to work, and I never would have been able to take care of the girls by myself. Steve and I didn’t even have time to worry about what we would do because you took care of it.

I miss you, Dad.

You would have been 75 today.

I can’t believe its been 6 years since you died. There are so many things I wish you were still alive to see. I wish you were here to know that I was teaching.

This summer, Maxine asked me if you had always been in a wheelchair, and I realized she didn’t have any other memories of you.

I can’t go on listing all of the things that are different without you…. It’s hard.

Happy Birthday, Dad.

Category: Weighty Thoughts  Tags: ,  Comments off

Like Father Like Son

12
May 2009

dadjustinbridgeIt was dinner time at my house and I was watching my husband make strange gestures across the table.

I thought he was gesturing to me, but it turns out he was “talking” to my 18-month-old son who was sitting next to me.

Comprehension dawned a second too late as I felt a gooey spaghetti covered hand grab hold of my arm. Both father and son burst out laughing as they watched the red sauce and noodles drip off my arm onto the floor. Without a word exchanged, the two men in my life had planned and executed a practical joke with me as the victim.

It was just the start of things to come. As we fed the dogs, my husband allowed our son to help him water the dogs. Water from the hose somehow became aimed in my direction. Luckily it missed me, but one of my daughters wasn’t so lucky.

Needless to say, my son has inherited his father’s sense of humor. They make faces and don silly hats causing the females in my family to laugh until our sides hurt. It’s hard to be angry when someone is trying to make you laugh. Some of the habits my children have inherited, however, aren’t as endearing.

I never even realized I had so many bad habits until I saw my children repeating them. As my daughter concentrates on drawing, her teeth bite her bottom lip. I remember my mother doing the same thing whenever she was concentrating hard. My husband often tells me to stop biting my lip whenever I’m lost in thought. Who knew bad habits could carry on for generations?

One afternoon I found the two oldest children going through brand new magazines ripping out the pages. I couldn’t believe they were doing that! When my husband came home, I complained loudly. He told me they were just doing what I do when I read a magazine. I protested that I do NOT rip out pages. I have magazines that are several years old and are still intact.

Shortly after that conversation, I sat down to read a magazine. Fresh from my mailbox, the magazine was full of the little postcards encouraging me to do everything from renew my subscription to buy little dust collectors. As I read, I ripped out the postcards and piled them on the table beside me. Halfway through the magazine, I realized what I was doing. My husband had been right: go figure!

But my bad habits go beyond biting lips and ripping up magazines. My husband has a few bad habits too. Our four children, have managed to pick up more of our bad habits than our good ones. How does that happen?

For instance, one daughter refuses to close dresser drawers. You can always tell when she has been in a dresser because every drawer she opened is still open. While my husband doesn’t leave the dresser drawer open that wide, it is left open.

Dirty clothes hampers are meant for dirty clothes. This is a simple concept. One that is easy to understand, or so I thought. Apparently it is difficult for everyone in this house except for me. As they walk into the house after a day of school (or work) shoes get dumped off somewhere in the mud room, kitchen or living room. Socks are almost always scattered around the living room.

Do you sometimes wonder what you sound like when you are angry? Wait a day or two and I’m sure your children will enlighten you. My daughter’s seem to have my angry tone down better than I do. More than the tone of voice, they have mimicked my stance, expression and the pointy finger shake.

My oldest child has my scolding tone down pat and often tries to use it on her siblings and once in a while she gets brave enough to use it on me too.

One of my daughter’s has inherited my tendency to collect silly things like rocks. Another has inherited my intermittent cleaning skills. One enjoys sleeping in, a habit she definitely inherited from her parents. I’m still trying to trace the early bird genes one child seems to have inherited.

The oldest has definitely received my debating skills. All of them have managed to get a bit of their parents stubborn streak.

I expected my children to resemble me a bit and I hoped they would pick up a few of my good habits. I was unprepared, however, for exactly how many bad habits they would pick up in the process.

I am working to curb my “stern tone” of voice. I hope to eliminate my lip biting before I leave a scar. I am even trying to change from a night owl to an early bird with mixed success. Now if only I could convince at least one other family member that the dirty clothes hamper isn’t a figment of their imagination. It is real and it does exist. If I can do that, maybe they will search out the elusive clothes hamper instead of leaving dirty clothes wherever they happen to discard them.

And yes, that is a bad habit they picked up from their father. Like father, like son and daughters.

Category: I'm the Mommy  Tags: , ,  Comments off

Focus on Food

08
Apr 2008

When I was very young, my dad was a chain smoker, and he drank alcohol daily. I learned to play pool at the age of 8 in the Moose Lodge while my dad drank and smoked at the bar, and my mom watched over me at a nearby table. I knew enough to ask the barmaid or the red-painted quarters to put in the jukebox.

When I was a young teenager, my dad gave up smoking and drinking. He did this by going cold turkey. It worked. I remember he made a bet with my brother-in-law, and my brother-in-law wasn’t able to successfully quit smoking, but my dad did.

He was able to control his addictions to alcohol and nicotine by severing them. I don’t know if the phantom foot of his addictions ever itched, but I do know he never scratched.

After years of being alcohol-free, a doctor suggested to my dad that a shot of whiskey a day would be good for his heart. My dad responded that he had never been able to drink just one.

But you can’t go cold turkey with food.

My dad enjoyed good food. He savored the flavors. He would eat things I would never even consider like frog legs. We would drive for miles to eat in a restaurant in Luzurne that had an all-you-can-eat froglegs buffet on Friday nights. My dad would object when I would order a hamburger and fries. “Get something you don’t eat at home,” he would tell me. I would order the salad bar, and I would delight in the wide range of choices.

The salad bar wasn’t what my dad meant.

When we lived in Florida, we’d sit in a restaurant on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and my parents would eat fresh seafood. I would refuse to try the shrimp. I ordered a cheeseburger and fries. I was feeling a little adventurous.

Today, I read several poems that talked about cooking. One, in particular, sounded almost pornographic as the author described pouring the oil in the pan and searing the whatever it was she was searing. What is searing anyway? The description of the eating became even more vivid with flavors bursting.

And I realize I am missing something. I do not talk about or think about food this way. It is not a sensual experience for me.

I have a friend who can get very animated and offer detail after detail as she describes how she cooks something. I cannot comprehend her culinary comments.

I eat because I’m hungry, or people around me or eating. If left on my own, I would forget to eat. I do not enjoy cooking. I enjoy socializing more than eating when I dine out. Eating is something I have to do.

When I do get a hankering for something, it is usually pretty tame. The other night I wanted something to drink with a bit of a kick. I was upset we were out of orange juice because it would have been perfect. Just a plain glass of orange juice.

When I cook, I rarely add spices. I never add salt to my food. If I use ketchup to eat my fries, the fries weren’t that very good to begin with. I prefer my hot dogs plain.

So if I am not obsessed with food, and my taste buds are fairly bland, how did I end up overweight to begin with?

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The Tears Must Fall

29
Apr 2004

It’s been 160 days since my dad died. Five months and five days since November 24, 2003. And for 159 days my mom didn’t cry. I saw expressions of grief on her face during the past five months that I wish I’ve never seen. I’ve witnessed her walking around, afraid of going on with her life, of making the wrong decision. She was walking around in a cloud of grief, almost apart from the rest of us.

I am not my mother although I’ve often wished I would cry less than I do. I feel like I’ve done more than my share and shouldn’t I stop sometime soon? It’s not that I cry constantly. It’s those little things that sneak up on me and bring tears to my eyes when everything else seems so normal. Sometimes out of the blue a song will come on the radio, and I’ll be singing along and then THAT line comes, and my voice breaks and I cry. I’ve woken up crying. Or I’ll be looking in our photo album and see an old picture. Or talking to friends and start out saying, “My dad tells me….” and stop because my dad isn’t telling me anything anymore. I no longer get to hear him call his grandchildren his dividends. I wish I didn’t cry as often as I have.

My mom and I have talked about crying, and her not crying. I wished she would cry. I can dry tears, but I can’t do anything to ease that depth of pain I’ve seen on her face. There’s one expression on her face that I saw in the critical care room, as she clung to my dad’s hand. I can’t describe it. Grief. Horror. Pain. Lost love.

My mom called me today and she was crying. Big gulps of tears. And she was alone and hundreds of miles away. And she was crying for the first time since my dad died.

They came and got the van today. The van my parents bought to accomodate my dad in his wheelchair. The van they took their last trips to Arizona in. The van they had retrofitted with a chair lift and a higher roof.

She cried. But I knew it wasn’t about the van. For the past 30 years, my parents have been the type of people who make a decision to go somewhere and they go. Now. What’s taking you so long? They grab everything, but the kitchen sink, make it fit and off they go. Sometimes it’d be a short trip around northern Michigan. Other times it’d be a day trip to visit relatives or attend an auction. But every once in a while it’d be a major trip to somewhere and they’d be gone. They didn’t always give you warning.

Sometimes my mom would call me and tell me they were visiting my sister or aunt when I thought they were in Grayling. When I was younger, Dad would drive and I’d read the map while Mom pointed out the sights. I’d barely lift my nose out of a book long enough to see whatever it was that she was trying to point out to me. But every once in a while I would, and I’d listen to Mom and Dad tell stories of previous trips in the area, or bits of history.

Later, Mom would drive and dad would navigate. In the past few years, Mom has done really well traveling long distances and finding her way home with less and less help from Dad.

We’ve been telling Mom to sell the van since right after Dad died, but she always hesitated. She offered excuses. She didn’t want to be without a vehicle. You can buy another one, we said. A nice car with good gas milage. She didn’t need the gas hog with the power wheelchair lift. But she’d balk.

I think we wore her down, but even though she knew we were probably right, she still didn’t want to lose the van. And now the van’s gone. And temporarily Mom is without a vehicle and she has that traveling itch. She wants to go now. She doesn’t want to be stranded. She plans to get a good used vehicle as soon as possible. She wants her freedom.

“It’s the last thing I had with your Dad,” she told me today.

“I can think of at least five other things you still have,” I replied.

“What?” she said, unconsolable.

“Your children.” She laughed a bit and I wondered why she didn’t consider the house as something she had with Dad. But the house had also undergone recent renovations including a wheelchair ramp, a remodeled bathroom and wider doorways. But Mom and Dad hadn’t been there very long at the end. Between trips to Arizona, Dad was in the hospital. They’d been home less than a month before his last hospitalization.

She talked the other day about staying in Grayling by herself for a while. I don’t know if she will or not. But the tears flowed today and I still have to wait until Saturday before I can give her that hug.

I miss my Mom.

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