The Silent Warrior
13 Jan 2012 30 Comments
in My dad
My dad has fallen ill the last few weeks. He has developed a flu-like illness that has depleted much of his energy and drained his typical charm and charisma. It’s not unusual this time of year in nursing homes. Lots of bugs go around and it’s something we’ve learned to navigate around. ‘Tis the season. Like everything else, you just adjust. And you wash your hands.
A lot.
When I have visited him this week, I have found him listless and in bed with a new companion by his side. A wheelchair. He has been too unsteady to stand, so for his own safety, he has been transported here and there with these new wheels. I noticed his walker was folded and leaning against a wall in the background. Times seem to be changing.
His typical bright greeting to me has been replaced with a groggy and sleep-filled smile. My attempts at breaking out in cheerleader-mode to get him out of bed, (“Hey, DAD! Let’s get up and go for a walk!”) have been met with heavy sighs and “Oh, honey, not today.”
I really shouldn’t complain. My dad turns 88 next month so I guess I should give the guy a break. I would be knocked out, too, if the flu came calling at that age. But easier said than done.
I’ve spent a lot of time at The Inn (his term for his nursing home) lately because I’ve got my eye on him. I know that at his age and debilitated condition, a simple flu-like illness can wreak unexpected havoc. People his age don’t bounce back so easily. So I’ve been creeping around, hanging out with his nurses and aides (who I’ve come to know and have become quite friendly with) and hovering around The Inn as I negotiate visits inbetween carpool pick-ups and kid playdates.
We’ve dutifully added the “God bless, Grandpa” phrase to our nightly prayers and I’ve been emailing my six brothers and sisters - several who live in the midwest – to give them updates and funny anecdotes, so they can feel part of the process, even though we all know they sometimes feel helplessly out of the loop when my dad becomes ill.
I’ve tried to be a good daughter, fun-loving mother, engaging wife, and available friend, but truth be told, when an illness or problem strikes with a parent, things can get a little topsy-turvey. I try to figure out where I am needed most and race there accordingly. It’s a juggling act that I am sure is not unique to my family. It can be stressful, but I do not like pity parties, so I will not be inviting myself to this one.
But surprisingly, this story doesn’t belong to my dad. Not today. For I’ve discovered there is a power-player far more important right now. This person remains largely in the background, yet wields great strength and influence.
This person has been my father’s companion, best friend, partner in crime, caregiver, and steadfast supporter for the last 62 years. It is my mother that I tip my hat to for her bravery and unwavering love for my dad.
For the last 6 years since my dad has been at The Inn (where he struggles with the slow-motion thief that they call Alzheimer’s,) my mother has quietly and without fanfare, visited him almost daily. She often joins him for their lunch date in the Inn’s “restaurant” (dining room) and walks with him afterward upstairs to the third floor when his afternoon nap calls his name.
My mother lives in town, a short 5 minutes from The Inn, in a single-story home directly behind her church. She patiently answers her phone when my dad calls her repeatedly, asking when she will be coming over to visit. When I have been at her house and the phone rings, I hear her cheerfully answer the phone as if it is the first time she heard his voice that day, instead of the seventh.
Now, that’s love.
A few weeks ago, I popped over to visit my dad after lunch and found my mother in his room “tucking him in” for his afternoon siesta. I don’t know why, but I stood there in the doorway for a while without letting her know I was there. I just stood and watched.
I saw my mother lovingly and gracefully pull his covers up around his neck as he lay motionless in bed. She smiled sweetly as he began to softly snore. I watched her pat his shoulder gently and stand there staring at him, satisfied that he was safely launched into sleep-ville. It wasn’t unlike a mother checking on her child. It was pure sweetness.
With my dad’s present illness, my mother was discouraged from visiting him for a few days so that she didn’t get sick herself. She complied, though it was hard for her. I kept up my daily visits so he wouldn’t get lonely and every day he would ask me where she was and why she wasn’t visiting him anymore. When I explained it was because he had been sick, he couldn’t understand. He’d think about it and then say, “But she always comes to see me every day.” I replied reassuringly, “Maybe she’ll come tomorrow, Dad.” He’d nod and drift away.
After 5 or so days, I could see that both my parents were really missing each other. I spoke with my dad’s nurse who mentioned that perhaps they could visit in a “common area” like in the living area downstairs in the lobby. It was a large, ventilated area that would be much safer than her spending her visit up on a closed floor.
So I called my mother and told her she could come over that day to see him. I decided not to tell my dad. I thought it would be a nice surprise.
Yesterday was the day. I went to see my dad right after I dropped my daughter off at school. He had just finished breakfast. I wheeled him over to the couch in the lobby and pulled up a chair next to him. The first thing he said to me was, “Have you heard from your mother?” I said, “Yes, dad. I talked to her a little while ago. I’m sure she’ll visit you soon.” He looked at me pensively and said, “I sure hope so. She used to visit me every day. I don’t know why, but I don’t feel like myself when she’s away.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to chase away the tears welling in my eyes.
15 minutes later, I glanced out the window to see my mom’s 2001 white Honda Accord slowly creep into the parking lot. I watched as she took her walker out of her car and moved slowly to the main entrance.
A few steps later and she was inside The Inn. I met her at the door and gestured to where my dad was sitting in the next room over. She walked right over to him and stood in front of him. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up with the widest and most joyful smile. “My DARLING!” he shouted exuberantly. They embraced slowly. She straightened his collar and sat down in the chair across from him. I watched as an immediate look of peace washed over his face.
All was well again.
I remember thinking, in that moment, how incredibly lucky I am. The greatest gift my parents ever gave me is the love they have for one another. My mother loves my father unflinchingly. She is like a silent warrior, forever in the background, yet always available at a moment’s notice.
No matter who her husband becomes as he is molded and shaped by memory loss and occasional illness, she is there. She loves him without fail.
It is the greatest love story I’ve ever known.
A gift from God.
I am grateful.
How To Turn Your Mother Into Mush
18 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
STEP 1: After being sent to your room to contemplate why a Frisbee is indeed considered an “outdoor toy,” and the importance of “turning on your listening ears” (because mothers are psychic and know that Frisbees do not get along well with table lamps,) simply hand her this note with an apologetic face. Then, chances are good, she will probably make you brownies.
“One Last Word…”
16 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
in "Stuff"
I have a good friend who teaches third grade. Today, she invited me to visit her school. They are learning all about authors and she asked if I would read, “Rosie Graduates from Kindergarten,” and “The Dog Who Loved Halloween” (two informal little books where I outfitted my dog in silly costumes, set to rhyme) to her class.
The kids were a great audience and asked some very intelligent and thought-provoking questions like, “How do you prepare to write a book?” and “How did you learn to write poems?” – One even invoking a very kind (and humbling) comparison to my favorite children’s author – Dr. Seuss!
As I prepared to leave, a boy named “Caleb” sweetly offered to escort me back to the school entrance. I remembered that he was one of the kids who asked some insightful questions during the class.
Walking together down the hall we chatted easily. Then he became quiet for a moment and said, “Is it okay if I ask you one last question?” With anticipation, I straightened myself up and gave him my full attention.
Then he said, “Do you dye your hair?”
“Hey Mister, Can You Spare a Quarter?”
14 Dec 2011 2 Comments
If you Google “12-Step Groups for 4 Year-Olds,” you’re plum out of luck. It’s a shame, because I certainly could use one right about now.
As a mother, I only want the best for my children. Which is why I am seeking treatment or perhaps just a support system for my youngest daughter. Sure, this isn’t easy to talk about. But I’m hoping that if I give voice to her affliction, maybe we will find others out there who are walking in our shoes. Perhaps there is a “silent majority” who is also living under this veil of shame.
You see, my sweet little angel-faced 4 year-old (to protect her privacy, I’ll call her, “M,”) is becoming, well…a serial gambler. I’m not talking about Vegas roulette tables or stealing away into smoke-filled hotel rooms playing poker, bleary-eyed, until dawn. No, her poison is far more dangerous and destructive. Bear with me, as I try to get this out. Okay. Deep breath.
“M” is battling a rampant addiction to the kid ”trinket” machines at the grocery store.
There I said it. I feel better. Hey, that wasn’t so bad.
Her addiction started innocently enough. My husband was growing frustrated that whenever he wanted to take her out of the house to accompany him on an errand, she would ”dawdle” and drag her feet. He’d be all set to jump in the car, but she would take her own sweet time. She is the kind of kid who when you say, “Okay, we gotta GO!” she’ll begin to move in slow motion. You’ll ask her to put her coat on, and she’ll look at you like you’re speaking in tongues. Suddenly she forgets how to slip on her shoes. It is an endless exercise in waiting.
My husband, on the other hand, is the exact opposite. He will move at lightening speed and want to get cracking on his errands RIGHT NOW. When he is showered and dressed and all fed and watered, he’s ready to go! “Everyone, time to jump in the car!” And though we are entering into our seventh year as parents, he still hasn’t embraced the fact that when you have children who are part of your entourage, sometimes you have to add on a solid hour to that timetable.
One Saturday morning, in utter frustration as he tried to get ”M” to join him on a grocery store excursion, he blurted out something to the effect of, “If you come with me RIGHT NOW, I’ll let you get a toy from one of those slot machines. I’ll even give you TWO QUARTERS you can use!” Well, I’ll be darned if her little hazel eyes didn’t fly open wide and she high-tailed it to the door. On went her shoes. ZIP went her coat. Before he knew it, that little ponytailed girl had buckled herself expertly in the car, anxiously awaiting her Daddy to join her.
My husband stared blankly in disbelief. He had struck gold!
As he approached the car, a chubby little arm poked out of the window. “Give my my quarters!” she demanded. And he was more than happy to oblige.
The next step in her addictive behavior was fairly textbook. She began to hoard quarters. LOTS of them. Instead of being motivated to earn a sticker for her sticker chart each time she did one of her assigned jobs around the house, she’d say brightly, “I cleaned my room. Can I get a quarter instead?” Fair enough, we thought. After all, our child was now behaving beautifully and did everything we asked. A quarter here. A quarter there. What’s the harm?
Yes, we had become enablers.
Her hoarding soon took the form of stockpiling. She was saving up for her next “fix.” Then the thievery. My coin purse in my pocketbook seemed to lose its characteristic bulge. And finally, the manipulation began. She’d randomly open the door to the refrigerator and exclaim in a worried voice, “Hey Mom, I think we’re getting a little low on milk!” Yes, she had learned to play my emotions like a violin as she knew any mention of dwindling food supply in the house generated great anxiety in me, her Mother. ”We’d better go to the grocery store,” she’d warn.
One day as I gathered my grocery list and grabbed my purse to leave, I noticed she ran to her bedroom right before we left. Intrigued, I followed her to see what she was doing. I observed her, bent down on the floor, fiddling with something under her bed. I crept closer. She grabbed a little plastic bag and I saw it had some quarters in it. I had caught her red-handed with her “stash.” But instead of feeling threatened or agitated that I had confronted her, she turned and looked at me with a huge smile. “NOW, I’m ready to go to the grocery store!” she beamed.
Now ordinarily, when I observe negative behavior in my children, I am perfectly comfortable in attributing it to my husband’s contribution to the gene pool. But I suppose if I’m being honest, I have to own this one. You see, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. I fear this may be MY contribution to my daughter’s DNA.
Many moons ago on our honeymoon, my husband and I stayed at a swanky hotel. When he casually mentioned one day that one of the attractions of this hotel was an in-house casino, I simply nodded matter-of-factly. After all, I had never gambled in my life. It simply wasn’t part of my life experience. I had no interest.
One night, about a half-hour before our dinner reservation, we decided to walk through the casino on the way to the restaurant. It was alive with bright lights, and bells and whistles, and people laughing with a twinkle in their eyes as they cranked machine handles and sipped fancy drinks.
My husband brought me a little cup of quarters. I was quite surprised. “I really don’t want to waste money on THIS!” I said, adamantly. “Oh, relax,” he said. “We’re on our honeymoon! Live a little. It’s just a couple of dollars.”
So we walked over and sat down at some slot machines. I took a coin and put it in the machine. I listened as it happily jingled its way down to the bottom. Then I pulled the handle and watched, transfixed, as three little fruit sections spun rapidly. The first slot stopped; then the second; finally, the third. “Well, that’s kinda cool,” I said to myself.
He took a seat in the chair next to me and tried his luck. I put in another quarter. This time I found myself talking to the machine. “STOP!” I commanded. 3 lemons lined up in a row! I HAD WON! I heard the happy jangle of coins twirl downward in the receptacle cup. I felt my face flush with happiness.
I was in love.
About a half-hour went by and my husband looked at his watch and said, “We gotta fly. It’s almost time for dinner.” I didn’t look away from my machine. “Cancel it.” I said, matter-of-factly. He laughed at my obvious joke. “No really, ” I said, “Cancel it.” You see, at that moment, nothing else mattered. I was having a ball! I didn’t need to eat! He looked at me and his expression changed slowly as he realized I wasn’t joking. I looked at my cup and only had one quarter left. “I need more quarters,” I said, turning to him pleadingly. “Give me your quarters.”
Though we were newlyweds and in the stage of our relationship where we still danced carefully around new conflict, my husband bravely whispered in my ear in a tone I hadn’t heard often, “We’re done. Let’s GO.” Like a spell had been broken, I snapped-to. I then realized that I had been swept up in the intoxicating romance of the quarter. It was like a lover. A lover that I had no choice but to leave.
I quit cold-turkey that day. And I’m proud to say that I have not entered a casino since!
So back to “M.” I suppose that being aware of the problem is half the battle. I understand how she feels. I’ve walked in her shoes. I have empathy. And I do know that there is a road to recovery that I will be happy to walk along with her, at her side.
But I still really wish they had a 12-step group for 4 year-olds. I can envision it perfectly. As everyone gathers together, and nervously awaits their turn at self-introduction, she’ll say, “Hi. I’m “M.” Hey, does anyone have a quarter?”
Great Timing
11 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
in "Stuff"
(August 22, 2010)
My vacuum decided to go to that “appliance showroom in the sky” (may it rest in peace.) Coincidentally, my husband’s birthday is in a few days. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? What modern man wouldn’t desire a new appliance? After all, it’s machinery. It makes a lot of noise. It comes with gadgets. And there’s even an element of danger (if he’s operating it.) And, bottom line, who can resist the gift of a happy wife?
Work of Art
11 Dec 2011 Leave a Comment
And Then the Ball Drops
11 Dec 2011 4 Comments
in "Stuff"
Last night we had back-to-back Christmas parties to attend. Our first began at 4 pm; the second, at 6 pm. Since the second one was adults-only, we had to take our leave from shindig #1 early to race home and meet the babysitter, get the kids situated, and then fly out the door for shindig #2. I glanced at my watch and it read 6:15. “Good,” I thought to myself. “We’ll get there a little after it starts, and be “fashionably late.”
We pulled our car up to my friend’s house, and parked it on the street. As I noticed we were the lone car near her house, I remarked to my husband, “That’s odd. We’re the first ones here!” We grabbed the bottle of wine from the car to give to our hosts, and headed across the lawn to the front door. We rang the doorbell, and after a minute or two, our friends greeted us at the door. They graciously welcomed us and took our coats. My friend seemed a bit rushed as she excused herself to take care of some last-minute details. Her husband chatted with us good-naturedly. We walked around the house and took note of all the pretty Christmas decorations. My friend came into our room, opened up her entertainment armoire and began to put on some music. She fiddled with the volume and asked our opinion – “Does this sound too loud?” We told her it was fine.
About 15-20 minutes goes by. Still no guests. I walked up to my friend and said to her, “I’m surprised we are the first ones here. I thought we were late!” She smiled nervously, and said, “Well, actually the party isn’t until 7.” I stared at her blankly, feeling my face get warm. My eyes flashed open wide and in slow-motion, I glanced at my watch. As I looked at the time, I let the reality sink in. We had arrived 45 minutes early. Panic-stricken, I looked at my husband across the room. When I caught his eye, he must have sensed from the forlorn expression on my face that something was terribly wrong. I looked back at my friend and heard my voice say, “I am completely mortified.” I went on to explain that the day had been filled with rushing around and darting here and there, and endless errands and Christmas preparations. She smiled reassuringly and said, “It’s OKAY! Please don’t worry. We were all ready. It’s not a problem!” My husband walked over to see why I looked as if I were about to burst into tears. I blurted out robotically, “The party doesn’t start until 7.” I saw his face morph into a red-flash of embarrassment as he shot me his “I-can’t-believe-you-didn’t-check-the-time/you-are-SO-losing-your-grip-on-reality,” look. No worries. I felt bad enough for the both of us. A few minutes later when we were alone, he whispered, “Don’t worry about it. It could happen to anyone.”
Soon the guests started to arrive. An hour later the house was bustling with laughter and holiday chatter. I felt relieved to blend in once the spotlight had turned off over our heads. I sat down and felt myself exhale. Reflecting on the night, I finally came to terms with the fact that maybe now I could stop beating myself up. After all, it’s a busy time of year. Trying to juggle so many things can inevitably lead to a ball dropping once in a while.‘Tis the Season, after all.
