The Many Meanings of Senior

The word “senior” has a prominent place in my life at the moment, but with a variety of meanings. At age ninety, my mom is a senior. At age seventeen, my son is also a senior.

In my life at this moment, senior means both Medicare statements and college applications.

Senior means a skilled living facility and classes in two different school buildings.

Senior means rock star parking with my mom’s official hangtag and a photo of my son in a tux.

Senior means being old and disabled enough to be excuse from jury duty and being a smidgen too young to vote, yet.

Senior means more difficulty eating and the ability to consume pizza without end.

Senior means fewer choices every day and more decisions to make.

Senior means spending hours every day reminiscing on the past and hours every day looking to the future.

Senior means discounts with an ID.

Senior meaning so many things at once means I’m still in the sandwich generation.

Shaking Up the Routine

I felt adventurous yesterday evening. So when I went for an after-dinner walk, I traveled my usual route in reverse. Everything looked different, it really did.

The bulk of my life happens within a limited geographical space, with a repeat of the same routines again and again. Like most people, yeah I know. I go to work, a few blocks down the street from my house. Sometimes my presence is required at my son’s high school, a mile and a half away. A couple of times a week I drive across town to visit my mom. I go to the same coffee shop once a week, and other than that rarely eat out. In fact, I usually stick with only coffee there. I divide my grocery shopping among three different stores, depending on who has the best sales each week, so there’s some variety.

And I take the same 1.7 mile route through the neighborhood when I go on a walk. It’s a nice walk. I leave my front door and turn left, then I circle a lovely park and then traverse streets lined with interesting homes in a variety of styles. There are mature, magnificent trees everywhere. It’s a perk of living in one of the older parts of town.

Wooden f — I crossed this bridge from the other side.

Yesterday, I was tired of the same things, going the same places and doing the same things over and over. So I mixed it up. After dinner, I walked out of my front door and turned right. I went down the same streets in the opposite direction. I circled the park last.

It made a bigger difference than I expected. The houses and yards all look different from the other side. I noticed things I couldn’t believe I’d overlooked all this time. Had that passion flower vine always been there? Wait, those folks have a trampoline? You totally can’t see it approaching the house from the other way. Hey, that house has a stained glass window!

I’m convinced I need to break out of my rut more often. I’m going to the grocery store later today. Maybe I’ll enter the store through a different door than usual and walk the aisle in the opposite direction from my established routine. I could even go wild and buy some item I don’t usually include on the list – a new kind of crackers maybe.

Watch out world, I’m on a tear!

Pneumonia Falls

Pneumonia Falls — it’s the dystopian anti-vacation destination my mom has been visiting for the past several days. First she spiked a fever, then she got weak and dizzy, then she fell. Nothing broken, so I guess that means her osteoporosis medicine is working.

After a series of tests, it was determined she had a mild case of pneumonia. Antibiotics have taken down the fever and cleared up congestion. But neither her strength nor balance has returned. She’s fallen two more times and is now under injunction not to walk anywhere without the accompaniment of an aide.

Yesterday she told me she has to stop and rest on her way to the dining room and asked me to bring her wheelchair the next time I come. This feels like a big step down to me, as she’s been adamantly anti-wheelchair up until now. But she’s looked a lot closer to the edge of death than this in the past and then bounced back.

I guess we’ll go on the way life has to go on anyway. One day and then another day and then another until eventually there isn’t one more.

Last First Day

I’ve probably made this observation before on my blog, but indulge me, please. As my kids reach their young adult years, I find firsts are changing to lasts. Today is our last first day of school. My 17-year-old begins his senior year today, and I do believe he’s as nervous as he was on the first day of kindergarten. Maybe more.

This is the year he not only has to think about getting through his classes, but he also has to make big life decisions. He’s been trying to research colleges on-line and ends up stressed out about narrowing possibilities and knowing what he’s supposed to do. He’s pretty sure he wants to go into computer programming, but also holds out music technology as a on the short list of majors.

There he goes, leaving for the last leg of the school journey.

As is common with kids who have sensory integration issues, his grades are not-so-great, but his test scores are stellar. I’m eating crow about having railed against standardized tests in the past, because now I see those scores as his key. I hope they open doors the grades have closed. He’s never had a problem with learning the material in any of his classes, but depending on the teacher, has experienced varying degrees of difficulty with understanding assignments and keeping track of due dates.

He’s come a long way in learning to cope and navigate the world, though. I remember taking him to kindergarten round-up, the spring before he started school. Kindergarteners-to-be were invited to visit their future classroom for part of the day to get a feel for it so it wouldn’t be so intimidating when they started in the fall as students. I think it may have been for the parents’ benefit, as well. I clearly recall standing outside the building with him as he screamed “You’re not getting me through those doors!”

He was overwhelmed with the numbers of big kids and adults milling around. So we explored the outside of the school for a while until he was able to go in. He was fascinated by the classroom fish tank and promptly got into an argument with a girl about fish facts. It ended with her saying, “These are our fish, buster. I think I know about them.” So that was our beginning with his school career.

Though I’m concerned about the big picture things, as my son is, this is the least stressful beginning of the year for me. And the difference is him as a 17-year-old vs. him at any previous age. He’s so darned prepared. He remembered to do all of his laundry yesterday. He sat down last night with a map of the school and marked where all of his classrooms are. He made sure he had school supplies. And he’s planning a homework schedule with talk of bringing up his grades. Wow. I’ve had so many worries about him over the years, but they’re dissipating as I see the wonderful, capable person he’s becoming. I do believe he will make his way in the world.

Observations on Fruit Flies

Fruit flies have a gestation period of ten minutes and give birth to eighty babies at a time. I didn’t look this up anywhere; it’s my own inference based strictly on observations made in my own kitchen. We try keeping a lid on our compost container, but it appears the little creatures not only possess incredible breeding capacity, but also are able to pass through impermeable Tupperware.

I’ve found a couple of strategies to put a dent in the fruit fly population. One is performing a magic ritual in which you clap your hands twenty times. Then you purify yourself with soap and water. The other is one weird trick from the Internet that actually seems to work, more or less. I left a shallow bowl out on the counter, filled with apple cider vinegar mixed with a drop of honey and a drop of dish soap. Several hours later, more than a dozen tiny corpses floated in the liquid. I was so excited, I called my husband in to take a look.

Courtesy of ronhudson.blogspot.com — image courtesy of ronhudson.blogspot.com

He couldn’t help noting the fruit flies gathered on the rim of the bowl, safely out of harm’s way, gazing upon their fallen comrades. Then it struck me. “We’re just winnowing out the slowest and weakest, aren’t we?” I asked him. “The ones left to reproduce are too smart and strong to get caught. We’re not eradicating the population. We’re breeding superfiles!” He couldn’t even respond, merely left the room, shaking his head.

Or maybe I need to use a bigger bowl.

And Then…

Update on the hearing aid situation:

The day after I posted about my delays in getting my mom’s hearing aid repaired I did, in fact, manage to get it fixed and back to her. Mad props to Columbia Hearing Center for excellent and speedy customer service, especially as the holiday weekend approached.

I delivered the working device to my mom with the satisfied feeling that comes from one less item on your to-do list. Only to have her say, “I got something in the mail. I don’t remember what, but I remember thinking you should look at it.”

I found the envelope the top drawer of her nightstand:

Jury summons

I looked it up on the state’s website. There is no maximum age for jurors. Apparently, residing at a skilled nursing facility is no automatic exemption, either. What can you do but laugh?

No worries. I contacted my mother’s doctor, who was happy to email a letter stating Mom should be excused from jury duty indefinitely.

It’s always something, rarely anything I expected.

Feeling the Sandwich This Week

Sometimes lately, I can breathe. Sometimes, now that my kids are young adults, I feel a little space opening, giving me fewer needs to meet, fewer conflicting priorities. But then I have a week like this one. This week, this is me.

grilledcheese

Not only sandwiched, but toasted.

Mom’s hearing aid needs repaired. I don’t remember the brand or know where to take it. But surely I can find time to pick it up to see the brand and then find a place that will service it. Um. That much is accomplished. As far as actually getting it to the place…I feel like the world’s most neglectful daughter.

My older kid found a job they want to apply for, which is way up there on the priority list and a major step forward, but they’re floundering in confusion and anxiety over creating a resume. Can’t wait forever to apply; got to get it done right away. Sure, I’ll help. Anything. Anything to help facilitate this step toward self-reliance. Conflicting priorities. I choose helping my firstborn over taking in my mom’s hearing aid. It can wait one more day. I should have a couple of hours after work and before the business closes.

Oh, but then my second-born has arranged to have his friends gather at our house as soon as I’m home from work. It’s the only time all summer they can make it happen, what with all of their various summer classes, jobs, travels and volunteer obligations. One of the boys in the group is leaving the country in a couple of days. These are good kids. Regardless, I’m not leaving a bunch of teenaged boys unsupervised in my house for any length of time.

I’ve also been prepping for a program at work that puts me in a role I haven’t played before. Ideally, this should only affect me during work hours, but I have so much anxiety about it I feel compelled to spend time at home refreshing myself on the details to know and remember.

I was about to call my mom last night and explain all of this to her, hoping she could hear my words of reassurance that she isn’t forgotten, when the tornado sirens went off. Have I mentioned the weather? We’ve been spending a lot of time in the basement lately. Fortune has spared us tornado damage, but not the imminent threats.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will definitely get to the hearing aid place. And hope they’re not closed early for the holiday weekend. Sorry for making you wait, Mom. I said SORRY FOR MAKING YOU WAIT ON YOUR HEARING AID.

Summer Fun, Making Memories

Summer

For several years, I dealt with the inevitable summer kid complaint of “I’m bored” by keeping a list of possible activities posted on the refrigerator. Some were solo ventures – blow bubbles, draw a picture. Others were group doings – board games, etc. Some could be done at home and others were of the out-and-about variety for times I was available. Dozens of times each summer, I’d say “Go look at the list and choose something.”

Now I wonder how many summers I have left with any kids still at home. I hope it’s more than one, but fewer than ten. I know the empty nest can be bittersweet, but failure to launch is not all roses either. While I still have them, I want to do more than get through my daily checklist of bare survival tasks over and over: get cavity filled, pick up denture tablets for Mom, go to work again, cook dinner again and again and again… Continue reading “Summer Fun, Making Memories” →

Last One Standing

One of my uncles died yesterday. He had been married to my father’s sister, who passed away last year. I remember at my dad’s funeral, this aunt lamenting that she had none of her childhood family any more. I come from a large clan on both sides. My dad was one of five children and my mom one of nine. Now, of the siblings and their spouses in my dad’s family, my mother is the last one standing. That’s one of the drawbacks of living a very long life. You lose a lot of people along the way.

On my paternal side, it’s an entire generation gone. Yet another milestone where I realize I’m supposed to be a grown-up now, in a big way. In taking charge of my mom and her affairs, I failed to anticipate one significant responsibility. I’m the bearer of news, the one who sits with her over another loss. I never feel I’m competent enough for this and find myself thinking there must be some real adults around somewhere who could step in.

My mom still has six surviving brothers and sisters, including one older the she is. They’re hardy stock. I have a greater than average chance of making it to ninety. But I can’t think this without thinking of my aunt who was the last of her family of origin. She was the youngest by quite a bit and so am I. You never know what life will bring, of course. People don’t always die in chronological order. In fact, I wasn’t even accurate earlier in this paragraph when I said I’m the youngest. There was one sister who followed me by two years and never made it home from the hospital.

People always want to live a long time, but who really wants to be the last one standing? It’s a conundrum.

I don’t know if I have an end point to this blog post. I simply felt like sharing the ramblings of my mind. Maybe I won’t try to come up with some neat concluding sentence. I’ll let it be a little incoherent and messy, like life.

Reclaiming My Space

Yet another birthday. Mine this time. Yesterday. And with it a goal for the coming year. I want to reclaim some personal space, both on my calendar and in my house. Whenever it comes to shuffling things around in an attempt to make life work, I’m often too quick to volunteer for giving up something of mine to make the needed room, whether an activity, a goal, an object, or my home office space.

This is supposed to be my office for writing and whatever else I want to do in there. It’s pretty messy at the moment.

Messy office

Our house was built around 1901. I believe this upstairs room was originally a sleeping porch. The house needed A LOT of work when we bought it. This room didn’t even have real windows, only storms. We installed windows, put in carpet (found an end roll the right size for $50!), insulated the ceiling, and painted the walls, so I could have a writing space. I started the project so full of hope and cheer.

But, letting my inner martyr take over, I’ve gradually allowed everything else to encroach on it. Might as well keep all of our paperwork in there, right? Paid bills, taxes, insurance claims, mortgage stuff. I’m the one who handles the finances, so it only makes sense. Then sometimes we have a box of random stuff with no designated place, and we’re cleaning the common areas because we’re expecting company. Oh, I can put that box in my office, out of the way, “for now.”

And eventually we moved my mom to town, into her little tiny half of a room in the skilled nursing facility. With her came multiple season’s worth of clothing and many items she couldn’t let go, yet has no room for. Hmmm..where to put it? I know! How about the writing salon turned storage unit?

Storage

Oh, but see the green container there on the right with paper stuffed in it? That’s a sign of progress. Of hope. See the filing cabinets? They had been so bulging I’d stopped putting things in them. The green container is a paper shredder. Those papers were shredded after this photo was taken. I’ve made a good start on transforming this jumble back into a usable office by purging my files of old utility bills and operation manuals for appliances we no longer own. Tax returns from the early 2000s – gone! I freed up a ton of space so I could start sorting and filing the more recent piles that have been growing.

My plan, my small, specific, tangible goal for this next year of my life is to reclaim my writing office and begin using it again. I’m going to work on it at least four days a week, even if I only have ten minutes. Take a look at the progress I made this afternoon.

Bookcase

I’m talking about the bookcase. See how half of the top is clear of paperwork? That empty spot represents an hour of work on my part. There had been a huge, tottering pile next to the smaller stack that remains. Some of it got filed, some shredded. About half of it is on the floor there in the photo, but has since been moved to a recycling container. I also returned the clothes hanger to a closet. I’m not sure how it made its way to the room to begin with.

This will happen. I’m tired of the sad, discouraged feeling of loss I have when I look into this room. I will have my writing space again within the year.