Typical snail mail day at my house:
My son gets courted by colleges. I get courted by life insurance companies. One would suspect we are in different demographics.
Tag: sandwich generation
Light
Light. It’s the primary reason I will never move north of my current home in Missouri, USA. I don’t think I could bear shorter winter days than I endure now. This year, December has been especially gloomy, with many overcast days and little sun. I’d pick up my son from school at 4:05, car headlights already on.
The longer I live this northern hemisphere existence the more I appreciate the inclusion of some celebration of light in most winter holiday traditions. I know folks who have a bonfire to mark the solstice. Then there are yule logs, the seven candles of Kwanzaa, menorahs, and good old Christmas lights. One of the things I like best is that other illumination needs to be dimmed in order to fully experience any of these. The presence of a light in the dark, rather than a bright overhead fixture to make it seem like daytime, helps me feel welcoming toward night.
Last year we bought LED lights for our Christmas tree and it’s been transformative. Because they’re not running up the electric bill (much) and they don’t get hot, I leave them on all night. Most mornings I’m up before the sun, assuming we’re even going to see it that day. This is dictated by schedule and not by choice. I’m a person who needs to ease into full wakefulness. The multi-colored fairy glow that greets me when I come down the stairs helps me transition less grumpily than I otherwise would. So far this season, we’ve avoided our traditional middle-of-the-night crashing of the greenery that usually comes with Christmas trees and cats. I have to wonder if keeping the lights on is keeping the felines at bay. Any excuse, really.
I had a “be still my heart” moment the other night when my two teens actually liked my suggestion to pile in the van and drive around town looking at Christmas lights. This was our ultimate destination: 
But we took a lot of side streets to get there, turning down any block that looked well-decorated. I’m grateful to my fellow residents for their efforts. In the middle of the busyness of shopping and wrapping and holiday logistics, our little outing was the equivalent of a deep, relaxing breath.
The holiday lights will be coming down in another week or so, but it’s okay. The days are getting longer again. Until then, whatever holidays you celebrate or don’t, I send out thoughts of light and love to you. Yes, I mean you.
I Sang Along, Y’all
I know some people will hate me for this, but I love holiday music. Almost all of it – traditional carols, sacred hymns, pop/rock selections, novelty numbers. Just about anything except that one about the kid picking out Christmas shoes for his mom to die in. I spend the month of December belting out the lyrics of myriad winter celebration songs. Any time I find myself alone in my home or car.
I fondly recall the days of my childhood when I’d participate with enthusiasm in school choir programs, sing along with the radio in front of anyone, and generally enjoy the sound of my own voice. Back before I realized I was kind of terrible at singing.
By the time I reached my teen years, I kept my not-quite tune-making to myself. Other teens are not ones to let you keep your delusions of adequacy. In church, where everyone was expected to make a joyful noise, I lip-synched behind my hymnal.
During my young adult years I didn’t sing and didn’t sing. And I missed it. I missed being able have fun with a song for the simple pleasure of it, with no worries about how good I was, with no self-consciousness. For me, singing had become all self-consciousness and no pleasure. Then I had babies.
I sang to my babies while rocking them, and they didn’t criticize me. They even seemed to find some comfort in my voice. And as they got a little older, we sang Christmas carols and “Itsy Bitsy Spider” and “Old McDonald” and it was a blast. When I volunteered at preschool, I sang along even though there were other adults present, because I wanted to set a good example around embracing music without embarrassment. I *felt* embarrassed, but I tried not to show it. Singing was once again part of my life. It was a great unexpected gift that came with motherhood.
Then the kids got even older and we stopped doing any of that. I’ve spent the last few years keeping my vocal efforts a solitary activity. Secret even. Back to treating it as a shameful activity.
But today – today I went to the Christmas party at my mom’s nursing home. We had carols. I sang along, y’all. I was surrounded by 85 and 90-year-olds, many of whom suffer ailments that have pretty well trashed their voices. But most of them were giving it their best shot, so why shouldn’t I? Besides, my mom is one person who never said a negative word about my singing, no matter how it made her suffer. Some of the aides might have looked at me askance, but I had a good time. I think I even hit the correct notes a few times.
This was huge for me. I sang along. I didn’t hum, or stick to smiling and tapping my foot just off the beat. I sang. I’m ready for my participation award.
What to Talk About?
You’re back in your hometown for the holidays and you go to visit your Great Aunt Hilda at her nursing home. You give her a box of chocolates, ask how she’s doing, show her pictures of your kids, tell her a story about your new puppy…uh, discuss the weather…look at your watch. Seven minutes. Really, seven minutes into the visit and you’re out of things to talk about?
You could ask what’s new with Hilda, but you know her life is pretty static. Maybe the podiatrist was around last week and everyone got their toenails trimmed. But there’s only so much ground you want to cover on that topic. So what do you talk about? How can you pass the time pleasantly?
Here’s one idea:
Conversation starter cards. There are a variety of sets. This one happens to be what I own. Since I suffer from a generalized case of social awkwardness, I use them in different settings. I don’t always take the box along, often simply looking through it for ideas before I’m in a conversation-making situation. My kids and I have read through the cards on road trips. They can be fun to use with a group, especially a multi-generational one. I’ve taken the box with me when visiting my mom and it made for some good discussions. There are questions such as “Are there any unusual food combinations you like?” and “What’s the longest trip you’ve ever taken?”
This could lead to interesting reminiscences. I’ve heard some tantalizing tales about my mom’s life that were new to me. You might want to be ready to take notes, or even record the conversation for posterity.
Another idea is to take a deck of cards or simple board game with you. By the time someone’s in a skilled nursing facility, they’re probably not going to be with it enough to play duplicate bridge, but Crazy 8s might not be out of the question. Or checkers.
If you have a tablet and you know there’s an Internet connection, you can bookmark some short on-line videos and share them. Who doesn’t love to watch cute baby animals doing adorable things?
You could have an informal literary discussion. Bring a poem or short short story to read aloud and talk about it.
These are all ideas that have gone well for me. If anyone else has suggestions, I’d love to see them in the comments.
Medicaid Room at Last
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Just when it looked like we might have to move my mom to any place that had a Medicaid opening, no matter how close or far or bad or good, a bed came open for her in the facility where she already lived. I was seriously losing sleep over not knowing what we were going to do. I even bought a lottery ticket – an unusual move for me – because it was my one idea.
I’d read about people in places like New York, where housing is scarce, scanning the obituaries to try to get the first jump on newly vacant apartments. I always felt grateful not to have to resort to such measures, not to have to wish someone dead so I could have a place to live. Yeah, well, I went there. I knew the most likely way for Mom to get a Medicaid bed was for the current occupant to pass on. I’d find myself thinking “Please, please, let something open today.” Then I’d try to salve my conscience by amending the thought – “Um, because somebody’s kid got a job transfer and is moving their parent to the new city as well.” or “If it’s by someone dying, let it be somebody who is 100 or older.”
Then on a Monday a couple of weeks ago, the social worker called and said they had a room. I needed to come over the next day and facilitate the move. What a long day that was. I work a split shift on Tuesday. So I drove my son to school, worked 9-1, drove over and moved my mother to another wing of the building, went back and picked up my son from school, delivered him to home and went back in to work from 5-9 p.m. But yay! My wishes fulfilled!
Even moving to a new wing is an adjustment of course. I think anything is at age 89. There’s a new roommate, a different set of nurses, a different dining room and meal companions. But the activities are the same and my mom knows the building pretty well. And it’s so much better than having to move to a completely different facility, or even a different town, which was a real possibility. My mom has questioned me a few times about why she’s in a different room. Once she said, “Was this my idea or their’s?” I explain it to her again, but I’m not sure she gets it completely. Well, who does get Medicaid rules completely? Not I.
There was a lot of paperwork and many phone calls involved in the switch, and I’m still afraid I’m about to curse it all by posting this. There’s a part of me that’s afraid I’m going to get a call saying it was a mistake and she has to move out after all. Meantime, I’m working my way to the point where I breathe again. I haven’t seen the actual Medicaid approval yet. I think I’ll finally exhale when I get that.
I’ve developed a sort of obsession about my own finances and the desire not to go through the same things in my elder years. But I know there’s a lot you can’t control in life. My mom worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known, and was honest and spent her life helping others. But that seems to mean little in our society when it comes to getting the care you need in your old age. It’s more about how much money you have. I try to stay away from politics on this blog, but I will end this post by saying universal single-payer health care sure would make life better.
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The Royals Rise Again – How I Wish Dad Could See This
Per his wishes, my dad was buried wearing a Kansas City Royals necktie with his suit. That was seven years ago. He and I didn’t always have a great relationship, but there was one subject that united us and created a bond – baseball. I grew up in Kansas City during the Royals’ heyday. Everyone in the family liked the team, but my dad and I were the true die-hard fans, shushing people in the car on the way home from church because the game was on the radio. I was the only one who followed closely enough to discuss statistics with him, to join in the analysis of whether the manager was making a feather-brained decision or a smart move. In the overall scheme of things, I knew he had a favorite kid and it wasn’t me. But as long as we stayed in the realm of baseball, I was his golden child.
Here’s what I remember. My dad hated sacrifice bunts to the point of vein-popping apoplexy. “You’re deliberately getting an out! How is that smart? The point of the game is not to get out!” I can still hear his voice in my head. As much as he hated bunts, he loved base stealing, and the Royals came through for him. They’ve always been a speedy team. He was a number one fan of “that George Brett kid.” And Dad despised the A’s for being deserters. He never forgave Charlie Finley for moving them out of Kansas City. Dad’s relationship with the Royals was a second marriage of sorts. Any time the new spouse could show up the ex, he reveled.
During the last few years of my father’s life, he was pretty far gone with dementia. It was difficult and heart-wrenching a lot of the time, but there were compensations. For instance, he didn’t know how terrible the Royals were during those years. Sit him in front of a TV with a baseball game on it and he’d be happy, thinking every hit was made by then-retired Brett and every stolen base was taken by Royals’ former short-stop Fred Patek. I spared him the truth of the team’s win-loss record.
Through the past 29 years of mostly losing records and post-season non-glory, I’ve always believed the Royals would rise again. No fair-weather fan am I. Not a deserter like Charlie Finley, I stick with my home team through good times and bad. And good again, at long last. They squeaked their way into a wild card slot this year. Aptly named, as the game was one of the wildest post-season contests I’ve ever seen, with the Royals coming from behind late in the game, eventually overtaking Oakland in twelve innings, with one improbable run after another.
Hey dad, it’s Blue October. Hey, look! The Royals beat the A’s to move on to the playoffs. The A’s, Dad! And our team tied a record for most stolen bases in a post-season game, with seven. You would have loved it. Dad, George Brett is working in their front office now, and his reaction to the final run has gone viral. Um, viral means something different from what it used to, by the way.
They won the first game of the playoffs, too, going extra innings again. I stayed up until midnight, watching to the end. Remember how you used to let me stay up if it was for an important baseball game? I’ll probably stay up late again tonight for the next game. I wish you could watch it with me, Dad.
My Life in Your Hands
“The speed limit here is 50, so you might want to pick up the pace a little.” What am I thinking, putting my life into the hands of a 16-year-old? Strapping myself into a metal bucket and putting him in control of hurtling it down the road without killing us? Telling him to drive faster? How is that sane? But he’s got his learner’s permit and needs his practice hours.
I have a new criterium for how people should plan their families, in case anyone should ask my advice. Remember, those adorable babies are going to grow into teens. How many kids should you have? How many ride-alongs with student drivers can your nerves handle? There’s your number.
At least my kids are both pretty conscientious and not reckless. The first time I rode with my son, I joked as I climbed into the passenger seat, “My life in your hands.”
“So, no pressure?” he responded.
Though the day-to-day responsibilities and constant tasks that come with little kids can seem unrelenting, in some ways it was easier for me, psychologically, being the one in charge of getting everything done and keeping us all alive. Of course my goal is to see my kids grow into responsible adults, but it’s hard turning over that control. Oh, yeah, maybe I have a few control issues. I have been known to re-bag my groceries before putting them in the back of my van.
As my kids got big enough to start helping, it wasn’t too hard for me to live with their methods and results for sweeping the kitchen floor, for example. So a few crumbs got missed. No biggy. But as they grew, so did their responsibilities, and some came with real stakes. Getting careless with a power mower is a lot more dangerous than getting careless with a broom.
My older kid is known to stay up in the middle of the night and cook things while the rest of us sleep. This can be wonderful, waking up to freshly baked goods. But I have to trust that the stove will get turned off and we won’t be burned in our beds. And now, in the car, I ride in the passenger seat sometimes, trying to push down thoughts about how if they mess this up we could all die.
For years, they’ve had to trust me not to leave the stove on, not to wreck us in the car, not to be careless in an important area and allow the worst to happen. I know it’s natural for the balance to shift. Sometimes there’s a sudden and dramatic change. A parent has a stroke or an accident. Sometimes it happens more gradually.
It’s likely my kids will eventually have more responsibility for me than I have for them. I know it can’t be easy for my mom, entrusting her life into my hands. In every aspect she has to let go and hope she raised me right. She doesn’t have control over her money, what doctors she sees or even where she lives. Not that I don’t get her input on anything. But it’s up to me to make the ultimate decisions and try not to blow it. Her life in my hands. No pressure, right?
Sometimes You Need to See the Stars
I just got back from spending a couple of days in a place without Internet or a cell phone signal. Apparently the world survived without my constant check-ins. The husband, kids and I stayed in a state park – Missouri has wonderful state parks – about two hours from home. Not quite the European treks some of my kids’ friends are experiencing this summer, nor the Alaskan cruise more than one of my acquaintances has taken recently. But it provided a much-needed refocusing for me.
Right before I left I was a hot mess and came close to canceling the whole thing, feeling overwhelmed by how much work it takes to get ready for any kind of trip. I didn’t want to have to plan for meals, or grocery shop, or find people to cover for me on projects at work, or pack, or catch up on the laundry, or arrange for someone to feed the pets. It was all too much. Nothing was worth it.
That was displaced emotion. Really, I was overwhelmed by everything else in my daily life, the things I needed to get away from for a brief time. And, too, the general state of the world, with wars and climate change and so on. Plus I was a little freaked about the possibility that some major development with my mom’s health or well-being would occur while I was unreachable.
But I left my brother’s phone number with the nursing home and the park office phone number with my brother, and off we went. For 48 tremendous hours. I’m so glad that anxiety-ridden me got over herself and let me have this experience. Removing myself from contact with much of the outside world helped me stop fretting about it. And having the whole family removed from this contact helped us be with each other. With my kids growing up, I’m not sure how much more of that I’ll get.
My 16-year-old took his guitar and spent hours practicing, something he has more trouble getting around to at home. I read a big chunk of a novel (The Pure Gold Baby by Margaret Drabble, if you’re interested) without the usual mosquito buzz of guilt about all of the tasks I was neglecting. The 19-year-old also got a lot of reading done. My husband found the opportunity to interact with the river via his fishing poles, something he doesn’t get to do often enough. We spent time simply sitting around a campfire, talking, also something we can’t always fit in at home, what with everyone having different schedules and jobs and school and various responsibilities.
We threw in a little adventure, too, as I knocked an item off my bucket list. I have wanted to try ziplining from the moment I first heard of it, four or five years ago. My frugal self found some on-line coupons for a zipline tour a short drive from our cabin. It was still pricey, but come on – bucket list. We all went and it was a thrill. I loved it. The entire odyssey involved four ziplines and three suspension bridges: over the parking lot, over the trees, over the river. I know it was adventuresome because we had to fill out paperwork beforehand stating our insurance coverage and preferred hospital, plus signing off that we, the parents, gave our minor son permission to risk his life. The wording may have a been a little different, but that was the gist.
We did a tour of Meramec Caverns because, as my older child says, “You can’t go anywhere in Missouri without ending up on a cave tour.” Pretty much the truth. If you go, expect to do a lot of walking. The cave system is huge. And fascinating.
Our tour guide told us most cave formations grow at a rate of around an inch every 100 years. Then again, she also told us this cave was used as a hideout by Jesse James and I’ve heard that about every cave in the state, so… But some quick on-line research backs up the idea that the stalactites, stalagmites and columns we saw have been thousands upon thousands of years in the making. I find that comforting somehow. There’s a constancy to it that feels so dependable.
If I had to choose a favorite part of the trip, I’d say looking at the stars. I live in a city. Not a huge city, but I’m right in it – not nearby or even in a suburban area. For the most part it suits me. I can walk to work, and to the grocery store and the bank. My street always gets plowed when it snows. But I don’t get to see much of the night sky. There’s a street light directly in front of my house and another one right behind.
At our rental cabin, there were no artificial outdoor lights. And we were treated to two cloudless nights in a row with no moon in sight. We couldn’t see much from our “yard” due to the tree canopy. But a short, flashlight-illuminated walk led us to an open field where I witnessed more stars than I’ve ever before seen at one time. It was the sky as my mom and dad grew up with it, out in the Arkansas countryside. The first night, only my husband and I went stargazing. I had a Moment there with him. I don’t know how to describe it. We could see the Milky Way so clearly, our galaxy. And there we stood, little specks on one planet, part of this whole huge galaxy, part of the whole huge universe. Yet somehow the atoms had come together to form the two of us and the two of us had found each other. We were there, hand-in-hand, so close in the middle of all that vast space.
The second night, the whole family trooped down to the field. My firstborn went inside before too long, claiming an existential crisis, but I suspect there was a DVD inside a laptop, waiting to be viewed. Or maybe it was both. I know lots of people speak of the existential crisis they feel upon witnessing the vastness of It All. But I’ve never experienced that.
My favorite Twitter feeds come from NASA and individual astronauts. I can’t get enough of the photos. When I see the earth as a whole, or a space phenomenon like a nebula, or a field of stars, I feel the same kind of comfort I got in the cave. I don’t feel insignificant, or even worry about whether I’m insignificant. I’m awed that I get to be a part of it. It All. I always have been and always will be. So it is for you, too. The Universe recycles, you know. My atoms weren’t always me as I am now, but they were here, somewhere, being. And once I’ve died, they’ll go on to be something else.
I’m reminded of a couple of quotes:
Nothing in the entire universe ever perishes, believe me, but things vary, and adopt a new form. The phrase being born is used for beginning to be something different from what one was before, while dying means ceasing to be the same. Though this thing may pass into that, and that into this, yet the sum of things remains unchanged. – Ovid
If you can see a thing whole,” he said, “it seems that it’s always beautiful. Planets, lives…But close up, a world’s all dirt and rocks. And day to day, life’s a hard job, you get tired, you lose the pattern.” – Ursula K. Le Guin, “The Dispossessed”
I’ve been losing the pattern. I need to see the stars every once in a while to remind me of the beauty, the continuity, the whole.
Ensure is the New Martini
Nursing home drama can be intense. “Orange is the New Black” has nothing on “Ensure is the New Martini.” Which is why I’ve moved my mom twice within the past week and she’s now in the same room where she started out.
She’s been in a two-person room, with a shared bathroom between it and the one-person room next door. Recently the facility placed a man in the room next door, which is very upsetting to my mom’s old-fashioned sensibilities. She did not care to share a bathroom with a different gender, even though they’re obviously not both in there at the same time. Meanwhile, Mom’s roommate moved out. And one of the ladies two doors down from my mom moved out. The obvious solution was to emigrate my mother down two rooms. She’d be in an end room with its own bathroom. And her new roomie had always been nice to her.
The problem is the new roomie had been close friends with her previous roomie before either of them ever moved in. So she was mourning a loss, and people aren’t always rational when they’re mourning. I think that’s what led to her yelling at my mother to get out of her room and saying she didn’t like her, before then trying to remove my mom’s things, as much as she could while shuffling along with her walker. I was already on my way for a visit when the nurse called me to tell me about the kerfluffle.
I found my mom dabbing at wet eyes, and the head nurse speaking with the roommate, telling her she could have ended up with someone much worse than my mom in the new companion department. The lady apologized and said she’d do better, but my poor mom was good and scared. She asked to go back to her old room before they gave it to someone else and the option was gone. I felt like I did when someone was mean to one of my kids in grade school.
Usually, my mother manages to stay out of the drama, but there is always something going on. And really, Ensure is the new martini. It’s the after-dinner drink of choice in the skilled nursing setting. I think it’s only a matter of time before there’s a TV show about a nursing home, in a knock-off version of “Orange is the New Black.” There won’t be all of the sex, of course, but there will be the occasional resident stripping. Good thing they’re usually too arthritic to get very far before a staff member intervenes.
Think about it. It’s a facility filled with people who didn’t necessarily choose to be there. People from all walks of life, who otherwise might not have had much to do with each other. Some have connections with the outside and some are on their own. I’ve heard of one instance where a visitor smuggled in some hooch and possibly more. There are cliques and shifting alliances, and you have to watch your stuff to keep it from walking off to someone else’s room. That last doesn’t really happen too much, and when it does, it’s usually a matter of confusion more than anything. But it does happen some. I’ve even witnessed parallel scenes of residents being made to shower when they were pretty resistant to the idea, though it was done much more gently and with more respect in the real life nursing home than in the fictional prison. And no, it wasn’t my mom involved – she’s still meticulous about her hygiene.
I hope whoever moves in with my mom next is a real sweetheart. And a little part of me hopes whoever moves in with the other lady is not quite as much of one. But the bigger part of me knows I should try to be understanding. Mostly, I hope next week is boring.
Rice and Beans and Four-Dollar Jeans
No, that’s not a lyric from a country song. It’s my life and how I’ve tried to live within my means even when my budget has been as tight as the shoes my kids were constantly outgrowing. We’ve eaten a lot of beans and rice. Hey, it’s not only cheap, it’s tasty and healthy. The $4 jeans refers to my penchant for buying clothes at thrift stores. It’s not only clothes – I rarely buy anything new.
My mother grew up in dire poverty, and thus learned to stretch a penny like nobody’s business. She passed these skills on to me. I’ve discovered if you look hard enough, you can find almost anything used. Probably my most serendipitous find was a $20 car-top carrier, purchased a week before we were leaving for a cross-country camping road trip. Here are some other bargains I’ve found at thrift stores and garage sales.
Gen BLT 