Happy Mother’s Day

Both of my kids’ birthdays fall near Mother’s Day each year. So we roll it all up into one big celebration. My son will be 15 tomorrow and my daughter 18 on Wednesday. They may be young adults, but they chose a zoo outing for the birthday activity.

As we entered, my daughter said, “We’re adults now. You don’t have to stay with us.” Followed shortly by “Will you get us wristbands so we can get into the children’s zoo area?” Yep, that pretty much sums up the age.

Today, we’ll bring my mom over to the house for lunch and a movie.

Anyway, happy Mother’s Day to moms of all kinds!

The Perfect Extra-Curricular Activity

By Jean-Simon Berthélemy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

In the midst of all of the stress and busyness that comprises sandwich generation parenting of two somewhat unconventional teens, there’s been a real bright spot this school year. My ninth-grade son joined the Gordian Knot, his school’s philosophy club. Led by two teachers, the group engages in structured explorations and discussions of philosophy. My kid can now identify logical fallacies as quickly as people on the Internet can type them. From my point of view, it’s the perfect extra-curricular activity.

Why is it perfect?
1. My son loves it.
2. It gives him a chance to spend time with like-minded kids.
3. It leads to interesting discussions at home.
4. It meets only once per week for one hour after school.
5. There are no practices.
6. There is nothing to buy.
7. There is nothing to sell.
8. It requires no parental volunteer time.

As far as I’m concerned, school activities can’t get better than this.

Postcards – a Practical Suggestion

Armchair travel and education - as easy as it gets. — Armchair travel and education – as easy as it gets.

My sister-in-law loves to send postcards. In addition to picking up new cards when traveling, she finds vintage stock at antique stores. My kids have enjoyed getting mail over the years, and examining the pictures on the front sides. Now she sends cards to my mom.

We’re fortunate to have a large extended family, even if none of them live in town. So a lot of people send cards to my mom. It’s sweet and picks up her spirits, knowing she’s not forgotten.

However, her fine motor skills and finger strength have degraded over time, so that even the act of opening an envelope can pose a challenge for her. She’s been known to save mail for a day or two until I visit, so I can open it for her. Postcards don’t present this problem. They arrive ready to read and enjoy the artwork.

True, there’s a lack of privacy, with the words there for anyone to see. But most of the cards Mom receives have no private information included anyway. And to be honest, not much is private in a skilled nursing setting.

I suggest more folks start sending postcards to their elderly relatives, especially the ones in poor health. They’re less expensive than greeting cards, both for the product and the postage. They often include a scene and a piece of information about it that can be a topic of interest and new information for the recipient. And they’re easy to tape or pin up for decoration.

As soon as I have time, I plan to hit a local antique store myself to see if I can score a handful. My mom’s not the only senior citizen amongst my relatives.

One Year Later – Random Musings

My mom has been here in town for one year and a couple of days now. She moved into the skilled nursing facility a day before her 87th birthday. At the time, I wondered if she’d see another one. Yesterday, we celebrated her 88th. (Lovely coincidence – she and Edward Gorey were born on the same day.)

Over the course of the year, she’s made a couple of friends and seen a few of her neighbors die. The nurses and aides know her routines and needs, and she has learned theirs. I have learned how much you can come to adore someone for taking good care of your mother.

I worry that her money is running out. She’s on the waiting list for a Medicaid bed in her current facility, and it’s a race to see if she gets to the top of the list before she can’t pay any more. I think we have her securely in place for a few more months, at least.

Some days, Mom seems to be doing so well, I think she could soldier on for another three or four years. Other days, I go home convinced she’s down to mere weeks. She’s recently experienced recurring, brief episodes of severe disorientation. But they clear up and she can then describe what happened, e.g. she couldn’t remember how to tell time. They’ve ruled out infection, but we have no real answers about a cause.

I realize most how much her health has deteriorated when I speak with my oldest sister, with whom my mom lived before we brought her to stay near us. My sister remembers Mom with the capabilities she had a year ago, things I’ve forgotten she used to do so recently. I’ve seen Mom two to four times per week, and so the changes have snuck up on me. Mom has lost a lot in the areas of fine motor skills and finger strength. She can no longer button buttons. She has difficulty signing her name sometimes, even (on a birthday card, for example.) She can still move around with a walker, but it’s slower all the time, and she gets winded a lot sooner.

The day before her birthday, a blizzard moved through, leaving us with 11 inches of snow. It was unclear whether we’d be able to get out to see her. But with everyone in the family wielding snow shovels, we managed it to dig out the cars and driveway. We made it to the nursing home in the evening to have cake and punch. Thank goodness the route is all on major roads, so the entire way had been plowed.

Will my mother make it to 89? Who knows? One thing about reaching this stage of life, it helps you focus on the here and now.

A Brief History of Our Time at the Dentist’s Office

392209 — Careful with that book discussion. You might hurt someone.

Funny and somewhat mortifying story from yesterday. It has to do with a book, sort of.

Due to colds and rescheduling, my son ended up with back-to-back dental appointments yesterday. He had a 2:00 appointment with his regular dentist to have some impressions made in the hopes of getting a bridge for his missing tooth. Then he had a 3:10 appointment with the orthodontist’s office for a retainer check. (Currently, he wears a retainer that has a false tooth built-in.) Fortunately, the two offices are within five minutes of each other by car.

We arrived at the dentist’s office a few minutes early. While we were waiting, the dentist was at the reception window having a discussion with someone about fluoride and the politics thereof – a discussion I don’t want to have here, by the way. She’s an information-giver and will always come up with studies and numbers for any question you ask. The woman with whom she was talking seemed pretty persistent and their conversation went on for five or six minutes past my son’s scheduled appointment.

Meanwhile, my son and I were having our own conversation in the waiting room. He’s in the middle of reading “A Brief History of Time” by Stephen Hawking. He was telling me about the book, and we got onto the subject of time travel. We talked about whether it’s really possible, and how freaky it is to try to wrap your mind around it. How would it appear to you? If you were heading toward two converging black holes, and another spaceship was behind you, then you went back in time, would you then be behind the person you had just been ahead of?

In the midst of this head-spinning ponderation, the dentist’s other conversation ended, and she told us to come on back. She apologized for running late. I said it was okay, and trying to be conversational, did mention we were going right over to the orthodontist afterword, but it appeared we had plenty of time. Then she apologized again. And a while later, again. I kept thinking, “Why is she being so overly apologetic. She wasn’t that late.” I’ve been under a lot of stress lately. Maybe I just looked stressed?

So, the kid had his impressions made. We talked about what happens next. We said goodbye and she apologized again. Geez! I’d told her it was okay.

Then my son and I went to the van and resumed our discussion of…oh, it all became clear. She’d overheard snatches of our waiting room conversation, with our repeated references to time, and who was ahead and who was behind. She probably thought we were spending the whole time complaining about not being on time. I was a little slow there.

I emailed her today with my epiphany and let her know the real deal. No word back yet.

On Presidents and Not Feeling Like a Grown-Up

With the Presidential inauguration today, I was thinking about what a tremendous amount of responsibility comes with the job. I mean, who actually feels qualified to take it on? He’s not all that much older than I am, President Obama. But when a pale shadow of the responsibility he shoulders falls over my life, my blood pressure rises as my confidence falls.

Put me in front of a desk, with a banker behind it, and watch how my hand trembles as I sign the mortgage papers. (As an aside, here’s further evidence of my immaturity – any time I have to sign official papers, I like to pretend I’m signing the Declaration of Independence, or else a pardon for Sirius Black.) But, back to the mortgage. Even though I have a life-long history of behaving responsibly with money, I still can’t believe someone will trust me with a loan amount that contains a comma. Imagine taking on the national debt.

“When I’m a grown-up…” These words echoed through my childhood. The prelude to my vows about the decisions I’d make, the ways in which I would take charge. But the truth is this: ever since I’ve been a grown-up, I’ve felt like a fraud.

On the rare occasion I have to call a professional of some sort, an attorney for instance, I always half-expect them to tell me to put my father on the phone. I wonder how Barack Obama felt the first time he dialed up Vladimir Putin.

Once, when my kids were little, I pointed to them and said to their dad, “We made new people. Other human beings. Are we allowed to do that?”

Sometimes it gobsmacks me, the knowledge that I was allowed to do such a monumental thing. And then there were all of the decisions that followed. Huge decisions sometimes. Decisions about schooling and medical treatments, decisions that shape their very lives. And I have to make those decisions, even when the voice inside me is yelling, “I don’t know what’s best. Ask someone who knows. Ask a grown-up.”

I agonize, because what I do will change the lives of two people. Multiply that by 150,00 million. Wow. I wouldn’t take it on.

If at First You Don’t Succeed…Calling Medicare

I have no poignant anecdotes to include in this blog post. Only a piece of advice about dealing with Medicare over the phone.

If at first you don’t succeed, then try calling again to speak with a different representative. This is the lesson I’ve learned as I’ve been on the phone with Medicare a few times on my mom’s behalf. Long story short on my most recent issue, I was simply trying to make sure her prescription drug coverage didn’t lapse.

Nobody seems to have a whole picture of what’s going on. Sometimes I call and the person says they can only speak to her and not to me, even though I did both mail and fax a form she signed giving me permission. Other folks, as long as I can supply her Social Security number, place of birth, etc., they’re good with it. Doesn’t mean they can tell me what I need to know, but they will try. I’ve gotten transferred a lot. I think everything’s good now. She has her new prescription drug cards.

And I figured out something. If the representative I’ve reached seems unable or unwilling to help, I shouldn’t accept that answer as the end of the matter. I simply say, “Thanks for your time. Goodbye.” Then I hang and up and immediately redial. The person with whom I was just speaking has moved on to a different call, and I get someone new. Possibly someone who knows more or is more willing to work with me. This strategy has solved my problem more than once. And, magically, they never seem to realize I have already called and talked to someone else who told me they couldn’t help. I’d assumed they would put a not in the record, a note the next person would see, but apparently not.

So if you’re getting the run-around with Medicare, just keep calling back. It works for me.

When Being a Parent Pays Off

It was worth it, every bit of it – the pregnancy, the day and a half labor, the diapers, the sleep deprivation – for it was all leading here. This blackberry tart was made by my 17-year-old, and it was possibly the best dessert I have ever eaten. In. My. Entire. Life.

I’m not sure from whence her domesticity comes. But I’m impressed by her accomplishments in her newest field of interest – fandom-based cooking. Thanks to her, our New Year’s Day was filled with a feast of Hobbit/Lord of the Rings inspired baked goods. In addition to the tarts, she made tea cake, seed cake and yes, lembas bread. She even wrapped the bread in “leaves” (green paper) as the travelers did in the Lord of the Rings.

548136_4011167513380_705541218_n — Leaf-wrapped Lembas Bread

Life is Good

Life is good, and I can thank a friend for reminding me of this. I can get pretty stressed and down-hearted at times. But thank goodness for friends who can empathize just the right amount and then refuse to let me wallow.

The other day, I was lamenting to a friend about my problems and how difficult my life seems to be. I asked “Does it ever get simpler and easier or does it keep getting harder and more complicated?”

I suppose I was going on a bit. Because she reminded me of a previous conversation of ours, one in which we had shaken our heads over adolescence and its angst. We had shared our bemusement over the exclamation by a middle-class American teen from a stable family, who attended a good school and yet was able to say, with appropriate amounts of drama, “Nobody’s life is harder than mine!”

My friend reminded me how I had raised a skeptical eyebrow and said, “Really? What about a homeless, starving child in the streets of Calcutta who has scurvy?”

I don’t aim to say that middle-class American teens don’t have real problems that should be taken seriously, or that I don’t have real problems. But I needed that nudge to realign my perspective.

Yes, I spend a lot of time chasing paperwork for my mom – because I still have a mom. She’s still alive and loves me and can tell me so. That’s perspective on the daily details.

On the bigger picture, I’m fighting off a mid-life crisis in which I ponder the disappointments of things I thought I would have had or done and now I’m realizing time is running out and I’ll probably never have or do them. But the list of things I have received and experienced is so long, and many of them were blessing I never anticipated. So maybe the disappointments left room for the unexpected blessings.

Stress and disappointments are parts of my life, but only part, not the whole thing. I’ve heard you should count your blessing, but when I really put an effort into, I’m not sure I can. The numbers might not go high enough. I wrote in my last post that I’m experiencing a lot of endings in the season of my life. But for something to end, it has to have happened in the first place. I’m trying to hold onto an attitude of thankfulness for a good thing that happened more than disappointment over it not being eternal.

Nothing goes on forever. Not the good times, but also not the problems. As one of my aunt’s used to say, “Trouble don’t last.” In this holiday season, I’m realizing my life is pretty good. More good than bad.

Wedging in Holiday Traditions – Christmas Tree Edition

As my kids get older, the calendar only gets more challenging. We still want the same family holiday traditions, but it takes more planning. For instance, we always buy a Christmas tree from the nearby Optimist Club lot. It’s a mere five-minute drive from our house. Easy peasy, right? Until we start looking at schedules.

We definitely wanted to get it done this past weekend, so we’d have time to enjoy the tree before it came back down. We couldn’t go Friday evening, because my husband had to work late. I was scheduled to work all day Saturday. Then my daughter had a thing Saturday evening. Sunday, I’d promised to buy some supplies for my mom and take them over in the afternoon. And there was a meeting I needed to attend in the evening. Meantime, my son had a collaborative homework project he had to schedule with some other kids.

I looked up the hours for the Christmas tree lot and discovered it opened at 10:00 a.m. on Sunday. There it was – our time slot. Arrive at 10:00, 15 minutes to look over the selections and make a choice, whole thing decorated by noon, and we had time to get our other stuff done. My daughter even dialed up an internet Christmas music station for us so we could listen to carols as we hung the ornaments.