Okay, this'll be a short one. Just an interesting observation I made today is all and I wanted to post it.
So..........I was sitting in the dining room this morning, looking at the calendar, when it occurred to me that I'm in the midst of managing a perfect "storm" of eye maladies and conditions. 1. Dad has an appointment this afternoon to get his left eye injected as part of his ongoing treatment for macular degeneration. 2. Mom is in her second months of getting a drop in her left eye every four hours as part of her treatment for shingles and a scartched cornea. And 3. Emily, the English bulldog, is in her second week of getting ointment and a dilator drop in her right eye twice a day, also for a scratched cornea.
A little weird, eh?
Friday, January 30, 2009
Poppycock!
You all know that popcorn/nut confection called Poppycock, right? Well, my parents love the stuff. So much so that we always have at least one extra bag on hand at all times. Ya never know when the craving for sugar will hit.
And hit it did, the other evening. But before I go through the whole story, a little background. First, you must understand that, for some reason which I have yet to figure out, there are certain trivial tasks that my parents assume I am completely incapable of performing. Changing light bulbs is one. Lifting fifty pound bags of dog food is another. Opening the big, sliding barn door is another. But they have no problem accepting that I do things like fetching the newspaper, making the coffee, feeding the dogs, balancing the checkbooks, paying the bills, shopping, cooking, scheduling the gazillion doctors' appointments they both have, and let's not forget, managing the umpteen different medications they both take. I do these things, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, gladly, happily, and, most of the time, quite proficiently. And yet, in spite of this, when one of the recessed lights recently went out in the kitchen ceiling, my father immediately asked me, "When is your brother coming up to visit next? He'll need to change that light bulb in the kitchen."
I didn't reply. I just went ahead and changed the light bulb. They were astonished. "how did you get up that high to change the bulb?" they both asked me. I mean.......... I was able to........omg..........change........a.........freakin' light bulb! It kills me. But, of course, I never say anything. I just chuckle and go about my business--ya know, all that other stuff I do when I'm not changing light bulbs.
So anyway, here's the story. I was sitting in my office working. It was about six in the evening. Mom and Dad had finished their evening meal. Mom came toddling down the hall and stopped at my office door. "Is Jack coming over tonight?" (I have a boyfriend. His name isn't Jack but we'll call him that for the sake of privacy.)
"No, he's not Mom. Why?"
(You have to picture the slow, labored speech pattern that my mother has.) "Weeeeell, the bag, of Poppycock, is on the, top shelf, and I can't reach it, and, neither can your dad, so I was hoping, Jack could get it down for us, if he was coming over."
Yeah. She says this, completely seriously, looking straight at me, like it never occurred to her that I might be able to get her Poppycock down for her! I mean.......what am I? Chopped liver?! Do I have two legs? Two arms? And even if I didn't, I'm sure I could figure out a way to get her d____ Poppycock down for her!
Anyway, okay, so that was me venting.
So I just smiled and said, "Mom! I can get it down for you!" Then I popped up out of my chair, went into the kitchen, reached up to the top shelf of the pantry, and fetched the bag of Poppycock for her. She thanked me (she always thanks me). End of story.
But not really. Because the real point here is this: I've noticed we never escape our position in the family. I'm fifty-five years old but I'm the youngest in my family and my parents cannot get it out of their heads that I was and always will be the "baby," the helpless one, the one who my brothers have to always help out, even when they live thousands of miles away. It's frustrating, it's an ongoing challenge, it's.........it's........Poppycock!
And hit it did, the other evening. But before I go through the whole story, a little background. First, you must understand that, for some reason which I have yet to figure out, there are certain trivial tasks that my parents assume I am completely incapable of performing. Changing light bulbs is one. Lifting fifty pound bags of dog food is another. Opening the big, sliding barn door is another. But they have no problem accepting that I do things like fetching the newspaper, making the coffee, feeding the dogs, balancing the checkbooks, paying the bills, shopping, cooking, scheduling the gazillion doctors' appointments they both have, and let's not forget, managing the umpteen different medications they both take. I do these things, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year, gladly, happily, and, most of the time, quite proficiently. And yet, in spite of this, when one of the recessed lights recently went out in the kitchen ceiling, my father immediately asked me, "When is your brother coming up to visit next? He'll need to change that light bulb in the kitchen."
I didn't reply. I just went ahead and changed the light bulb. They were astonished. "how did you get up that high to change the bulb?" they both asked me. I mean.......... I was able to........omg..........change........a.........freakin' light bulb! It kills me. But, of course, I never say anything. I just chuckle and go about my business--ya know, all that other stuff I do when I'm not changing light bulbs.
So anyway, here's the story. I was sitting in my office working. It was about six in the evening. Mom and Dad had finished their evening meal. Mom came toddling down the hall and stopped at my office door. "Is Jack coming over tonight?" (I have a boyfriend. His name isn't Jack but we'll call him that for the sake of privacy.)
"No, he's not Mom. Why?"
(You have to picture the slow, labored speech pattern that my mother has.) "Weeeeell, the bag, of Poppycock, is on the, top shelf, and I can't reach it, and, neither can your dad, so I was hoping, Jack could get it down for us, if he was coming over."
Yeah. She says this, completely seriously, looking straight at me, like it never occurred to her that I might be able to get her Poppycock down for her! I mean.......what am I? Chopped liver?! Do I have two legs? Two arms? And even if I didn't, I'm sure I could figure out a way to get her d____ Poppycock down for her!
Anyway, okay, so that was me venting.
So I just smiled and said, "Mom! I can get it down for you!" Then I popped up out of my chair, went into the kitchen, reached up to the top shelf of the pantry, and fetched the bag of Poppycock for her. She thanked me (she always thanks me). End of story.
But not really. Because the real point here is this: I've noticed we never escape our position in the family. I'm fifty-five years old but I'm the youngest in my family and my parents cannot get it out of their heads that I was and always will be the "baby," the helpless one, the one who my brothers have to always help out, even when they live thousands of miles away. It's frustrating, it's an ongoing challenge, it's.........it's........Poppycock!
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Singing in the Shower
My father loves music almost as much as he loves food. But that's another blog for another day. Back to the music. My father, as I said, loves music. He has a natural "ear" (kind of a pun considering he's practically entirely deaf now) for music. In his prime he was an accomplished classical pianist, worshipped Horowitz (even stole away, as a teenager, to see Horowitz perform), and played some pretty mean jazz too. I remember when he and mom used to listen to classical pieces on our reel-to-reel and critique the musical composition, the technique, the tones, etc. One day, about four years ago, I asked my father a question that had been burning in my head for decades.
"Dad, how come you never played piano for other people?"
I had many childhood memories of listening to Dad doing piano exercises and repeating blocks of measures over and over again for hours at a time. But we were never allowed to be in the same room while he did this. I never asked why. We weren't really encouraged to ask for explanations.
So I asked him the question.
And, as is his style, Dad answered by telling a story.
It seems that, as a teenager, when he was studying piano, his teacher announced one day that there would be a recital for all students to perform their favorite pieces. Dad said he was elated to be able to share one of his favorite pasttimes (hockey and bodysurfing being the others) with friends and family.
He practiced and prepared. The day of the recital arrived. As he tells the story, he says he was waiting for his turn and felt fine. He was excited even...in a good way. But then, his name was called, he walked up to the piano, positioned himself on the bench, and....froze. He got up, left, and never played in front of people again. End of story.
I tried to ask, "But, but, didn't you....couldn't you have...." but he just shook his head.
But this blog is called "Singing in the Shower" so allow me to return to that.
My father loves music, was trained as a classical pianist, a classical guitarist, and learned to play the harmonica sometime during my pre-adolescence. My father also loves great singers. His favorite at the moment is Brian Stokes-Mitchell. Dad heard him sing "Some Enchanted Evening" from South Pacific and couldn't stop talking about it for days. So, yeah, my dad loves great singing. My father also loves to sing. However..........my father, although his pitch is near perfect.....does not have a singer's voice. At all. Nevertheless, there is something indescribably charming about listening to my father sing all of his favorites--traditional Polynesian songs, the area from Pagliacci, Matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof, Try to Remember from Fantasticks, and, my personal favorite, The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow from Annie (he hangs on that last phrase, "...you're only a dayyyyyyy aaaaaaa-......wayyyyyyyy!" like there's no tomorrow and makes me laugh every time).
Dad takes a shower about every other morning. Always in the morning. And Dad loves to sing all of his favorites in the shower. I'm always in my office, across from his bedroom, in the morning. Consequently, I am serenaded regularly by the sounds of my father singing in the shower. He keeps singing when he gets out of the shower. And he's usually buildling to some kind of crescendo by the time he wheels out of his room to go past my office door. It's glorious. It makes me smile, and sometimes laugh. I've even found myself singing in the shower. I figure if it perks him up so much, maybe it will work for me too. It does. I highly recommend it. Maybe if more people sang in the shower, the world would be a little bit cheerier.
"Dad, how come you never played piano for other people?"
I had many childhood memories of listening to Dad doing piano exercises and repeating blocks of measures over and over again for hours at a time. But we were never allowed to be in the same room while he did this. I never asked why. We weren't really encouraged to ask for explanations.
So I asked him the question.
And, as is his style, Dad answered by telling a story.
It seems that, as a teenager, when he was studying piano, his teacher announced one day that there would be a recital for all students to perform their favorite pieces. Dad said he was elated to be able to share one of his favorite pasttimes (hockey and bodysurfing being the others) with friends and family.
He practiced and prepared. The day of the recital arrived. As he tells the story, he says he was waiting for his turn and felt fine. He was excited even...in a good way. But then, his name was called, he walked up to the piano, positioned himself on the bench, and....froze. He got up, left, and never played in front of people again. End of story.
I tried to ask, "But, but, didn't you....couldn't you have...." but he just shook his head.
But this blog is called "Singing in the Shower" so allow me to return to that.
My father loves music, was trained as a classical pianist, a classical guitarist, and learned to play the harmonica sometime during my pre-adolescence. My father also loves great singers. His favorite at the moment is Brian Stokes-Mitchell. Dad heard him sing "Some Enchanted Evening" from South Pacific and couldn't stop talking about it for days. So, yeah, my dad loves great singing. My father also loves to sing. However..........my father, although his pitch is near perfect.....does not have a singer's voice. At all. Nevertheless, there is something indescribably charming about listening to my father sing all of his favorites--traditional Polynesian songs, the area from Pagliacci, Matchmaker from Fiddler on the Roof, Try to Remember from Fantasticks, and, my personal favorite, The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow from Annie (he hangs on that last phrase, "...you're only a dayyyyyyy aaaaaaa-......wayyyyyyyy!" like there's no tomorrow and makes me laugh every time).
Dad takes a shower about every other morning. Always in the morning. And Dad loves to sing all of his favorites in the shower. I'm always in my office, across from his bedroom, in the morning. Consequently, I am serenaded regularly by the sounds of my father singing in the shower. He keeps singing when he gets out of the shower. And he's usually buildling to some kind of crescendo by the time he wheels out of his room to go past my office door. It's glorious. It makes me smile, and sometimes laugh. I've even found myself singing in the shower. I figure if it perks him up so much, maybe it will work for me too. It does. I highly recommend it. Maybe if more people sang in the shower, the world would be a little bit cheerier.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Grape-Nuts and Arpege
You know how certain smells lodge themselves in your memory bank and just set there, waiting to jog your memory at random, unannounced times? My grandmother used to wear Arpege--Arpege perfume, Arpege powder, Arpege, cologne, Arpege everything. Her bathroom wreaked of the stuff. To this day, the faintest odor of Arpege reaches my nostrils....my head starts to spin and my stomach tightens into a golf ball. So fast forward to now. My mother's favorite perfume is....of course, Arpege. So when the bath-aide comes to give Mom her sponge baths, the finishing touch is always (and I mean ALWAYS) a splash of.......you guess it......Arpege perfume. The smell is so repugnant to me that as soon as the bath-aide gets here, I have to open my office window to create a cross-breeze.
Here's another one. My mother has the same breakfast every morning, with few exceptions. And by exceptions, I'm talking maybe two or three times a year. The rest of the year, its Grape-Nuts and Mocha Mix. Same bowl even. And what's with the Mocha Mix anyway? I'm afriad to actually try the stuff. I'm not a coffee drinker so the fact that it's called "Mocha" puts me off right away. I mean, I don't want my cereal tasting like coffee for cryin' out loud! Plus, I have to buy the quart sized cartons of Mocha Mix becuase the gallon cartons are too heavy for either Mom or Dad to pour. Consequently, I end up getting usually five or six cartons at a time. The grocery checkers inevitably ask the begging question, "Wellllll now, somebody likes their Mocha Mix don't they???" Yeah. It's even better when I'm getting Depends too.
But I digress. Back to the Grape-Nuts. So Mom's standard breakfast is not something new. In fact, I remember Mom having her Grape-Nuts even when I was small. I even ate them once in a while. But here's the thing, when the Grape-Nuts nuggets soak up the milk (or the Mocha Mix, whichever the case may be) it turns into the most gawd-awful looking mixture, and the smell isn't any better. So when Mom has her breakfast, then leaves her cereal bowl on the table with just that little pool of Grape-Nuts/Mocha Mix at the bottom, I have to hold my breath to wash the bowl. In the first place, I don't quite understand why Mom can't rinse out her own bowl, but that's another blog, and in the second place, one whiff of that stuff and my face prunes up faster than you can say Mocha Mix.
And while we're on the subject of smells......there are a lot of odors and aromas that permeate the house that I know are connected to elderly "things." My mother's bathroom smells like something I can't even begin to explain (that's BEFORE the bath-aide comes), and my dad's bedsheets (before they get washed) have a fragrance I couldn't even begin to assign words to.
So here's a tip to anybody who ever needs to extract confidential information from me--simply wave a bowl of Grape-Nuts soaked in milk in front of my nose. Follow it up with a spritz of Arpege and I'll gladly tell anything to anybody.
Here's another one. My mother has the same breakfast every morning, with few exceptions. And by exceptions, I'm talking maybe two or three times a year. The rest of the year, its Grape-Nuts and Mocha Mix. Same bowl even. And what's with the Mocha Mix anyway? I'm afriad to actually try the stuff. I'm not a coffee drinker so the fact that it's called "Mocha" puts me off right away. I mean, I don't want my cereal tasting like coffee for cryin' out loud! Plus, I have to buy the quart sized cartons of Mocha Mix becuase the gallon cartons are too heavy for either Mom or Dad to pour. Consequently, I end up getting usually five or six cartons at a time. The grocery checkers inevitably ask the begging question, "Wellllll now, somebody likes their Mocha Mix don't they???" Yeah. It's even better when I'm getting Depends too.
But I digress. Back to the Grape-Nuts. So Mom's standard breakfast is not something new. In fact, I remember Mom having her Grape-Nuts even when I was small. I even ate them once in a while. But here's the thing, when the Grape-Nuts nuggets soak up the milk (or the Mocha Mix, whichever the case may be) it turns into the most gawd-awful looking mixture, and the smell isn't any better. So when Mom has her breakfast, then leaves her cereal bowl on the table with just that little pool of Grape-Nuts/Mocha Mix at the bottom, I have to hold my breath to wash the bowl. In the first place, I don't quite understand why Mom can't rinse out her own bowl, but that's another blog, and in the second place, one whiff of that stuff and my face prunes up faster than you can say Mocha Mix.
And while we're on the subject of smells......there are a lot of odors and aromas that permeate the house that I know are connected to elderly "things." My mother's bathroom smells like something I can't even begin to explain (that's BEFORE the bath-aide comes), and my dad's bedsheets (before they get washed) have a fragrance I couldn't even begin to assign words to.
So here's a tip to anybody who ever needs to extract confidential information from me--simply wave a bowl of Grape-Nuts soaked in milk in front of my nose. Follow it up with a spritz of Arpege and I'll gladly tell anything to anybody.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Dad's coughing
Dad came down with a cold last week that seemed to turn into bronchitis. Now he has this awful sounding cough and is bringing up phlegmy stuff regularly. It's night now and I could hear Dad coughing from his bedroom. I got to thinking about the stories I've heard about the dangers of elderly contracting pneumonia. I just looked up "pneumonia in the elderly" to see what signs and symptoms I should be looking for. All the sites I checked noted that, in the elderly, coughing is NOT a symptom that is generally seen in elderly patients who are diagnosed with pneumonia. I guess this eases my mind a little. Nevertheless, I'm going to make an appointment for Dad to see the doc.
And now Mom..........my mom had one of her diarrhea episodes this afternoon. We can't seem to figure out why this happens, but once about every couple of months or so, she comes down with a doozy case of diarrhea and barely (or not) makes it to the bathroom. She presents with no other symptoms and, as far as I can figure, hasn't eaten anything different the day before or the morning of the incident. I'm stumped. Makes me wonder if anybody else has witnessed this sort of thing in the elderly.
And now Mom..........my mom had one of her diarrhea episodes this afternoon. We can't seem to figure out why this happens, but once about every couple of months or so, she comes down with a doozy case of diarrhea and barely (or not) makes it to the bathroom. She presents with no other symptoms and, as far as I can figure, hasn't eaten anything different the day before or the morning of the incident. I'm stumped. Makes me wonder if anybody else has witnessed this sort of thing in the elderly.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
On How Not To Be Totally Honest
This living with your elderly parents thing gets tricky. Like, how honest am I supposed to be when it comes to questions like, "How does my hair look?" And statements like, "I think I need a new artificial knee," or "Let me help you carry those groceries in from the car" leave me teetering on a very line between wanting to protect their feelings ( "Your hair looks great today!" Or, "A new knee? Okay, well, let's call the doc and see what he thinks", or "It's okay Dad, I can manage the groceries by myself, but thanks for asking.") and trying to keep things real ("Hair? What hair? You barely have hair! Or, "Right--you need a new artificial knee like you need a hole in the head. The surgery would probably kill you!" Or, "No you cannot help me with the groceries, you can barely keep yourself upright with your walker!").
I know, I know. You read that first paragraph just now and you're thinking--you unsympathetic b****! Of course you protect their feelings! It's just mean to do anything else.
Yup. Except...........I'm human too. So on a day when life is progressing nicely with little to no stress, my knee-jerk response is always to protect my parents' feelings and take the road of sympathy and sensitivity.
But........life isn't always smooth now is it? Stuff happens, stress rises, and I, sadly, am not always oozing with sensitivity and/or sympathy. It took me a good year to figure out that this was okay, even normal for people in my situation. That one's parents get on one's nerves at times. That watching one's parents get older and older, their bodies becoming more and more frail sometimes by the month, is wearing on one's patience. So, yes, I admit that I sometimes respond to comments like "I just feel so old today" with "That's because you ARE old." Of course, to be fair to myself, and before you completely write me off as an ungrateful daughter, I always try to infuse some humor into everything so I would probably follow up my response with "So I guess that means we're not hopping a plane and heading for Rio today eh? "
So, anyway, the other day my mother toddled into the kitchen and said, "I walk like a duck."
Now the truth of the matter is, my mother does walk like a duck. She has walked like a duck every since her knees started to give out on her..........ohhhhh, about twenty years ago. So, you can imagine my dilemma when she suddenly announces that she has realized her gait has gone fowl. How did I respond? Several seconds passed while I weighed my options--"Yes, Mom, you do walk like a duck"; or "What? No you don't. What a silly thing to say. You walk just fine!"
For some reasons, I opted to say nothing, which, I am finding more and more, to be the best response of all. I mean, maybe Mom and Dad say these things not looking for a response at all. Perhaps all they're really doing is just thinking out loud, commenting to nobody in particular. And the funny things is, when I don't respond, they don't really seem to notice.
I dunno........I'm thinking that for people like me who live and/or care for parents in their so-called golden years, there might be a whole new meaning to the phrase Silence is Golden.
I know, I know. You read that first paragraph just now and you're thinking--you unsympathetic b****! Of course you protect their feelings! It's just mean to do anything else.
Yup. Except...........I'm human too. So on a day when life is progressing nicely with little to no stress, my knee-jerk response is always to protect my parents' feelings and take the road of sympathy and sensitivity.
But........life isn't always smooth now is it? Stuff happens, stress rises, and I, sadly, am not always oozing with sensitivity and/or sympathy. It took me a good year to figure out that this was okay, even normal for people in my situation. That one's parents get on one's nerves at times. That watching one's parents get older and older, their bodies becoming more and more frail sometimes by the month, is wearing on one's patience. So, yes, I admit that I sometimes respond to comments like "I just feel so old today" with "That's because you ARE old." Of course, to be fair to myself, and before you completely write me off as an ungrateful daughter, I always try to infuse some humor into everything so I would probably follow up my response with "So I guess that means we're not hopping a plane and heading for Rio today eh? "
So, anyway, the other day my mother toddled into the kitchen and said, "I walk like a duck."
Now the truth of the matter is, my mother does walk like a duck. She has walked like a duck every since her knees started to give out on her..........ohhhhh, about twenty years ago. So, you can imagine my dilemma when she suddenly announces that she has realized her gait has gone fowl. How did I respond? Several seconds passed while I weighed my options--"Yes, Mom, you do walk like a duck"; or "What? No you don't. What a silly thing to say. You walk just fine!"
For some reasons, I opted to say nothing, which, I am finding more and more, to be the best response of all. I mean, maybe Mom and Dad say these things not looking for a response at all. Perhaps all they're really doing is just thinking out loud, commenting to nobody in particular. And the funny things is, when I don't respond, they don't really seem to notice.
I dunno........I'm thinking that for people like me who live and/or care for parents in their so-called golden years, there might be a whole new meaning to the phrase Silence is Golden.
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