Blog Block

So............yeah..........I........uh............have been suffering from a major case of blog block. Not sure why. Not sure how long it'll last. Just thought I'd admit it.

For Whom The Bell Tinkles

So......there was this little bell see.........

Okay so we all remember The Bell. The Damn Bell. The g.d.m.f.c.s. BELL. Yeah, that The Bell. It's been a couple of months since The Bell was used. Now, with Mom at the ALF, there is, of course, no more ringing of the bell. It has been retired, as it were, and it sets, gathering dust, on the shelf in my office. So yeah, the Bell is silent....sort of. I say, "sort of" because, well, because though there may be nobody ringing The Bell per se, my brain continues to insist on hearing it.

We'll subtitle this post: An Update On My Ongoing Struggle To Exorcize The Aforementioned Bell And It's Nauseating Tinkle From My Psyche.

The thing is..........there are surprisingly many things that share the same frequency and resonance as the tinkle of The Bell. Allow me to share a few:

• The next door neighbor's telephone. (It's apparently just the right distance away, with just the right number and type of barriers between wherever their phone is and my ear, to mimic the tinkle of The Bell.)
• The exhale portion of my bulldog, Emily's deep-sleep snore. (It's that last little respiratory effort that produces this sort of ringing-whistling sound--a dead-ringer for the tinkle.)
• (You're not going to believe this one.) The silver bracelets that Steve Tyler wears on his right wrist. Okay, okay, so I confess, I watch American Idol. But seriously. Every damn time Steven Tyler moves his right wrist (which is a lot, trust me), those stinkin' bracelets tinkle. Drives me crazy. I'd mute the sound except, well, it's American Idol. Kinda need the sound on.
• The high-pitched meow of my cat, Peter, when he's at the opposite end of the house crying for no apparent reason (He does this ALL THE TIME--just cries, incessantly, and, might I add, usually in the middle of the night! Stupid, needy fluffball of a cat. By the way, anybody want a stupid, needy fluffball of a cat? Stupid question. No, of course nobody wants a stupid, needy, fluffball of a cat that cries incessantly in the middle of the night for no apparent reason!!!! How do I end up with stupid, needy pets that meow, and snore, and whine, and snort, and take up half the bed, and rub their eye buggers all over my legs, and drag their stinky butts back and forth across the same rug I do my yoga on.......sorry, digression....)

Case in point. This morning, right before I woke up, I was having this weird dream that I was in the kitchen doing......something.......and Mom started ringing the bell from her room and I yelled, "I'll be right there Mom!" Then, in my dream, I started thinking, "Wait a minute, I thought Mom wasn't here...." And then the bell rang again, and just as I started to yell again, I woke up. And immediately, some tiny part of my consciousness realized it was really Peter meowing (cuz I remember thinking to myself, "Oh it's just the stupid cat meowing!), but because I was still mostly in dream-mode, most of my consciousness was convinced it was really Mom ringing The Bell. So before my consciousness was awake and aware enough to know better, I was already out of bed and walking toward my bedroom door before my brain finally "came to" and I suddenly stopped and realized there was no bell, no Mom.....just a stupid, needy, fluffball of a cat and a really eerie dream.

So yeah.......The Bell may be on the shelf, but my brain keeps hearing it ring, or tinkle, or snore, or meow...

Sushi

The newest key to my dad's heart is apparently sushi. Exhibit A: Today's trip to Central Market where we purchased sushi for tonight's dinner.

Dad went to bed over an hour ago. But I'm guessing he just couldn't settle into the sheets without wheeling back into my room (at the other end of the house mind you) to tell me, "The next time we go to Central Market, let's get mackerel and tuna sushi."

"Okay Dad."

[Pause while Dad just stands there with a big ole grin on his face.] "Okay!" [Another pause. More grinning.] "And, let's go back soon!"

"Okay Dad" as I note my father's enthusiasm to return to Poulsbo NOT to see Mom, but........to get sushi.

[He turns and goes back to his room. Still grinning.] "Okay! Good night!"

Sushi. I have to admit, I'm not sure how I feel about my father's inner priority list...

converse

Today's theme is the word converse. That's all I'm tellin' ya.

So..........the dining room at Mom's ALF. First of all, let me just say that, I love this place. It's relaxing. It's bright. The staff smiles. The residents smile. My mom smiles. A lot. And, in turn, I smile. A lot. Big difference from Mom's previous experiences in nursing home/rehab facilities. No tears here. No wailing here. No irrational demands for hatchets. Oh yeah, good times.

Dad and I visited today. His first visit since a week and a half ago when Dad was Mr. Grumpy Gills the whole drive out, the whole visit there, and the whole drive home. But today.........today, I'm happy to report, was drastically different. Mom smiled the whole time we were there. She and Dad ate lunch together............well, Dad ended up eating most of Mom's lunch but nevertheless, they sat at the same table while Dad ate virtually everything that was placed in front of him. Dad insisted I taste the dessert--some graham cracker/vanilla pudding/blueberry pie filling concoction. He thought was delicious. Mom thought it was delicious. It was the only lunch item she scarfed down. They called it blueberry pudding pie. Whatever. Mom clearly loved it. How great to see her enjoying food.

Recliner Row. That's what I call the lineup of six, count 'em, SIX recliners all backed up against the back wall of the dining room, directly facing the windows. It's apparently a favorite hangout amongst the dementia-ed, and it ended up being where Mom, Dad, and I spent most of today's visit--Mom and Dad, side by side, in recliners, me in a little chair off to the side. (The other recliners were all taken. damn.) The highlight today in Recliner Row, for me anyway, was Pauline, a slight little woman with a raspy, deep voice who clearly sees and hears in only her own private world and who never hesitated the entire time we were there, sharing that world, out loud, with everybody else. Pauline ranted about needing to go the drugstore to buy gum, about wanting to get flowers for the cemetery, and about how somebody, SOMEBODY!, had to dance with her NOW!, which she did at one point, with one of the aides. But my favorite part about Pauline were the velcro Converse shoes she wore. Like the Converse shoes my kids wore as kids and still wear today. In a room of Rockports, slippers, and other therapeutic shoewear, Pauline's hunter green Converse stuck out like non-arthritic thumbs. They made a statement, a different beat of a different drum, kinda like Pauline.

On the drive over to the ALF, Dad complained several times about having to leave the dogs alone for the afternoon. "It's not right" he said at least three times, each one more forceful than the one before it. Personally, I found his excessive display of concern for the dogs somewhat unnerving. Especially since, not once, did he say anything about looking forward to seeing Mom. I dunno.......it just struck me as pretty strange.......though NOT really strange for my dad........pretty typical for him actually.......(I'm thinking out loud here, can you tell?)

Anyway...............on the drive home, I took Dad to Central Market in Poulsbo. He's never been. Last visit, Dad had no desire to see Central Market. Remember that drive home? That was when a bird was nonchalantly walking across the road--I saw a beautiful pheasant; Mr. Pouty Puss saw a scruffy old roadrunner holding up traffic. This time however, Dad was pretty eager to see Central Market. Inside, he was like a kid in a candy store. We bought sushi, and cookies, and chili rellenos, and petit fours. He was exhausted but invigorated, and yapped the whole way home about how he was going to feast on sushi for dinner.

The crowning glory to today's visit: when we pulled into the driveway and Dad said, "You know................I think I'm missing Mom more than she's missing me."

This is how my Monday began....

So......I'm sitting in my office working.

And Dad comes rolling in, clearly in a chipper mood.

And he begins......

(I don't know why Blogger flipped the rotation. It's vertical on my desktop and in iTunes. Sorry.)

Wonky-Wonks

So......I'm visiting with Mom at the ALF....

And I comment to her casually during the visit, "Everyone's so nice here Mom. Have you noticed how nice everyone is?"

And she says to me, "Yeeeees. But the people who run this place are a bunch of wonky-wonks."

And I think to myself, "Wonky-wonks? Wonky-wonks!? What the hell is a wonky-wonk? And more importantly, from where in my mother's plaqued and tangled brain did she retrieve a term like wonky-wonks? Does that term even exist?" (It doesn't. At least, not per se. I looked it up. "Wonky," yes. "wonky-wonks," no.)

Anyway........I'm putting "wonky-wonks" right up there with "shenanigans" and "red hot poker", on list entitled "Bizarre Words and Terms My Mom Says Randomly and For No Apparent Reason."

Wonky-wonk, wonky-wonk, wonky-wonk, wonky-wonk. Say it enough times, it makes you smile.

And now, for your listening pleasure, ....

.....the classical stylings of........my father.

One Man's Pheasant Is Another Man's Roadrunner

So.....we're driving home from the ALF (assisted living facility) after our visit with Mom (Dad's first since last month.)

We're coming up and over the first hill once you get off the Hood Canal Bridge toward Sequim. I'm trying to wrap my head around the fact that Dad's been surprisingly and almost alarmingly quiet the whole way home so far. This strikes me as odd because all of us were pretty much convinced that Dad would be all atwitter when he saw Mom's new digs--located right on the bay, beautiful views, baby grand piano in the lobby, friendly staff--we even entertained the thought that Dad might want to move in with her. We had visions of him hobbling through the place, up and down the halls, poking his nose into all of the sitting rooms, checking the menu in the dining room, looking for handouts, flirting shamelessly with the staff, etc.

None of that happened.

No atwittering at all.

And not because Mom was morose or depressed. She was (thank goodness!) alert, smiling, and, as the staff has told me repeatedly on the phone when I've called, "quite pleasant." They were exactly right. Mom was really quite, quite pleasant! She and I had a lovely, animated visit. I even made her laugh when I challenged her to play Chopsticks with me on the piano.

But Dad was quiet, withdrawn even. Until about ten minutes to three when he suddenly stood up and announced that we needed to leave to "beat the snow" that was forecast this evening.

We said our goodbyes, exchanged hugs, all without any tears or displays of panic. Dad and I got back into the Jeep and buckled ourselves up. Dad said to me, "SHE WAS SEDATED."

"What? No. No she wasn't Dad. Mom wasn't sedated" I told him immediately because his remark really took me by surprise. Mom was more alert than I've seen her in months, animated, spry even.

"SHE WAS TOO QUIET" he said.

In other words, he couldn't hear her. Which...........emphasizes to me the fact that Dad's hearing is getting worse (which we've noticed), but of course, Dad automatically thinks he couldn't hear Mom because she was talking too softly, and she was talking too softly because she was sedated. (Damn. Old people's logic is exhausting!)

I tried again to let Dad know how well I thought Mom was doing. "Mom started laughing when I told her we should play the piano together, did you see that Dad?"

Nothing. I got maybe a grunt. That was all.

So I kind of figured maybe Dad was having a geriatric reality check and just needed to be left to his own thoughts. We drove in silence.....until we got across the Hood Canal Bridge, and over the first hill. It was then that I saw this.........bird....thing.....walking across the road. Walking. A bird. Across the road. (Yes, to get to the other side.) But walking. Not flying. The bird was big, the size of a large rooster, but thinner. All the cars slowed down for it to cross. And as I got closer I saw.......it was a male pheasant, a beautiful, spectacular male pheasant, taking its own sweet time, sauntering across Highway 104, stopping traffic without so much as a howdoyoudo.

I reached across the seat and whacked Dad in the arm, "HEY! Look! It's a pheasant!"

He looked. "WHAT?" He looked again. "LOOKS LIKE A DIRTY OLE ROADRUNNER."

And I thought for a moment, and reflected, and assessed, and paused while watching that magnificent animal make its way across the asphalt. Then I simply said, "No Dad. That is definitely a pheasant."

Call of the Wild

Let's review.

Dad is 94 years old. He uses a walker. He can barely see out of his one "good" eye, and he can barely hear out of his one "good" ear. His bones are as brittle as glass, and yet, in spite of all his obvious handicaps, my father still (maybe moreso?) acts as if he's a combination of John Wayne, Jack Kerouac, and Jack London. You know....fearless, rugged, unstoppable, immortal. Oh yeah, and Dad wants to adopt every homeless dog on the planet. Remember all of that?

Okay. So.........it snowed today in Sunny Sequim. We got a good four inches of really slushy slippery stuff. Good day for stew, or soup, or chowder, or tea and a good book, or in my case, tea and writing a blog.

I'm in the sun room. Dad's in the living room. The dogs are outside. The dogs start barking. Probably at the neighbor's dog, since that's the only dog close enough to matter to another dog. The dogs are barking, so I get up to go let them back into the house. But Dad shouts out to me, kind of almost frantically, "THERE'S A DOG OUT THERE! DO YOU SEE IT? THERE'S A DOG!"

There was no dog anywhere. My guess is, the neighbors momentarily let their dog out, then brought him inside again. But none of that mattered to Dad. He was undaunted. He was on a mission. And he was already out of his recliner and heading over to the door.

"There's no dog out there Dad," I told him, closing the door.

And what my father said next.......well...... it, along with a few other little incidents here and there since Mom has been out of the house, make both me and my brother (who was just here for a visit) wonder if Dad is venturing into a new chapter of his geriatric-ness. Here's what happened...

Dad comes over to the door, with pinpoint focus mind you, reaches for the handle and says to me, "I'm going to go rescue that dog."

.........uhhhh...........WHAT?! (Here's where I do one of those Daffy Duck Double-Takes. I have no idea how to write it descriptively. You'll just have to imagine it--Daffy Duck violently shaking his beaked head back and forth in disbelief over something.)

And Dad says again, now a little closer to the door, "I'm going to go out and rescue that dog. "

Did I mention the snow? The slippery, slushy snow? The brittle bones? The walker? The snow?

I put my hand on the door, preventing Dad from going anywhere. "DAD! There's no dog out there, and besides that....." I start to explain ALLLLLLL of the reasons why it's completely ludicrous and insane for him to............oh geez I can't even say it. You get my drift.

Anyway. He doesn't go out. I leave the room, but he stands there for a couple of minutes, studying the outside for the supposedly poor old lost dog--Buck, or Nanook, or Lassie, or Old Yeller--that he was going to risk life and limb for (literally) traipsing through the snow (with his walker) to rescue. He wheels over to the alcove window and stares out some more, still searching. He finally gives up and goes back to his chair, picks up the Sunday paper and resumes his daily read.

And, as you can see, I'm back with my tea.

The Absence of Crazy

Clearly, I'm still in transition.

A blog or two ago I said, "you don't know how crazy your life is, until it isn't crazy anymore." It's true. Sort of.

I'm still getting used to the absence of crazy.

Like......

Every morning I open the pantry in the kitchen and fight the urge to reach up and grab the Grape-Nuts box to make cereal for Mom.

Like....

Every time I walk past Mom's bathroom, with all of her medications lined up in their color-coded rows, I think, "I should check to see which ones need to be refilled."

Like....

Two o'clock comes and for just a moment, I think I need to give Mom her oxycodones.

Like.....

Every time I sit down to relax, I keep expecting, assuming even, that something will happen to prevent me from doing anything BUT relax.

Like.....

I can't get over the fact that I haven't been to a grocery store in.......well, that's just it......I honestly don't remember the last time. No more early morning/late night runs to QFC or Safeway for cottage cheese with chives, or Mocha Mix, or fruit cocktail, or Campbell's chicken noodle soup, or........wait for it.........BANANYAS!!

Like......

I caught a "bug" two days ago. Now, this is really unusual because the last time I caught a bug like this one, was about thirteen years ago after I had had fried razor clams at Camp 99 outside of Portland, Oregon. I knew I had caught a "bug" because around 1am, my body became suddenly decided it had a mission--to expel, by any means possible, any (A N Y), digested or undigested, filtered or unfiltered, absorbed or unabsorbed matter that happened to be residing anywhere (A N Y W H E R E) between my face and my......well, the other end. In short, my gastrointestinal tract spent a good six to seven hours evacuating its contents.

(I'm sorry. Was that too much detail?)

Anyway..........I caught this bug, see, and............well, the really glorious thing was that.......the next day.......I just did nothing. NOTHING. I barely spoke. I didn't get dressed. Criminy, I didn't even make my bed! In fact, (you won't believe this)......I took.........are you ready for it?...........a NAP. Yessirree, I did. I. Took. A. Nap. Right smack dab in the middle of the afternoon. Recovered from "the bug" in a day and a half, thank you very much.

Like.....

That constant feeling that some type of crisis is always lurking behind the next minute......is gone.

Like.....

Right now, I'm sitting in the living room typing this, and it's almost eleven in the morning, and it's really, really quiet and really, really still in the house and.........and.......and.....I think to myself, I could like.....sit here for as long as I want to and type, or read, or watch the snow (yes it's snowing in Sequim this morning), or do nothing, yesssirree I could just that, I could do nothing if I wanted! Hahahah! Nothing!!

Sorry.......getting a little crazy......