tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60731534804220135272024-03-05T09:26:42.591-08:00Boomer GranA baby-boomer grandmother muses about kids, politics, family, bigotry, religion, and whatever else triggers the synapses!Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-49609346738704763812014-06-30T22:54:00.000-07:002014-06-30T22:54:24.704-07:00Pilgrimage - June 30, 2014One year ago today, my beloved Jim's struggle ended as he completed his life among us. There's something about a one-year anniversary; it seems somehow final in a new way. Until today, I could, in my mind, remember that, "One year ago today..." Now I can no longer do that, and in some way he has gone much further from life than he was even yesterday.<br />
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I knew this from when my mom died, and so had planned a pilgrimage of sorts: a visit to a place we loved to scatter some of his ashes, with stops at a few places that held memories of time we had spent together. It was very sad, but very healing. Jim gave me many things during our too-short time together, but other than his love the best gifts were the gifts of places. I have loved Oregon since I first set foot here in the early '70s, and Jim introduced me to places that delighted me - and it gave him joy to see how eagerly I embraced their beauty.<br />
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Before beginning my journey - but also part of my pilgrimage - I visited the care home where Jim spent the last 21 months of his life. I took popsicles for the staff and residents - something I had done whenever we had a forecast of hot weather - and a bouquet of sunflowers. The staff there took such good care of Jim - and of me - that they will always be a big part of my precious memories, and I hope I will always remember to honor them in some way.<br />
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After leaving there, I stopped at the cemetery, to leave flowers on his grave - a grave that looks as if it's been there much longer than it has. It takes so little time for weathering in our Portland climate, and, oddly, the permanence of it is far less distressing to me than was the bright marble against the newly-placed sod of the first weeks.<br />
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My day's journey then began in earnest, as I pointed my car West toward the magnificent Oregon Coast. From our earliest days as a couple, Barview Jetty County Park was our go-to place for a quick, unplanned getaway. We had weathered storms there - personal and weather-related - had watched in awe as the Jetty was reinforced several years ago, and loved to watch the sea crash on the rocks below us. It is there that I left a portion of Jim's ashes - there on the rocks, since it's far too dangerous to get too close to the water. I know that with the next high tide or the next storm, those precious bits of his mortal self will wash into the ocean he loved.</div>
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I left there and drove north a few miles to Flamingo Jim's - one of our never-to-be-missed destinations on the Coast. They have everything from t-shirts to knick-knacks, not all flamingo related, but just a fun place to shop and pick up little odds and ends for ourselves and the grandkids.</div>
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I next headed back southwest toward Cape Meares Lighthouse. We had only been there together once, but had planned to visit it again someday. It's a beautiful lighthouse and boasted an historic lens that was shipped from Paris to Oregon in 1888. Sadly, two young men fired shots at it, breaking it and causing extensive and expensive damage to it shortly before Jim & I visited it April, 2010. I was glad to see it's since been repaired. Jim had been really upset by the vandalism, and I know he would have been happy knowing that it was whole again.</div>
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My final destination was Munson Creek Falls, about 6 miles south of Tillamook. This was a place we discovered by accident, and requires a two-mile drive down a pot-holed road, and then a quarter-mile walk back to the falls - but so worth it! I was very aware of Jim there - remembering every step we had taken, every place we stopped to gaze at the beauty of this hidden spot. It's a quiet, peaceful place, and I'm so glad I decided to make the stop.</div>
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From there, I drove back to Tillamook to get a coffee for the road home. We drove through the Coast Range so many times that I almost think I could do it with my eyes closed. Except that the road is very curvy, mostly only two lanes, and subject to rockslides! It's also a lovely drive and I never tire of it.</div>
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And so, the hour approaches when Jim slipped away from his pain and confusion, but never, ever from my love. It feels as if I'm saying goodbye again as this year ends. I can't help thinking of all the things I've done that he would have enjoyed, but I believe in some way that I don't really understand he's been with me on this journey - not just today, but all the days of these twelve months.</div>
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"We are stardust, we are golden; we are billion year old carbon..."</div>
Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-89792133026290731782014-04-29T09:45:00.002-07:002014-04-29T10:00:09.118-07:00April 29, 2011I opened my eyes. Eight o'clock! Where was Jim with my morning cup of coffee? He never let me sleep this late, and since I'd fallen from his truck four days ago, he was especially solicitous, wanting to know how I was feeling, if I'd slept well, was I in pain.<br />
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I listened. No noises from downstairs. I couldn't wait in bed; I needed to move my body, to go to the bathroom. Slowly and painfully, I got out of bed. From the top of the stairs, I could tell it was too dark, so I carefully, one step at a time, descended.<br />
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As I entered the kitchen, there was no odor of coffee. The flamingo light, the light that Jim turned on each evening at dark and turned off when he set the coffee up before coming to bed - the flamingo light was still on. The family room was dark, the t.v. was on, an infomercial was playing.<br />
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Something was wrong, really wrong.<br />
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I turned on the light, saw Jim sitting on the sofa. He looked at me and said, "Mike and I are in trouble." I asked what had happened, and he said, "This train has drugs on it."<br />
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"What train, honey?"<br />
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"This train Mike and I are on, coming back from Mexico. There are drugs on it, and we're going to be arrested."<br />
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"Jim," I said, "you're having a dream. You're here, at home, with me. Wake up, honey."<br />
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"No," he said, showing a flash of anger. "I know where I am. I'm on a train with Mike. We're in Mexico and we're in trouble."<br />
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I called 911. "There's something wrong with my husband. He's not making sense, he's not waking up. Please help me!"<br />
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And my life, my world, changed forever. Three years ago today.<br />
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<br />Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-83084255755104722432014-01-08T20:03:00.000-08:002014-01-08T20:03:30.513-08:00Baby stepsThe day before New Year's Eve marked six months since Jim died. I'm still in that phase of "... a year ago, we ..." and I assume that will continue for six months more.<br />
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Thanks to my dear family, I made it through the holidays without too much trouble or too many breakdowns. It was hard, of course, and there were days that I honestly didn't think I could put one foot in front of the other. But I did, and I continue to do so.<br />
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Christmas was difficult mainly in anticipation and in retrospect. The day itself was filled with watching the grandkids open gifts, lots of laughter and fun, and a delicious meal with my sister and brother-in-law, to which I was accompanied by my oldest son.<br />
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Decorations in my home were muted. Jim & I had a tradition (that he first participated in very reluctantly!) of having family and friends over to decorate. This year, I had a few lights and a rosemary bush, which managed to look festive - almost in spite of me. I had done most of my shopping throughout the year, so there was no real rush to get things done "in time," and I resumed making Christmas cookies - which I had foregone last year - with the help of my two local grandkids. I think I will try to make that a new tradition - including them - since I think it's important to remember and honor the past while moving ahead with what feels right for my future.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Addison and Ada take roses to Grandpa.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drew singing Christmas songs for Grandpa.</td></tr>
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The week before Christmas, my granddaughter accompanied me to Jim's grave to lay a wreath and sing Christmas songs, and the Monday before, Jim's granddaughter and my grandson went with me to take roses to him. I feel so fortunate that they were happy and willing participants in this activity, and I like to think that Jim was looking on with the special smile and tenderness that he reserved for those he loved.<br />
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In retrospect, although I had a wonderful Christmas, received a few delightful gifts - more, really, than I wanted or needed - and treasure each memory, there has been a keen sense of not having that special gift from that special person. Jim always paid attention throughout the year to my passing comments or things that he thought I would enjoy doing or having, and my gifts from him always reflected that. It is, I suppose, the universal loss for the one who is left behind. And, of course, I missed surprising him with carefully chosen gifts.<br />
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So, the year in which my beloved last lived has ended. There are new things ahead, and I find that I'm feeling more anticipation for what the year might bring than I was even a few days ago. I fully expect to continue to have both good days and bad, and I'm sure that grief will continue to sneak up on me from time to time - as it did when I sat down to write this - but I also know that I was blessed to be loved by a wonderful man, and that knowledge sustains me every day.<br />
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Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-78887754841188784362013-07-24T18:41:00.000-07:002013-07-25T08:47:04.756-07:00GriefYou're funny, Grief,<br />
But I'm not laughing.<br />
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Some days - not many -<br />
But some,<br />
You are there, but gentle:<br />
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Bringing memories of happy times<br />
Bittersweet,<br />
Days when we smiled and laughed,<br />
Days when we quarreled and made up,<br />
Days when life was just<br />
Life.<br />
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Wine on the deck</div>
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Ducks in the yard</div>
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Watching t.v.</div>
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Just Life</div>
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Some days,</div>
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Most days,</div>
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You're like the Class IV Rapids</div>
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On Jim's beloved Deschutes:<br />
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"Long rapids with powerful, irregular waves,</div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">dangerous rocks, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">boiling eddies, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">precise maneuvering </span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">and scouting from the shore is imperative, </span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">t</span><span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">ake all possible safety precautions."</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Some days,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Today, for example,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Days yet to come</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Days already blotted from my memory</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">You are a beast,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Waiting till my head is turned,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Till my mind is occupied with endless tasks,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Reaching into my chest, grabbing my heart,</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Shredding me.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Until all I can do</span></div>
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<span style="color: #003264; font-family: Arial; text-align: start;">Is fall to the ground and cry.</span></div>
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Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-3807764644800092232013-07-04T11:15:00.000-07:002013-07-04T11:15:42.943-07:00SecretsThere is a secret place that lovers share,<br />
A place that is theirs alone.<br />
<br />
It's the place that holds the memories<br />
Of the first kiss,<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjseAJZzCtvSrdGFnCJM-vMiTz-Xp3T34T-Bajvf9kSRWgeMTPJDO-3favFFbfOwxn3jVTUoKw2BMiT6uo8DntvcZaPE7R5fY0WUBZ1HQPC-pTZPrMUNXBFxJZswZ_q3bswKoYsZxaeKuM/s691/Christmas2002+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjseAJZzCtvSrdGFnCJM-vMiTz-Xp3T34T-Bajvf9kSRWgeMTPJDO-3favFFbfOwxn3jVTUoKw2BMiT6uo8DntvcZaPE7R5fY0WUBZ1HQPC-pTZPrMUNXBFxJZswZ_q3bswKoYsZxaeKuM/s320/Christmas2002+008.jpg" width="320" /></a>The first fight,<br />
And the first time you silently forgave<br />
For a hurt that the other didn't even know had happened.<br />
<br />
In this place,<br />
This place of memories,<br />
Are visions<br />
of hours spent together,<br />
Reading,<br />
Working,<br />
Talking,<br />
Driving.<br />
<br />
Here live the private words,<br />
The stolen looks,<br />
The shared jokes.<br />
<br />
The Owl lives here,<br />
Alongside the broken bed,<br />
The "improved" barbecue grill,<br />
And, yes, that damned bell!<br />
It lives here, too.<br />
<br />
Living here are the words of love,<br />
The gazes of love,<br />
The actions of love,<br />
The safety of love,<br />
The sacrifices that don't feel like sacrifice,<br />
They feel like love.<br />
<br />
This secret place exists<br />
Just for the two of you,<br />
Binding you together<br />
With the gentlest and softest of bonds.<br />
<br />
Today,<br />
Oh, today!<br />
I wrap you in this bubble, this secret place,<br />
And carry it alone,<br />
Forever.Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-82903094376839640432013-05-30T22:07:00.000-07:002013-05-30T22:07:31.685-07:00It's the little things...Here we are, two years later, and the only thing that doesn't change is that I keep being surprised by the changes!<br />
<br />
It's been just over 25 months since Jim had three strokes (we think) and a heart attack (we're pretty sure), and he's been living in a locked care unit for the past 20+ months. No one ever expected Jim to survive this long once he began his serious decline in late summer of 2011. He's had two birthdays, two Christmases, and we'll soon celebrate our 3rd wedding anniversary - the second one post-strokes. Each celebration is observed with the mental (sometimes spoken) caveat that "This could be his last ______ (fill in the blank)." For someone who was always fatalistic about life, he has a remarkable determination to live. As one friend said, he's a tough old bird!<br />
<br />
Lest you get the wrong idea, let me rush to say that I'm in no way wanting to hurry him out of this world! I visit him twice a day - at lunch and dinner - to assist him with his meals. On the advice of my therapist, I do take two days a week "off," and I try to be strict about these days. On the other hand, I've been known to make the short drive to be with him late at night, just because I miss him. I don't expect accolades and I don't feel noble about this, I do it for a very simple reason: I love him and I treasure each minute I spend with him, whether he's awake or not. It gives me joy to be there, to hold his hand, to exchange "I love yous," to banter back and forth.<br />
<br />
In many ways, Jim is the same person he's always been. He can be stubborn, sarcastic (biting, even), funny, focused - all the things that are familiar. Sometimes, when I look at him, I half expect him to say, "Okay, enough of this. Let's go home now." But then he'll tell me that he's feeling really sad because his dad just died. Or he'll ask me how I was able to board "this plane" mid-flight. Or he'll talk about "our children" and how proud we've always been of them. Sometimes he'll tell me that the "people" are plotting against him or that "they" hurt the other people who live there. The stories are endless - he's camping or hunting or in the Navy. As my oldest son says, Jim leads a more exciting life than anyone else we know!<br />
<br />
Jim doesn't "know" a lot of things. He doesn't know that he can't walk, and will sometimes try to get out of the geri-chair. He doesn't know that we don't live together, so he'll frequently tell me that it's time for us to go home, or that he's tired and we should go to bed. He doesn't always remember that we're married or that we lived together, and will ask how things are at my house. Except, of course, when he does remember, and will tell me goodnight as I leave, and ask if I'll be back tomorrow.<br />
<br />
I've adapted to all these things. I've become quite adept at entering into his reality - he can no longer be part of mine - at the drop of a hat (or a sentence). For someone who was never a convincing liar, I can tell enormous lies now with a completely straight face! It's not a skill I ever wanted, but I certainly am thankful that I developed it!<br />
<br />
So it isn't any of these things that bring me to tears. I've adjusted and continue to accept that this is my life for now. I'm resigned to that, although I wish with all my heart that I had Jim sitting next to me right now, sleeping next to me, grilling baby back ribs, taking our fifth wheel on another travel adventure - all the things that we so enjoyed together and that are gone. I've accepted these things, if not gracefully, at least with a sense of resignation.<br />
<br />
What breaks my heart are the little things. Things that others might not even notice, but that speak volumes to me about the man I've lost. I guess it really started last summer, on our second anniversary. I made lasagna - Jim's favorite - and opened the bottle of very special pear brandy that we had received as a wedding gift. It was one of those "this might be the last _____" occasions, so I felt it deserved special attention. Jim was indifferent to the lasagna and thought the brandy tasted "awful." I was disappointed, but accepted that things are different now, and that the important thing was that we were together.<br />
<br />
The next awakening was a few months later, when I arrived late for lunch and found Jim eating potato salad! I've know that Jim doesn't like potato salad for as long as I've known him - but he was eating and enjoying every bite. Shortly after that, he refused a piece of chocolate, saying that he doesn't like chocolate - this from the man who used to buy 10 or 20 Hershey bars at a time when they went on sale. There were days when Jim's entire lunch consisted of half a Hershey bar with peanut butter. Wow! That was an eye-opener!<br />
<br />
Fast forward to a few weeks ago. We had a family barbecue at my house and my brother-in-law baked delicious halibut filets that Jim's son had caught on a trip to Alaska last year. Halibut is just about the only fish Jim really likes. Any time we went out for dinner, if there was fresh halibut, that's what he ate. He <strike>loves</strike> loved it. So I saved a filet to take to Jim for his dinner the next evening - and he refused to eat it. Said he doesn't like halibut. Never has. Didn't want it. I almost cried.<br />
<br />
Then, this evening, we had a "date night." Once a quarter, the care home has a special dinner for the residents and families. It's always themed, always has music or other entertainment, and everyone generally has a good time. Tonight was "Fiesta" and the menu was shrimp fajitas or chicken tamales. Jim and I chose the fajitas, and, yes, he loved them. The dietary specialist even brought us an extra bowl of the shrimp/pepper/onion filling, and Jim ate a wonderful meal. When I gave him a taste of the salsa, he started coughing and sneezing and asked for water - lots of water. I liked the salsa, and I do not eat spicy food. Jim has always loved spicy food, but this was way too "hot" for him. One more indication that, slowly but surely, Jim has changed and will continue to change. I have to learn to accept, to not voice my dismay when a once well-liked food or activity no longer matters to him.<br />
<br />
It's the little things.Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-55850712235444978102012-09-15T21:10:00.000-07:002012-09-15T21:10:02.483-07:00ChangeChange is good, people say. Change can also be bad, sad, distressing. Change can even, I suppose, be neutral.<br />
<br />
I've known people who adapt easily - they see change as a challenge to be met, a goal to be attained, an element of life to be embraced. I'm not one of those people. I can adapt, but I have to do it in my own time, in my own way. For example, I can release objects that I've acquired or held dear, but I usually have to live with the idea for a while. It's almost as if I have to begin to think about letting go, and then my brain begins to slowly cut the connection until, one day, I can release that object to go on to its next habitation, wherever that might be.<br />
<br />
The past 17 months have brought more change to my life than I can process very easily. Physically, my new hip prevents me from doing some of the things I've taken for granted most of my life. I can't sit cross-legged on the floor for more than a few minutes without feeling distinct discomfort. Previously, I could sit until my leg fell asleep, and then I'd complain about the annoyance. Now I have to get my body into a more comfortable position, quit what I was doing while sitting in the floor, and try to quell the frustration that I feel. Not a big deal, but I'm not adapting well.<br />
<br />
On a more emotional level, I'm experiencing the almost daily change in how my life is ordered, and the ebb and flow of Jim's physical and mental limitations.<br />
<br />
Today, with the help of my son, my step-son, and my brother-in-law, I completed moving from my and Jim's well-loved home into the new house that Jim will never share with me. That was hard, really hard. Jim loved that house; and, because he loved it so, I came to love it, too. Every corner held a memory. Rooms we had painted together, window coverings we had hung together, bathrooms we had remodeled together, plants we had nurtured to maturity, additions Jim had made while I "supervised" and served as his "gofer." The back yard we enjoyed when weather permitted, and, most poignantly, the deck where we exchanged our vows of love, celebrating our wedding with friends and family. Today, as the last of the lawn furniture, the potted plants, the papers, books, and Jim's clothing were removed, as I bade this well-loved home goodbye, I felt a deep sense of loss and sorrow. Jim's clothes are packed to be donated to the <a href="http://www.pickupplease.org/about-vva" target="_blank">Vietnam Veterans of America</a>, and I like to think that he is providing for those less fortunate than we have been. But I held onto a shirt that he particularly loved, as well as the navy blue blazer he wore when we were married. I can't let those go just yet. Maybe I'll never be able to. Change is hard.<br />
<br />
Today, as I sat with Jim, helping him eat, his face suddenly became blank and his eyes were far away. When I asked if he was okay, if he hurt anywhere, if he didn't feel well, he said only, "My mind is gone. I can't remember." I asked what he was trying to remember, and he said, "Me. You." Fighting back tears for the second time today, I got out my iPad and showed him pictures of us, our wedding, our friends, our children, our grandchildren. I talked about that beautiful, special day, our joy, our love, our life together. He smiled and said, "I love you." He finished lunch, and almost immediately fell asleep in his chair. The aides wheeled him away to put him in bed for a nap, and I came back to this home that Jim will never see. Change is sad.<br />
<br />
Today is the one-year anniversary of Jim being admitted to the memory care home. A year ago, I still harbored secret hopes that one day he would come home, that it couldn't be the home we loved and fell in love, where the stairs and the opportunities for him to come to harm were obstacles that we couldn't overcome, but that we would make a new home, in a new place, together. Even then, when he was more aware of where he was, when he was angry with me, when he would yell and rail against life and against me, even then, even then... I hoped. Wherever Jim and I could be together, that would be home. Together, we could weather that change.<br />
<br />
Today, I know that home exists in two-hour increments, two or three times a day, when I drive to be with Jim, to help him with his meals, to hold his hand, to sit with him and talk about things we've done, when I edit my day's activities to not mention the cat he doesn't know I have, the house he doesn't know I bought, the move he doesn't know I made. For two hours at a time - sometimes only an hour, sometimes a little more - for that time I am home, for that time I am content, I am almost happy. Home is where my heart is, and my heart is with Jim.<br />
<br />
That will never change.Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-78084403970016307442012-04-21T10:59:00.000-07:002012-04-21T10:59:33.155-07:00AnniversariesOne year. Fifty-two weeks. Anniversaries come around like that. They start with, "One week ago..." or "One month ago..." but eventually the weeks and months become a year, and we sit and wonder where the time went. How can it have been so long? How did it go by so quickly?<br />
<br />
A year ago, life was going on as usual. Jim and I were newlyweds - just nine months into our marriage. We were happy, busy, doing things we'd always done. I had just returned from a trip South with my sister, visiting my niece and her family, doing some genealogical research, visiting my cousin, whom I hadn't seen for many years. Fun. Life. Living. Loving.<br />
<br />
Oh, we were concerned about Jim's recent health issues. He'd had a trip to the ER while I was gone, and he'd just had an echocardiogram and spent 24 hours wearing a Holter monitor, but he felt pretty good and was doing his usual Jim stuff - taking care of the yard, the house, working crossword puzzles, anticipating his upcoming fishing trip to Alaska with his son.<br />
<br />
I'd just visited my doctor, complaining of pain in my left leg. He'd ordered x-rays, given me an injection for sciatica, and told me my hips looked really good and would last me the rest of my life. I was looking forward to the next day's lunch plans with my son, so I could see his new offices.<br />
<br />
See, life goes on, and we think it will go on forever. Even when we're old enough to know better. Even when our plans, our whole lives, have changed in the blink of an eye many times before. We put things on our calendars - Drew overnight with Gran; Jim's neurology appt.; Fort Stevens for clamming; Jim & Mike's Excellent Adventure; Rodeo weekend - and we think that means that those things will happen.<br />
<br />
But in the blink of an eye, a perfectly healthy woman with hips that will last the rest of her life, can fall from the back of a truck and break one of those "perfect" hips. A man with so much to look forward to - a much-anticipated trip fishing with his son, enjoying the achievements of his grandchildren, traveling to far away places with his wife - can have a stroke, a series of strokes. Suddenly, the calendar reads, "Cancel Fort Stevens," "Cancel attorney," "Post-surgical follow-up," "Physical therapy."<br />
<br />
"Care conference for Jim."<br />
<br />
A year ago. Just a year ago. Or a lifetime ago. All depending on how you measure time.Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-35058131264943092972012-03-24T14:07:00.002-07:002012-03-24T14:07:46.886-07:00"I Need You"<b><u>I Need You</u></b><br />
<br />
Do not ask me to remember,<br />
Don't try to make me understand,<br />
Let me rest and know you're with me,<br />
Kiss my cheek and hold my hand.<br />
<br />
I'm confused beyond your concept,<br />
I am sad and sick and lost.<br />
All I know is that I need you<br />
To be with me at all cost.<br />
<br />
Do not lose your patience with me,<br />
Do not scold or curse or cry.<br />
I can't help the way I'm acting,<br />
Can't be different though I try.<br />
<br />
Just remember that I need you,<br />
That the best of me is gone,<br />
Please don't fail to stand beside me,<br />
Love me 'til my life is done.<br />
<br />
-<i>Author Unknown</i>Cherylehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10023922997659921987noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-13436079409494055252011-10-02T10:18:00.000-07:002011-10-02T10:18:44.042-07:00I am a CaregiverI am a caregiver. I care for my husband, Jim, who will be 67 years old on October 6.<br />
<br />
Last Spring, Jim had three strokes and a heart attack. The same week that I broke my hip and had a full hip replacement. By mid-June, we were both at home and life was looking up. Jim had mild word-finding problems and wasn't able to effectively use his right hand, but we could still have conversations, still enjoy each other's company, still argue, tease, laugh together.<br />
<br />
After a few days, maybe as much as two weeks, I began noticing that Jim wasn't getting better; in fact things were getting worse. His language skills were improving, but his awareness of his safety, his location in both time and place was fuzzy (and often completely absent), and his level of cooperation with his medications was declining. He was becoming more and more resentful of me and of the fact that I was always the bearer of bad news. He couldn't drive. He couldn't drink. I wouldn't take him to buy bourbon. He couldn't take aspirin for pain. Finally, he began refusing his pain medication altogether and would sit on the sofa writhing and moaning, but stubbornly refusing any aid.<br />
<br />
In mid-July, I proposed a trip to the Coast for our first anniversary. It would be the first time since our first trip to the Coast - way back in early 2001 - that we would stay at a hotel, but there was no way I could drive the truck and pull the 5th wheel. Although we both tried to make it a celebration, it was clear that Jim was struggling. Our anniversary dinner was hamburgers and fries eaten in our room, which I had bought from the bar across the street. While there, Jim's blood glucose fluctuated wildly, at one point reaching almost 500. He had thought his glucose levels were low and bought candy bars; in fact it was high, and I came very close to calling 911. Fortunately, he responded quickly to the insulin.<br />
<br />
Upon our return, I put in a call to Jim's doctor, explaining what had happened, and asking for a clear diagnosis. When I heard the words "vascular dementia," I was stunned. At last I had an answer for why we were having the problems I'd been trying to handle, but "dementia" is such a horrible thing to face. I was able to find a support group online, where I've gotten the most incredible amount of information and validation of all that we've faced, as well as what we can expect. It's not pretty.<br />
<br />
For the remainder of July and all of August, I continued to struggle. Jim became more and more unsteady on his feet, yet he would insist on walking downstairs with his shoes untied. We bought shoes with Velcro closures, but he wouldn't wear them. I found him in the garage attempting to open a bottle of wine with his vise. He talked about getting his ladder out to climb up on the roof to clean the chimney. He threatened to walk to the liquor store - 2-1/2 miles away and down a steep incline - when I refused to buy alcohol for him. The day I came home from a therapist appointment and found him outside, shoes untied, carrying pruning shears, I knew I could no longer leave him alone. When he refused to have someone in to help, and then refused to ride in the car with me, because he wasn't going to go anywhere until he could drive again, I became a prisoner in our home.<br />
<br />
Again, I called the doctor and was told that if there were any way to get him to the hospital for psychological testing, it desperately needed to be done. Failing that, if he posed a danger to me or to himself - for example, if he actually did try to walk to the store - to call 911 and have him put on a "transfer hold" to be admitted through the ER to the mental ward. When I found him drinking mouthwash, I thought perhaps that was the key. It was not. I was told to get all mouthwash, all ethanol of any kind, out of the house, along with any guns and/or ammunition. With the help of his son, I was able to accomplish this.<br />
<br />
On September 3rd, at a party at his son's house, Jim's behavior became even more erratic and verbally abusive. When he cut his hand and we couldn't stop the bleeding, I made the decision to take him to the ER. When we were approaching the VA Hospital, driving up a steep, curvy hill, Jim realized where we were going and became even angrier and resumed the verbal abuse. Then he put my car in neutral. Twice. When I put it back in drive and kept going, he reached over and turned it off. After I started it, he did it again. It was getting dark, we were in a dangerous place to be stopped, but I started it again and drove as quickly as I could to the ER.<br />
<br />
After much difficulty, Jim was admitted against his will and spent the next twelve days in the mental ward. At various times, he believed he was in Mexico, he persistently believed that I had spent all of "his" money to build the hospital as a home and that the VA had taken it from me. He believed that I had no place to live. He believed that the year was 2076, and he couldn't recall how many children he has. He also believed he still lived in his childhood neighborhood, and would ask when his mother was coming home. She died in 1964.<br />
<br />
On September 15, on the advice of medical staff and with the help of an attorney to gain guardianship, I was able to have Jim transferred to a memory care home, where he lives for now. It's not a good setting for him, although the staff is wonderful and they all love him. He is the most highly-functioning person there (most residents have Alzheimer's Disease, cannot speak, many are incontinent), but because of his continuing threats to "walk away," he requires a locked unit. We are looking for a better placement for him, but all he wants is to come home.<br />
<br />
In addition to "brittle" (uncontrolled) diabetes, and the dementia, Jim has congestive heart failure, atrial fibrillation, high blood pressure, and peripheral neuropathy. But Jim insists that his health has never been better, that I am at fault for his uncontrolled diabetes, and that as soon as the nurses teach him how to used the "new" insulin - the one he's used for as long as I've known him - he will be fine and able to come home. Of course, even if this were true, dementia means that Jim cannot learn new things. His short-term memory is largely gone, although he can - as is common with dementia - pull himself together long enough to participate in a conversation, leaving many to believe he's just fine. Unless, of course, you know that we haven't been to Mexico in three years, have never been to China, and the trip we took to the doctor last week wasn't close by, but was across the river, and many miles away.<br />
<br />
Well-meaning friends want to "Jim-proof" our house so Jim can come home. They don't realize that if they take away the ladders, he will climb on chairs. If they take away the chairs, he will climb on tables. If they take away the tables, it will be four walls and no longer "home." If they replace the dishes and glasses with plastic ware, he will still be in danger from photograph glass, window glass - whatever he can drop and break or attempt to use as a tool.<br />
<br />
They don't realize the stress of managing brittle diabetes - of having to call 911 in the middle of the night because his glucose levels have dropped so low that he's almost comatose and in danger of dying. They don't realize how hard it is for me to exist on four hours of sleep each and every night because I lie awake, touching him to be sure he's breathing. They don't realize that answering the same question 10 times in five minutes - Do I have a doctor's appointment today? What am I seeing the doctor for today? Do you know when my mom will be home? Do you know where my wife is? - is exhausting. They don't realize that Jim can't reason; that there is no cause and effect for him, only what he wants to do in the moment. They don't realize that caring for Jim is NOT like caring for a small child; that child will learn and progress. Jim cannot learn and is regressing.<br />
<br />
But mostly they don't realize that after they have done their good deed, Jim-proofing the house, bringing Jim home, leaving us with their good wishes and love, that they will return to normalcy, leaving us here to once again reach a point of crisis.<br />
<br />
Do you know a caregiver? I'll bet you do. Give them the gift of your time. Give him or her an afternoon off while you visit with your friend or family member. Provide a meal. Mow the lawn. Rake the leaves. Or, if their loved one has been placed in a home, accept that it was done lovingly and with much guilt and regret and do not criticize or try to fix it. It can't be fixed. Dementia is forever, changing only in a downward spiral. Acknowledge that the one living with it is the one who knows how it really is. Accept that your family member or friend isn't going to get better, and that the caregiver's stress may be slowly impairing his or her own health. Understand that you only add to that stress when you criticize or argue that your solution is better than the one s/he chose.<br />
<br />
Understand that nothing is harder than loving someone who has begun a journey known as "The Long Goodbye." Every day is grief. Every day is loss. Every day is pain.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-27068019553820805722011-06-21T08:42:00.000-07:002011-06-21T08:42:02.686-07:00Then and NowOne day<br />
We were making plans to go to the Coast<br />
To go clamming with friends.<br />
<br />
One day<br />
We were making plans to go to Yosemite,<br />
So you could see El Capitan.<br />
<br />
One day<br />
We were making plans for another trip<br />
To far away places.<br />
<br />
One day<br />
We were making plans to paint the house,<br />
And tile the floors<br />
And maybe find a new home to love as we do this one.<br />
<br />
One day<br />
You had a stroke.<br />
<br />
Today<br />
I'm learning how to test your blood glucose<br />
And give insulin shots.<br />
<br />
Today<br />
I'm learning how to cook the foods you like<br />
In a way that is healthier.<br />
<br />
Today<br />
I cut up tiny pills and put them in tiny boxes<br />
And smile when I bring them to you four times a day<br />
And call them "appetizers."<br />
<br />
Today<br />
I'm learning, still learning, still learning<br />
Not to respond in anger when you take out your frustrations<br />
On me.<br />
<br />
Tonight<br />
Each night<br />
I wake three or four or five or six times<br />
To touch you, to test your blood,<br />
To watch you breathe<br />
To give thanks<br />
That you are beside me.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-49165095680943193582011-06-19T09:03:00.000-07:002011-06-19T09:03:30.758-07:00MemoryWhen they ask you where you worked<br />
You can tell them<br />
And give them details.<br />
<br />
When they ask if you have children<br />
You can name them<br />
And give them details<br />
<br />
And so they say,<br />
"Your long-term memory is good!"<br />
And they smile and you smile and I smile.<br />
<br />
When we go to bed<br />
You can't remember which side you have slept on<br />
For twenty years.<br />
<br />
When you sit in my chair<br />
In the family room<br />
You don't understand when I ask,<br />
"Do you want to sit there - or here?"<br />
Where you have sat<br />
For eleven years.<br />
<br />
When you make coffee<br />
You remember to use four scoops of coffee<br />
But not how much water.<br />
You can't find the teabags<br />
Where they have been<br />
For twenty years.<br />
<br />
You marvel at how well I navigate<br />
The route home from the doctor,<br />
Through curves and roads with oddly-shaped turns.<br />
A route you taught me,<br />
On roads you have traveled<br />
A thousand times,<br />
But claim you have never seen.<br />
<br />
What are long-term memories made of?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-80070748732091283802011-06-08T21:32:00.000-07:002011-06-08T21:32:21.487-07:00MilestonesTomorrow, my Sweetheart comes home for good! I am so excited to have him here with me that I can hardly stand it. We will begin reordering our lives to match our "new normal." Some things we both hope we can resume: reading the paper together in the mornings while we drink our coffee; discussing events of the day; watching our favorite t.v. shows; enjoying our deck in the afternoons - the warm weather is arriving just in time!<br />
<br />
Some things will be different for us. There will be new regimens of medications, learning to navigate safely around each other and the house, piecing together the events of the past several weeks so they begin to make some sense for Jim, more doctor's appointments (for both of us), physical therapy, learning to shop with wheelchair and cane - the list goes on!<br />
<br />
One of our biggest challenges will be Jim's level of awareness regarding his - and my -limitations. I'm trusting that coming home will provide the comfort and security he needs to not only settle his mind (he still has occasional hallucinations), but also to help him regain his mobility and use of his right hand. I told him that I don't care how long he plays Solitaire on his computer, since I firmly believe using the mouse will be positive in healing it. Fortunately, his therapist agrees with me!<br />
<br />
It will be seven weeks on Friday since our lives changed so drastically. We've had the love and support of so many people, that it humbles me and makes me even more aware of how blessed we are. We've both come a long way, but Jim's journey has been longer and more arduous. Given the fears that I had in the early days following his strokes, I'm just so very thankful to know that he'll be home in fewer than 12 hours! I do ask that you, my family, friends, and casual readers, keep us both in your good thoughts and prayers as we begin this new chapter.<br />
<br />
My Sweetheart is coming home!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-25198179126574940292011-05-18T21:36:00.000-07:002011-05-18T21:36:25.771-07:00One woman showOkay, I confess that I'm feeling a little sorry for myself tonight, and I'm doing a bit of grieving as well. All normal, I suppose, given the events of the past three weeks, but a bit unusual and uncomfortable for me. I'm also a little uncertain about putting this out in a public forum like this, but I really feel that if I don't get it out I'll explode. That could get messy and someone could get hurt by flying titanium!<br />
<br />
Part of the problem, of course, is that my rock, the man who would ordinarily be providing the emotional support for me, is in no condition to do so. He's struggling with his own issues and doesn't understand that, in addition to being worried about him I'm worried about myself. This afternoon when I went to visit him, he stood up from his wheelchair (which he is absolutely NOT supposed to do without someone on staff there with him), so he could sit on his bed and change his clothes. I won't kid you; I freaked out. He's not real stable on his feet, and I was terrified that he would fall and knock me down. The absolute last thing I want to do is fall, believe me. He got upset with me, because he's quite certain, of course, that he won't fall. And he didn't, but I was still very frightened and found myself backing away from him instead of going toward him to help him. That felt very odd to me, but the instinct for self-preservation is strong, and if I fall and dislocate this new hip I'll be of no help to anyone for a long time.<br />
<br />
I didn't like leaving when he was so angry, but it was better for me to leave. He was going to bed, the nurse came in when he got up (it sets off alarms), and it only upsets him (and me) when I can't communicate to him the fear that I have. I wouldn't trade his strong will for anything, but he's not currently able to really understand that he's impaired and that I am, too.<br />
<br />
I'm also still digesting the information that I got from the Physician's Assistant on Monday. My healing is going extremely well, so that's not the problem. The problem is that I have an artificial hip. It will always be in greater danger of dislocation than the OEM version. The only cure for a dislocation is - you guessed it - another hip replacement surgery!<br />
<br />
It may mean that I can't crawl around on the floor with the grandkids or play trains and cars on the floor with Addison. That has always brought such great joy to me that it's upsetting to think I may have to give it up. Perhaps my physical therapist will be able to allay some of these concerns - s/he'll be here tomorrow - but for tonight they're tumbling around in my poor brain.<br />
<br />
I have flowers that I bought just a week before this all happened, and they're sitting on my deck, waiting to be planted. I had gathered some of the stuff together that I needed and was only waiting for some sunny weather to put them in their pots. Well, the sunny weather is here, but I'm not able. My fuschias need to be fertilized, but the mechanics of doing that are frustrating me. I think I can do it, but gathering together the things that I need presents a challenge.<br />
<br />
It's mostly just dumb stuff like that driving me to this melancholy. I really don't have any insurmountable problems. Thankfully, we both have good insurance and the money to cover what insurance doesn't, so it really does feel like a one-woman pity party. I've managed to make it this far with only one real crying session - though I've teared up a few times - so I'm really not doing so bad. But the tears are always right there, waiting, and I guess I just needed to get it in writing. Somehow that seems to make it more manageable. I've always been someone who feels that nothing is insurmountable if I can see it in words.<br />
<br />
I should be back and ready to conquer the world tomorrow. As long as no one bumps into me.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-28410223782769893542011-05-14T22:12:00.000-07:002011-05-14T22:13:54.252-07:00UpdatingWell, I've survived my first 24+ hours home by myself, although I confess to being a bit lonely in this big house without the daily presence of my Jim. It's funny how much I always have looked forward to the times when he's away hunting or fishing or pursuing some other such pleasure. It's always been a time for me to embrace my alone time and not have to think about anyone else. This time, though, all I think about is Jim.<br />
<br />
My youngest son, Ben, ran all over Portland yesterday, gathering up all of the medical accouterments I thought I'd need for my convalescence - bath chair, cane, "grabbers," a new shower head, prescriptions - then picked me up from The Old Folks' Home and brought me back to my much-loved, but now quite lonely, home. He spent a couple of hours getting everything set up, and then kissed me goodbye to return to his wife and children. My sister stopped by last night and brought me some wine (yay!). I drank half a glass and then off to bed for me.<br />
<br />
Although I'm technically not cleared to drive, the rehab center where Jim is currently staying is less than two miles away, and I was able to visit him twice today. It takes me almost as long to get into and out of the car as it does to drive there! And since I'm so close, wild horses couldn't keep me away. And it's become abundantly clear over these past two weeks that my presence is vital to Jim's recovery. He's surrounded and loved by our children, grandchildren, other family members, and many, many friends, but our connection to each other is strong. There is nothing that gives me quite the thrill as the joy I see in his face and hear in his voice when he sees me.<br />
<br />
He's doing very well, though he has a way to go in rehab. For an impatient man, he's actually coping quite well. He wants very much to come home and would walk out tonight if I were to give him any indication that it would be okay. But we both know that he needs the physical therapy to regain control of his hand and his balance, and that we still have time to be together and to resume the life that we love and enjoy. Every day I realize anew just how blessed I am to have found this deep and abiding love at this stage of my life. Each day brings us closer to once again enjoying our morning ritual of coffee, newspaper, and local news; our afternoon ritual of wine on the deck, admiring our yard and the company of our neighbors; and just the simple pleasure of being together, taking care of things around the house, sharing mealtimes, and arguing politics.<br />
<br />
Last July, when we were married, my middle son, Jason, read from I Corinthians. The final words of that reading keep coming to my mind:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><i>But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love.</i></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-90275799849945384542011-05-13T18:35:00.000-07:002011-05-13T18:35:30.129-07:00Bittersweet<div class="MsoNormal">It seems that so many of life’s blessings are mixed, filled with both joy and sorrow, gain and loss. Tonight feels that way to me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m excited that early tomorrow afternoon, Ben will arrive at the door of the rehab center, ready to take me home to return to a life briefly interrupted by the events of the past two weeks. I’m elated that I’ve improved enough to be considered able to be home, taking care of my own needs. I’m also a little nervous about not having the safety net of a team of dedicated professionals who are as close as a small grey button, should I need assistance.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walk quite well with both walker and cane, and although the walker feels more secure, I’m gradually transitioning to the cane except when I’m out among people. The walker gives me more protection and provides a greater visibility in crowded places. I can take a shower by myself, as long as I use a shower chair, I can manage all of my personal care, and I’ll have a tray attachment on my walker for carrying coffee and food from kitchen to dining area. It all sounds so mundane, but it feels so enormous to be able to do these things after hip replacement surgery less than two weeks ago.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why, then, is there sorrow? Well, I will leave behind a group of wonderful people here at Marquis Care at Vermont Hills. They have helped and encouraged me, they’ve cheered my achievements, listened to my fears and worries, provided shoulders to cry on – quite literally on a couple of occasions – asked always about Jim, provided comic relief, and have, in just a few short days, become like another family. Julie, Lynette, Nicole, LaShaunda, JoAnna, Angela, Cheryl, Angelica, Debbie, Lisa – all names that recall faces and kindnesses I will never forget. Although I have jokingly referred to this place as “The Old Folks’ Home,” it truly has been a place of rest and refreshment for me, as well as a place of rehabilitation. It fits none of the stereotypes of nursing homes, being instead a place where people care – and it shows.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the greater sorrow for me will be returning home without Jim. He has been discharged from hospital and is undertaking his own rehabilitation at a place much closer to our home. A place where I will be able to visit more often, and a place that will help him recover and return to our interrupted life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m optimistic that he won’t be there long, but each day apart is its own kind of sorrow. I miss him and I know he misses me. He has come from a far place to where he is today, and there is still much work to be done. He has some trouble with words and he’s undertaking the job of retraining his right hand. But my Jim is a man who has never shirked hard work, and there’s no reason to think this time will be different. I’m so thankful that the man I married last summer knows who I am, who our children, grandchildren and friends are; I’m thankful that he can carry on a conversation; and that the weakness in his right side isn’t major or permanent. Things could have been so much worse.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But when I sit on the deck tomorrow afternoon – and that’s in my definite plans – I will feel incomplete. My joy at being home will be tainted by longing for my Jim to be with me. But soon, very soon, he will join me on the deck, we’ll admire our glorious red rhododendrons, our azaleas, fuschias, vine maples – all the beauty that our beloved home offers us. And we will resume our interrupted life together.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-16070070727672067942011-05-04T21:07:00.000-07:002011-05-04T21:07:32.787-07:00What really happened!On Monday, April 25, I fell out of the back of Jim's truck. Although that may not sound like a big deal, let me rush to assure you that falling from a height of about four feet onto an asphalt parking lot and landing full force on my left hock, with only minimal fall interference from the left hand and arm, can be a very big deal indeed.<br />
<br />
Jim hovered over me for several minutes, asking if I needed an ambulance, while I struggled to assess just how badly I was damaged, and whether I did need an ambulance or not. After a few minutes, with a light Oregon rain falling on me, I told him that I thought I was okay, and that I just needed some help to get into the truck. I didn't feel able to actually get up onto my feet, so I crawled the length of the truck to the front door, where I used the door to pull myself up, and Jim helped me haul myself up into the seat. As he climbed into the driver's seat, he continued to worry that we should call 9-1-1, while I reassured him that I thought a broken bone would hurt a lot worse than I seemed to be hurting. We drove home, I dragged myself up the stairs to our bedroom, climbed painfully into bed, took some heavy-duty drugs, and slipped into an uncomfortable sleep.<br />
<br />
From then until Friday morning, I managed - with lots of rest and drugs - to get around the house, eat the occasional meal, watch some t.v. in the family room with Jim, and even do my laundry. Although I was in pain, it seemed better each day, and I was a little more mobile each day. Briana even brought Addison and Drew over for a visit on Thursday, and we had quite a nice time. I was pretty sure that things were healing and I was lucky to be doing so well after a nasty fall.<br />
<br />
Friday morning around 7:00 a.m. I made my way downstairs to find my Jim apparently still groggy from sleep and not making much sense. After trying to get him to respond, I made the decision to call 9-1-1 - the best decision I've ever made. When the EMTs arrived, they told me that they thought he was having a stroke and should go immediately to the hospital. After arguing with Jim for a while, I called his son Mike, and Jim finally agreed to go. He left in the ambulance, and I followed about 30 minutes later in my car.<br />
<br />
When I arrived at the ER at the VA Hospital, I parked and struggled to get out of the car. Finally, I grabbed my lower leg and bent it enough to get my foot past the doorsill. I heard a couple of popping sounds, and my whole field of vision went white as I experienced the worst pain I've ever felt. After several minutes, I attempted to put my foot on the ground and stand up. When I did, it felt as if there were nothing under my foot, and I almost passed out from the pain. After hanging by my arms between my car and the one parked next to me, I was able to flag down a very nice man who grabbed a wheelchair and wheeled me to the VA Emergency room. Mike and Christina were already there waiting for Jim to come back from an MRI. I saw him for just a few minutes, and Christina wheeled me across the Skybridge to the ER at Oregon Health & Science University. After waiting what seemed an interminable time, I was x-rayed and told that I had broken the neck of my left femur. Apparently it had been broken when I fell of the truck, but wasn't displaced until I bent my leg, at which time I completed the circuit. The treatment: a full hip replacement.<br />
<br />
I saw Jim again briefly that afternoon, and early Saturday morning I was wheeled into the operating room for a four-hour surgery.<br />
<br />
For the past few days, I've been recovering from surgery and visiting Jim each day, thanks to the cooperation of the two hospitals and the strong arms of Mike to push me in a wheelchair. Jim has been in and out of the neurology ward and ICU, and we've been told variously that he's had three strokes - or maybe two strokes - that he's had a heart attack and that there either is or isn't a blood clot in his heart that may or may not be feeding clots to his brain. He has traveled in and out of coherence, and has been happy to see us or unable to recognize us. It's all been very frustrating, but he's being cared for by lots of good, well-qualified people.<br />
<br />
Tonight I am in a short-term care facility about 7 miles from Jim, where I will spend the next couple of weeks learning how to take care of myself without dislocating my new titanium hip. Jim is resting well and will be returned to the neuro ward from ICU as soon as a bed opens for him - hopefully tomorrow. I will be able to visit him each day, by utilizing medical transportation. Each time we are able to spend a few minutes together it's revitalizing for both of us. And each day I am thankful all over again that I told Jim I didn't need to go to the hospital when I fell; he would have been home all alone at a critical time on Friday.<br />
<br />
We have been blessed with the love and care of so many of our family and friends who have visited, run errands, sat with us during difficult times, retrieved things from our house, bought clothes (mine had to be cut off of me), and who have just generally provided loving support during what has been a difficult 10 days. We hope that we're both on the road to full recovery, but recognize that there are still some unknown waters ahead. Together, and surrounded by love, we will face them!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-77992716122155051492011-01-21T16:09:00.000-08:002011-01-21T16:09:21.136-08:00To Addison and Drew, with loveMy days as Granny Nanny<br />
Are drawing to a close;<br />
I've fixed your lunch, I've wiped your bottoms,<br />
I've even washed your clothes!<br />
<br />
I've rocked you till you fell asleep,<br />
I've held you when you cried;<br />
I've tickled chubby tummies;<br />
I've given a thousand horsie rides!<br />
<br />
You've filled my days with untold joy,<br />
You've made me very proud;<br />
I've played with each and every toy,<br />
We've giggled and laughed out loud!<br />
<br />
I'll miss my days' beginnings<br />
With joyful, lovely faces,<br />
I'll miss our trips to parks and gyms<br />
And other exciting places.<br />
<br />
You've grown and learned so very much<br />
And I treasure each memory;<br />
But time moves on, as people say,<br />
And, my sweethearts, so must we.<br />
<br />
I know that I'll still see you<br />
And we'll still have time together,<br />
Not quite the same, but this won't change:<br />
I'll love you both forever!<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmnMKxuiPSDoAZxB_EH5-zvrFU61PriNPi8X9ov64a1VUH9cxswbSXse5107TGjk9Tn7lsKdcOgHLM69SL-hLq4sWTA2mco1seeeLOAvw5GikzabGjgP1uabE0xNuzdSwUYT-YHBzEeeU/s1600/IMG_2073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBmnMKxuiPSDoAZxB_EH5-zvrFU61PriNPi8X9ov64a1VUH9cxswbSXse5107TGjk9Tn7lsKdcOgHLM69SL-hLq4sWTA2mco1seeeLOAvw5GikzabGjgP1uabE0xNuzdSwUYT-YHBzEeeU/s320/IMG_2073.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJYK90OtG0dJ1QWCPUW4XSoLG_SD6QkD7s3XAXZx01-b0amCCoh4UFfOpqh0YLbim1Qf5FIssozjUR948dO7pholC4wEOAx0hPSi8GVM4IgHxdCJvS3tiv7fOKrQV26NARmR06UaP5PE6/s1600/IMG_2075.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigJYK90OtG0dJ1QWCPUW4XSoLG_SD6QkD7s3XAXZx01-b0amCCoh4UFfOpqh0YLbim1Qf5FIssozjUR948dO7pholC4wEOAx0hPSi8GVM4IgHxdCJvS3tiv7fOKrQV26NARmR06UaP5PE6/s320/IMG_2075.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-18944679813136795782011-01-11T12:16:00.000-08:002011-01-11T12:18:41.144-08:00WordsI dithered a bit about whether or not to post this to my personal or my political blog. You can see where it ended up! Even though it touches on the political, it really is personal to me and, I think, to many others. And it was inspired in part by another <a href="http://datinggod.org/2011/01/10/the-violent-power-of-words-a-franciscans-response/">blog </a>I read this morning.<br />
<br />
You see, despite protests from certain political arenas, words really do matter. Although many of us were raised on the sing-song mantra of children everywhere, "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me," those of us who have been wounded by words know the truth.<br />
<br />
We may never have exhibited casts or bruises for the world to see, but our spirits - our psyches - have suffered damage. In some cases, it can be repaired; in other cases, the victims don't - can't - find their way out of the pain and so take their own life or the lives of others. But a CAT scan of our emotional selves would still find the lingering scars in the same way that an experienced eye can tell that a bone has at one time suffered a break, or lungs still bear the scars of pneumonia.<br />
<br />
Words live on in our brains just as memories do, and words - as with memories - can be triggered by unexpected events or circumstances, often reopening those old wounds, even if just momentarily.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNnAoe57vyw5Vb-LHq1TdXs3qEuHUWXqjIy-abGp2y2mEiu7igqd_1RMvzbw3BF7IQxMFjKrymD6QmcjI3LKyBe7zKI9IPKTrSMlIfnXDgjmZsIYcIjR7QZgVpsLPPawO8jnM11r09kfMh/s1600/Peggy-Cheryle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNnAoe57vyw5Vb-LHq1TdXs3qEuHUWXqjIy-abGp2y2mEiu7igqd_1RMvzbw3BF7IQxMFjKrymD6QmcjI3LKyBe7zKI9IPKTrSMlIfnXDgjmZsIYcIjR7QZgVpsLPPawO8jnM11r09kfMh/s320/Peggy-Cheryle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I have a younger sister whom I love with all my heart. She's enough younger (four years) and we grew up with interests different enough that there was no real reason for us to ever be compared to each other. We had different friends and never went to the same school at the same time. But within our extended family we were frequently referred to as "the pretty one," and "the smart one." The truth is, we were both attractive girls and young women, and both had - and have - above-average intelligence.<br />
<br />
But I grew up thinking my only currency in life was my looks. This led, over the years, to some bad choices and to behaviors that can only be described as destructive. Imagine my surprise when I entered college as an adult and discovered how smart I really am! I'm prouder than a woman my age should be of my 4.0 GPA in college, and still get a thrill when someone acknowledges my intelligence in even the most oblique way.<br />
<br />
My beloved sister, on the other hand, grew up feeling that she was playing second fiddle to the sister everyone described as "pretty." She made good grades, she pushed herself to excel in ways that still astound me, and - while I would hesitate to speak on her behalf - I suspect that she, too, found ways to validate herself that weren't particularly healthy. Frankly, I've always though she is beautiful - well, ever since I stopped thinking she was "cute" - and, although our looks have faded, as they are wont to do with the passage of years, neither of us could be described even today as unattractive. Okay, maybe when we first wake up in the morning...<br />
<br />
The other wounding word was "fat." I am a large woman; there's no getting around it. I'm larger today than I've ever been, and the word "fat" can still cause me anxiety, but as a young girl and a teenager, I <b>felt </b>fat. What I didn't know then is that the people who referred to me that way were expressing their own insecurities and that it really had nothing to do with me. Until I was pregnant with my first child, I can't find even one photograph of myself where I would be considered fat. Tall, yes. Big-boned (my mom's favorite appellation), yes. But not fat.<br />
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(My mother's constant use of the phrase "big-boned" was finally validated when I was in my 40s and had my first bone density test. It turns out that I do have "big bones": my bone density is 125% of normal! With the history of osteoporosis in my family, "big boned" is my favorite thing to be!)<br />
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Moving away from the personal, how many news reports have we heard in the past few years about people killing themselves or others because of words? How many young people have lashed out violently after years of being bullied?<br />
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Four-eyes. Stupid. Ugly. Cripple. Fat. Queer. Crater face.<br />
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I'm not trying to use this forum to point a finger and say that the young man who committed the crimes in Tucson, AZ on Saturday was directed to do that by anyone. But I <b>am </b>saying that when we use inflammatory language there will be consequences. Sometimes the consequences are damaging only to the individual; it's internalized and a life is changed in some way. But sometimes the consequences are damaging to others. We can't know who hears our words and perceives them as a call to action. We need to appreciate that inflammatory words create a climate that elicits more inflammatory words, and that climate then can - and sometimes will - reach a state where words are no longer enough. Where some other kind of action feels necessary. Proverbs 15:1 tells us, "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #001320; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.</span>" (NIV)<br />
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We share our planet, our nation, our states, our cities, our communities with people who may not always be able to distinguish between rhetoric and a call to action. There are mentally and emotionally fragile people among us; people who cannot be counted on to know that we "didn't really mean it that way."<br />
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I am resolved to use kinder words. I may not always be successful, and I will not turn away from a good and enlightening discussion or argument. But I can be kinder. I have never suffered name-calling (you can ask my kids!), but now I will work to guard against words that can engender hatred and anger. I hope I can encourage others to do the same.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-24295713441210849382011-01-01T13:36:00.000-08:002011-01-01T13:36:31.060-08:00Booming into old ageI can't say that I ever felt "special" in any way. Other than that each person is "special," that is. I didn't feel that I was privileged or that my childhood was better or worse than my parents' had been. Of course, they lived through the Great Depression and I didn't, but my mother's stories of those days were entertaining and she always cast them in a positive way, so it didn't really seem that awful.<br />
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And, of course, I was born after WWII, so I also didn't really understand what it meant to be so fully separated from husband/father/boyfriend during a time of war. And of course WWII wasn't divisive in the way our war was. People who were against the war or who didn't want to serve learned to keep their mouths shut. So the country <b>may </b>have been divided - but nobody knew about it.<br />
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I grew up in a working-class neighborhood and went to a working-class school. The vast majority of my friends had parents who were in the military (we lived just minutes from an Air Force Base), or who did some kind of manual labor or office work. I don't recall a doctor, lawyer, or other professional person among my peers' parents. Oh, there were some at our church (I was raised Episcopalian), but we really didn't socialize with them other than on Sundays. And we knew that where they lived was a far cry from where we lived! But I don't recall being particularly envious, nor do I remember feeling deprived.<br />
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That was largely - maybe even fully - thanks to my mother and her upbeat attitude. She was the original "be-thankful-for-what-you-have-there-are-starving-children-in-China" kind of mom. We had little enough; our polio-crippled mother was our only support - other than the occasional generous help from our church - but I never felt poor. Somehow, if that new Elvis record was really important to me, mom found a way to get it. Money for a high school football game? She'd make it happen. The only way I really felt different was not having a dad, and I did create elaborate lies to explain his absence from our home in those divorce-unfriendly 50s and 60s. But really, mom worked very hard to make our lives as much like our friends' lives as was possible. We often had little to eat, and it was frequently what we called "filling" rather than nutritious. But we not only survived; we thrived.<br />
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And we lived our lives pretty much as our friends and neighbors did.<br />
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So, although the term "baby boomer" wasn't applied to my generation until we were in our 20s (by some counts), I really don't recall thinking of myself that way until after my youngest was born when I was in my 30s. Since then, however, we've learned how "special" we all think we are; how we influenced television programming, advertising, consumerism of all kinds (most recently health care), and are generally accused of being a fully self-centered generation.<br />
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There are a lot of reasons put forth for our supposed feelings of entitlement: our parents wanted us to have better lives than they did (what parent doesn't feel this way?); we exerted a fiscal force to be reckoned with (with 76,000,000 of us, we'd all have to stay home to prevent some kind of impact!); we overwhelmed society with our music and values (as if Frank Sinatra and the bobby-soxers didn't shock the previous generations!).<br />
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Remember, though, my generation gave the world Bill Clinton AND George W. Bush. Many of us fought in a war that others of us protested against. We sang along with The Rolling Stones and Cat Stevens. We let it all hang out at Woodstock, and covered it all up with granny dresses. We smoked pot because our parents didn't want us to, and then lied about it to our kids to keep them from smoking pot. We left home, rejecting our parents' values and indulgences, and then we protected and indulged our children to a greater degree than any parents before us.<br />
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We are a generation like any other, in that we defy easy generalities. Some of us embrace our ageing with grace; others of us are kicking and screaming. Some have sought and enjoyed early retirement and its attendant woes and blessings; other vow that we would have no real purpose if we didn't have our jobs.<br />
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So today, January 1, 2011, as the baby boom generation begins to turn 65, don't be too hard on us as a generation - and let us not be too hard on ourselves. We didn't choose the world into which we were born; no one does. We didn't emerge from our mothers' bodies demanding special treatment, except in the way every infant does. We didn't walk in lockstep in the 50s (some loved Elvis, others loved Pat Boone), the 60s, or the 70s; and we don't walk in lockstep today.<br />
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We're your parents, your grandparents, your neighbors, your co-workers, your friends. We're as individual as you are and most of us - not all of us, by any means! - don't want to be lumped together as a bunch of navel-gazing, self-important old folks.<br />
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After all, most of us are still dealing with the fact that we're older than 30!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-48844779421935859212010-09-28T09:42:00.000-07:002010-09-28T10:58:34.631-07:00Before I forget...On July 17, 2010, Jim and I were married at our home, in our well-loved back yard, surrounded by family and friends. Although I've waited way too long to post this, there are so many things that I'm afraid I'll forget about the week leading up to our big day if I don't get them down!<br />
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Actually, the first thing is something I'd like to forget: Martin (my oldest son) calling to tell me he'd overslept and missed his flight to Portland! Thanks to a lot of help from his dad, he made it here that same day, but very late at night. Oh, well, at least he made it!<br />
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I love remembering going to the airport with Ben and Addison to pick up Jason, Lisa, and their boys. Addison was SO excited to meet his cousins - Aunt and Uncle were poor seconds, I'm afraid! - but especially Matthew with whom he shares a fixation on the movie "Cars." As soon as they met each other they began comparing notes. It was so fun to see two four-year-olds so deeply into their conversation!<br />
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I loved seeing my two oldest grandsons, Andrew and David, and how much they'd grown. They're such wonderful boys and gave their Gran big, happy hugs!<br />
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On Sunday, my sister, niece, and daughters-in-law threw a party for me which was supposed to be a surprise. Except no one could figure out how to get me to d-i-l Christina's house on a ruse; so my sister called and said, "We're having a surprise party for you, so come to Christina's!" I loved it! After eating and lots of talking, we watched "Annie Get Your Gun," which had arrived at Christina's with help from Jim. After almost 60 years of watching it with my sentimental eyes, I was treated to the funny, sarcastic, and spot-on comments about its corniness by the above-mentioned relatives. It gave me a whole new point of view and I'll never again watch it without thinking of our laughter and mimicry. Thanks, Ladies. Really!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZa_rF7_G41Gp9ygshcnwDlETx9cnqcPIH_7zIrq5c9LE9_BBngY-s1NYNMdkYw7bYbzqleQgNgglLQN5V_DcKSArcdvLCp7PUK-rcvEbTHvqtMZuMcs7UJ-mMLb8cige2Yjt1UXbOWII/s1600/IMG_1153.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgZa_rF7_G41Gp9ygshcnwDlETx9cnqcPIH_7zIrq5c9LE9_BBngY-s1NYNMdkYw7bYbzqleQgNgglLQN5V_DcKSArcdvLCp7PUK-rcvEbTHvqtMZuMcs7UJ-mMLb8cige2Yjt1UXbOWII/s320/IMG_1153.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Monday afternoon brought the fun of a full-family barbecue at Mike & Christina's (intrepid souls that they are), where everyone got together for the first time. Being family, there was lots of laughter, some tears, old memories resurrected, and new memories made. I loved seeing my boys all together - something that happens too seldom - and introducing Mike - an only son - to the horseplay of brothers. He didn't seem to mind - too much! It was also fun seeing the older cousins reacquainting themselves with each other, and the next generation of cousins meeting and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Having Jenn and David and their two kiddos was perfect!<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iv5JCjjOw82mF-U2MJCLTKY0xJTiUWjzi4nYSpX7Ts3JayJJ4ChBRExpyw9a-rgQhtd7BNoZQyLUj9AU2DImvFKsqBksKu_xnQz2kBQ4id4PDPHd-eeBKw4NK12GWYRBlh3wr6g_wAld/s1600/DSC_0140.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1iv5JCjjOw82mF-U2MJCLTKY0xJTiUWjzi4nYSpX7Ts3JayJJ4ChBRExpyw9a-rgQhtd7BNoZQyLUj9AU2DImvFKsqBksKu_xnQz2kBQ4id4PDPHd-eeBKw4NK12GWYRBlh3wr6g_wAld/s320/DSC_0140.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
I definitely don't want to forget that Tuesday morning brought a phone call from Ben that they thought Drew had come down with chickenpox! Oh, no! A quick trip to the doctor garnered a diagnosis of roseola, and Gran spent the day with Drew while the rest of the fam made it a day at Oaks Park Amusement Center, with rides and general hilarity all 'round.<br />
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On Wednesday the whole crew - sans Mike & Christina and their kids, as well as Jim and me - took off for the Coast. Martin also stayed in Portland, and he and I had a chance for some time together - an infrequent occurrence. We went to dinner, had good conversation, and excellent Margaritas.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73zKwIhwS2SquU1auoaKlhhuhV2bSGf03CyXGqBav0yBKz6ScFeMqGRbEnAeUVCD0pSUdgVykYMbkTdtQ6EYCxLrwrht5f_0k0muZ2GWwHCcEPG6fo_0o79ZyYA0BQWSM-cktk2Dih8hY/s1600/Cecilia+descendants+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj73zKwIhwS2SquU1auoaKlhhuhV2bSGf03CyXGqBav0yBKz6ScFeMqGRbEnAeUVCD0pSUdgVykYMbkTdtQ6EYCxLrwrht5f_0k0muZ2GWwHCcEPG6fo_0o79ZyYA0BQWSM-cktk2Dih8hY/s320/Cecilia+descendants+(2).jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Thursday afternoon, Peggy & Steve hosted a backyard barbecue and we had a chance to get a group photo of all of my mom's descendants - except my brother Martin, who couldn't be here - the first time ever that all of her kids (except Martin), grandkids, and great-grandkids have been together! Steve took the photos, which had to be retaken after we realized Addison was missing from the first set. He'd been in the house reading (big surprise - NOT!) and was brought outside to complete the picture.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCFoEPMcg7k3uJgH53SoU29AyODrnjEoKsdYk4Lfii697LNzN2tZNo_tSjALveT2so_yqlhNqkNNPatrNhNIM7_3NcsO0l0fvSAPtvGd3JDAfkdcocLWvgVQqQ9nSocPyXiPHicJXX6c1/s1600/0716001638a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCFoEPMcg7k3uJgH53SoU29AyODrnjEoKsdYk4Lfii697LNzN2tZNo_tSjALveT2so_yqlhNqkNNPatrNhNIM7_3NcsO0l0fvSAPtvGd3JDAfkdcocLWvgVQqQ9nSocPyXiPHicJXX6c1/s320/0716001638a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Friday was rehearsal day - and final preparations for me, since I was spending the night at Ben & Briana's house. After rehearsal (and a brief appearance by Bridezilla!) the whole crew went out for pizza and general hilarity. One memorable minute was when Uncle Martin got a video game prize of earrings, and promptly put them on! His nephews, nieces, and cousins loved it - as did his mom!<br />
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Saturday dawned lovely - sunshine and comfortable temperatures. Since we'd had horrible heat the previous week, and rain the week before that, it was a glorious gift to know we'd have a perfect day. I put in an early appearance, and was charmed by Mike's reception of me in bride mode. I'm so lucky to claim him as a stepson.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuugG1nX5cRtGNuXxsX6hz39dKIxlCkhK5qFazoCzzcAHRECBeaMLAMluxmc48k_IMLlGYtuymUZlBZwV4ch1Z_ICxXv5pDmIyJsfGmiFUAurf8SVg7RgfD9rPAUfFtvsR8DfBALuXN4ai/s1600/DSC_0052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuugG1nX5cRtGNuXxsX6hz39dKIxlCkhK5qFazoCzzcAHRECBeaMLAMluxmc48k_IMLlGYtuymUZlBZwV4ch1Z_ICxXv5pDmIyJsfGmiFUAurf8SVg7RgfD9rPAUfFtvsR8DfBALuXN4ai/s320/DSC_0052.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhdBCD4O3l3pyCA6ioqf5Wtw9w96NdmTNPEX9ItfatOwYP2tKQo3VtEFJRVH9Unbdn9aAbjb4F0Rdm-tHOpu14TqOdlUA0Yt0FqEK5XxuV312eakIl1-3erVTKkjzwbz3m00DlLhkhO7i/s1600/DSC_0058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmhdBCD4O3l3pyCA6ioqf5Wtw9w96NdmTNPEX9ItfatOwYP2tKQo3VtEFJRVH9Unbdn9aAbjb4F0Rdm-tHOpu14TqOdlUA0Yt0FqEK5XxuV312eakIl1-3erVTKkjzwbz3m00DlLhkhO7i/s320/DSC_0058.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Jim walked in with his family: son Mike, daughter Katy, d-i-l Christina, and grandchildren Gigi and Felix. When my turn came, I was preceded by d-i-ls Briana - carrying Drew - and Lisa, with Andrew and David. Then our ringbearers, Matthew and Addison; flower girl Ada; my sister and matron of honor, Peggy; and escorted by my three handsome sons, Martin, Jason, and Ben.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lW-bGnmSUgZ5euOIA1G0yAuGo6I1WSXm0RfLkXIxfnxWHy3RXJ7fH5nA2tGTwXV9xm7FhfsGZs4afo0NoCDNxDZ3S5JGnnBpnCqnuu4q9IeFBbQliaxbESK6pJAnbB4dyscugygAqFWd/s1600/DSC_0069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1lW-bGnmSUgZ5euOIA1G0yAuGo6I1WSXm0RfLkXIxfnxWHy3RXJ7fH5nA2tGTwXV9xm7FhfsGZs4afo0NoCDNxDZ3S5JGnnBpnCqnuu4q9IeFBbQliaxbESK6pJAnbB4dyscugygAqFWd/s320/DSC_0069.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
We had forgotten to warn Ada, Addison, and Matthew that there would be lots of people waiting when they made their entrance, so there was a bit of consternation on their part when they saw their reception! I treasure the picture of Mike when he saw Ada coming toward him with her basket of rose petals!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulhITFoDRGGfErJyaVEdDLxa5Mq4WLunNzxNHLvYael5wMbz1-crJ2GBfhCRUiGkwu0jfNC0Hkn-5-CEqP4YIwzeOec53Wt4ZUQy4GMLkFj64EeHGo2GpP_6dDwJhi2bEFkMKBzoq15wb/s1600/DSC_2157.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhulhITFoDRGGfErJyaVEdDLxa5Mq4WLunNzxNHLvYael5wMbz1-crJ2GBfhCRUiGkwu0jfNC0Hkn-5-CEqP4YIwzeOec53Wt4ZUQy4GMLkFj64EeHGo2GpP_6dDwJhi2bEFkMKBzoq15wb/s320/DSC_2157.jpg" width="214" /></a></div>We had a lovely service, using the New Zealand prayer book, and lots of laughter and love. It was a joy to be surrounded by our families, neighbors and good friends, and to have them join in our celebration. It was a perfect day, and I am so proud to be Jim's wife and share our happy day with those we hold dear.<br />
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I know I've left things out, so hope those of you who were part of this wonderful event will share your memories in the comments!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-54136338481963670122010-08-24T14:15:00.000-07:002010-08-24T14:15:40.231-07:00Looking backSaturday evening, a phone message at my sister's house was the first hint I had that our return to Miami might be different this time.<br />
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Ben and I were wrapping up a week in Portland which my sister and I had spent going through our mom's personal items following her death the previous February. It had been a bittersweet time, filled with both sadness and hilarity, seasoned with nostalgia and hard decisions. Claudia's phone message was something about a hurricane that was headed for Miami - "a bad one" - due to arrive Sunday night just a few hours after our own scheduled arrival.<br />
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I wasn't particularly concerned; it had been many, many years since Miami had taken a direct hit - never in the 23 years I had lived there - and most hurricanes tended to wander off course and not be nearly as awful as they were predicted to be. Still, we turned on the weather and watched as the meteorologist briefly mentioned it. We got to bed way too late, but still managed to make our early morning flight with its plane change in Dallas/Ft. Worth.<br />
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To our surprise, the flight out of DFW was packed - mostly with news people from everywhere, along with their cameras and other equipment. We were told that it was the last scheduled flight to Miami until after the hurricane danger was over.<br />
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It was an uneventful flight. Ben and I talked about our just-completed vacation in Portland, and I worried about the boxes of my mother's memoirs and how they were faring in the baggage compartment. As we approached Miami International, it was a shock to see how empty the expressways were! It had been a long time since I'd seen them without bumper-to-bumper traffic.<br />
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My then-husband met our flight, gathered up our luggage, and drove us home through a ghost-town-like city. He stopped to get cash from an ATM, but it had no money in it! People had cleaned out ATMs, grocery stores - wherever they could get cash. Stores were closed and shuttered, and Ed told us that he had put the hurricane shutters on our house. It was becoming real.<br />
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After we got home, Ed took Ben with him to his office at the airport to check on his crews and be sure all of the planes were safe. I started laundry and took a much-needed nap.<br />
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By the time it struck that night, we were prepared. Jugs of fresh water, all outdoor furniture, hoses, sprinklers, etc., were put away, and we were watching nonstop weather reports on the television.<br />
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We went to bed at our usual time, Ben crawling in bed with us because the wind was so loud and scary - not just to him, but to Ed and me, as well. When the power went out, I remember turning over to finally go to sleep, hearing the wind rushing past the house, branches snapping, things flying through the air - and the double front doors blowing open and slamming against the interior walls!<br />
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In a flash, we were out of bed and in the entry. There Ed and I spent the next five hours holding the doors shut, bracing ourselves against wind that gave us no rest, while Ben kept our pets and himself safely out of danger's way and periodically brought his dad and me cold drinks. We didn't dare let up our force against the doors - each time we did, they blew open again, once knocking me back about ten feet before I recovered and forced it shut again.<br />
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When finally - finally! - the wind died down, we carefully ventured outside to view our neighborhood. Where, just the evening before, had stood lovely homes with mature trees and manicured lawns, we now saw what appeared to be a war-torn neighborhood. Roofs were gone, fences were flattened, trees were either blown completely over with roots exposed, or snapped off completely. Roof shingles were embedded in tree trunks, plywood sheathing lay scattered around the neighborhood, garage doors were unhinged; it truly was a disaster.<br />
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We were without power for two full weeks. We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas living in a trailer in our front yard, and it was the end of January before we could move back into our house. It was a time to be thankful for so many things - mostly that we were all safe. We lost nothing that couldn't be replaced. We had good insurance, and they paid quickly. We discovered the value of real friends and community.<br />
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It was eighteen years ago today that Hurricane Andrew reminded the people of South Florida that nature will have its way, and that we are presumptuous to think we have all the answers. In the years since 1992, the southern US has felt the force of many hurricanes stronger and more costly than Hurricane Andrew. But he was the wake-up call.<br />
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In a way, Ben and I both still treasure the memories of that day and the ones that followed. It was hard, but we all pulled together, and there is a good feeling in recalling that. As I've often said, it wasn't the worst thing that happened to me that year - my mother's death was - but it was the event that taught me the most about myself. And that's not a bad thing!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-71279311207656703892010-05-24T09:34:00.000-07:002010-05-24T09:34:19.933-07:00Once upon a time...... a long time ago, there lived a young girl whose greatest dream was to be a mother. This little girl loved to play with her dolls and imagine they were her children, and she always stopped to peek at new babies and say, "hi," if their mommies didn't mind.<br />
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Over the years, she occasionally set her sights on other careers - always ones that were appropriate for girls, since she lived in a time and place where girls had fewer choices. Sometimes she wanted to be a nurse, like Cherry Ames, who also got to solve mysteries! Sometimes she wanted to be a teacher, like Mrs. Slough, or Miss Jones, or Mrs. Emery, who were her very most favorite teachers ever! Sometimes (though she knew she couldn't really do this), she wanted to be Annie Oakley or even Dale Evans, singing those old songs and riding horses and married to Frank Butler or Roy Rogers.<br />
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But always and forever, her dreams came back to being a mother.<br />
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As little girls will, this little girl grew up - too quickly for some, but hardly fast enough for her! - and met a handsome young man with whom she fell in love. There were obstacles to overcome, and there was a war going on, but over the years they stayed together, and eventually they were married.<br />
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Life wasn't easy, as it isn't for any young couple, but they managed. And still this former little girl - this new wife - wanted more and more to be a mother.<br />
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Then one day - an upset stomach that wouldn't go away... a trip to the doctor... and happy news, the news she'd waited to hear for almost her whole life: a baby was on the way! The time - as time always does - alternately dragged and sped by. Some days it seemed the baby would never arrive, and other days it seemed it was passing all too quickly.<br />
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Preparations were made; furniture, clothing, books - oh, so many books! - to read and learn from! And, finally, one Sunday morning, a trip to the hospital, a short (but painful!) labor. A baby boy! My child, my son, my dream realized.<br />
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Forty years ago today, my Marty-boy, you were placed in my arms, and I cried (as I do now) from the sheer joy of knowing you and loving you. Through the good and bad, the ups and downs, the tears, laughter, anxiety, fear, sorrow, and joy, I have loved you and always will love you.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWj_dx_ouFywfLFXqU5NDG1briLgEga0SxSUJwj95UTtJiz_z4xm_ZBCnklwNCXGSAc9dUY0fN0mPo19ekdbMFV9FYI9KoeOAw7A-M9lIP87rZt1a7M3EsMNSj-VqyJ2MOmabETtKHmOx/s1600/Marty-1st+birthday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoWj_dx_ouFywfLFXqU5NDG1briLgEga0SxSUJwj95UTtJiz_z4xm_ZBCnklwNCXGSAc9dUY0fN0mPo19ekdbMFV9FYI9KoeOAw7A-M9lIP87rZt1a7M3EsMNSj-VqyJ2MOmabETtKHmOx/s320/Marty-1st+birthday.jpg" /></a></div>Happy Birthday to my oldest son! May you be blessed - may I be blessed - with many, many more.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-31414867666551444932010-05-12T15:04:00.000-07:002010-05-12T15:04:12.868-07:00The winds of changeIn 2002, shortly after I moved into Jim's home, we heard (and felt) an enormous crash in the wee hours of the morning that signaled "Taps" for the 250-year-old oak tree around which our patio was built. In falling, it took our chimney, our fence, a cherry tree, our neighbors' second-story deck, and issued a reminder about impermanence.<br />
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This morning I looked at my youngest grandson, wearing a shirt that just a few short months ago hung below his bottom, with sleeves half-way down his arms. This morning, it fit him.<br />
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In 1998, I few to the Midwest to meet my first grandchild and to marvel at where the years had gone since his daddy - my middle son - was a sweet, sleepy baby in my arms. Next January, Andrew will be a teenager.<br />
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In 1970, I held my first baby in my arms, marveling at the perfection and beauty of this long-awaited child. This month, Martin will be 40 years old.<br />
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My younger sister and I spent our growing-up years alternately playing together and fighting with each other. We shared a room and taped a line down the middle over which we dared one another to step. She took all of my dolls under the dining table and pulled off their arms and legs. I either ignored her or treated her with disdain through most of my teenaged years. In a few months, my baby sister will be 60.<br />
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On Monday, Jim & I stood gape-mouthed, staring up at one of the three tall old fir trees that stand next to our deck. We were sick with the realization that the abundance of fir needles in our yard this Spring is due to the death of this beautiful old tree. A phone call will have to be made, the tree will have to be felled. We will benefit from it one more year as we burn the wood during the winter. And we'll still have the other two to enjoy for a few more years.<br />
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Change. Transition. Uncertainty. Of such is life made. But no matter how hard I try to remember this, no matter how many times I promise myself that I will appreciate each minute, each day, each event, as unique and transient, I continue to fail. I take things for granted, whether they be trees, seasons, relationships.<br />
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Perhaps that is the nature of humankind.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6073153480422013527.post-90249137106606797432010-04-21T15:55:00.001-07:002010-04-21T15:55:45.471-07:00Blueberries are the best!<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cjcerezo/4541995336/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2717/4541995336_b53e99516f_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style="font-size: 0.9em; margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/cjcerezo/4541995336/">IMG_0891</a><br />Originally uploaded by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/people/cjcerezo/">cher_ware</a></span></div>What else is there to say?<br clear="all" />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3