Bittersweet

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

What 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I saw Jim again briefly that afternoon, and early Saturday morning I was wheeled into the operating room for a four-hour surgery.

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.

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.

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!

To Addison and Drew, with love

My days as Granny Nanny
Are drawing to a close;
I've fixed your lunch, I've wiped your bottoms,
I've even washed your clothes!

I've rocked you till you fell asleep,
I've held you when you cried;
I've tickled chubby tummies;
I've given a thousand horsie rides!

You've filled my days with untold joy,
You've made me very proud;
I've played with each and every toy,
We've giggled and laughed out loud!

I'll miss my days' beginnings
With joyful, lovely faces,
I'll miss our trips to parks and gyms
And other exciting places.

You've grown and learned so very much
And I treasure each memory;
But time moves on, as people say,
And, my sweethearts, so must we.

I know that I'll still see you
And we'll still have time together,
Not quite the same, but this won't change:
I'll love you both forever!

Words

I 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 blog I read this morning.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

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 felt 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.

(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!)

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?

Four-eyes. Stupid. Ugly. Cripple. Fat. Queer. Crater face.

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 am 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, "A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger." (NIV)

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."

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.

Booming into old age

I 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.

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 may have been divided - but nobody knew about it.

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.

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.

And we lived our lives pretty much as our friends and neighbors did.

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.

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!).

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.

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.

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.

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.

After all, most of us are still dealing with the fact that we're older than 30!

Before 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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

Looking back

Saturday 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!