My family was broken in half when my parents split up. I was two. Forever after, there was my mother's family, with whom I lived and interacted, and my father's, with whom contact was severely limited and closely monitored.
I didn't completely belong in either. I barely knew my father's side ... the myriad cousins and their children, only some of whom I saw occasionally, usually at funerals when we were all grown up and pretty much strangers.
And, after my mother died when I was 31, her side of the family seemed to turn into strangers as well. Not all of them, of course, but certainly most. I've spent entirely too much time trying to figure out why. Was it because I reminded them, not of my darling mother, but of the father they all despised? Was it because I don't hold the same view of the world they do, the same political and religious beliefs? Was it because I had been divorced, a failure as a wife and a Catholic? Like I said ... entirely too much time. I don't do that anymore.
The fact remained... the more years that passed, the less I saw or heard from them unless I was the one who made the overture. Years ago, I found that one cousin passed within a mile of my home several times a month on business and never called or stopped by. See what I mean?
Many years back, Leo, the son of my mother's brother, visited New Jersey from his home in California. I learned of the visit from a cousin I love and Howard and I drove south to visit. It was uncomfortable from the moment the door opened in response to our knock. They were gathered around the dining room table, looking over photo albums, sharing remembered times. One cousin, never a favorite of mine and vice versa, snickered audibly when I made a mistake and called the child of another by the wrong name. How could I be so obtuse as not to remember the names of my own family? No one asked about my life, my children, my work. I felt invisible except for the ridicule that seemed to emanate from the walls of the room in a house I'd hated and feared since I lived there as a small child. When next our California cousin visited, not many months ago, no one remembered to call to let me know he would be here.
Last week, I received an e-mail from that dear cousin who matters. She was sorry to tell me our California cousin had passed away. I knew from e-mails Leo had written to those on his list (me included, oddly) that he had a terminal cancer and, despite his willingness to fight hard, there would be no recovery. I read his obituary online and realized none of the names of survivors was familiar. I'd missed the last opportunity to see him and I know his children and grandchildren wouldn't even know my name.
They wouldn't know that his grandparents were mine, that his father was my mother's brother. That his parents gave solace to my mom when she was going through her painful divorce, the one that ultimately cost me all of them.
Now there is one less cousin in a very large family. May he rest in peace.
The family is still there, for the most part, but, without the glue that was my mother, it is still a fragmented memory.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
Through the eyes of our kids
I am getting old. Who'da thunk it?
Chatting with Terri yesterday (or was it the day before?), I heard about the failing health of her grandmother, my ex's mom. Then we talked about her father's upcoming 70th birthday (he's two years older than I!). Somehow, we got from there to the fact that she and some of her friends were talking about their own parents ... and about how old we are getting.
Old?????
Just because I'm on a committee planning the 50th reunion of our high school class? 50th!! Just because I think Chicago, the Eagles and the BeeGees are still the only music worth listening to besides my beloved classics? Just because I have to visit the beauty salon more frequently to keep that youthful blond look from descending into mousy brown and gray? Just because there's less hair to color these days?
Seriously, I spent a bit of time after we hung up thinking about being old. Guess it's a monumental joke Mother Nature plays on us as we plow through life ... she doesn't let us know we're old. She just shows the rest of the world how old we are. Honestly, I look in the mirror and see a few wrinkles ... okay, a lot of wrinkles. I see a few brown spots on my face and hands. I see sagging eyelids that could be corrected if only I had the bucks for cosmetic surgery. But, aside from those little things, I see the same face I've looked at all my life. It's me ... Jeanne, the 30-something youngster! Me, old?
At a recent reunion committee meeting (before the phone call from Terri), the five of us touched on the same topic. We remarked how unchanged we all were from the high school yearbook photos, although our outlooks on life and philosophical bents might have radically changed. We agreed we didn't feel 67 (or 68) and couldn't understand what all the fuss is about.
I'd rather stick to that notion. If I start mulling over my actual age, I may be forced to admit that I'm on the downward slope of my life. That I won't get to see my grandchildren into their 30s or maybe even their 20s. That there isn't an infinite amount of time left to do everything I've put on the back burner for 'just the right time.'
I'd rather enjoy my dear friends (some even more ancient than I), spend hours on the beach in summer, struggle with a dormant Muse who won't give me inspiration for another novel, keep trying to win that jackpot at Tropicana and plot color schemes for some drab rooms in my house. I'd rather play War with Adela and enjoy Nate's fabulous sense of humor. I'd rather marvel at the beauty and independence of my daughters, both of whom are also getting old (gotcha! Didn't think I'd figure that out, did you?)
They say age is only a number. I'd rather leave it that way.
Chatting with Terri yesterday (or was it the day before?), I heard about the failing health of her grandmother, my ex's mom. Then we talked about her father's upcoming 70th birthday (he's two years older than I!). Somehow, we got from there to the fact that she and some of her friends were talking about their own parents ... and about how old we are getting.
Old?????
Just because I'm on a committee planning the 50th reunion of our high school class? 50th!! Just because I think Chicago, the Eagles and the BeeGees are still the only music worth listening to besides my beloved classics? Just because I have to visit the beauty salon more frequently to keep that youthful blond look from descending into mousy brown and gray? Just because there's less hair to color these days?
Seriously, I spent a bit of time after we hung up thinking about being old. Guess it's a monumental joke Mother Nature plays on us as we plow through life ... she doesn't let us know we're old. She just shows the rest of the world how old we are. Honestly, I look in the mirror and see a few wrinkles ... okay, a lot of wrinkles. I see a few brown spots on my face and hands. I see sagging eyelids that could be corrected if only I had the bucks for cosmetic surgery. But, aside from those little things, I see the same face I've looked at all my life. It's me ... Jeanne, the 30-something youngster! Me, old?
At a recent reunion committee meeting (before the phone call from Terri), the five of us touched on the same topic. We remarked how unchanged we all were from the high school yearbook photos, although our outlooks on life and philosophical bents might have radically changed. We agreed we didn't feel 67 (or 68) and couldn't understand what all the fuss is about.
I'd rather stick to that notion. If I start mulling over my actual age, I may be forced to admit that I'm on the downward slope of my life. That I won't get to see my grandchildren into their 30s or maybe even their 20s. That there isn't an infinite amount of time left to do everything I've put on the back burner for 'just the right time.'
I'd rather enjoy my dear friends (some even more ancient than I), spend hours on the beach in summer, struggle with a dormant Muse who won't give me inspiration for another novel, keep trying to win that jackpot at Tropicana and plot color schemes for some drab rooms in my house. I'd rather play War with Adela and enjoy Nate's fabulous sense of humor. I'd rather marvel at the beauty and independence of my daughters, both of whom are also getting old (gotcha! Didn't think I'd figure that out, did you?)
They say age is only a number. I'd rather leave it that way.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Snow angels, bah!
Can't believe it's been over a month since I last blogged. So much going on! We took a one-week trip south so Howard could attend a trade show in Orlando and bumped right up against a cold snap that felt more like home than Florida. Natch. The Smiths are here ... it should be warm??? When we got back, Howard had hernia surgery and is slowly healing, a tough process that sneaks up on him when he tries to overdo. Tough not being able to work to capacity, but as a dear friend reminded him, he's not 18 anymore and won't heal like a teenager, either. Thanks, Joe.
I've had two YAG treatments, one on each eye. Fairly common after cataract extraction surgery, I'm told. Asked the ophthalmologist what the letters stand for and found they mean Yridium, Argon and Garnet, the three elements in the laser beam that is zapped into the eye to cut a tiny hole along the back of the retina allowing more light to get in and thus sharpen the vision. Voila! I can see much more clearly, except for night driving which can often be a challenge, thanks to halos and rays of light that shoot out from approaching headlights or streetlights overhead. Doctor Kindermann, the benevolent genius who has given me better sight than I've ever had, tells me I should be finished with procedures ... this is as good as it will get, and I'm very satisfied with it. No glasses ever ... except for magnifiers to read very, very fine print!!!
Like everyone else, I am following the economic situation closely, not that there's a cause for panic in our household. One advantage of having nothing is that one then cannot lose. No stock market jitters for us! Howard's business has been slower than normal, but winter isn't his best selling time anyway. We are hoping that our president's stimulus package will spur businesses to invest in equipment and energy-saving devices so Howard's phone will once again ring off the hook. Spring and summer will tell the tale.
I actually cried a few tears during President Obama's address to the joint session of Congress last week. He thinks! He can speak with clarity and inspiration! He isn't an ideologue but a pragmatist who places his trust in science, empirical evidence and the virtue of listening! We finally have a chief executive who seems perfect for the job at hand. He's here because his entire life has prepared him for the task at hand! He proves to me once again that everything happens for a reason. President Obama is where he is because that is where he should be. Thank goodness!
Taking some time this week to work on publicity for the Wellness Fair our over-55 community is sponsoring for residents in April. I'm not a joiner anymore (that was for my younger days) but it's nice to contribute something. Also on the committee for the reunion of the Class of 1959 of St. Joseph's High in Hammonton, NJ. You do the math. I can't believe the number! Do I feel old enough to have a @#$%# reunion? No.
One last note... my friend Bonnie and I saw "The Reader" last week. No wonder Kate Winslet won an Oscar! I love movies and this one just reaffirmed that feeling. Powerful, emotional and superbly acted. Don't miss it!
I've had two YAG treatments, one on each eye. Fairly common after cataract extraction surgery, I'm told. Asked the ophthalmologist what the letters stand for and found they mean Yridium, Argon and Garnet, the three elements in the laser beam that is zapped into the eye to cut a tiny hole along the back of the retina allowing more light to get in and thus sharpen the vision. Voila! I can see much more clearly, except for night driving which can often be a challenge, thanks to halos and rays of light that shoot out from approaching headlights or streetlights overhead. Doctor Kindermann, the benevolent genius who has given me better sight than I've ever had, tells me I should be finished with procedures ... this is as good as it will get, and I'm very satisfied with it. No glasses ever ... except for magnifiers to read very, very fine print!!!
Like everyone else, I am following the economic situation closely, not that there's a cause for panic in our household. One advantage of having nothing is that one then cannot lose. No stock market jitters for us! Howard's business has been slower than normal, but winter isn't his best selling time anyway. We are hoping that our president's stimulus package will spur businesses to invest in equipment and energy-saving devices so Howard's phone will once again ring off the hook. Spring and summer will tell the tale.
I actually cried a few tears during President Obama's address to the joint session of Congress last week. He thinks! He can speak with clarity and inspiration! He isn't an ideologue but a pragmatist who places his trust in science, empirical evidence and the virtue of listening! We finally have a chief executive who seems perfect for the job at hand. He's here because his entire life has prepared him for the task at hand! He proves to me once again that everything happens for a reason. President Obama is where he is because that is where he should be. Thank goodness!
Taking some time this week to work on publicity for the Wellness Fair our over-55 community is sponsoring for residents in April. I'm not a joiner anymore (that was for my younger days) but it's nice to contribute something. Also on the committee for the reunion of the Class of 1959 of St. Joseph's High in Hammonton, NJ. You do the math. I can't believe the number! Do I feel old enough to have a @#$%# reunion? No.
One last note... my friend Bonnie and I saw "The Reader" last week. No wonder Kate Winslet won an Oscar! I love movies and this one just reaffirmed that feeling. Powerful, emotional and superbly acted. Don't miss it!
Friday, January 16, 2009
Fickle eyes
After successful cataract extraction and lens implant surgery last April, I was flying high with 20/20 vision or better in both eyes and absolutely no need for glasses or any other correction. I wore real sunglasses that didn't get clipped on or cost a mint as a "spare" pair. I wore eye makeup that could actually make my eyes look younger. I could wear my hair very short knowing the little sideburns wouldn't stand out like semiphores when the glasses stems pushed them outward. In short, after nearly 60 years of glasses and contact lenses, I was FREE!
Note the operative word "was."
A couple of weeks ago, my vision started to blur occasionally, especially at dusk when I'd go from a well-lit room to a darker area. Halos formed around light sources and it was hard to differentiate their borders. It wasn't enough to trouble me, though. I attributed it to lack of sleep and stress. Then came last Tuesday.
Coming home from a wonderful visit with Terri, Adela and Nate, I drove blissfully along, aware that darkness was descending but unconcerned about any potential problems. Then, I drove onto Interstate 295 in Ewing Township and found myself nearly blind. Nothing but streaks of light and blurred images met my eyes through the windshield ... imagine my terror! Cars and huge trucks zoomed by at 70+ miles per hour as I struggled to see the white lines on the right side of the highway, where I clung desperately, too fearful to try to pass anyone or even to maintain anything over 55 mph. I crawled like that until reaching the exit for 130 where I usually travel a mile or so before picking up Rt. 206 which takes me home. A large truck in front of me obscured my vision of the route signs and I made a wrong turn. Trying in vain to see clearly enough to read the subsequent signs as they flew past, I finally used my own sense of direction to instruct me to find a way to turn around and retrace my route. Thank goodness for the Delaware River, which I knew should not have been directly on my right!!
Finally, after a harrowing trip, I pulled into our garage and sat there, trying to calm down. An immediate call to my optometrist came next and a day later I was sitting in his chair, my eyes dilated wide. I waited to hear a dire verdict ... retinal separation, diabetic retinopathy, corneal disease, slippage of the lens implants. Instead, after a thorough exam and vision tests, he scratched out some numbers on a pad and pronounced me in need of corrective lenses. My pitifully myopic eyes had enjoyed a brief respite from dysfunction and were now reverting to the need for assistance in order to keep that 20/20 ability.
At first I was terribly disappointed. Then I realized just how lucky I am. It could have been any of the dreaded things that passed through my mind. I could have been in need of further surgery and long recuperation. Instead, I'll have to adjust to being a wearer of bifocals once again. I'll order bifocal sunglasses and be happy to wear whatever it takes to clear up the glare and halos and allow me to drive home from my daughter's after dark without fear.
Oh ... lesson also learned. Pull over, stop and use the OnStar phone to call home for assistance. While I wasn't in imminent danger, my situation wasn't a good one and an accident could have been the result of driving without clear vision. As they say on tv, don't try this stunt yourself!
Note the operative word "was."
A couple of weeks ago, my vision started to blur occasionally, especially at dusk when I'd go from a well-lit room to a darker area. Halos formed around light sources and it was hard to differentiate their borders. It wasn't enough to trouble me, though. I attributed it to lack of sleep and stress. Then came last Tuesday.
Coming home from a wonderful visit with Terri, Adela and Nate, I drove blissfully along, aware that darkness was descending but unconcerned about any potential problems. Then, I drove onto Interstate 295 in Ewing Township and found myself nearly blind. Nothing but streaks of light and blurred images met my eyes through the windshield ... imagine my terror! Cars and huge trucks zoomed by at 70+ miles per hour as I struggled to see the white lines on the right side of the highway, where I clung desperately, too fearful to try to pass anyone or even to maintain anything over 55 mph. I crawled like that until reaching the exit for 130 where I usually travel a mile or so before picking up Rt. 206 which takes me home. A large truck in front of me obscured my vision of the route signs and I made a wrong turn. Trying in vain to see clearly enough to read the subsequent signs as they flew past, I finally used my own sense of direction to instruct me to find a way to turn around and retrace my route. Thank goodness for the Delaware River, which I knew should not have been directly on my right!!
Finally, after a harrowing trip, I pulled into our garage and sat there, trying to calm down. An immediate call to my optometrist came next and a day later I was sitting in his chair, my eyes dilated wide. I waited to hear a dire verdict ... retinal separation, diabetic retinopathy, corneal disease, slippage of the lens implants. Instead, after a thorough exam and vision tests, he scratched out some numbers on a pad and pronounced me in need of corrective lenses. My pitifully myopic eyes had enjoyed a brief respite from dysfunction and were now reverting to the need for assistance in order to keep that 20/20 ability.
At first I was terribly disappointed. Then I realized just how lucky I am. It could have been any of the dreaded things that passed through my mind. I could have been in need of further surgery and long recuperation. Instead, I'll have to adjust to being a wearer of bifocals once again. I'll order bifocal sunglasses and be happy to wear whatever it takes to clear up the glare and halos and allow me to drive home from my daughter's after dark without fear.
Oh ... lesson also learned. Pull over, stop and use the OnStar phone to call home for assistance. While I wasn't in imminent danger, my situation wasn't a good one and an accident could have been the result of driving without clear vision. As they say on tv, don't try this stunt yourself!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
It's in the genes
What a treat! I've always known that the love of writing and the power of words are alive and well in our family's DNA, but now there is another piece of concrete proof. Daughter Terri has begun her own blog, http://tcfamilyblog.blogspot.com, in which she chronicles the events in her young family. It's entertaining and filled with the kind of news her relatives and friends want to know but don't always have time to seek. Check it out!
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Facing the new year
2008 wasn't the best year I can remember. In fact, it could easily be labeled one of the worst, with a couple of exceptions. My cataract extraction and lens implantation surgeries were the high point. Since I was eight years old, I've worn some kind of vision correcting device and have never had clear, precise eyesight. Now, thanks to the genius of my surgeon, I do.
Once the healing was completed, I was ready to enjoy being retired. Barely a few weeks after, though, my mother-in-law fell in her apartment and ended up needing surgery and weeks of rehab. Howard and I began the six-month-long routine of driving either to the hospital or the rehab center each day, usually more than once, to check on her and spend some time. In between hospital stays, she lived with us, not a good arrangement for either her or us. She had a hard time adapting to our lifestyle and her own lack of independence in a strange house without the benefit of the setup she had so effectively managed in her apartment. We had a hard time adjusting to the presence of a person with specific medical needs in the tiny, over-55 home we'd bought two years earlier. Paper thin walls meant we were awake whenever she coughed or talked in her sleep. We found it impossible to leave her alone unless she was tucked into bed for the night and even then, we worried about her whenever we were out of the house. All in all, it wasn't the best solution to her health-care needs.
Then in November, doctors said she required major surgery. The lead surgeon didn't want to perform the operation because of her age and general poor health, but he had no choice. The entire large intestine had to be removed and an ostomy created on the small one. Mom knew the risks but wanted the surgery to be done and over so she'd have a shot at getting well.
It didn't work that way. From silent heart attacks to staph infection to pneumonia, she slid downhill quickly following the operation until we decided that in-hospital hospice was the only way to ease her suffering. On December 11th, she passed away and went to join her husband Howard and son Bill who'd been waiting for her for over 20 years. From what she'd so often told me, I knew she arrived on the Other Side and immediately lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Howard's face. He had, after all, nagged her into quitting and she said with a laugh that she'd delight in getting back at him. She was a feisty, independent woman who had more courage than most of us are ever required to muster. We think of her every day, so many, many times as we go about the necessary business of settling her affairs and putting her bedroom back to its former use as a den.
Our younger daughter heard from her grandmother the other day. In the quiet of her room, she was feeling down, thinking of Nana, when the words "Take it easy," in Nana's voice, came out loud and clear. Erica was Mom's "Rose Queen," since nearly every time she visited her grandmother, she brought a dozen roses of various hues to brighten Mom's living room (and her spirits). I can't look at roses without thinking of the joy they brought and the thoughtfulness of Erica who loved pleasing her Nana.
We spent Christmas with our other daughter and her family up north. They were the ones who were trusted with the custody of Mom's parakeet when she moved in with us and couldn't bring him along. We were afraid our little cat, Mitzi, would have the bird for lunch, so Terri and her family gladly adopted him, intending for Mom to be able to visit when she was better. Pretty Boy is thriving and sings and chirps all the time. He also talks ... in Mom's voice with her North Carolina inflections, at once comforting and painful for my husband to hear. In time, when the mourning isn't as fresh, he will welcome this occasional "visit" from Mom.
Now for 2009. I have plans for the year that include some travel for just the two of us and plenty of beach time when the weather warms. In the meantime, lessons learned from this experience will spur me to drafting Advance Directives and wills. I will also decide for my girls who gets what and where everything is to go so they won't have those difficult decisions to make. They already know my last wishes, so that's a done deal, but it should be in writing so memory isn't forced to go back and put together the pieces. I hope they won't need the results of my organization effort for many, many years yet, but no one is guaranteed tomorrow and I want to know they are protected as much as possible from the heartache of uncertainty.
We'll welcome the new year at a formal dinner at our favorite casino. Then we'll come home and start trying to live normally again. There are no regrets for the time spent with Mom ... she had the best we could give her and she knew how much she was loved. Is anything else important?
Once the healing was completed, I was ready to enjoy being retired. Barely a few weeks after, though, my mother-in-law fell in her apartment and ended up needing surgery and weeks of rehab. Howard and I began the six-month-long routine of driving either to the hospital or the rehab center each day, usually more than once, to check on her and spend some time. In between hospital stays, she lived with us, not a good arrangement for either her or us. She had a hard time adapting to our lifestyle and her own lack of independence in a strange house without the benefit of the setup she had so effectively managed in her apartment. We had a hard time adjusting to the presence of a person with specific medical needs in the tiny, over-55 home we'd bought two years earlier. Paper thin walls meant we were awake whenever she coughed or talked in her sleep. We found it impossible to leave her alone unless she was tucked into bed for the night and even then, we worried about her whenever we were out of the house. All in all, it wasn't the best solution to her health-care needs.
Then in November, doctors said she required major surgery. The lead surgeon didn't want to perform the operation because of her age and general poor health, but he had no choice. The entire large intestine had to be removed and an ostomy created on the small one. Mom knew the risks but wanted the surgery to be done and over so she'd have a shot at getting well.
It didn't work that way. From silent heart attacks to staph infection to pneumonia, she slid downhill quickly following the operation until we decided that in-hospital hospice was the only way to ease her suffering. On December 11th, she passed away and went to join her husband Howard and son Bill who'd been waiting for her for over 20 years. From what she'd so often told me, I knew she arrived on the Other Side and immediately lit a cigarette and blew the smoke in Howard's face. He had, after all, nagged her into quitting and she said with a laugh that she'd delight in getting back at him. She was a feisty, independent woman who had more courage than most of us are ever required to muster. We think of her every day, so many, many times as we go about the necessary business of settling her affairs and putting her bedroom back to its former use as a den.
Our younger daughter heard from her grandmother the other day. In the quiet of her room, she was feeling down, thinking of Nana, when the words "Take it easy," in Nana's voice, came out loud and clear. Erica was Mom's "Rose Queen," since nearly every time she visited her grandmother, she brought a dozen roses of various hues to brighten Mom's living room (and her spirits). I can't look at roses without thinking of the joy they brought and the thoughtfulness of Erica who loved pleasing her Nana.
We spent Christmas with our other daughter and her family up north. They were the ones who were trusted with the custody of Mom's parakeet when she moved in with us and couldn't bring him along. We were afraid our little cat, Mitzi, would have the bird for lunch, so Terri and her family gladly adopted him, intending for Mom to be able to visit when she was better. Pretty Boy is thriving and sings and chirps all the time. He also talks ... in Mom's voice with her North Carolina inflections, at once comforting and painful for my husband to hear. In time, when the mourning isn't as fresh, he will welcome this occasional "visit" from Mom.
Now for 2009. I have plans for the year that include some travel for just the two of us and plenty of beach time when the weather warms. In the meantime, lessons learned from this experience will spur me to drafting Advance Directives and wills. I will also decide for my girls who gets what and where everything is to go so they won't have those difficult decisions to make. They already know my last wishes, so that's a done deal, but it should be in writing so memory isn't forced to go back and put together the pieces. I hope they won't need the results of my organization effort for many, many years yet, but no one is guaranteed tomorrow and I want to know they are protected as much as possible from the heartache of uncertainty.
We'll welcome the new year at a formal dinner at our favorite casino. Then we'll come home and start trying to live normally again. There are no regrets for the time spent with Mom ... she had the best we could give her and she knew how much she was loved. Is anything else important?
Monday, November 17, 2008
Chatter withdrawal
For days, I've wanted to find a few minutes to write.
Nothing profound, of course, just words.
Hardly seems like I've lived without jotting down some thoughts and then expounding on them just to hear myself think.
Ego? Yeah, no doubt. I've always loved seeing my name in print at the top of an article I wrote. Guess that's what keeps writers writing.
But there's also the communication side of it. I've never been one to keep things to myself. Self-disclosing, I think the shrinks call it. A healthy willingness to share, I'd rather say.
The world according to the Smith family has been topsy-turvy since the last post.
Howard's mother is in the hospital facing major surgery this week. What will happen afterward depends on how the operation goes and what doctors give as a prognosis. She is frightened but determined to do what must be done. Howard and I are exhausted and worried for her, as we watch the ordeals she endures day after day without benefit of a positive outlook. Prayers from friends and family pour in, for which we are very grateful.
I watch all of this from the vantage point of one whose own mother died of breast cancer when she was 56 and I was 31. Seems forever since I had a mother of my own to worry about. We never went through the elder-care routines for her, so I'm a novice at caring for someone so ill.
And amid all the medical talk and test procedures, both Howard and I realize we are next in the grand scheme of things.
Death doesn't frighten me, since I believe passionately in the next phase of living ... although unknown, still comforting in its certainty. Suffering, growing old and infirm, losing my independence, relying on others for my every need .... this is what frightens me. I jokingly (perhaps) tell my daughters to park me in a nursing home, visit when they can and go on with their lives rather than suffer the disruption caring for someone causes. Then I laugh and warn them I might take a header into a bridge abutment at 70 miles an hour and save them all the trouble.
Jokes don't really make anything better. I am growing old in a hurry, it seems, since years now fly instead of merely pass as they did before I hit 50.
At 67, I realize my time will be here sooner rather than later. I don't dwell on it a lot, but it's really impossible to avoid coming face to face with the reality every time some new horror visits itself on my mother-in-law.
So ... the plan is to live every day to the fullest possible. Hug the grandchildren, stay close to friends and don't let a day go by without saying "I love you" to those whom I need to hear it. I may not be the world's best caregiver (far from it!) but I'm learning how to behave when it's my turn to accept the ministries of others. Not an easy lesson. Certainly nothing I ever contemplated too seriously.
Now, though, it's simply a reality.
Nothing profound, of course, just words.
Hardly seems like I've lived without jotting down some thoughts and then expounding on them just to hear myself think.
Ego? Yeah, no doubt. I've always loved seeing my name in print at the top of an article I wrote. Guess that's what keeps writers writing.
But there's also the communication side of it. I've never been one to keep things to myself. Self-disclosing, I think the shrinks call it. A healthy willingness to share, I'd rather say.
The world according to the Smith family has been topsy-turvy since the last post.
Howard's mother is in the hospital facing major surgery this week. What will happen afterward depends on how the operation goes and what doctors give as a prognosis. She is frightened but determined to do what must be done. Howard and I are exhausted and worried for her, as we watch the ordeals she endures day after day without benefit of a positive outlook. Prayers from friends and family pour in, for which we are very grateful.
I watch all of this from the vantage point of one whose own mother died of breast cancer when she was 56 and I was 31. Seems forever since I had a mother of my own to worry about. We never went through the elder-care routines for her, so I'm a novice at caring for someone so ill.
And amid all the medical talk and test procedures, both Howard and I realize we are next in the grand scheme of things.
Death doesn't frighten me, since I believe passionately in the next phase of living ... although unknown, still comforting in its certainty. Suffering, growing old and infirm, losing my independence, relying on others for my every need .... this is what frightens me. I jokingly (perhaps) tell my daughters to park me in a nursing home, visit when they can and go on with their lives rather than suffer the disruption caring for someone causes. Then I laugh and warn them I might take a header into a bridge abutment at 70 miles an hour and save them all the trouble.
Jokes don't really make anything better. I am growing old in a hurry, it seems, since years now fly instead of merely pass as they did before I hit 50.
At 67, I realize my time will be here sooner rather than later. I don't dwell on it a lot, but it's really impossible to avoid coming face to face with the reality every time some new horror visits itself on my mother-in-law.
So ... the plan is to live every day to the fullest possible. Hug the grandchildren, stay close to friends and don't let a day go by without saying "I love you" to those whom I need to hear it. I may not be the world's best caregiver (far from it!) but I'm learning how to behave when it's my turn to accept the ministries of others. Not an easy lesson. Certainly nothing I ever contemplated too seriously.
Now, though, it's simply a reality.
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