Thanksgiving, 2014

     I have much to be grateful for. Starting with myself, I am grateful to be alive and well, happy that I am not dependent on anyone, that I can still get up and make my breakfast without burning the house down, without sitting and holding my head unable to decide what I want to eat. Everyone has choices, I am thankful that I still know how to implement that ability.

     I am thankful that my daughter Judi is close by, in good health and enjoying her independence.  Also she helps me, I see her at least once a week and speak with her every day.  I need to take moments, more frequently, to be thankful that we chose Judi years ago and that she is a vital presence in my life, helpful and affectionate as well.  When she pats the top of my head, she says that she is covering my bald spot; I believe that there is affection accompanying those pats.

     I thank the good Lord that I have a grandson.  At the moment he is in trouble, many grandsons put their parents and grandparents through a lot of growing, maturing pains.  This too will pass and we will be able to pick up our connection.  It will be strengthened  and valued, even more tomorrow, than it is today.  I am happy that he is alive and well and eager to show his caring heart.

     I am grateful that I have a hatful of memories, mostly happy ones.  My parents loved me and did their very best to load me with the very best.  I had wonderful guidance and just enough leeway to allow me to grow.  Sure we had our disagreements but I do not believe that we ever carried them through the night.  How good it was that when we discovered we could not have children with our biology, we were smart enough to adopt Judi and her brother Jeff.  Apparently we only borrowed Jeff. He left us after his 43^rd birthday, but has left behind wonderful memories of a dedicated and loving son.  I have great memories of my brother, who died the year before my beloved.. Once we outgrew the pain, the little sister/the big brother know it all stage, we became friends.  As adults we not only loved each other we also shared respect and understanding.

     I am grateful, thankful for my friends who are supportive, loyal, forgiving and loving.  Old people can be cantankerous; I am no exception.  My friends (of a variety of ages) keep me steady, challenged and able to wake up to face the day.  Always & foremost, I am grateful for the wonderful life I enjoyed with Erv, my mate of sixty-two plus years!!!

 

 

I Stumbled Again!                                                                                 November 17, 2014

   When I broke my hand, I did not fall, I broke my hand by hitting a wooden stool with my very own fist.

   Last Sunday I gathered myself to walk around the neighborhood.  I try to do this daily.  It is about a twenty-minute safari, considerably longer when I stop and chat with a neighbor.  I enjoy the exercise and the chats as well.  When my day is empty, the exercise and over the fence conversations keep my spirit light.

   As I sit to write I recall, I put on the proper shoes, fixed the brace on my hand, put keys and Kleenex in my pocket and I headed out.  My walker was in place outside my door, I reached for it and I went down.  I have no idea what happened, no one was there to trip or impede me.  Later I found a small rock that may have been the tripping stone.  I landed squarely on my back…ouch that hurt.  Because I suffer no severe pain, my friend Karen and I decided that I did not need the doctor.  She, who is seriously tuned to Eastern medicine, suggested some herbal meds that she could supply.  I have tried them and they do take the edge off the aches.  One more day before I turn to aspirin or its substitute.

   Falling at my age is a double-whammy.  In the first place, I do not want to fall and incapacitate myself secondly, it seems weird that I am so very careful about a fall, I write and caution everyone else about falling then out of the blue I went down.  Did I lose my concentration, was my mind wandering, did I take a step without thinking?  A friend said, “Get over it, it happens.”

   I have not time to be incapacitated. I still have much to do.  I also must not be afraid to move, lest I fall.  It is just another catch-22 or damned if you do and damned if you do not.  It is a an insult to me when I fall, I act and write as if I know exactly how NOT to fall, yet every couple of years I take a spill, despite my “good intentions”. 

   I am not afraid of death; I am also not ready, yet!

Smoking    November 1, 2014

     I remember like it was yesterday.  I was getting dressed to meet my husband in the city for dinner.  At the time we lived in suburban New York.  My 14 year-old son Jeff burst into the room, breathless, full of questions, important questions.  “Mom, how long have you been smoking, how much do you smoke, when did you start?”  I slowed him down a bit and promised to answer his questions.  I did slowly, attaching a family story to each one: my Mother was a smoker, she wanted the “privilege” of giving me my first cigarette, my Dad objected to our smoking.  As I spoke I noted that Jeff was no longer looking at me, with his eyes on the floor, he sadly said, “Oh Mom, you probably have cancer already!”

     Jeff had just come in from his last class of the day: Hygiene.  It was 1963 they had been discussing the surgeon general’s report on smoking.  I did not know how to reassure my son and I was not prepared to make promises at the moment.  We left my room together; we parted with few words.  I had no idea that that conversation would have great impact on me.  There were three cigarettes left in my open pack.  I smoked the three and have never smoked again. 

     Jeff had gotten to me, to my mind, my heart.  I did not process that conversation; I never deliberately made a decision, did not say to myself, “I owe it to my children…my boy is correct, this dangerous,”  I never thought it through.  I just followed Jeff’s instinct. I quit.

     But the story is not ended.  No, it was not easy to quit.  When the children came home from school, I met them with anger, I was angry at everything and everyone in my path.  When I became tired of hearing myself yell, I consulted the doctor.  My husband Erv had told me that this was something I had to do myself, he could not help.  My doctor came to the rescue; a small dose of Phenobarbital at 2 o’clock in the afternoon enabled me to face the children’s homecoming with a smile. Quitting the sedative was easy when our family came down to normal. I believed we were smoke-free.

     I was wrong, the saga, however, is not finished.  I was shocked to find that my kids smelled of smoke when they came home from school, no one is more sensitive to that smell than a recovering smoker.  “Oh the kids in the back of the bus are always smoking, that is what you smell, Mom”, Judi and Jeff agreed.  For a time, I bought in until I challenged them both.  The years  passed, they went off on their own,  I had failed.  Two weeks before Jeff died at age 43 he stopped smoking because the doctor told him he was smoking up his own oxygen.  Paralyzed and ill, he quit cold turkey.

     When Judi had a serious illness before she hit 60, the hospital would not permit her to go outside to smoke. A month in the hospital enabled her to quit smoking.  I do not know that smoking was a major cause of my adult children’s illnesses, probably not.  I know that my Mother who smoked all her life died at 67, too young, that my brother died of lung cancer after 50 years of second hand smoke, he never smoked.  I am so grateful for my teenager’s courage to confront his Mom’s problem.  He saved my life, I am sure!

    

 

 

Disability!                                                                         October 14 2014

   I am learning what it is like to live with a disability.  My broken hand is no big deal; certainly not compared to a broken leg or hip or back.  It is, however, teaching me  lessons.  I am learning how to accept the fact that my left hand is now my working hand.

   I sat for an hour today filling in the small circles on my mail-in ballot.  Now that is a simple no brainer task.  So long as I had decided whom to vote for, filling in the ovals with my left hand was no biggie. Three fingers on my casted hand are free, they can type but writing, using a pen is a challenge because the bulky cast gets in the way or hits any key it chooses..  So, I tried my left hand.  It was like learning to write all over again.

   I understand that five weeks of pampering my right hand is simply a huge inconvenience.  Small matter though it is, it requires learning, patience and hope.  For active folks who are trying to maintain independence in the face of some functional loss, the immediate challenge is substituting an action for the disabled one.  First issue that popped into my head was “What about my signature?”  I asked the bank and received an interesting response: ”Don’t worry about it, however you sign, we will know, we will accept it.”  I fiddled with the idea of just signing my initials.  My son always signed checks that way.  Finally I found that my right hand had deeply grooved habits, it automatically signed a reasonable facsimile of my signature as long as I worked very slo…..wly.

     What about eating?  Again, habit overcame disability.  I automatically pick up my fork with that right hand.  It is clumsy and I have found out a knife is useless.  Those three working fingers are doing quite a job, again slowly.  Finally following nutritionists’ advice, slow down eating. But my left hand is also learning to take over and work. That is where patience is important.  Picking up a fork, buttoning a shirt or un-buttoning it requires a great deal of patience.  Until now I have had a short supply, but I am learning to take it easy, to wait for me and my left hand to learn and catch up.  Washing my face is something I never did with my left hand, but we are learning.

     Patience is hard, I got into trouble by not having enough that moment in the middle of the night when I stubbed my toe. Hope is easy,  I know my hand will heal, I hope the healing is perfect.  If it is not, I know perfection in every aspect of life is hard to achieve.  The doctor has already told me my pinky finger might be a bit funny.  I did not ask him to define funny.  I can wait to be surprised.

 

One Woman’s Opinion……………………..October 7, 2014

  

     I am uncomfortable with the expressions “passed away” or “passed on” or simply “passed”.  It is school days lingo; I have not taken any exams recently.  I wish people would confront the truth about death it is a piece of life.  Just as every one of us emerged from mother’s womb, so each of us will sigh that last sigh, and die. One unnamed writer claims that using the phrase “has died”, is rude.  That boggles my mind. When someone dies, that is a truth, not to be celebrated but to be honored, accepted and respected.   Of course it is rude if a death is reported excitedly with disrespectable relish.

     “Passed on” or any of its derivative phrases is harsh on my ears, they evade the reality of death.  Maybe for some it softens the blow.  The variety of issues includes specific religious beliefs.  Did my beloved husband pass on to a better life? Personally, I do not believe that, he loved life just as it was.  I do not believe in an after-life though I respect those who do.  I believe in the immortality of one’s spirit as long as someone remembers.  Did my darling son pass away?  Not at all, he did not go very far, he died and landed in my heart. As long as I live his memory will be lively, especially that his Dad is there to keep him company.

     Other issues with the use of “passing away” include: pass is an active verb.  When someone dies there is no action that takes place.  “Active” stops, the one who dies becomes less and less active until finally, he/she loses life and dies.

     I do not usually engage in the use of euphemisms.  It is in my nature to look truth directly in the eye.  Perhaps for that reason, when someone dies, I need to say it like it is. I think we agree, as noted, that death is part of living.  Everyone, as far as I know, does eventually die.  Just as we live our lives differently from one another, so we die each in our own manner.  You might say that your friend passed; I might say that my friend died.  I guess in the long run, we each understand the words; it is the loss, the sadness and compassion that matters.  “Pass” will never express for me, how I feel about my beloveds’ deaths.  I lost them, they did not pass by, their physical beings left me and became ashes, as they wished.  Their spirits will continue to live in my heart as long as it beats as I wish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    

More than an injury …                                                                October 2, 2014

     As you know, my right hand is in a cast, I broke it!  There are three useful fingers poking out of the eight-inch long cast that has almost immobilized my pinky and its ring finger partner.  What is my problem? I still have a good left hand and a working upper right arm and shoulder.  Women friends try closing or opening your bra with one hand.  And my men friends try signing your credit cards lefty or right-handed with a jutting cast trying to “help”. I have not decided yet whether I want to tame the cast and make it obey or just teach my left hand how to sign my name.

     It has been rumored that I do not take my own advice.  When I was writing a column for the North County Times, I wrote often about falling.  Twice I have fallen and broken bones.  Accidents happen to us all, but long time tested advice about scatter rugs, caution, impediments, lighting etc is necessary to remind us that caution is always necessary as we age, as we slow down.  I did not place the rug I tripped on prior to my first fall; I did not tell my friend not to let me out on a slant, then I turned down her offer of help, the second time.  I broke my own hand this third time because I was expressing anger. I did not fall!

     I am also not infallible.  Accidents happen and anger can explode.  If one has a sound piece of advice that is worth sharing, it needs to be shared.  For those who criticize me for not taking my own words of advice and precaution, I have a few things to say. First, a fall is an unplanned event.  Words of caution simply add to the possibility that we will not have an accident or be seriously hurt if we do.  Second, taking precautions helps us to build wall against serious accidents.  Third, by being aware and careful, we protect our friends, family and visitors in our home.  Fourth, I always felt that perhaps my words would at least help one person avoid a bad spill.  Most of the stories I told and the words of warning I sounded were meant to be helpful to others.

     If it worries some that I did not heed my own advice, I am grateful for your concern and sorry for your disappointment.  It is like many old stories about the shoemaker’s barefoot kids or the psychiatrist’s acting out teenagers.  Accidents happen, bones break, hopefully, we survive to talk about it. But even at this ripe age, I do have to control my temper, should not have blasted that stool in anger; happy it was not a person.

 

Temper!                                                                                September 26, 2014    

     Lost my temper the other night.  Some folks said they did not know I had one, everybody does.  I, for example lose my temper or my head over small things.  When big issues show up, I am able to confront them squarely, head on.  The other night, it was a very small thing that evolved into a multi-sided nuisance.  I stubbed my littlest toe on the way to the bathroom, in the semi-dark, in the middle of the night.  The pain was momentarily bone crushing,  I reacted quickly, thoughtlessly, I hit the offensive wooden stool as hard as I could, I retaliated and broke my hand, dislocated my smallest finger.  It is a good thing that the person who moved the innocent stool into my path, was absent!  I will repent for five weeks while my hand recovers in its plaster cast, covered in fancy blue netting.

     I am grateful…I am learning, have learned, how kind people can be. The spirit in the doctor’s office was unbelievable.  I was afraid I might need surgery, Urgent Care warned me. Dr Patel made it very clear immediately, it was MY decision, there was an alternative.  His technician was kind and funny, Rafi helped neutralize my fears and raise my spirits.  It is hard to believe that I had a good time despite three shots in the hand and a lot of twisting and manipulating of my small finger.

     A friend said that he was glad that I did not fall, also happy that at my age, I could still demonstrate my ability to get angry.  I do not recommend fighting an offending piece of furniture as I did, next time I will use my voice instead of my fist!   Five weeks in a cast should teach me, once more, to repent and learn to use my left hand.