Slow and Steady

The year I turned 59, my body went to hell. In about six weeks, I gained 15 pounds, and it was all in my midsection. You've heard body types being described as apples or pears? After a life of being a pear, I suddenly morphed into an apple. My clothes didn't fit. I hated what I saw in the mirror when I turned sideways. I was mortified.

No matter what I did, no matter how I tried to increase exercise and decrease food intake, nothing changed. The scale display sat on 175 each morning. True, I'm 5'8", so 175 isn't a terrible thing. But when I examined BMI charts, I was in the "overweight" category. I had never been anything approaching overweight.

When I was in high school, people would tell me that when I turned sideways, I disappeared. That high school image is what we maintain of ourselves, right? How could this have happened?

The very worst was looking at this new body when trying to buy clothes. I'm sorry, but with a hormone-induced post-menopausal bulging belly, Spanx can only do so much. And it's not enough! I put on my black elastic-waist skirt and my white shirt to sing at Blossom and looked in the mirror as I walked out of the dressing room. Who-who-who was that very round older woman? Certainly not me!!!!!

After watching the scale go back and forth between 174 and 179 for several years—and during the same period suffering several knee injuries that impeded efforts to take more walks—I slowly started changing.

The Jazzman needed to take in more fiber to fight his diverticulosis. The Jazzman was told by his doctor that he needed to cut down his sugar to avoid adult-onset diabetes. The Jazzman decided to take more salads for his lunches. And since I'm the designated kitchen staff, I just started doing those things along with him. Then I heard Dr. Oz talk about green coffee pills. It may be a bunch of hooey, but there were guests on the show who had real and actual weight loss results, so buying one bottle of the pills couldn't hurt that much, could it?

Slow and steady, ounce upon ounce, day by day, five trips up and down the stairs each day. This morning I got on the scale and it said 169. One Hundred Sixty-Nine Pounds!!!!

Now to you skinny minnies and petite pollies and sweet young non-hormone-affected things, that may not seem like a big deal. But for me, who has wanted to cry for THREE YEARS each time I looked at the scale and it read 17x, 169 is One Great Big Deal!

And so I will keep putting one foot in front of the other. I go to Cleveland Clinic in three weeks to get a second opinion on my knees. Less weight means less stress on my aching knees, means greater ability to walk without pain, means easier access to exercise, means greater ability to lose weight.

At even one pound per month, by next summer I will be able to look at myself sideways in the black skirt and white blouse and not shudder.

And once I reach the "Normal weight" category on the BMI calculator, you can bet I'm going to feel like a winner. Hell, I might even spring the $70 for a new CleveOrchChorus dress that will actually fit me!

(And an enormous salute to PianoLady and to my daughter-in-law, both of whom have lost a Whole Lotta Weight this year. You inspire me.)

Feeling F*ing Old

I believe I mentioned on more than one recent occasion that my knees are bothering me. I was in pain almost every day we were in Italy during May. At times, knee pain woke me during the night when I shifted positions. But it was erratic.

Some days it was the left knee, some days the right. One or two days were good, with no pain in either knee. But there were days I couldn't walk without pain.

When I returned, I saw the orthopedist, who shot both knees full of cortisone and said he'd see me in about four months when it wore off.

But then I thought I was young again and did some landscaping work in the back yard. Oops. Bad decision. I was trying to chop a root that was in the way of the brick border I was installing on a bed of hostas and day lilies. I chopped and chopped with the shovel, then stupidly hopped on the shovel. When the shovel turned, I turned with it, hearing lots of snaps, crackles and pops as my left foot slammed into the earth and my left knee gave way.

A shot of cortisone evidently cannot counteract stupidity. Last week we spent our annual week at Madison-on-the-Lake, and every step was accompanied by pain. Almost the only time I was without pain was when I was standing in cold Lake Erie, flexing my left knee.

No we're back home. I called the ortho's office this morning, but the secretary has not called me back. I asked to see my doctor ASAP, but we must have different definitions of ASAP.

How much pain am I in? I want to sit and cry. Just cry!

When am I not in pain? When I'm sitting on the couch with an icepack on my knee.

How much am I enjoying being past 60 years of age and all the health challenges that involves? Not so much.

The photo above is from my birthday weekend in 2010, about a month after all this knee nonsense began with a fall and a torn left medial meniscus.

In case you haven't figured it out, aging is not for wimps!!!

Doing What One Needs to Do

May I make a confession? I hate exercise. I have never enjoyed exercise, ever in my entire life. In Pathfinders (the Adventist equivalent of Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts), I ran the 100 yard dash and did the high jump and broad jump and got lots of blue ribbons for swimming competitions. And I like to walk. But to tie on a pair of track shoes and actually walk out the door? That doesn't happen easily.

The Jazzman and I joined the JCC about six weeks ago. I've been averaging once a week for hitting the treadmill. Not so good for the amount of money the membership cost. I kept looking at the class schedule, and decided to try a cardio class. I'm 61, after all. I don't have the lung capacity I used to have, which is a bit of a challenge when singing. So I went to Cardio Low a week ago. And I lived through it.

So I went again on Friday, and a friend of mine showed up for the class. And the people in the class are all so friendly and helpful and encouraging to me. And the teacher is friendly and nice. And I was proud of myself for making it through the class.

So I went Monday. And I went Wednesday, even with a headache.

I think I can do this.

You know what one of my motivating factors is? The thought that by the time I hit 62 I might not have wings hanging down from my upper arms.

That's a noble goal, dontcha think?

Dreams DO Come True!

My babes are with me for the weekend while their parents relax with friends in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania. This morning I'm dawdling in bed, the Jazzman having left for work at 6:00, the birds chirping outside my window, the air cool with the promise of fall. I'm waiting for the babes to wake up, knowing the day to come will be a whirlwind of activity for this ol' grandma.

Last night I posted on Facebook a video of the babes telling their parents good-night. The parents are in a place with limited cell signals and limited wi-fi. But my experience is that Facebook is easy to hit, even when my e-mail is hard to hit. So I thought they might be able to see this video. As I posted it, I set the security settings so only the parents could see it.

This morning I googled "g'night to tyler and jaci" after logging out of Facebook, to check my security settings and ensure only they could see the video. The first thing that came up was a link to my blog from February 2008. I clicked it and sat reading what I went through in making this move. Fascinating! How fascinating to remember the whirlwind of social activity and the packing activities and the details of driving cross-country that I had forgotten. I clicked on a few inks within those posts and read other posts, until I ended up here.

Oh my gosh.

Two days ago the babes were over here sewing with me. We were talking about how to turn negatives into positives—how to look at the happy side of things rather than the sad side.

Why? The song "For Good" from Wicked came on the playlist, and Ridley burst into tears. I spent a Very Long Time talking her through being happy for having known friends who are gone, rather than being so unbearably sad that they're gone. We talked about my mother being near the end of her life, and how I'm lucky to have been adopted by someone who could pay for my piano lessons and have the time to take me to all those lessons. We talked about my former step-daughter who, when she arrived for a week's visit with her father, was instantly in tears because in seven days she'd have to return to her home across the ocean, rather than being happy and grateful for a week's visit with her father. We talked about J.R.'s death and how I feel so lucky to have had that almost-2.5 year marriage, even though he died.

Boston was saying how he wished he had known J.R., and I assured him that they would have liked each other very much. I told him how much fun J.R. was, and how everyone who knew him loved him. Boston asked if he was fun like the Jazzman. I said yes, that the Jazzman and J.R. were very much alike in that way.

Boston said, "I'm so glad you met [the Jazzman]." "I am, too," I told him. "I am, too!"

This morning, then, as I read this post, I was absolutely astonished to read my thoughts from March of 2008, and to realize that they came true just under two years later.

I truly hate dating at 57. I want a magic wand that can, poof!, bring the man who will understand my idiosyncrasies and pat me on the head when the Little Adoptee rears her ugly head; who can find my physical beauty despite my post-menopausal tummy; who will tolerate and appreciate and respect my devotion to my grandchildren; who will be willing to go to classical concerts with me, without complaining that he doesn't understand what the singers are singing. He can cook? He golfs? He has his own interests and doesn't want to be joined at the hip? Hallelujah! All the better. In my perfect world, the magic wand would deliver this man into my life and we'd both know instantly and could settle into a nurturing, supportive relationship without all the insecurities of teenage dating all over again.

If you're one of the Jazzman's friends reading this, or if you know me well enough to have heard me describe our life together, you'll know this describes him—and our relationship—in minute detail. After our second date, he told his mother and brother that he had met someone. We settled, with uncharacteristic mid-life ease, into a nurturing, supportive, and downright fun relationship.

I told Tyler after our first date, "I have just come home from the most comfortable first date of my life." I wake each morning glad to be alive. I watch him sleeping at night and think how much I love this man. He reaches for my hand as we walk through city parks or ballparks or restaurants, and I wonder how I came to be so lucky.

I am one lucky girl old broad!

I guess dreams actually can come true!

Unspoken Thoughts

I sit in the gazebo of the nursing home with my 98yo mother and 15 other residents. Each has half of a swimming pool noodle. Teenagers from a nearby day camp are playing Noodle Ball with them, tossing balloons to them to bat back with their noodles.

Mother's mind is still in great shape. She beat me at Scrabble last night, and will probably do so again tonight As I rolled her out here, she said, "It's hard to believe I'm a resident here."

As she sits waiting for one of the teenagers to toss her the balloon, I wonder what she thinks of all this. How does life get to the point where one is trapped inside a body that doesn't work as it should?

Mother has never been one to share her thoughts and feelings. Anytime I have ever tried to tell her how I feel about anything in our shared life, her chin starts to quiver and tears fill her eyes.

Visiting her now is a challenge of filling the time. I tell her things about my life and the lives of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She smiles a smile of acknowledgement, but asks no questions and offers no observations. She tells me nothing about her day or her life in this (hopefully temporary) prison. But carry on a conversation? Nope. Not happening.

There are moments of interest in her eyes—the spark we occasionally saw when we and she were young. But now it's a life of biding time until (according to her understanding of the world), God says it's time to go.

In the meantime, Noodle Ball caught her interest for half an hour this morning.

Whew!

That was a fast trip! Left the house at 6:15 on Monday morning, indulged in a quick stop at Waechter's Fine Fabrics in Asheville, then arrived at Mother's bedside at 4:45. There had been some hiccups in her condition on Sunday and she was taken back to the hospital for tests. Alas, all the skilled and caring medical professionals working with and around her do not realize that her grimaces are only anticipated pain, not real pain!

When her dinnertime arrived, I left, as she always goes right to sleep immediately after dinner. I went to her apartment and spent the evening finishing a summer scarf I've been knitting.

Monday morning I went back to the nursing home and spent the day observing her and offering hints and tips to her care team. They are so kind; they ask her if she wants PT now or later. Of course she says later—she'd rather sleep! I requested that they not ask her. I don't want to listen to her complain when they don't come back for several hours! Then when they got her up and dressed, they asked if she needed to go to the bathroom. Don't ask! Treat her like the emotional three-year-old she's become, and put her on the toilet and tell her to try. Of course she had to go! She can hardly hear, despite the Very Expensive hearing aid. When she nods quickly after your statement, that means she understood. If she nods more slowly and smiles, that means she doesn't have a clue what you said. If you're telling her something important, ask her if she understood, then ask her to tell you what you said or what you want her to do.

I've heard my whole life about the elderly becoming like babies again—the cycle of life—but this is my first time observing it. I just keep remembering what Ridley was like three or four years ago, and treating Mother the same way. It works!

In physical therapy, they got her to stand three times and move the right leg. The rest of the day I kept encouraging her to exercise that right thigh muscle. She wants out of the rehab facility, so my brothers and sister-in-law and I keep reminding her that to move back to her apartment, or be able to go up to the mountain cottage, she's got to be able to walk again. They should be sufficient motivation!

While she ate lunch, I ran out to Wendy's where I could let the tension out of my shoulders and just sit quietly and eat my hamburger. Then I ran back over to her apartment and retrieved her Scrabble game.

That afternoon, she beat me at two games. I let her go first each time, and you'll never guess what her opening word on the first game was: "sex"! The old gal still has it.

As I was ready to leave for the day, my cousin, BJ, called and asked me to meet her for dinner. It was so nice to catch up with this remarkable woman whom I've known as long as I can remember. Then back to Mother's apartment to finish another project: the "Lizard Ridge Dishcloth". I wanted to learn the difficult pattern before I set out on an afghan in that pattern for our new couch. When I get the ends woven in this morning, I'll hand it to the Jazzman and see how he likes it for wiping down kitchen counters.

Wednesday morning as I was stepping into the shower at Mother's apartment, the fire alarm sounded, and I had to find my pajamas and robe again and walk down to the dining hall, where I stood for 15 minutes while being scrutinized by all the residents. Gee, that was fun! Then back to the apartment to get ready to leave.

I stopped by the nursing home again to visit Mother for a few minutes, let her talk to Jim on the phone, and again encourage her to exercise that right thigh muscle. Then I started driving.

I head up 26 from Asheville to get on I-81 around Bristol, VA. Every time I'm on the road, I eye the scenic lookout. I've stopped at the southbound lookout, but never at the northbound. So this time I stopped. The walk up to the lookout was 800 feet, with a 150 foot elevation climb. Good exercise in preparation for sitting behind the wheel all day. Gorgeous morning. Cool. Delicious smells in the air. The sound of cattle lowing or something to the east. (You can tell I'm a farm girl, huh?). Let me tell you, this is one gorgeous part of the world!

On the road again, I always stop in Johnson City, TN, at the Panera for a treat. Then I stop at Tamarack in WV to walk around the building filled with beautiful handcrafts. I fondled some handcrafted pottery mugs, but resisted temptation, Then I didn't resist temptation and ate peach cobbler from the fabulous Greenbrier chefs for lunch. Heading on up the road, I realized I would be rolling past Akron while my salon was still open, so called. My stylist agreed to stay a half-hour late for me, give me my summer cut, and save me a two-hour drive today!

After a little shopping and pampering in Akron, I got home around 9:30.

My state of mind? Exhaustion!!

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When I arrived home, I heard classical music playing. I used to always leave the local NPR station on for the cats whenever I left home, but the Jazzman is religious about turning things off. I couldn't imagine that he had left a radio on.

I walked around the house trying to find the origin of the sound. Finally I stuck my head into the basement and realized that's where it was coming from. I walked down the stairs and realized there was music on in my sewing room. Last weekend an electrician came to give me some power sources so I could run my sewing machines without stretching a 25' extension cord across the basement. When I turned on the light for the sewing room, straight ahead of me was a hand-lettered sign, attached to the wall with blue painters' tape, that said, "Happy Birthday Jan. JH♥JC"

The Jazzman had bought five new light fixtures and installed them over my cutting table and the location for my sewing machine. For the first time in two years, I'll be able to see what I'm doing. I'll be able to see black thread on black fabric without holding it two inches from my eyes. It's a bleeping miracle!!

Say it with me now: Whattaguy!!!

Life Cycle

Molly and I sit across the room from each other. Mother's bed lies between us such that we can't see each other. She reads a bridge guide, expanding her knowledge of the game. The playlist Jim loaded on her iPod Shuffle plays in her ear, and she occasionally sings along. A novel about a knitting group plays in mine, as I work on a cotton and silk summer scarf. Mother lies between us. She is completely "out of it", in a deep sleep. I cannot rouse her. This woman who loves food more than air will not wake herself enough to eat. If I get a straw into her mouth to try to hydrate her, she locks her teeth around it. If I drop some water into her mouth, she will not swallow.

Maybe it's the trauma of the surgery. Maybe it's the Percoset before this morning's physical therapy. Whatever has caused this coma-like state just results in her not being able to focus her eyes when she opens them, in her not being aware of her surroundings or willing [able?] to exert any effort.

The doctors have told us to expect her death in the next six months. Broken hips at an advanced age are the great predictor of oncoming death.

But she's lived a long and full life. She has held positions of leadership in her church. She drove her car up into the mountains to her beloved cottage until she was 95. She has sat on the floor and played "Tammy's Store" with her grandsons. She has a sweet disposition and everyone who knows her, loves her And she's NINETY-EIGHT years old.

I hope she knows that when she's had enough, she can go ahead and leave.

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Sweet story: When Scott began talking, instead of "Grandpa", he seemed to reverse the syllables so it came out PA-gram, which became "Pakum". "Grandma" came out "Tammy". Their grandpa loved his name, but "Tammy" - Not so much.

Her reaction was, "I'm not Tammy, I'm Grandmother." Harumph! But when she played Store with Scott and Tyler, it was "Tammy's Store" that Mr. Jones and Mr. Smith would visit.

Getting Younger and Younger

I flew to Atlanta last Sunday to drive up to the mountain cottage for our family celebration of Mother's 98th birthday. When I left her on Monday afternoon, I was angrier and more disgusted with her than I've ever been in my entire life.

On Tuesday I screwed up my courage, called her, and told her I was angry. I'm almost sixty-one years old, and that's the very first time I've had the courage to do that. Ever!

What did I say to her? "You're a very smart woman. You're trained as a nurse. You have studied nutrition for years. You're diabetic. And you sit and eat chocolate right before you're having your blood tested." Her reading was 232!

We try to treat her with respect. We do everything in our power to increase her quality of life. My sister-in-law has devoted a great deal of time and energy over the past three years to helping mother.

For what?! For you to sneak candy behind my back?!

I've never felt loved and accepted by her. Honestly? Right now, I don't feel very loving and accepting towards her!

If you want to put yourself into a diabetic whatever; If you want to have a stroke or a heart attack — Go ahead. Just leave us out of it. Do it on your own time. Stop taking advantage of our generosity and our kindness.

I was so happy when the trip was over and I was back in my own home, with my kind and considerate man, near to my loving grandchildren.

I don't ever want to get to be 98 years old and acting like I'm two years old.

The goodness of the trip? Spending some time with my brothers and sister-in-law, and sitting on the porch, knitting, glancing out at this vista.

Or stepping out in the early morning to see this.

Or glancing across at my lot, wondering if it will ever sell or if I'll ever be able to build a vacation house there.

I love going to that mountain cottage, especially when I can go there and not worry about who's sneaking what behind my back.

97 Across: A tool for keeping your brain nimble

Some of my clearest memories of my precious daddy are from my college years when I was still living at home. He was working shorter days then (7a-7p, instead of 6a-11p). He and Mother were living in a lovely home in Spring Valley, and his "man cave" included a Duncan Phyfe couch upholstered in an antiqued red velvet, a ceiling painted red, and a wall of bookcases. It was in this room that he would unwind after an intense day in surgery. He would sink into his black leather recliner. Jazz would be playing on the stereo system. He'd be wearing earphones to avoid disturbing Mother. He had two antique train lanterns wired so they would light up whenever the phone rang—he didn't need to hear the phone's ringer because the lanterns would alert him. On a TV stand he had made (which today hold's the Jazzman's TV in our upstairs family room), the TV was on showing some sort of ball game. And in his lap was the crossword puzzle from the Orlando Sentinel. He was a multitasker before the word came into being. He quieted his mind from work by overloading it with alternate thoughts.

Sometimes I would sit at his feet, watching but not paying attention to the television, waiting for him to ask me some crossword clue that he couldn't figure out. I was 18 or 19 or 20. I adored him—he was probably the only person in the first 20 years of my life that allowed me to feel I had value, I belonged.

Throughout my life, I've done crossword puzzles. Many of the words I use nowadays were learned at my daddy's feet. During the years John and I were together, we would start the Washington Post Magazine Sunday puzzle and work on it throughout the week. Each night as we were falling asleep, we'd collaborate on a few more words. The following Sunday, before starting the next puzzle, we'd turn to the solution and figure out what we had missed.

Today I do the New York Times crossword every day on my iPhone. Sometimes I begin the night before—it's posted at 10:00 p.m., and I get a few words in before falling asleep. I always wake before my bedmate, and lie there working on the puzzle while waiting for him to stir. It's a calm, predictable way to start my day.

Somehow I have passed my love of puzzles along to my younger son. In his spirit of philanthropy for the community, he decided late last year that he wanted to organize a crossword puzzle tournament that would benefit the Mahoning County Public Library system. He set up a schedule, amassed a group of volunteers, contacted New York Times puzzle editor Will Shortz, and brought this project to fruition last Saturday.

Sixteen competitors turned out for the event, one having driven three hours from outside of Columbus. There were alphabet cookies, Oreos (black and white, doncha know), and a fabulous cake decorated with a puzzle. There were volunteers: judges, graders, data entry (me, of course), runners, servers, ….

But the person who caught my attention the most was 97-year-old Clara Keltz. She arrived in a wheelchair. She didn't expect to do very well in the tournament, but just wanted to participate.

When I heard her speak on one of the videos that was shot during the event, I was astonished at how clearly she spoke, how well she organized her thoughts. I was astonished that, at 97, she was so lucid.

When I spoke with my mother earlier this week, she couldn't remember a very important medical fact I had given her two weeks ago. She doesn't communicate well. She doesn't keep track of thoughts. I have merely assumed that all 97-year-olds have brains who work in that manner.

But listening to Mrs. Clara Keltz speak has changed my understanding.

I do crossword puzzles and Sudoku puzzles and jigsaw puzzles and word games because I've heard it will help keep my brain in good working order.

Maybe Clara Keltz is living proof of that!

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Article in Business Journal

Video from WFMJ

Finishing the Story

Woke at 4:30 with a headache. Nurse came in at 5:00 to prick Mother's finger and inject her.

Got up at 7:00, showered and dressed, to breakfast at 7:30.

Back from breakfast. Mother laid down and napped. I cleaned my knitting bag, found a partial ball of yarn, and started an experimental project. Mother got up around 11:30 and we walked down at 11:45 for lunch.

After lunch we walked to the in-house beauty salon to make a haircut appointment. The stylist said, "I went down last month and she said she didn't need a haircut." I asked her to just please schedule an appointment and cut her hair every month. Can't these helpers understand Mother can't hear a damned word they're saying? She just nods and smiles.

I actually jumped on her about her communication skills this visit - I told her she never responds with words, so we never know if she understands us. She nodded, then laughed and said, "Yes, Dear." At least her sense of humor is intact!

After lunch, we sat for half an hour, then got in the car to go across the street to her opthamology appointment.

We walked in and I signed her in. In a few minutes, a staff member came to the front desk and motioned me over. "Why is she here?" she asked. "To have her stitches removed." I was told she didn't have an appointment and, in fact, had just been there on Monday! After double-checking with various other staff members, we determined that they were, indeed, not ready to remove the stitches and that she had another assessment appointment scheduled for April 25. I watched while they removed her phone number from the record and added a note to only call the Assisted Living facility staff or the patient's son and daughter-in-law on issues regarding this patient.

Bundled Mother back in the car and took her back across the street.

After settling her in her room, I went back out to speak to the patient care representative about bathroom cleaning, haircuts, and hair washing. My bottom line: just do it!

This is why Molly and I (but mostly Molly) find it necessary to make every-six-weeks visits. No one who is not related to a patient/elderly person is going to examine the situation with as critical an eye.

I find Mother's deterioration over the past year to be both sad and frustrating. A year ago she got on an airplane and flew to Tampa for Easter. Now - she sleeps and eats, eats and sleeps.

The cycle of life.
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Left at 2:00. Stopped three or four tiles. Got home at 11:00. The Jazzman was waiting up for me. Boy, was he a sight for sore eyes!

A Day in the Life

Nurse came in around 5:30 to prick Mother's finger and give her injection

Got up around 6:30, showered, dressed.

Went with Mother to the dining room. The staff were wearing scrubs, the residents were wearing jammies and robes. I was the only person in real clothes.

Had scrambled eggs and bacon. Have never eaten bacon in front of her before. My place in hell is now secure.

Came back from breakfast. Mother sat in her recliner. I got my tweezers and spent 10 minute pulling all the bristley whiskers from her chin and throat. Then removed months-old polish from her toes and gently tended to dead skin, gunk under toenails, and overgrowth for almost half an hour. Then she dozed for two hours. I knitted.

Sat for half an hour, then went to lunch.

Made the mistake of ordering the mashed potatoes. Mother couldn't keep her eyes off my mashed potatoes. Had to divide my portion in half and spoon it onto her plate. Ate the pork stew. My ticket to hell is in the mail. (Is pork so much less expensive than other meats? Why pig for every meal?)

Walked back to Mother's room, where she immediately climbed up onto her bed and slept until 4:30. I knitted. Finished the bag I was working on - to be felted when I get home.

She got up - half an hour 'til dinner. Walked outside, walked around side of building and back, then sat in porch rockers for 5 minutes, then time for dinner.

Hot dogs and baked beans for dinner. Ate the bacon in the beans. The hell monitors are on their way to get me!

Back to the room. Sat at the table outside her room and played two games of Scrabble, where she made up a couple of words and I let it ride. I won the first game; she won the second. (Okay, so I played like I do with Boston and Ridley.)

Back in the room, she went wordlessly into her bedroom, brushed her teeth, changed her clothes and got into bed. Not a word. Not even, "Good night, Jan." Ba-boom. Sound asleep. Nurse came in 20 minutes later with night meds. Took them, rolled over and went right back to sleep. I sat on couch and watched TV programs I've never seen and wished I had packed a second knitting project.

Went to sleep on the couch at 10:15. Woke at 4:30 with headache.
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I have looked at the weather forecast and decided to leave this afternoon to head back home. I don't want to drive in rain all day tomorrow. If I can get at least four hours under my tires tonight, that's four fewer hours I have to drive in rain tomorrow.

Today we go to the eye doctor to have the rest of the stitches (put in during last summer's Bell's Palsy episode when she couldn't close her eye) removed. She's dreading the appointment, as they inject her around the eyebrow and it's painful. When we're back from the doctor, I'll load my things in the car and leave.

I think I've spoken more to the nursing staff on this visit than to her.
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Last night at dinner, she said "This [might be/is probably] the last time I see you." I was shocked. So shocked I couldn't remember her exact choice of words, but I'm pretty sure it was "is probably".

I laughed it off and said, "Oh, we think you're going to live to 105."
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During dinner I asked if she missed Florida. She said no. "I told Daddy I'd marry him if I didn't have to live in Florida. I always wanted to live in North Carolina." I said, "But then you wouldn't have gotten me." No response. :) (My birthmother traveled from Gloucester, MA, to Orlando to give birth to me.)
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I am the mother and she is the child.
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I simply can't imagine living life this way.

Aging

Just a quick note this morning with no theme-suggestive images.

My mother was always an immaculate housekeeper. You know the phrase "you could eat off the floor"? Her house was always so clean you truly could eat off the floor.

Over the past couple of years while she was still living on her own, my sister-in-law and I started noticing changes. There was dust where dust would never have been allowed to live in the past. Foodstuffs were left in cupboards and refrigerators long after their proposed date-of-death. Clothes would be worn and rework multiple times—with stains in plain view—before being added to the laundry basket.

So we finally made the hard decision to help her move to assisted living.

When I arrived last night and walked into the bathroom, I thought I would die. The toilet was grotesquely dirty. The floor around the toilet made me want to wash my shoes after exiting. (and this is no lowrent facility!) There were tissues on the floor. There was a general feeling of I can't see it/I don't care about her apartment.

Mother will be 98 at the end of May. In many ways she's three or four again

And it hurts me to watch this deterioration.

Now let's be clear. I don't adore her. But I respect her for the life she gave me.

Life should not come to this!

(There's no need here for lectures about getting the cleanliness problem fixed, Friends. We're on it. I just needed to share. Thanks.)

Adding Insult to Itching

Remember my post back in June about the correlation between itching and a new yarn I was using? This problem has never gone away. By my calculations, this problem began on May 25, 2010.

It bothered me horribly in June when the Jazzman took me to Chicago to celebrate my 60th birthday. It continued bothering me in July when we went to the lake for a week. It persisted through three trips (May, July, August) to deal with moving Mother to an assisted living facility and most of her belongings back to my house. It bothered me whether I was knitting or not. It bothered me whether I was wearing cotton or wool, taking multivitamins or not, washing clothes in "free & clear" detergents or detergents filled with chemicals. It bothered me.

I had gone to my regular dermatologist back in early June. Let's just say that was a very unsatisfactory doctor visit. I got no answers. But in defense of the medical establishment, neither did I push for answers. I just lived with it.

In the past month it's gotten worse and worse. I figured it was the ringworm that Angel gave me come back to haunt me. I would wake in the middle of the night and scratch my ankles or knees until they bled.

Finally I got the name of a different dermatologist and went two days ago to get checked out. I just wanted the beautiful, smart young P.A. to give me a pill I could take to get rid of my "ringworm".

She took one look at my arms and legs, then looked at me sadly and said, "This isn't ringworm. This is chronic hives."

What?! Chronic hives?! I've never had hives in my life. In sixty years I've never had hives. And, boy howdy, do I have them now!

She gave me a prescription of antihistamine and a one pound jar of salve to rub into the itching welts. (I asked her if she expected me to bathe in the stuff!) She biopsied one of the welts, and gave me a long, detailed questionnaire to fill out regarding my diet and lifestyle and medications and any practices that might be causing this ridiculous condition.

So far the welts have stayed on my arms and legs. There's been nothing on my torso. Oh wait. Last night there was a 2" welt on my chest. And a big raised welt on the back of my neck, itching to beat the band. Lovely. And this morning I noticed a great big welt on my left butt cheek. Great! Just great!

If it spreads to my face, I may just crawl in a hole and stay there until it subsides.

The only goodness is that it's not catching. I can't give it to the Jazzman or my g'babes. That's the only goodness, so far as I see it.

Okay, it's not cancer. It's not a heart attack. It's not a toomah! (Tumor, for those of you who haven't seen Kindergarten Cop.) But it's annoying as hell, and it itches, and it's UGly.

I know there's nothing you can do. And I know you didn't really want to hear about this. Oh wait—those of you who really didn't want to hear about it quit reading already! But I needed to vent, so thank you for listening.

Now to find the cause. I've stopped all meds. (Except my estrogen. I refuse to give up my estrogen! If that tiny little patch is the cause, I'll just have chronic hives until I die. I ain't goin' back to hot flashes!)

The P.A. suggested stress could be a cause. Hmmm, let's see. On May 6th I started a new job with an enormous pay cut. I worry about finances every single day. (As I know most of you do - we're all on that stress boat together!) This summer I went through a major life change with my mother, had to spend days sorting through and packing all her [crap] and spending even more money to move it all back here. And I turned 60, no small issue. And today I'm taking in a roommate/lover/life partner. (Yes, I will readily assert that not all stress is bad. Some is quite wonderful, thankyouverymuch, but it's still stress.)

I guess the next item on my to-do list is exercise to try to alleviate some of the effects of the stress.

Geeez. Hit me again.

Work That Brain!

I love picture puzzles. I love jigsaw puzzles. Whatever you want to call them, I love sitting, touching, fingering, and finding a home for each solitary piece.

My fondest memories of my childhood and youth are of coming home after school, putting a recording of a Broadway musical or Gilbert & Sullivan operetta on the turntable, and singing along at the top of my lungs while putting together a picture puzzle. I loved those times and relive them every time I hear one of those pieces of music again.

Saturday night, after attending Dreams and Other Pools of Light in which my daughter-in-law danced and my son was musical director, I took the g'babes home with me so Ty and Jaci could attend the cast party. I pulled out my favorite picture puzzle—an old Springbok puzzle showing all the little people and cars and trucks that run around inside a computer to make the information come out—and we listened to tunes off our iPods while we assembled the puzzle. When their daddy came to pick them up at 10:30, they asked if he wanted to help us. He said, "Why, yes. I've done that picture puzzle many times." It was a very sweet moment for me.

Yesterday afternoon I opened my weekly e-mail from The New Yorker and learned they are now puzzleifying the New Yorker covers!!! Such sweet joy! I've been doing puzzles at JigZone for years. But what a treat this new service from The New Yorker is. I can assemble the cover image, then click to read feature articles from the magazine!

As my brain ages and finding words becomes slower and more laborious, this activity can only help, right?

Mother's New Digs

Happy birthday to my sister-in-law, Molly, who is the genius behind how beautiful Mother's new apartment looks!

(Scroll down if you don't immediately see the pictures on your screen. I'm having a hard time getting this page to format correctly. Oh well!)

Sorting a Lifetime

I know I said I'd post again last night, but I don't have my feet on the ground yet after the whirlwind trip to North Carolina. I'm exhausted!

I'm sure there's some minor depression that's helping keep me so tired. Last night as I was going to bed, all I could think about was Mother spending the first night in her new digs. Because of the size of the place, we've switched her from a queen bed to a twin. How different to know you'll spend the rest of your nights in a twin bed after years and years of queens and kings.

Today's photo shows you what Mother's guest room looked like during my visit. We kept putting furniture in there that is coming back to Ohio so the movers would have an easier time on Thursday (yesterday). I can identify many of the items as being from the Maitland house where I grew up or the Spring Valley house where they moved when I went away to college. Going through Mother's possessions is like walking backwards through my life.

I can't say enough about the good work my sister-in-law, Molly, has done during the course of the past two years. And in the past week, Molly was an absolute genius—"take this, not that". Molly was in Mother's closet for fully two hours on Monday night, pulling and setting aside enough clothing to leave Mother with twelve linear feet of clothing on hangers. On Tuesday night, Molly spent another two hours in the closet pulling outfits together and hooking the hangers together. Thanks to all Molly's hard work, Mother will now be able to reach into the closet and pull out an outfit, not struggle to find two things that will go together.

But back to the original intent of this post: a brief recap of the week.

I left Youngstown around 8:30 last Saturday, stopped at Starbucks to cash in my birthday coupon for a mocha to sip while driving, and arrived in Hendersonville around 5:30. I stopped along the way at Tamarack to pick up something lovely for Molly's birthday and settled on a fabulous mug by WV clay artist Keith Lahti. I hit bad rain in Virginia and stopped at one point to close my eyes for a few minutes. As soon as I arrived at Mother's, we left to go to Blue Sky Cafe for some supper.

Sunday was totally devoted to sorting, culling, and packing. And preparing to sew. My primary purpose during this visit was to cut down her existing window treatments to fit the windows in the new apartment. The pleated valance over her patio door needed to be extended about eight inches. The gathered valance in the bedroom had to be cut down about twelve inches. Molly—another accomplished sewist—and I kept tossing ideas around and finally came up with a plan.

Monday I went to the Ace Hardware and got a 1"x6"x8' board which I covered with an old sheet. Then I took out several of the pleats and remade them. With my new staple gun, I attached the valance to the board. It's not perfect, but I'm probably the only person who would see the little glitch in one pleat. On the gathered valance, I thought we could just gather it more tightly onto a new rod, but Molly suggested I cut out one section and just reseam it. I took her advice, then realized that a rod pocket can't accept a rod if there's a seam in the middle of it! Knowing no one would see it, and knowing this valance only needs to last for a couple of years at most, I cut two holes in the back of the rod pocket and snaked the rod out and back in. Then I sewed a little patch across the exposed rod so the valance would gather properly. "Necessity is the mother of . . ." Oh yeah, "invention"!

My brother Jerry arrived around 12:30 on Monday and we went en masse to visit Mother's new place, Spring Arbor West (SAW). It's a very nice facility with under 40 residents. There's a lovely dining room, a café one can reserve to entertain guests or throw a small party, a game room, a library, and a light and bright sunroom with lots of white wicker and a television for watching movies. Mother's room is at the end of one of the halls, with a four-person game table situated right outside her door. Molly and Jim did a great job in choosing this place, I believe. I hope Mother will be happy there, but we'll never know—one way or the other—as this is not a person who ever discusses her feelings. About anything!

I finished the drapery alterations late Monday night. Tuesday I took the valances and rods and a few delicate items out to Spring Arbor West. Once I got out there and unloaded the paintings and clock, I realized I had forgotten the drapery hardware! (Let me clarify that the current apartment and the new apartment are about 15-20 miles apart!) I had to rush back to Fletcher Park Inn (FPI) for a 3:00 party to say goodbye to the FPI executive director who is changing jobs—she's the new executive director of Spring Arbor West! How wonderful that Mother will know someone there! The FPI management used the party to also say goodbye to Mother. I ducked out midway through and raced back out to SAW to drop off the hardware and give instructions for its installation. Then back to FPI and an evening of packing and loading Jaci's van until I just couldn't take another step.

Wednesday morning I left around 8:00, stopping only for gas and food until I got to Beckley, where I had to make another stop to buy two more of the Lahti mugs. I figured I had earned them! After a fabulous fried tomato sandwich for lunch, I tackled the rest of the trip, stopping once to nap for ten minutes. I hit horrible thunderstorms in northern West Virginia, and got home around 7:30. The Jazzman and I had hoped to go to a concert at 7:00 at Mill Creek Park, where one of his cousins was playing in a band, but his late work schedule and my long drive deemed that an impossibility.

Once home, I unloaded the car, poured a glass of wine, and collapsed. In two weeks or so, I've got to do it all over again, packing up everything that's left in the apartment and getting it loaded onto a moving van to bring it back here. I've known for years that this day was coming, but I'm in a state of shock now that it's finally here!

So there you go. A short trip that felt very long and was filled to overflowing with emotions.

May my children never have to go through this sort of exercise with me!

One Month and Counting

I just realized today is the 22nd. I've been 60 for a month now. And it's going pretty damned well.

I went on a week-long vacation with the boyfriend-of-six-months and we didn't have one fight. (Well, to be fair, neither of us is a fighter. We're both non-confrontational peaceniks.) I am a month further into the new job and a month less ignorant. I learned that I have a torn left medial meniscus and am facing something like lots of physical therapy to my knee or knee surgery. I've survived a month of worrying about my mother as she trods along slides down what appears to be the road to her death. I received and accepted a job offer to serve as the accompanist for the Stambaugh Chorus.

Ups. Downs. Life.

I'm settling into being 60, and life is good.

If you're worried that you're not hearing from me, it's just that I'm too busy. And isn't that a good state in which to be?

What a Difference One Percent Makes!

We're going on vacation tomorrow—a week at the lake. The Jazzman tells me it's a very casual environment, where the women's wardrobes consist of shorts and capris and T-shirts. I'm sad to report that I've put on weight since last summer. Significant weight. My doctor prescribed beta blockers to curb my headaches and decrease heart palpitations. But the side effect, for me at least, is weight gain. Therefore, only the clothes that were [very] loose (i.e. baggy) last summer still fit me this summer.

I have several pair of Not Your Daughter's Jeans® (NYDJ), which I wear almost daily. All are size 12 and fit me fine. My favorite pair of jeans were purchased in the Costa Mesa Nordstrom during the summer of 2007, and are a dream to wear. They're 12s and still fit me, so I should be able to slip on another pair of size 12 NYDJs with no problem, right?

I ran to the Beachwood Nordstrom after rehearsal on Wednesday evening and picked a couple pair of NYDJ cropped pants off the rack. To make sure they would fit, and not exhibiting any pride at all, I grabbed a 14 along with the 12. I looked at the labels first to make sure the denim was a stretch fabric with Lycra woven in. I was wearing my favorite NYDJ jeans at the time. I slipped them off and slipped on the 12s. Nope. Not even close to buttoning. So dropped them back on the chair and slipped on the 14s. What? Buttoning but not zipping? Size 14? If this is supposed to be funny, I'm not laughing.

The sales associate and I discussed the problem and starting looking more closely at the labels on several pair of NYDJ jeans. The labels we pulled said 99% denim, 1% Lycra, and 98/2, and 97/3. The pair I was wearing, and that I love*love*love, say 96% denim, 4% Lycra.

Would you ever have guessed that one percent of Lycra in a fabric weave could make that much difference?

I finally found a little pair of soft green crops that will go with a beige Chico's T that I love. They're not the most comfortable pants I've ever bought, but with my Nordstrom Rewards certificate, they were less than $20 and will be cool in the 85-90 degree temps under blazing sun that we're supposed to get on the lake next week.

While we're discussing clothes, I'll confess that I bought a new pair of white slides. I have a pair of Ecco white slides that I've had since around 1990. They're the most comfortable casual shoes I own, but a dog EEFFH and I brought home from the pound to please his kids in about 2002 chewed into them, and they look incredibly ratty. When Jazz suggested I wear them to a party last Sunday and I cringed, I realized they needed to go in the trash.

I received a catalog from FootSmart earlier this week. When flipping through it, I noticed that the Walking Cradles' Alva slide was almost identical to the Ecco slide. And, of course, the white was on sale. There's a new Top Shoe on my most comfortable casual shoes list now. The sole is cushioned, and the shoe is just a dream to wear. I think they will be on my feet for rehearsal at Blossom this afternoon!

My final shoe note is to show you this incredible shoe, which I found while looking for a picture for today's post. What a kick! Have you ever seen anything so wild?! That's the sort of outrageous shoe that my daughter-in-law loves to wear, and looks fabulous in.

And my final note on the weight problems is that I was ready to sign the gym membership papers yesterday when my doctor called and told me my left medial meniscus is torn and will require surgery. I see the ortho on July 29th. I am not happy.

I've been chiding Jazz for not shoving me onto the grass when he saw me start to fall on the pavement. What a perfect opportunity he had to release his aggression on me. Now he has to put up with my limping and complaining for another four weeks, then wait on me hand and foot while I recuperate from surgery.

Sounds like a plan, huh?

You're *How* Old?

As you know, I'm 60 years and one week old today. When I say 60, it seems impossible. I know I've lived a long life, walked a circuitous route, but 60? How did that happen?

I'm lucky to have many friends, many good friends, who span a wide age range. One of my best friends and favorite people is 26. Every time he sees me, he hugs me. And a number of friends from my former job are in their 30s and 40s. Many of my Tucson friends are in their 30s, with a few in their 70s.

When I'm with a friend, I forget how old I am. I think I'm the same age my friend is. We have similar interests, we pursue similar activities. How can I be 20 or 30 or 35 years older than that scintillating person?

Then I get home and look in the mirror and I'm shocked that a 60-year-old woman with hidden gray hair and age spots on her hands is looking back at me!

I guess this age-forgetfulness is a good thing. If I think I'm able easily to walk three miles or throw a pot on the wheel or stand up and sit down repeatedly for a three-hour rehearsal, then maybe I'll retain the ability to do those things.

If I stay around young people and communicate with young people, will I retain my young outlook on life?

I can only hope. And keep trying.

Brain, Please Don't Fail Me Now

Yesterday morning I glanced at the family's shared calendar and realized I had to go to Akron-Canton Airport today to pick up the vacationers when they returned from Denver. The calendar said 1:20, so I had the perfect opportunity to schedule a detour to my favorite salon and hairstylist in Fairlawn to have repair done to my Horrible Haircut.

I scheduled my haircut for 10:30, which would give me plenty of time for some lowlights and a cut, then time to work on my laptop while waiting for the family to arrive. After picking up Jaci's van, I started driving toward Akron, with just enough time to make the entire schedule work.

About a third of the way to Akron, I glanced toward the back of the van and realized, to my horror, that the kids' booster seats were not in the van. Someone had borrowed the van in their absence, removed the boosters, and forgotten to return them to their rightful seats.

Oops!

When I spoke with Jaci to tell her the situation, I asked if they were at the airport yet. "No," she replied, "we don't have to go for several hours." I said, "But you're arriving here at 1:20, right?" "No," she said, as if to a child, "we're leaving at 1:20."

Oops!

Hair done, I quickly called one of my work buddies and hooked up with two friends for lunch. Then I sat in the Fairlawn Barnes & Noble for an hour-and-a-half of work. Then I headed for Canton and sat in the Border's for another couple of hours.

When I arrived at Border's, I found the restroom to prepare for settling into a chair for two hours. I noticed that the restroom was particularly gross, and thought that unusual for a ladies' room. Then, when I left my stall, I noticed a urinal. Hmmm, I thought. That's also unusual for a ladies' room. I washed my hands as quickly as possible, then opened the door to inspect the sign. In big white letters on a black sign: "Men's".

Oops!

If you find my brain, would you please return it to me?!