Hospital Bed

When I did this before it was different, it was quick; although, it didn’t feel that way at the time. But it was hurried. This is slower, a lot of waiting. The last time we went from diagnosis to radiation to hospital to hospice to funeral home. Of course there were stops between - last lunches at favorite restaurants, and a baby shower for a grandson she only caught a fleeting, drug induced glimpse of – but by standards, it was quick. Five months from diagnosis to death.

Of course she had to have known earlier, but not one to ruin a Christmas, she kept this news to herself. But this time is different. There is no diagnosis. Is old age a diagnosis? There is no textbook chronology to follow. We wait, we hope, we realize how ridiculous that appears at 103. What does it really mean to die of old age? We don’t know.

The latest development – a hospital bed; that was our joke thirty-five years ago, “When I get old, don’t put me in a nursing home. Set up a hospital bed right here in the dining room, so I can still keep tabs on my neighbors." The bed came today – but it is not in the dining room, macular degeneration prevents you from seeing the neighbors' comings and goings. (Probably a good thing, since child number 10 is now your neighbor – sorry, Steve.)

I didn’t stay to see how you’d take it - the hospital bed. The truth of the bed in your room replacing the bed you and Lewis shared, replacing the bed that you have slept in for fifty-plus years, was more than I could bear. Instead of accepting what the hospital bed means, I choose to dwell on your sense of humor. When asked this morning, by Mary, “How do you feel today, Mother?” You replied, “I feel like I was called for, but wouldn’t do.”

That’s the spirit. That’s my Big Red. That’s what I choose to accept. No hospital bed can diminish that spirit.

Monday Morning Regrets

Monday morning. I am not ready to go back to work today. I didn’t quite have enough weekend. There are a few things I intended to accomplish that didn’t get done, like my toenails and the refrigerator. I really wanted a pedicure and I really need to clean out the refrigerator. I know there is a bowl of sliced cucumbers in vinegar that should be tossed. It has been in there three-plus weeks and every time I open the door I smell the cucumber-infused vinegar (it actually smells pretty good, but I’m not brave enough to uncover the bowl). I only made a small dent in the pile of ironing and I neglected the fallen green bean teepee in my garden. My home office is a disaster of unfinished projects and I’m only halfway through the Dewey Decimal System in my home library undertaking.

These and so many other things left undone would lead one to think I did nothing all weekend, but I was busy from the time I walked through my front door on Friday evening until late Sunday night. How could I have been so busy and yet still have so much to do? And I’m not even counting the things I know I should be doing – the things every woman’s magazine at every check out lane in every grocery store in the country makes one feel guilty about not accomplishing:

Exercising – Wow, I really need to think about this and hopefully, actually get back into some sort of routine, but it would have taken a minimum of one hour each day, and I swear to you there were no hours left.

Meditating – A few serene moments of nothingness, a mind purge, would have done me good, I know – but no time.

Volunteering in my Community – I know I’m suppose to do this. I work for a non-profit organization and see first-hand everyday how important volunteering is, but how in the world do these people find the time is what I don’t understand.

Walk the Dogs – I am embarrassed to admit I did not walk the dogs this weekend. Does that make me an irresponsible pet owner? It was too darn hot and there was that time thing again. (I did however, play a rousing game of fetch with them in the backyard on Saturday night.)

Speaking of Saturday night, another thing I neglected was: My Social Life – I guess you can figure that one out on your own if you paid any attention to the parenthetical sentence above.

I did not shave my legs, color my hair, pluck my eyebrows, or moisturize my skin. I didn’t even put on makeup all weekend. Just so you don’t think I’m a total slob, I did shower and wash my hair.

I did not clean my house or write my blog, which were on the top of the To-Do List I painstakingly made on Saturday morning. What did I do, you are surely wondering at this point.

I watered my garden, I shelled a bushel of black-eyed peas, I drank a little wine, I talked to both daughters on the telephone, I watched a movie, I worked on a writing assignment, I stayed up too late catching up on facebook, I harvested and cooked a pot of green beans from my garden, I went to the farmers’ market, I did a few loads of laundry, I went to the grocery store, I canned ten quarts of jalapeno peppers, I invented a recipe and cooked all of the squash, eggplant, onions, garlic, tomatoes and peppers from last week’s harvest, I drank a little more wine, I ate chocolate, I sat under the chandelier in the garden (see blog dated June 12, 2010) with my husband, I drank coffee and read the Sunday newspaper and did the crossword puzzle in bed, I did not go to church, but did listen to a sermon online by my dear friend Fawn (you can see it too, at: http://www.echristchurch.org/templates/System/details.asp?id=42525&PID=638046),
I finished a writing assignment, I visited relatives at my grandmother’s house, I harvested okra, I got mosquito bites, I got a bit of ironing done, I watched another movie, I microwaved leftovers, and I finished reading a novel. All-in-all I had an enjoyable and fairly productive weekend. If I only had one more day, I’m sure I could find time to meditate.

Oops, We Did it Again

We did it again. Approximately thirty of my sorority sisters and I morphed into our eighteen-year-old-selves for the reunion weekend. We have discovered our Fountain of Youth. It only lasts for about thirty-six hours once a year, but that is enough for us; we’ll take it. The transformation from fifty-something to eighteen happens the minute one walks through the door of our log country cabin. Squeals of recognition, hugs, tears, and laughter are the tonic.

Women arrive on Friday evening made up, coiffed, and dressed to the nines, unsure about fitting in – “Will I know anyone?” “Will they remember me?” Soon, Fawn’s laugher fills the room, Johanna’s southern accent caresses our ears, and we are back in the sorority house, and it is 1975. Someone has disco music booming from an I-Pod (my, how technology has changed), scrapbooks and Kodachrome snapshots are spread out on every surface, and beer, wine and tequila begin to flow – SPLASH, someone falls (or is pushed or jumps) into the swimming pool. We are all eighteen.

We’ve seen divorce, and illness, and death. We’ve seen marriages, and births, and graduations. We discuss diets, and hair color, and wrinkle cream. By Saturday morning no one bothers to put on make up or fix their hair. We are who we are. We are eighteen year old college girls. We can see past the thirty years, we can see through the wrinkles and the under eye puffiness to the real person.

On Sunday we hug and cry. It is time to go back, back to the world of responsibilities where we are fifty-something, a bit overweight, and where we see a colorist on a regular basis. But we each take with us the memory of that eighteen year old and perhaps we will laugh a little more, or fall into a swimming pool this year, while we await our next appointment with our Fountain of Youth. See you next year, girls.

Same Time Next Year

My third annual college sorority reunion is this weekend. We waited thirty years before we organized our first get-together in 2008, at which time we vowed to meet every year, and wondered why we hadn’t thought of this sooner.

Aside from the obvious (getting to see old friends), the magic of the weekend is the transformation of fifty-something year old women into eighteen year old college coeds. Who wouldn’t want to be eighteen again for a weekend? But, alas, we are not eighteen. We are grown women with families and jobs and responsibilities. We have aging and infirm parents, we have unrelenting job schedules, we have children and husbands depending on us, and a plethora of other demands on our time.

Sadly, there will be some friends unable to attend this year, but there is next year, and the year after, and so on. We are a determined group of women; determined to stand by our friends through illness or loss, through injury or a son’s deployment, and even through death. We will buoy each other’s spirits as we face whatever life has to throw at us, knowing that we will have next year.

So, to my friends who cannot make it this weekend – know that you will be with us in our hearts. We will raise a glass to you, we will miss you, and we will see you next year.

Health Care

I’m not feeling well today. What became of the old practice, written about in Jane Austen novels, and seen in old 1940s movies, of sending people away to the country or seaside to convalesce? I am in dire need of a “rest.” I promise if sent away for “my health” I would do nothing but watch the tide come in. I wonder if there is any way I can get this old practice into a healthcare plan. I am certain my HMO wouldn’t go for it. Bother.

About that Hall Closet

I just looked back through my blog to see when I last wrote about the hall closet – it was May 20th. I have slowly been organizing books in the new library, the former hall closet, and even more slowly trying to deal with all of the other “stuff” that once called the hall closet home. You may recall that when my husband decided to transform the closet into a library for me he moved everything (everything!) into Daughter #1’s bedroom, which is now our guest room. I have been procrastinating, as usual, and haven’t really found a new home for much of the “stuff.”

One of the big problems, aside from the sheer quantity, is the sentimental value attached to so much of the crap I own. There have been days when I really-truly wanted to tackle the job, but all I could do was stand in the doorway and stare at the boxes of my mother’s china, my husband’s grandmother’s crystal, and other assorted heirlooms. But, horrors, we are having guests! One week from tomorrow I will have actual houseguests, who will expect to sleep in an actual guest room. My procrastinating days are over. Today I made a dent in the “stuff.”

I opened one box to discover a zillion (okay, maybe 25) milk glass punch cups, each carefully wrapped in white packing paper. These belonged to my mother and they go with the milk glass punch bowl I remember so well from my childhood. But, where is the punch bowl? Since my lack of memory cells is well documented, I called my sister to see if she recalled where the punch bowl was relegated after Mother died. Nope, she had no idea. After discussing, at length, the insanity of keeping a zillion milk glass punch cups which I will never use (I’m sure I would still never use them even if I had the punchbowl!), she gave me permission to get rid of the punch cups. What a feeling that permission gave me. Knowing she saw the absurdity of hanging on to the cups just for sentimental reasons, and validating my desire to ditch them was a wonderful gift from my sweet sister, a gift which takes up no space in my closet or home.

But then I brought up Mother’s milk glass pitcher and goblets. When my sister “aahed” and said, “Oh, I remember those always being on the hutch in the dining room,” I knew I would be keeping them. The punch cups were not on display for the duration of our parents’ married lives.

But there was still the dilemma of what to do with boxes and boxes of “heirlooms.” I am rather proud of myself for coming up with an ingenious solution to my storage problem. The boxes are an eyesore – ugly grocery and liquor boxes with yellowed masking tape holding them together, there is no way I can put them back into my newly painted library and there is nowhere else to store them. Keeping them in the guest room is no longer an option. The solution:



I selected several rolls of nice wrapping paper that coordinate with the new paint color and I am wrapping all of the heirlooms. I am even putting gift tags on them, labeling the contents of each box. I have effectively solved my storage problem and I’ve also had a really good laugh, thinking about the day when my daughters or grandchildren discover the “presents” I have left them. Then it will be their problem to decide whether or not to get rid of the family heirlooms. Maybe milk glass will see a resurgence in popularity or be worth something by then.

Donna

I received the news today.
How can it be?
We were eighteen.
Your white-blonde hair,
your Virginia Slims cigarettes.
You were a wounded bird even then.

Oh, the fun we had.
Products of a southern upbringing,
yours more southern than mine,
complete with a propensity for the “unique.”
Dear God, you were unique.

We shared more than the south.
Our best friend, Kat,
and double dates.
We shared late night confessions,
you introduced me to your demons.
We were sisters.

Truth be told,
we lost you long ago.
We lost you, you lost us.
I hear Don gave you your world back,
a family (what we tried to give you),
surely better than those college boys.

Your laughter, your life, your light
all gone. All hidden forever,
behind the smoke of your Virginia Slims,
your blonde hair, your fractured beauty.
Southern Comfort, empty now,
but not our hearts.

We hold you dear,
like that long, long road a winding
that we’ve heard about.
We will see you again,
raise a glass, laugh.
We love you, Trixie.