"I Don't Know, and I Won't Ask"....

Dad is cool. And here's why I think so....

Sunday we attended the Homecoming church service at SFB. Homecoming service is a big deal because the choir comes out of hibernation, puts on their blue and white choir robes and music abounds. This after a long, dry summer with a soloist here and there and the organist but none of the great anthems we've come to expect over the years. The service was great and Dad thoroughly enjoyed the music and the fanfare.

But, he still can't hear worth a damn despite his hearing aids. That's a topic for a separate discussion entirely. He hears the music because the decibel level is up there. As for the greeting, the sermon, the readings, and the prayers; he's basically stone deaf to it all  that's spoken in church.

During one of the hymns, there's an opportunity to come forward with specific prayer requests. In all my years attending church I've only done this once before; one time when Dad was sick and hospitalized back in 2006. I asked for prayers for his healing and the request was read aloud along with multiple other prayer requests.

This past Sunday, I definitely had something worthy of a prayer or two and so I left my seat with Dad telling him I'd be "right back". I didn't think he even missed me and I certainly didn't think he heard my prayer request. He never mentioned a thing about it.

Until....the next day, Laura and I stopped by to visit him and we got to talking about how lovely the church service had been.

Dad: "Yes, and you got up during the hymn and walked up to one of the ministers."

Me: "Yeah, I had a prayer request. The minister mentioned all the requests during the prayers of the people part of the service. You couldn't hear what she was saying, could you?"

Dad: "No. I couldn't hear anything. I don't know what you were praying for and.....I won't ask".

We laughed and moved right on to another topic of conversation. Dad is very perceptive, even more so it seems in his 90's and at the most unexpected times. He knew there was something on my mind, something that made me want to walk up and talk to a minister with a prayer request but he's never been one to pry. Always willing to listen but he never pushes.

I do intend to share my prayer request with him. He needs to know. And, perhaps he can offer his sage advice which might possibly be...."It'll all turn out OK in the end".

Thanks in advance, Dad.

Resentment vs Guilt

When I visit Dad, as I did today, I.....

1. Ask how he is sleeping.
2. Water his plant
3. Straighten the framed photos on the wall that have slipped out of place
4. Check the candy and Ensure supply
5. Ask about library books; which ones are ready to go back?
6. Check and remark about the updated Exxon Mobil stock quote
7. Clean and change the batteries in his hearing aids.
8. Hand him his 5 pound weight and encourage him to "lift 200 pounds", a hundred with each arm
9. Check the volume on his telephone
10. Let him know when I'll be back next and ask if he wants anything

Today he complained about not getting his eye drops. He also couldn't give me a definitive "yes" about going to church on Sunday and told me to call him back on Sunday morning to decide yay or nay. He wasn't happy about his shoes and couldn't understand why his foot care provider wanted him to get a new pair. He told me Geydon will only let him have 2 peppermint patties a day. He pointed out that the carpet in his room had been professionally cleaned recently. He told me that as soon as I left he was going to get one of the caregivers to take him out for a walk. When I told him he looked good today, he said, "Thank you" and smiled.

Each visit is much the same. He seems to welcome my company but I'm lately feeling as though his world is shrinking smaller. The smallest things are huge for him.

Sometimes battling the snarled up traffic to drive all the way to Northgate and back seems like such a waste of precious time. I wish he were closer.  I spend more time in the car than I do with him. A big bite comes right out of the day when I go to Dad's.  Balancing the feelings of resentment with the guilt of not going when I could or should is rough. Guess which is the worse feeling? Yep...guilt is way worse. Always has been and always will be.

And, tomorrow is another day.

Saga of Shoes

My Dad rarely puts in a request for new clothing or shoes. When Mom was alive she told me he declared at age 80 that he owned enough shirts and ties to "last forever" and requested "no more".  We've not exactly complied with that request. What else do you get Dad for his Birthday or Christmas or Father's Day but a new shirt and sweater vest? 

Here's Dad wearing a shirt and vest purchased for some such celebratory event. He wears it proudly as he works out with his 5 pound weight.

As for shoes, for the last 6 years he's had only two pair; one black and one brown. The black ones  are totally spent. As I think about it, we need to pitch them as he hasn't had them on his feet for years and for good reason. The brown ones, purchased ages back from Lands End, are enormous slip on shoes that have seen use every single day. He's worn them to church (yikes), Thanksgiving dinners, and my Mom's Memorial service. We try not to look at his feet. Attempts to polish them end up a fool's errand as they never look any better. Countless times we've asked Dad if he'd like a new pair. "No", sayeth he. Ok, I think. Be that way. You're 95, you can decide for yourself.

The "NO" turned into a yes (finally) when Betty, his foot care lady called me to say that Dad's shoes were a disaster; totally eroded on the inside and cutting into his toes. Did Dad complain prior to this? Negative. But, once Betty told him new shoes were highly recommended, shoes were on his mind, constantly.

My first attempt fizzled when the size 12 B shoes from Macy's were "nice but too tight". So, I ordered from Lands End, a 12 wide with shoes to be shipped to his address. Every day I'd ask...."Shoes there yet, Dad".  "Not yet". Sigh. The postal tracking indicated delivery on 7/31. But, there were NO DAMN SHOES and Dad, although pleasant in his complaints, was clear in his remarks that his current pair "hurt my feet". Sigh.

A call to Lands End after waiting several days for the shoes to be delivered revealed that the "package must be lost, Ma'am. We'll send another pair in the mail for you right away". Meanwhile, one of the caregivers pointed out that the postman had delivered a "tried to deliver" note. According to the writing to the left: "garden sprinkler across entry". The post office can't deal with a garden hose? C'mon!  By now, Dad's desperate for shoes and I'm steaming.

Long story short: I picked up the original pair of shoes at the post office and a day later the second pair arrived. At least he's happy with the fit and style. But, he doesn't want both pair. "You'll need to get the ones in the box back to Lands End, sweetheart."

OK Dad.  OK.

Success at last. New shoes and they make him happy. Love it when that happens.....

Second Monday in June

I'm feeling strange with an abrupt shift of gears today. Coming off of a 7 day on-call mindset, totally consumed by things medical, I'm back to work at the Arapahoe house. MM and I are at it again; one step at a time, towards the goal of getting the house on the market.

This is a sad time but I try not to dwell on the meaning of breaking up a home, dispersing every item therein and closing the door for the last time. The finality troubles me.

This week we're witnessing the fruits of our labors in April where all items of value were photographed and cataloged into a document for all seven grandchildren of Dean and Doris to peruse and select items they might like to have. Furniture, rugs, wall hangings, dishes, crystal, silverware. Everything.

What I thought would be simple, wasn't. Creating the inventory was an enormous task. We had hundreds of photographs of items divided into categories. MM did the bulk of the work on the master document and the task of encouraging the family to participate in the process in the midst of their busy lives. That was harder than I had anticipated.

A friend of mine went through this process with her parent's home awhile back. Using a similar list, she was amazed how dispersal seemed to magically "sort itself out". I hope that's the case for us. To some degree we're noticing this with our master list. It's fascinating to learn what's important to the third generation of our family.  Everyone is unique. Some have selected many items. Others 2 or 3 at most. Interesting.

When all is said and done, the "left overs" will either go to thrift shops, consignment, or....get packed up and stored in my home. There are so many things that I can't part with just yet, can't let go into the big world.

This is hard.

Three Week Marathon

A sprint, not a marathon, for me please. I'd much rather grit my teeth and get through something self limited than steam ahead on a seemingly endless and exhausting moving treadmill. Yesterday marked the end to my three week nose-to-the-grindstone, work-like-a-dog (who is that working dog, by the way?), date with a mixed up stew of responsibilities and tasks.

I'm settling in to my second day off, at home, free of my paying job and trying to ignore the non-paying jobs as best I can, I'll take a stab writing about what went on in these three weeks above and beyond wine, chocolate, coffee, red bull, imitrex, tears, and curses.

Photographing Everything

MM and I tackled and made a decent dent in the enormous task of sorting through and archiving items at the house on Arapahoe. Our goal is to get the house ready to sell although we've lots more to do before that can happen. She was here for 10 days and we worked together most days; sometimes for 8-10 hours at a time, sometimes for just a few hours in the evening. I had three full days OFF of work to really dig in. MM took hundreds of photographs from furniture and wall hangings to treasured family dinnerware, decorative plates, and crystal; the basis for a master spreadsheet for the extended family to view and choose what they might like to inherit. We also donated at least four carloads of stuff to charity and generated bags of trash and recycling, Hand sorting and making a decision about every single item is emotionally draining. Hauling box after box of archived family papers and photographs into the car and then into my basement was physically exhausting. The work was important. We knew this down to the bone.

Living Room at Arapahoe

Happy 24th!

Laura and Scott breezed in for less than 48 hours the weekend of her Birthday in the midst of the Arapahoe project. We jam packed their hours with good food, drink, conversation, and of course hauling boxes out of Scott's car and back into Scott's car for their trip back to Spokane. Sometimes it seems as though we move STUFF from one location to another continuously. STUFF; the things that begin to weigh us down and take over our lives. There is a theme here, people.

Then came my ill advised 48 hour trip to Spokane to visit Laura a week later. I drove the 285 miles each way, listening to audio books and stopping regularly at Dairy Queen franchises for soft serve cones to fuel the journey. I agreed to make the trip because she wanted me to see her new apartment and......she was alone for the weekend and felt like company would be nice. In her defense, I think she anticipated tackling a few small (sorting/organizing) projects but, NO.....over ambitious Mom was in high gear and ready to work relentlessly on a life-long project that, unless I consciously put a stop to it, will never (ever) end. She and I are both too old (in different ways) to be doing this dance. She ends up frustrated. I end up frustrated and things go to SHIT before long; usually by the 24 hour mark. In retrospect, her apartment looked better for my visit but at what cost to us both?  Live and learn over and over and over again.

Baby Noni?

Top this exhaustion off  with a legitimate allergy to guinea pig urine (I've learned it is not so much dander as it is urine that morphs into aerosol). That's gross especially for me, a Nephrologist who loves urine. Within a half hour of arrival at Laura's new digs, I could feel the familiar itchy throat, raspy voice, and the start of chest tightness. The rest of the story involved an albuterol inhaler, zyrtec, wide open windows that allowed stinkbugs free entry into the apartment, and frizzled nerves all around.

The not so good news about pulling into Seattle late afternoon last Sunday was the looming 7 day on-call week starting bright and early Monday morning. Couple that with a 95 year old father who hadn't seen me in a week. The final seven days of the marathon seemed like impending hell. In the end, it was half easy:half hard and I lived through it.

I'm taking these two days off to do exactly what I want. Oh, and a few things I don't want to do like clean the house. Denny's wonderful about cooking and laundry but as for cleaning? That's mine.

Shanghai-ed by her Family

Mom once admitted in a moment of exasperation that she felt "shanghai-ed" into the move from her home to the retirement apartment at Merrill Gardens. I've never forgotten her use of this expression. At the time, I understood by context what she meant but it wasn't until this past weekend that I looked up the origin of the word.  Mary Margaret and I have had some interesting talks about Mom as we've worked like dogs sorting through all the treasures, family memorabilia, and outright junk at their former home this past week.  An emotional journey to be sure.

Right about now, I'm feeling a bit "shanghai-ed" myself. I don't relish another hard day at the task and would much rather lie in bed writing and reading and surfing the internet.

From on line Miriam Webster Dictionary:

Definition of SHANGHAI

transitive verb

1

a : to put aboard a ship by force often with the help of liquor or a drug b : to put by force or threat of force into or as if into a place of detention

2

: to put by trickery into an undesirable position

Origin of SHANGHAI

Shanghai, China; from the former use of this method to secure sailors for voyages to eastern Asia

First Known Use: 1871

"You Two Girls Will Have a Big Job on Your Hands"

On more than one occasion Mom mused about what it would be to "break up this house". She was referring to their home in Seattle, a place she and my Dad purchased in 1999 when they relocated from Houston. As an aside; that particular move was a huge undertaking after living in the same dwelling for over 20 years. But, truly,"breaking up this house" implies to me the final accounting and disposition of all of the physical possessions found therein.

When my parents sold their Houston townhouse, Mom made disposition on every item, deciding whether it was to be tossed, donated, put in a garage sale, gifted to family members or packed up for the journey to Seattle. When it came to items gifted to  family, I remember the image of her dining room table and the top of the buffet loaded with porcelain figurines, crystal, dishes, silver pieces, and artwork. The family arrived for "the viewing" and many items left with new owners. Mom was pleased; always happy when someone really wanted or had use for something she cherished but was ready to turn over. Quite a few of those treasures found their way into my home and I love them.

Despite the major downsizing accomplished with their move to Seattle, before long it seemed that the smaller home promptly absorbed all their belonging from the "keep" category . Beyond the expected clothing, linens,furniture, artwork, books, and kitchenware there appeared box after box of family history in the form of photographs, old letters, documents and memorabilia. Ahhhhh; memorabilia. This is the stuff you've got to look at bit by bit to be sure there isn't buried treasure in amongst the junk.My sister and I've already tackled some of that sort of work over the last few years. We found you can only go through a box or two; any more and you start to get very weary.

But on to the story....

Happily, Mom and Dad enjoyed seven good years at the Arapahoe house. When their physical and mental health declined, moving to a retirement facility was the next step. The transition was really tough. Although Dad was willing to surrender his car keys and live in a small apartment, Mom dug in her heels. Her resistance was both active and passive simultaneously.  As a child of the Great Depression, she mourned the loss of her lovely home and manifested her displeasure and anxiety by succumbing to incapacitation.  She simply couldn't (or wouldn't?) participate in making decisions.  In retrospect, I suspect her dementia was slowly destroying her usual decisive, organized mind.  In the end, the move was accomplished by the tenacious, steady determination of family members (thanks MM, Mary B and JT) who  took control of the sorting, selecting and packing.  Meanwhile, Mom remarked she was being "Shang-haied", into the move.  Oh, my.

And now....we find ourselves looking ahead to the sale of their former home, a dwelling left relatively intact since Mom and Dad moved out in 2006. The house has been well used by out of town family in town for holidays and visits. More importantly, in my opinion, we kept the house fully furnished and 'up and running' as a way of reassuring Mom that her home was still there, intact and ready for her if she should need or want to move back one day. However, within their first year at the retirement apartment, both Mom and Dad suffered significant illness and it was clear to all that "going back home" was a pipe dream. Nonetheless, we kept the house up, enjoying family meals together around the dining room table, birthday celebrations, and many visits to the house just to walk the rooms, look around, pick up a book and more.  Mom took comfort seeing things much as she'd left them. Intact.

There is much work to be done before the home can be put on the market. The largest task is to go through ALL of the contents of the house, piece by piece whether the item be the size of a dining room table or as small as a piece of jewelry. Every piece of paper or photograph may be important. Or, not. My sister and I will sort, make decisions big and small, catalog the contents, and start the process of equitable distribution. There are we three offspring and seven grandchildren to consider.

Mom admitted to me more than once, that "you girls will have a big job on your hands after we're gone".  She assigned this task to her girls, not to her son. And so it is. We start in earnest tomorrow with my Dad's blessing. He's well aware of our plans to prepare the house for sale. I know Mom will be there in spirit, perhaps as the cawing crow perched on the roof of the house admonishing us to be thoughtful about all of our decisions. I promise, Mom. I promise.

And Seven make Nine

Most days when I visit my Dad, we'll spend time "naming the family"; my term for the process whereby he calls out the names of his seven grandchildren and their significant others. Then, he'll move on to his great grandchildren, a considerably more challenging generation for him. But, run through the list we do and he enjoys knowing exactly who belongs to who. 

He and Mom have seven grandchildren; 6 girls and 1 boy all born over a 20 year span from 1968 to 1988.  We've got but a few photographs of all seven together with their grandparents. These two are treasures. The first was taken in Aruba when Mom and Dad rented a house for a month and we all flew down with our families to join them for various lengths of time. The second was taken at the Arapahoe house in Seattle when we gathered to celebrate Mom's Birthday. See what 19 years does to young kids? They all grow up, as do their elders.

"The days are long but the years are short."

Summer 1989

Summer 2008

Wonderful memories. Thank goodness for cameras and visual reminders of good times spent together.