Joan’s Jottings

It is Thursday afternoon, and  normally I am visiting my hospice patient, Helen, at the nursing home where she resides. Helen was the first patient I was assigned to after completing my training with a local hospice in August 2011. She was 88 years old and suffering from Dementia, which she had developed several years earlier. I have visited Helen weekly for eight months. She never knew my name, and we did not have normal conversations about our past, our likes, our dislikes or our dreams. Stringing together a sentence was complicated for her as the disease must erode the language center of the brain. But I believe that once our eyes met and she reached out to stroke my arm or hold my hand, she connected with me-physically with touch, and spiritually as one soul to another. I often sat with her while she picked at her lunch, or would walk laps with her around the halls of the home. Later, a wheelchair would become her method of transportation as a fall broke her hip and she never recovered her usual physical stamina or strength.

Helen’s health continued to decline after the fall, and the dementia worsened as well, continuing to feast on the remnants of her brain. Words became ever more elusive as she was reduced to mumblings, which could not convey her thoughts or wishes. She napped more often, and her favorite word often became, “No.” She withdrew socially as well, a fact confirmed by the staff at the home.

Helen passed away Tuesday, April 17th. During what was my last visit, I could not rouse her from her afternoon nap. I am not sure if she was medicated or just tired and weak or both. We didn’t speak, but I did stoke her arm and let her know that I was there. I was not terribly saddened by the news of her death, because I picture her in a much better place, reunited with her husband and a son who passed before her. She is once again able to speak freely and clearly, and she has lots to say.

It was exactly one year ago today that I sat at this very computer and launched my online dating search. For the next nine months, I posted weekly recaps of my experiences, including the good, the bad and the ugly that aging men write in their profiles. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. I did not meet anyone of any significance in my stint online, but once I canceled my membership and surrendered my process to the gods, a divine intervention took place. I have met someone. And not just anyone. I have met the person I was looking for. The one who possesses all of the qualities on my “list” and then some. It just so happens that he was also widowed, which is not something you would wish on anyone, but it is an experience we have in common. We understand the somewhat long and tedious process of moving forward with your life after the proverbial rug gets pulled out from under you. We have learned (the hard way) that life is precious and that it should not be taken for granted. We try to appreciate each and every day, and the people and relationships that enrich our lives and make us whole.

This relationship is in its infancy if you count the days on the calendar, but in many ways it feels like I have known him forever. I completely understand that two relatively young people had to die in order for this meeting to occur, and I try to always remember that. I know that I called upon my own guardian angels for guidance and support as I navigated my way through this process. To them I am eternally grateful for insuring that I attended a concert on October 22nd, and then was placed right next to the person I had been looking for. I believed in second chances, and I was rewarded. Prayer, dreams and wishful thinking are not fruitless endeavors. If you believe, you can achieve it.

A usual, thanks for reading along today and throughout this past year. I wish you and yours the VERY best this New Year. Choose to believe, and your dreams can come true, too. Love ya, mean it!

On August 6th, I fulfilled a goal and completed the training necessary to become a volunteer with a local hospice. I guess you might say I fulfilled a “bucket list” item, but I prefer to think of it as answering a call. I was first trained as a hospice volunteer in college, while working towards my psychology degree. Little did I know that just about 20 years later, my own husband would spend his final 12 days under hospice care with me as his caregiver. I was given a somewhat unique, dual-sided view of this process, not unlike my experience with cancer. I found a hospice that allows me the freedom to visit with my assigned patient(s) on my own schedule. This past Thursday, I met and spent time with my first two patients-one male, age 91 and a female, age 88. They both suffer from dementia and reside in the same nursing home. My job is to provide companionship, emotional support and socialization to each of them. I intend to document all of my visits in a new journal that I started. I hope to capture the essence of our visits, which will help me to remember them and their impact on me long after they have gone. I can only imagine what lessons I will learn from each patient I am assigned. Ultimately, they will give me so much more than I can possibly give them. I am grateful that I was given this opportunity, and look forward to meeting each and every person that may come my way. I know that it will prove to be a life-altering experience.

I have been meaning to write this post for months now. I want to record, for posterity’s sake, the language and interests of 13-year old males, one of whom currently resides in my home and shares my last name. Kids, as you know, say the darndest things. This gets stepped up a bit once they reach the tween and teen years, or so has been my experience. Here are just a few noteworthy snippets of conversations with a few American, male teenagers:

My son, like so many kids today, is an avid listener (and downloader) of rap music. (Often referred to by me as “Rap is Crap.”) Music, like television and advertising, has a profound influence on young people, and my son is certainly not exempt. M.’s initial texts to friends is limited to just three characters: Sup. (For those of you unfamiliar with gansta language, this is an abbreviation of “What’s up?”) My son would never greet a friend with a “Hi” or “Hello” or even “Hey.” And, this is just one word (can you call it that?) in a vocabulary that also includes, “Homey” and “Bro.” Whose child is this? Where is my Caucasian, half-Jewish kid?

For awhile now, a favorite response of M.’s is, “That’s gay.” Initially, I was quite taken aback by the somewhat derogatory use of this term, until I realized that it had nothing to do with people who are not heterosexual. ANYTHING, including inanimate objects, can be “gay.” My favorite misuse of this term came late in the school year as the students and staff prepared for the state achievement tests. M.’s class was not permitted to take the tests in their regular classroom (which was Band) due to the lack of desks. They were re-located to the cafeteria, where they could properly sit and work. M.’s response to this room change was, “That’s gay!”

The fascination and obsession with fast, and often expensive cars has begun. For awhile now, M. has informed me that he intends to drive a Mustang or Camaro when he gets his license, preferably as his first car. (Yeah, right! The insurance for a 16-year old, male driver of a sporty car probably costs a few thousand dollars per year.) Fairly recently, the price tag on favored cars has risen considerably as M. and his friends talk non-stop about Bugattis and Maybachs. Personally, I was unaware of the existence of these particular automobiles, most likely because their sticker price is in the millions, and well, I am female. They often talk about becoming doctors (M. wants to be an anesthesiologist) or orthodontists so they can earn enough money to purchase their dream cars. I am thinking they might need to either become pro sports players, rappers or rock stars, or their generation’s version of Bill Gates or Steve Jobs in order to write that check!

Sticking with the topic of cars, I recently picked up a friend of M.’s to bring to our house. Since he and I were alone in the car, I attempted to make small talk during the brief ride. I asked what car his 16-year old sister would be driving once she got her license. This question prompted A. to divulge that he has already informed his dad of the following (and I quote), “My first car is going to be a sexy car, and you know, not all sexy cars are expensive.” ( I have overheard the boys use the “s” word while playing video games. I am not sure what’s “sexy” about gore and violence?) I guess they, like Justin Timberlake, are “bringin’ sexy back!” Oh, my!

A few years ago, a co-worker shared with us her then 13-year old son’s interpretation of the acronym, WTF. He informed her that EVERYONE knows it stands for “What the farm?” Fast forward to 2010. My own son informed me that WTF is short for “Where’s the fruit?” Just the other day, M. clued me in to the more positive, current meaning, which is “Well that’s fantastic!” And it is.

I am fairly certain that I will be privy to more peeks into the mind and interests of the developing male teen, and so I end this post with, “To be continued…….”

This summer kicked off in high gear and never showed signs of slowing down. First, there were the back-to-back band camps that my son attended, which required adhering to a schedule. Then there was the dog’s foot surgery, and all of the supervision and work involved in trying to keep it clean and dry and out of her mouth. (She managed to remove her bandage and stitches three times. Long story. Another post.) I was still finishing up yard work late into June after getting far behind this Spring due to my unexpected knee surgery (and slower-than-expected recovery), and never-ending rains, which kept me and everyone else inside. And then there was the planning and packing for vacation, which always leaves me, well, ready for vacation. In between work and all of the above, I seemed to be either chauffering M. and his friends around, sometimes multiple times in one evening, OR pumping gas at the local station so I could cart them around some more.

As June morphed into July, I had the dreadful feeling that this summer was going to blaze by with barely a chance to soak up some down time. And then we hit week three of this month, and I could feel the pace of life being taken down a notch or two.  (The record heat and humidity, which is scorching a large part of the country, might also be a contributing factor to the meltdown slowdown.) I utilized last weekend to settle back in from vacation, and by Friday, I was pretty much caught up at work. All in time for this weekend, which had no things-to-do or places-to-be scribbled on the calendar. Could this be my chance (finally) to catch up on reading and maybe, just maybe, carve out some time to work on my shoe story? The answer is a huge YES!!!!! I feel extreme gratitude for finally being given the opportunity and space necessary to leaf through magazines and leftover newspaper articles, and more importantly, to work on a story that I initially wrote approximately five or six years ago. I spent some time Saturday reworking my piece based on critiques I received in a writing group last month. The group meets again in a few days, and I was determined to have the revisions in place for a second reading by the constructively critical eyes of the other members. Deadline met! As if that wasn’t enough, there was also time for journal writing and the posting of my weekly online dating summary. AND, I drafted another post about the ramblings of 13-year old boys, that I will complete and share with my readers early next week.

This weekend was reminiscent of snowy days in January where you hole up inside with a good book and a mug of hot chocolate,  escaping the frigid temperatures and biting winds whistling just outside the door. It is July, and much of America is barricaded indoors due to stifling humidity and triple digit temperatures and/or heat indices. Suddenly, January doesn’t seem so bad.

My son starts school as an 8th grader in 39 days. It recently occurred to me that we are staring down the final five years of his elementary and secondary schooling. While I would never wish away these last days of his childhood, it will most likely whiz by at lightning speed, or so I have been told by friends far ahead of me in child-rearing years. I have pondered that oft used job interview question, ‘Where do you see yourself in five years,” and I have come up with a few speculations.

1. In July 2016, my sister and I will have recovered from our fabulously fun and duo graduation party. (My sister is also on the five-year plan, but gets a practice run in 2013 with her first-born son.) M. and I will spend some time this month shopping for dorm accessories (sheets, bath shoes, computer accessories) OR, we just might be lying low, awaiting the start date of one of our exceptional local universities, where M. will be a commuting student. (Mom lucks out on at least one more year with a full house!)

2. Our beloved yellow Lab will have celebrated (with Tasty Paws) her 12th birthday in June. Her advanced age has FINALLY calmed her spastic disposition, as she is now too old to chase after two-wheeled/legged modes of transportation, such as bicycles, motorcycles and joggers. I am in the final days or months (or I guess, years) as a dog owner. In 2011, I loudly and definitively announced to the universe that this is my sixth and final canine. (Read my lips-NO MORE DOGS!) For the first time in at least 23 years, I will reside in a home completely void of dog hair, poop bags and vet bills.

3. If my arthritic knees are still capable of bending and straightening, I will join a local cycling group, relinquishing my seat on a goin-nowhere recumbent and spinning bike. It will be just me and the open road- that is if global warming hasn’t permanently stuck the thermometer on hot and humid in my once seasonal Midwest city. Joan does not enjoy exercising outdoors in a tropical climate.

4. My second turn as a hospice volunteer will prove to be longer lasting than my first stint, which was in college. In August 2016, I will receive my five-year pin for my work and dedication to the terminally ill and their families. My interaction with them will serve as a constant reminder to never sweat the small stuff, to value people over things, and to live each day like it’s your last.

5. My spouse and I (he will also be an empty or semi-empty nester) will travel to states and countries not visited in our childhood or earlier adult years. We will have scrawled a bucket list of sites to see, and eagerly cross them off as having “been there, done that.” (Please note the positive outcome to my year, in 2011, of online and offline dating.)

6. Last, but certainly not least, I will choose to write. With less of a nest to care for, I will possess the time and quiet necessary to pound away at the keyboard. My 56 years of life will have provided me with much material that is just bursting to be captured within the permanent ink of the written word. Memoirs, magazine articles and quite possibly a biography of the life and times of my son, (which will aptly be titled, “If I Can’t Taste, I Can’t Eat”) will be written and hopefully published. (Junior’s bio will explain the title and the other nuances of 18 years of living with and raising a “spirited child.”)

As five years counts down to four, then three, etc., I am confident that this list will grow past its current six items. There is so much left to see and do……

For posterity’s sake, I have decided to document yet another physical dilemma in my own ongoing soap opera, entitled, “Doctors on the Payroll.” I have had a bum knee since 1977, when I tore my ACL playing soccer in a tournament. I never did have the torn ligament repaired. (I did have surgery to repair some cartilage in this knee, and it has carried me well for about 30 years.) In early March of this year, my knee would mysteriously lock up on me while doing normal, everyday tasks, such as walking.  Within a minute or two of kind of shaking it off, it would return to normal. (Whatever “normal” means. I was shocked that I could even just spell that word!) I knew that this could not be good, but in my ever go-to-state of denial, I plugged along. Within six days or so, it just decided to lock up one day and stayed that way. (It would take more than a certified locksmith to reverse this condition.) So, surprisingly (or not so much to those who know me), I found myself yet again in a physician’s office, this time, an orthopedic surgeon. After an X-ray and MRI, it was determined that a piece of bone or something had chipped off, and I would require arthroscopic surgery to “clean it up.” (I had been worried that I would need the ever-dreaded ACL reconstruction, or even worse, a total knee replacement. I dodged those two bullets. Whew!) I hobbled around on crutches for the 10 days or so leading up to the 15-minute surgery, and figured I would be up and around again within no time. I could not have been more wrong!

I began physical therapy the day after my surgery, and spent most of the first week in bed, elevating and icing my swollen limb. For those of you, like me, who do not turn the TV on during the day, I am here to inform you that there is ABSOLUTELY NOTHING INTELLIGENT ON TELEVISION BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1:00 AND 4:00 PM. I was begging to go back to work, which I did after taking that week off. I could only stay at work for a few hours, though, because my leg would become so uncomfortably swollen, that I could not wait to get home to elevate and ice it and watch MORE MIND-NUMBING TELEVISION! Thus was the vicious cycle I was caught up in for about two to three weeks.

I continued with my twice-weekly, one-and-a-half hour physical therapy sessions, where my progress was slow, to say the least. My therapist, Chad, apparently missed his calling as a Boot Camp Sergeant for the Marines, and instead chose physical therapy as his method of torture. I nicknamed him “The Nazi.” He would consistently push me through my exercises, and then “reward” me by bending my knee until the pain brought me off the table. Once he had stretched every tendon, ligament, and muscle housed in that part of my leg, he would grab his handy-dandy measuring thingy and record my progress. I slowly graduated from two crutches, to one crutch and then briefly to a cane. (The cane only lasted a few days, as I could sense that Chad was secretly planning on snatching it from me and whacking me across said newly repaired knee.) One day, as I came limping into the room for my daily torture  routine, he yelled across to me, “Joan, WHY ARE YOU LIMPING?” Gosh, at some physical therapy offices, they at least say hello before they start yelling at you.

Chad and I did eventually develop a friendly patient/therapist relationship. We belong to the same gym, and both enjoy the spinning classes they offer. I also found out that like me, he has a hankering for ZERO candy bars, a favorite of mine since childhood. It was candy that would be my ticket out of therapy. In the past week-and-a-half, I finally turned a corner and began regaining my normal gait, with just the slightest limp. I have returned to the gym, riding a recumbent bike, and revving up my heart with the elliptical machine. I have quickly worked my way up to my previous weight levels on several of the leg machines, and last week, I even spent 40 minutes in a spinning class. I was back-or at least 90% back. It was time to break it off with Chad. So, yesterday, I walked into the PT room and pulled out a gift bag filled with ZERO candy bars, and offered Chad a bribe. I told him I would trade candy for a release from physical therapy. By the end of my session, I was signing my final papers.

So, nearly six-and-a-half weeks after my “piece of cake surgery,” I am free. I will have an extra three hours a week of my life back, along with an end to ever-mounting medical bills. I am able to begin to catch up on lawn work, which has patiently waited for my recovery. My son has gone back to being a child, and not his mother’s caregiver. The dog and I took a walk together one evening-the first in about two months. It is Spring, a time for rebirth and renewal. I feel both. And, just for the record, my doctor warned me that I may need a knee replacement down the road, to which I say there is NO WAY IN HELL! I will patiently wait for a medication (in tablet or liquid form) that miraculously grows back your ligaments and eliminates that unsightly and annoying arthritis. With just one little pill, my aged and torn up knee will be returned to its once youthful, healthy state. I am pretty sure that brilliant scientists all over the world are working on such a cure as we speak.

A large portion of the U.S. has endured a rather long, harsh winter. My home state was included in this snowball effect (pun intended). December swept in with bone-chilling temps and snow, even granting us a Bing Crosby White Christmas. Next,as  the calendar flipped to 2011, January brought with it more precipitation and cold. Would February make it a three-peat? Apparently, the gods feel pity on our frozen souls and have granted us a reprieve. The thermometer is rising, and the gray mounds of weeks-old snow are beginning to disintegrate, much like the witch in the Wizard of Oz. (“I’m melting. I’m melting.”) In the past few weeks, the birds have begun to sing again, bringing music back to mornings. Even that groundhog from Pennsylvania failed to see his shadow. Apparently, he has had enough of winter as well.

I, too, feel a need to entice Spring into making an early appearance. Today, on this 15th day of February, I hung my “Spring” sign, complete with flowers and bunnies, on our front door. Technically, the Vernal Equinox is 33 days away, but I say now is the time to begin the thaw.  I’d hate for the groundhog to be labeled a liar.

It is better to give than to receive. Pay it forward. Just a sampling of mottos to live by. I have done volunteer work throughout various stages of my life-a candy striper in high school, a counselor at a group home for juveniles in college, a mom-helper at my son’s elementary school. In the past year or so, I contacted a couple of organizations and actually applied for two volunteer positions, including one as a trained hospice caregiver and another at a local mental health facility. I had (naively) believed that I was at a place in my life (and my son’s) where I could sacrifice a few hours a week to help a cause close to my heart. It turns out that many agencies who seek non-paid help require you to commit to certain days and/or times to fit their scheduling needs, which is perfectly understandable. I apparently was putting the cart before the horse (again). While my son is more independent than ever, he still wants requires my physical presence as his chauffeur, cook, maid, cheerleader and homework supervisor. I had to realize that it is still a bit too early for my time to be completely mine, at least in a structured, scheduled kind of way.

So, without even consciously trying, I found a multitude of other ways to volunteer my time within my community, and often on my own street. The house next door was foreclosed on in late April. Another neighbor and I took care of the mowing and landscape maintenance for the growing season. The family across the street relocated to another state, leaving town with their home still on the market. I have raked leaves, cleaned up flower beds, shoveled snow and picked up various papers that get tossed on the lawn. I spent a Saturday afternoon, along with eight or so other men and women, cleaning a friend’s house so that she could return home after a stem cell transplant.  That same weekend, I assisted in tagging donations collected by a local charity. Week after week this entire fall, I managed to “find” the time to help someone else. It wasn’t the formal volunteer position I had initially sought, but it works. I was pleased (and surprised) to learn that even with my sometimes hectic work and home schedule, I could still carve out the time for someone else.

Christmas is less than four weeks away, and I say bring it on! Last year, December and its approaching holiday became a frantic, frenzied and fumbled collection of days. I felt an incredible amount of (self-induced) pressure to get IT all done-the decorating, the cards, the shopping, the baking. By the time the actual blessed day arrived, I had canceled my family plans, and spent the holiday unshowered, in my pj’s, on the verge of a breakdown. Nice! Determined not to end up straight-jacketed at the funny farm this year, I have carefully eased into my to-do list and re-evaluated my priorities. When a writing mood struck a few weeks ago, I seized the moment and crafted my holiday letter. Check! Last weekend, a friend kindly obliged and snapped a family photo for the holiday card. Check! This past week, I took advantage of my vacation time and decked the halls AND the tree. Check times two! This leaves only the shopping ( a fairly short list that includes gift cards), and the baking.  Completely do-able!

Surprisingly, I am feeling very little stress as the countdown begins. I remain hopeful that this year will be different after all. It is quite possible that when the calendar flips to the 25th, I will be ready to engage and participate, all showered and dressed.  There really just might be a Santa Claus!