Happy Santa Merry Birthday

So I have Santa sitting on my coffee table. He wears purple and gold, but of course, has a snow globe, and plays the ECU fight song on demand, while he peers in at the ECU football stadium. Why, yes, I am aware that it's the beginning of October. Why, no, I have not fallen prey to the same influences that seem to drive the retail world as they force Christmas on us before we can get our pumpkins carved. Santa is a birthday present. Or he was a birthday present - in July of 2008 - and it took Santa seven years to find my chimney. Actually he was home briefly, so maybe it should be classified as a detour.

In July of 2008 I was given Santa as a birthday present. But Daddy had dementia. So Daddy decided that I had stolen Santa. He couldn't stop complaining to Momma that I had "pulled a fast one" and taken his Santa. The solution - I returned Santa to Daddy with my apologies for being "confused". Santa sat on a table at my parents back door until last month when Momma looked at Santa, and said, "Why don't you take that damn Santa home? You know he's yours." So I loaded Santa back into my car for a return trip to his rightful home. But it's not Christmas yet so I stuck Santa into the closet with the other decorations.

However Santa wasn't happy apparently. See ECU was playing Virginia Tech and early on it looked like a blow out. So I decided that Santa should come on up and watch with me. Next thing I knew we had pulled out an unexpected victory AND I had spotted my goddaughter in the crowd. My solution - I told Rick that Santa stays out until further notice. His response - whatever makes me happy - proof he doesn't have dementia.

Last weekend our college freshman went to his first game as a college student. If you've got to pick a game to be your first one as part of the student body, then by all means pick the one where your school is nationally ranked playing another nationally ranked team on national TV in a pouring rain. Spend your morning tracking down a couple of ponchos and texting your football crazy momma who has lots of advice. Especially when NONE of that advice involves staying home. HAVE A GREAT TIME!! Layer, use trash bags if necessary, did I mention layers? Put your paper printout ticket in a Ziploc bag. Leave your phone in the dorm since it ain't water proof. Just a few examples of my wisdom.

My wisdom was well earned at a life time of going to games in all sorts of weather. One of my favorite memories of an ECU game came in September of 2000, well before Daddy became the man who thought I had stolen from him. It rained the entire time as just Daddy and I sat through the ECU/Syracuse game. We won, but I'm not sure if that makes the memory sweeter (silly, of course it does). I sat there with Daddy, getting soaked, cheering on our Pirates. I love, love, love that my first born went to his game, cheered on his team, and had a blast. Not as crazy over his statement that the clothes are "ruined 'cause I hit some mud on the way to the field, and I threw them over there in a corner." Apparently the laundry life lesson did not take as well as the support your team lesson did.  But, life should be about making memories. It goes by too fast to spend no time in the rain.

Santa reminds me that kindnesses aren't always done in expected ways. I never corrected Daddy. I never complained over Santa, though I did make a joke to Rick that I had the distinction of giving instead of receiving a birthday gift for my own birthday. My brothers were well aware of the story of Santa. They heard Daddy, and they knew he would be mine - eventually.

The day after I brought Santa home was the two year anniversary of my father-in-law's death. The past two years have brought much heartache, many transitions, a lot of shifting of material goods, and so very much growth in lessons learned. Three years ago, Santa would never have peeked out in September. I would have been a bit embarrassed over the story. Now, I leave him out. I didn't expect him to help win a game, and truly our rushing QB did that for us. I just wanted to look at him, and reflect. I like seeing him.  He'll get put back up eventually. I have too many Martha Stewart pretensions to leave him out year round. But for now - Happy Santa Merry Birthday to me. Oh, and GO PIRATES, GO TIGERS, (please, dear God, may Tennessee win).

26 for Life

"You can't be 53. I'm only 27."

"I hear you're considering Accounting."

"Who are you?"

It is a comfortable spot. Elvis, the cat sits near me. The music is playing. I have an abundance of books, and some knitting beckoning me. The teenagers are downstairs, happy to be free for a while on a Friday night before an exciting, but hectic Saturday. Hubby has the big tv going in his kingdom. All is right with the world. But really it's not, as the world has been tilted on its axis for some time, and the end of the tilt is not in sight.

Yesterday, I read an article. Seth Rogen testified before members of Congress regarding Alzheimer's, and dementia. No disease has a barrier stopping at the wealthy or connected, and certainly Alzheimer's, and dementia are not exceptions. One quote stood out, "so few people share their personal stories". (Seth Rogen Testifies, ABC News)

Here are the conversations involving the quotes above:
Last weekend:
Daddy - "Who are you?"
Me - "I'm Evelyn, your daughter."
Daddy - "You're my daughter? How long have I known you?"
Me - "Well, I'm 53 so I would say all 53 of my years."
Daddy - "You can't be 53. I'm only 27."
Me - "OK. I'm 26."
Daddy - "That's better."
Me - "Works for me."

October:
Daddy - " I hear you're thinking of East Carolina."
Me - "Sure, I'm thinking of East Carolina."
Daddy - "I hear you're considering Accounting."
Me - "Yes sir. I bet if I go to East Carolina, major in Accounting, and get a degree, I could make good money, meet the love of my life, have a couple of kids, and a nice house."
Daddy - "That sounds like a good life."
Me - "Yes, Daddy, it does, doesn't it?"
(Since I actually graduated from East Carolina University with an accounting degree in May of 1985, obviously I was in high school here.)

Every family touched by this has stories - some of faith, some of loss, some of blessings, and some of tragedy. We have been blessed that my brothers, and I have pulled together as a team. Some families are not able to work it out. Resources, and faith are strained, and relationships go with them. There simply has to be a way. As for me, I will continue to be whatever age Daddy needs me to be until he forgets me completely, and then I will pray, and cry even harder.

“Those with dementia are still people and they still have stories and they still have character and they are all individuals and they are all unique. And they just need to be interacted with on a human level.”

- Carey Mulligan

Down the Long and Lonely Highway

In just a few short hours, I will have our sons loaded up and hit the road. It's time for our monthly pilgrimage to my parents. I'm always vaguely amused when I return and run into acquaintances who ask if I enjoyed myself. When the boys were younger I was often asked if I got a break by heading there. Uh, no. I've written a couple of times about what we are facing. Daddy has dementia.

As is my way, I will try to find something amusing in the trip. Dark humor is my friend. Sarcasm is my constant accompanist. So I'll roll my eyes at some fifty something road warrior who is trying to text and drive on the interstate and come up with some something to say. I'll sit there and patiently pretend to have not heard the same story a gazillion times while in my mind, I do my checklist. "Has he said this yet? What about that story? Ah, there it is." Give him his Father's Day card early. He won't remember that he didn't get it on Father's Day. Shoot, that's because he won't remember he got it. The boys will stay up all night watching tv and I'll just ignore that. Hey, they're supposed to get to do what they want to at their grandparents, right? Does it matter that I'm there? Nope. This trip we're throwing in a side trip to the old hometown. So I get to visit with even more elderly relatives. But at my age, it's nice to be the young'un and I especially love how they all tell me how little I still am (keep in mind that all things are in relation to them). No trip is complete without the trip to the cemetery.  Good thing I got that Ancestry.com membership. We need someplace to load up the pictures to that will appreciate my skill at taking a picture of a gravestone.

Through all of this our teen sons will show a calmness and compassion that humbles me. They will take Daddy to the restroom and make sure he doesn't lose his way, while pretending that they were the ones who needed to go. They understand the need for dignity.

I ran into someone who told me that some people think she's cold but she had never really experienced helping the aged. Her parents were both dead by the time she was in her mid-twenties and her grandparents had long been gone before then. While it briefly flickered through me how much less complicated my life would be, what really stayed in my soul was the thought of how much less I would have been. I've developed a strength and compassion that I never knew I had in me. Not to mention the driving skills of a short haul trucker.

Someone else once told me that if it stressed me out so much then I just shouldn't go. But that smacks of a selfishness that I always knew I didn't have in me. And it does stress me out - before I go and after I return. But while I'm there, it doesn't stress me out at all. When I read essays such as the one our guest columnist, Jim Zisa wrote this month, "The Profundity of Moment" , when I consider how much my dear friend Mary would love to call her Mama and chat, but can't because she's gone, or think of how much another dear friend would have loved to share her beautiful girls college graduations with her parents, well, I'll climb right into that SUV and make my way on down the road. There is a grace to the time spent with love. So I'll come back a little worse for wear, but better for spirit. Shouldn't life be about doing what is hard? Doesn't love come with hardship?

The Fairytale, The Terrorist, and The Reality.

By Dawn Tolson and Mary Alford-Carman

 

As a group of four unique individuals, two Grits, a Brit and a Yank, we've shared a maelstrom of events within the past seven days. We've seen the highs of jubilation, the depths of evil, and the reality of loss.

During the Royal Wedding we watched in awe as a fairytale unfolded. A prince took a commoner for a wife and made her his princess in a manner unsurpassed by the United Kingdom. The beginning of a life together celebrated by a nation and shared by the world; it was stunning. In the span of 48 hours the media blitz began again with the death of a terrorist. Celebrations of a sort ensued, albeit at the other end of the spectrum. The worlds most wanted man was finally eliminated, bringing to an end an almost ten year search for justice.

But what does that mean to us? The reality is that most of us will never walk within the walls of Buckingham Palace (unless we've purchased a ticket), and while we may never experience personally the tragedy of terrorism, we are all aware that we could be one airplane flight away from the horror. The great leveler for all of us is loss.

No matter who you are or where you are, you will grieve the loss of a loved one. Within these past seven days, one of our own lost her Mom to Alzheimer's. For some of us, this has been a reminder of what has already been lost and for others, a mirror into what is yet to come.

The events of the world go on around us, and they always will, but for the moment, we pause in the reality of loss.

The Springtime of my Discontent

I won a golden head award at work for best headline of the week last year. It was a sports columnist’s column about the Carolina Panthers that made it to the front page: “The losing season of our discontent.” It speaks for itself.

I’m feeling the springtime of my discontent lately, and of course it’s related to Mom’s declining health. She’s in the very last stages of Alzheimer’s. She’s now a complete invalid in a semi-awake and unable to talk state, confined to her hospital bed at home. When I asked for a week off work to help Dad care for her, a friend at work caught me after deadline that night and got me crying. It’s easy to do at 11:30 p.m. She said, “You must be so angry.” Huh. Of all the things I’d been feeling, I hadn’t thought about anger yet. The luxury of anger I can’t afford to feel. Grief must contain the whole gamut of human emotion, but anger is one I didn’t want to entertain for very long. Once she said it, I was there.

No wonder I’m so easily ticked off by my son’s baseball coach who won’t move him up in the lineup, the AIG teacher who said he didn’t make the cut for next year, lousy drivers. I’m on a short fuse and need to throw the dynamite far from me lest we all blow up. I’m mad at friends who mention lunch with their Moms, or Moms who babysit, or old but healthy people who complain, or people who say they’re too busy. I’m mad at the “sandwich generation” columnist at my paper who has a 17 year old and a Mom in a “memory care facility” she occasionally visits. “But you don’t care for your mother. She’s in a home. And your daughter is a teenager. You have no issues,” is what I wrote on the proof. Ugh. Of course I threw that one in the trash. Mad at a 20something who says she’s paid her dues (by working 1 year), so how dare they lay her off last year, when those with 30 years were, and continue to be, laid off too, and I’m working contract hours at half pay. I’m just mad.

It always leads to self-pity, poor me, my pain is worse, with me. I get dismissive and self-righteous. It’s ugly in here. Changing your mother’s soiled diapers is ugly. Holding her hand as she stares right through you, sitting by her side as she’s dying is unbearable.… I don’t have the words for it.

I listen to Mumford & Sons CD in the car and cry along to “You are not alone in this. As brothers we will stand and hold your hand. You are not alone in this.” Mom is not alone. But I feel like I am. Grief is very self-centered. It wants all of me.

Anger, self-pity, selfish dismissiveness of others’ pain and problems—not what I want to learn from adversity. Grace, mercy, love and especially compassion for what every human being must suffer—this I need to embrace. The good stuff, the stuff that makes me a better human being, not a selfish bitch.

The baseball coach volunteers her time. The AIG teacher has a difficult job, and is facing layoffs. The young girl at work has or will suffer her own losses. They all have pain--this we are guaranteed to share as members of the same human family. You can’t measure pain on a scale, or say mine is worse than yours or yours is worse than mine. Pain pales in comparisons. It’s very humbling, and the ultimate leveler.

A happy coincidence came in that I heard a speaker talk about gratitude the other night, which initially made me mad. It’s so easy to count what’s wrong, but to count what’s right—it’s a sure cure for my anger. There is so much to be grateful for. I remain a humble servant, and humbled more by the day. There is so little we can do, but we can hold each other’s hand. We are not alone in this.

For the Love

I had planned that my blog would be all about the happiness and love of pets to go along with my essay, "Elvis Lives, and He Faithfully Uses His Litter Box", but then life intruded as it so often does. If you read Sheilah’s latest essay, “Conversations With Mom”, then between the tears, you’ve glimpsed the sadness of watching someone you love so very much slip away, and it probably stirred memories of your own losses. Sheilah and I are at different stages of a shared loss. My daddy is still early while her mom is in the late stages. Last weekend, I was blessed to have my parents actually make it all the way here from their home. Momma really wanted to see where we live, and she had never been able to come. She knew leaving him for any stretch of time wouldn’t work either so my older brother was patient enough to bring them, stopping for Daddy as needed. And just as in Sheilah’s essay, he also wondered why they were here, and kept repeating that it was “time to be going”. Time starts to lose all relevance when you remember so little of it.

As in Mary’s essay, “Virtual Reality”, I’ve reconnected with so many dear friends and part of that reconnection has been grieving their losses along with them, and those friends have helped me in celebrations and in grief. Some of our losses have been recent, some less recent, but no less painful, and I am always reminded of the resilience of humanity and the importance of love, and kindness. There is a reason that Dawn wrote, “Grown-up High School Wannabes”. It’s hard to be interested in pettiness and gossip when life consists too much of true reality.  

When tragedy strikes, as we’ve all watched occur in Japan, there is often the image or story of some beloved family pet being rescued or sadly the tales of how many have perished, and that can sometimes get more media coverage than the tales of people. Pets are a reminder of how constant love can be, and they somehow know how to sit with us in silence while we grieve. Pets are an innocence that life sometimes seems to no longer possess for us. When my hubby reminds me that after our current crop of two pass away, he doesn’t want another one (usually only mentioned when we want to get away for a weekend, and first I need to make arrangements – note the “I” - he’s not making the arrangements, nor is it hard to find someone), I just nod my head and walk away. Because I also know that he adores both of them. So we’ll have another pet, because the world always needs more love…even in grief.

Remembering our Loved Ones While They’re Still Among Us

My essay this month was depressing as hell ("We Finally Saw Our Father"). It’s difficult to write about my Mom’s Alzheimer’s, and about Dad’s life with her. I find little comfort or pat answers in how to deal with such long-suffering grief. I believe God’s in his heaven and all is right with the world, but I wish we didn’t have to deal with the fact of human suffering that seems to have no end. I have to daily accept it and just do what’s in front of me to do. Writing helps—it always offers epiphanies that I get to hold onto, some sense of mercy, makes me see what’s there, like my Dad and his wonderful personality of caregiving surfacing.

How do you deal with failing parents? Do you avoid it or embrace it?

Do you feel sorry for yourself?

Do you take issue with siblings who don’t help?

It took me some time to realize that siblings who don't live nearby may not realize how sick a parent really is, and even if they do, that their relationship with their parent is none of my business. Do you talk about such with your siblings?

What kind of “help” can we really offer?

And where do you find the grace in such a hopeless circumstance?