AND THUS, WE GRIEVE

Mom, when the light was still in her eyes.

Ever since my mom began her long slow decline toward her final breath, I began to think what our world would be like when she is ultimately gone. I know that sounds morbid, but bear with me as I explain. I believe there is a reason for this, and I believe it’s a healthy process.  You see, I think this is a beneficial grieving activity, even if one does it unintentionally.

Mom is a ‘tough old broad.’ And yes, I can say that to her face, and I tell her that nearly every day. She overcame childhood illness; nearly two years of her life spent in children’s hospitals; at least 5 surgeries, one ultimately fusing one of her hip joints; crippling disabilities; and all this while her father was dying of tuberculosis thousands of mile away in a sanatorium.  As a ‘disabled’ adult, she gave birth to and raised a daughter alone for many years, helped to raise her youngest sister, working full time, ultimately married and birthed and raised two more children, all the while working a full time job in a sewing factory. She was very active in her church, many years as the person in charge of the kitchen there. She was also very active all her adult life in the Ladies Auxiliary to the local fire department, also holding highest offices in both regional and state organizations related to that group. She was active in the local Chamber of Commerce and was even Citizen of the Year once.  Further health issues in adulthood included scoliosis resulting from years of having one leg shorter than the other; crippling rheumatoid arthritis; psoriatic arthritis; osteoarthritis; a car accident resulting in a femur fracture in her ‘bad’ hip; a winter ice accident in which she broke her neck, shoulder, and clavicle; and these are only the things that I can readily remember! When Mom retired from the Aileen company where she’d worked most of her adult life, she went on to work, caring for her elderly mother in her home for many years, babysitting children, and then finally providing elder care in the community for quite a few people, all up until about age 84 or 85! Up until the second stroke she had, she could still work rings around me! She could often be found in her kitchen on a Friday, preparing for an Auxiliary bake sale, baking 10 or 15 pies!  So, yeah, I’d say tough old broad pretty well sums it up!

Two strokes and a heart attack  (which I still believe was precipitated by mismanaged medications) finally slowed Mom down, and after trying private care in her own home for a while, it became obvious that she was going to need some skilled nursing care. She was moved directly following one of her hospitalizations to this nursing home where she still lives today. It has been a blessing that so much family and so many friends are in close proximity and can visit often.

Most of those first three years, Mom was well cared-for at the nursing home. Even though it was hard to see her requiring care, rather than giving it, it was easy, at least, to walk out of there after a visit, knowing she was safe and that the folks who worked there were, for the most part, caring and compassionate people. Mom had always been a model resident too: always smiling, kind words for everyone, watching out for other residents.

In the last year or so, things changed rather drastically at the nursing home, often with devastating results for my mother, and I’m sure for many of the residents. We’ve had friends and relatives whose loved ones have been in the facility over those months, and have lamented with many of them at the demise of the place.

In recent months, we’ve struggled with :

·      corporate bureaucracy and utter neglect in the nursing home;

·      changes in administration, including management and directors of nursing at the nursing home which resulted, sadly in complete lack of continuity of care;

·      understaffing and overworking the staff who were there;

·      changes in the medical care providers (doctors) three times in as many months, again, negating any continuity of care for these poor patients;

·      antiquated thinking in patient care where medications are basically thrown at symptoms until patients are finally taking multiple drugs to counteract other drugs;

·      arguments and adversarial relationships with nurses and aides who would rather gork these poor patients out to keep them quiet than give them a few moments of reassurance;

·      Mom’s horrible reactions to some of these drugs they’ve had her on….5 pages of them at one time;

·      a bed-bug scare;

·      a scabies scare;

·      the only Hospice nurse I’ve ever seen who has no compassion;

·      lots of miscommunications, lost orders, lost lab results;

Again, these are just the things that I can readily remember!

In the nearly four years that she’s been in this local nursing home, and especially in these past few months, I have had many opportunities for grieving. I have heard myself say a thousand times that I believe we have these days because most of our grieving will be done by the time Mom passes, so that day’s pain will hopefully be eclipsed by relief, and even, hopefully, joy. I recently enlisted Hospice care to enhance the care that Mom receives at the home, and to help us prepare for the end of her life.  Mom’s care, even the lack of care at times, pervades my every day at this point. My days almost always include any number of the following: calls from the attending physician; calls from nurses; calls from Hospice nurses; calls from either of the social workers; calls, emails and text messages from family members and/or friends who are visiting and concerned about whatever happens to be going on at the moment; my own emailing or texting family members to update them on any number of these same things.

The last two weeks or so, Mom seems to have gotten much worse, mentally. Her short-term memory is greatly diminished. As a result, she often finds herself in what, to her, are unfamiliar surroundings, and you can imagine how frightening that must be.  It’s a blessing she still knows us all, and recognizes us immediately, but she usually gets very weepy when any of us appear for a visit. Her speech is now very labored, and processing what she wants to say gets harder for her every day. This just further adds to her fears and frustrations.  When I’m there, she usually asks me several times where she is, why she’s there, and if she’s going home. Then she often tearfully apologizes for being a nuisance, or cries and tells me she hopes she doesn’t wake up one morning, or tells me she sure hopes the Lord’s still looking out for her.

Tonight was one of my usual visits to see her. I sat at home for a while, messing with my phone, and putting off leaving to drive down there as long as I could.  Don’t judge me until you’ve been in this situation yourself.  I finally said goodbye to my wife and the dog, and headed out. As I drive the 20 or 25 minutes to the home, I begin to steel myself, and put on my light happy façade. I have to prepare myself for all her questions, and remind myself to be patient. I have to plan ahead for ways to change the subject and help her to happier thoughts if the situation warrants.

When I got to her room, Mom was sitting in her wheelchair at the foot of her bed, staring at the floor, her eyes dazed-looking and even rather lifeless. When I said hello as I entered the room, she barely even looked at me. It was kind of like she was forcing herself to respond. She always says, “Bless your heart, there you are,” as if she’s been expecting me. But even when I get close and hug and kiss her and look her straight in the eye, I don’t see her light. The one thing that makes me think her end is near is the light that’s gone out of her eyes. It’s just not there anymore, no matter what we do. 

She immediately began to get weepy, and her words, then, were even more difficult to understand. I suggested we go outside to the porch for a breath of fresh air. We could listen to the birds and watch the pretty sunset, I said. She just half-heartedly said ‘OK.’ 

It was a lovely evening, with the sun setting and a gentle comfortable breeze blowing across the porch. I pulled her wheelchair up close so I could hopefully more easily understand her as she tried to talk to me. We talked sunsets, and birds, and weather. I showed her my son’s and his fiancé’s engagement pictures on my phone. In between, she cried and asked, and I answered, those same questions over and over about where she was, why she was there, and whether she was going home. I gently reminded her, when she complained that no one had been to visit, who had actually been there in the past few days.  Then she’d cry some more, looking so frightened, and apologize that she was so ‘crazy,’ and couldn’t remember anything anymore.

So I sat there with her in the gentle evening breeze, looking into her face, holding her poor, bony, withered hand, her fingers pointing in all directions because of the ravages of arthritis. I held it gently because it was obviously painful tonight. I looked into her teary vacant eyes, and fought back my own tears, and I realized that we were both mourning. I was mourning the complete death of her independence, and thus, of her spirit. She was mourning the death of many of her brain cells, and those bits of memories that she’s sure she’ll never recover. 

And thus, we grieved.

EDITORIAL: WHAT, INDEED, WOULD JESUS DO?

Today, my faith in God is strong, but my faith in my church, I’m afraid, is faltering. Just when I feel like I have a better understanding of Christianity, I’m completely blindsided by some Old Testament-scripture-quoting dogmatic individual, who calls himself a Christian, while simultaneously judging AND persecuting others, ‘in the name of God’! 

Now I know, even as Christians, we may all come from different backgrounds, varied doctrines, denominations, and beliefs. I, for instance, grew up in a Methodist church, and I attended a United Church of Christ for quite a few years. I have been exposed to many other churches in my 58 years, too. But I have to say that in all my life, in any church I’ve ever attended or visited, never have I heard any minister or message telling me that I should judge people here on Earth, decide if they are worthy, and ridicule, exclude, and persecute them if I feel so obliged! Nope. Not once. On the contrary, the basic principle or doctrine of ANY Christian church, to my way of thinking, is LOVE ONE ANOTHER. Isn’t that what we’re basically called to do? I’m asking...because I am beginning to think I must have missed something in all my years of learning. In our modern world, “we’re often asked, what would Jesus do?” While I used to think that seemed a little corny, these days, I feel like flashing a sign pretty regularly asking that very question! 

Indeed, what would Jesus have done had he witnessed the judgement and persecution of a minister that took place at my church, all without ANY of those involved EVER having met her? It doesn’t matter who she was, or even what her perceived ‘sin’ may have been. She was essentially tried, judged, sentenced, and hanged by a vigilante group through phone calls, social media, etc. Not a single one of those people knew anything about her more than they’d gleaned from a Google search and common gossip. Not one. That’s not loving one another folks, no matter how you cut it. That doesn’t even fall under respect. 

So today, I’m struggling with my membership in a church where I grew up, but where love, and even tolerance, seem to have taken a vacation; a church where the proverbial tail wags the dog, and a few misguided people dictate how things will be done. I’m very sad. I’m embarrassed. I’m disheartened. But I’m praying. And I am writing this piece to both get this off my own chest, and to share with other Christians this reminder: Love one another. That’s what it’s all about. Love one another.

THAT'S IT! I'M A LAB!!

I’m sitting here at the moment, bathed in the light of a sudden revelation I just had. Maybe it was an epiphany! In any event, I believe a truth was revealed to me! I now know why I own and identify so deeply with my sweet Labrador retriever, August! It’s because we are exactly alike!

Like August, I’m friendly to everyone, treat everyone the same. Like August, I crave the love and attention of others. Like him, I would do just about anything to please and/or help anyone around me.  We are both far too trusting. Those we trust can easily take advantage of us.  We are easily led astray. We are LOYAL to a fault. We both perform for any little treat someone would throw our way. We both need hugs regularly. Neither of us has any real control of just about any situation.

Thus, we live our lives trying to please others, to be ‘good boys.’ We are naïve in so many ways.  Sadly, he’s way ahead of me in pleasing and hugs and treats.

ON THE DEATH OF ETHICS AND CONSIDERATION

 or Why Do I Play By the Rules?

I see it, or hear about it every day, all day long: students cheat; people steal; adults cheat on their taxes; friends stab other friends in the back; people in cars drive like they’re the only ones on the road; office co-workers take off half the day when they think no one is looking; I hold the door for someone and they walk through without so much as a smile, much less a thank you. What is happening, or what has happened to our so-called civilization that people think these kinds of behaviors are acceptable?  

I used to blame it on generational differences, since I observed in so many cases that it was younger people who seemed to be the frequent offenders. I do believe that, generally, discipline and what we call consequences for bad behaviors has been so diluted by parents these days. There are lots of reasons for it: messed up adult relationships vying for a child’s love and attention; neglect, when adults are too self-absorbed to pay the kind of attention that a child really needs; missing parents; societal threats of things like kidnapping, abuse, etc. And I’ll just throw in electronic absence, since it’s become so epidemic in so many children’s lives. I guess what I’m saying here is that I think there IS a generalized feeling of entitlement, of being the center of the universe, as it were, and of not having to be held accountable in any way for any actions that someone may unfortunately deem inappropriate, and there are probably lots of reasons and/or excuses for that generation.

But nowadays, there are so many more people my  age and older, who I happen to KNOW were brought up differently, whose parents would cringe if they saw the values and beliefs they’d worked so hard to instill in their children completely ignored. This lack of ethics and respect and consideration for others seems to run rampant in our experiences these days! I don’t know understand, either, how it is so hard just to treat others as you would have them treat you! Putting aside religion here, it’s still a simple formula for living together in harmony. There is great value in living in harmony!

Here are some personal examples: (Rant alert!)

I have neighbors who are very nice, for the most part. We speak when we’re out. We yell across the street to say hello, or inquire how things are going. Both our families have dogs. Granted, mine is a very large dog, but sweet as he can be, and of course, mine goes outside on a line because we have no fence, and I don’t want him running into other people’s yards or intimidating anyone with his size. Theirs is a small, yappy dog, who delights in coming over into our yard, NEVER tethered, and barking incessantly at us, while peeing and pooping on our lawn. Many times, the neighbors have stood there and WATCHED their dog do this while talking to us! No, I don’t yell, “Get your dog outta my yard!” because I have some couth and decorum. But why do I play by the rules?

I have some friends who needed me for help. It was a special situation, one that I felt very deeply compelled to help with. We talked about it several times. We communicated through text messages, emails, and face-to-face for some time.  I set aside time for this, over 24 straight hours, actually,  even though I don’t have a lot of time myself these days. It wasn’t clear, to be honest, if they were going to need me, but I agreed, being the nice guy that I am, that I would hold that time open. Well, as the time approached, I didn’t hear anything, and no mention of it from anyone, so I sent out a message to one of the folks to just inquire as to the status. I got a message back that no, they didn’t need me, and they would have notified me if they did. Really? So I would just sit home and wait until someone decided whether I needed to know? So, why do I play by the rules?

I have a friend who I often ask to do some activity with me…the kind of stuff friends might do, you know, hang out, hike, go into the country. I don’t have a lot of close friends, and I don’t have a lot of free time these days, as I mentioned earlier. The friend’s often very busy too, I realize, and I get lots of excuses most of the time. When I finally DO get the friend to agree to set aside time, and that time rolls around, I often just get completely blown off. No explanation most of the time, or I find out later that the friend has done something with some other friend who maybe had a better offer.  That really hurts. If I missed something where someone expected me, I would have called, apologized all over myself, offered some remuneration, compensation or a different date and time. So, why do I play by the rules?

A co-worker regularly slips out of the office early, even half a day, when the boss is gone. Early on, she said one day she’d like to leave a little early, and she was fairly new then, and I’m the old-timer here, so I said, “Sure, go ahead! Everybody needs a little break once in a while!” And I guess she’s figured I meant just any time she feels like it, she can take off. No, I’m not in charge of her, and no, I’m also not a tattle-tale! I sit there at work until 5 pm shows up on my computer every day, despite the fact that 3 or 4 days a week, I also eat and work at my desk for the entire hour that is supposed to be my lunch time. So, why do I play by the rules?

Every day when I pull onto the campus where I work, I drive to the BLUE parking lots, where people with BLUE stickers (like mine) on their cars are supposed to park. As I drive through the already-full parking lot, I count anywhere from 1 to 6 red parking stickers on any given day. Why do they park there? Because there are no consequences. Oh sure, once in a great while one of the security folks will go around an issue a ticket or two, but the red stickers belong to students, and our student population, as a rule, is a privileged bunch, many of whom would rather pay the occasional $25 than walk from a farther parking area. I guess I mean there are no consequences for them. The consequences are, most days, that the staff and faculty, many of whom are older and even handicappedd, are the ones who have to drive across campus to park, then walk back to the buildings in which they work every day. So, I ask you, why do I follow the rules?

Weekly, I’m asked for ways to prevent students from cheating. Instructors at the university where I work are often beside themselves trying to outwit what they tell me is a fairly large percentage of their classes to keep them from plagiarizing papers, looking off others’ papers or computers while testing, etc. One instructor who is teaching his students to use MS Word even told me today that his students are so dishonest, and yet clueless, that they just copy and paste from a classmate’s paper, complete with the same mistakes that the original contained. The university has already spent and continues to spend countless thousands of dollars on special testing platforms, anti-plagiarism programs, and so forth to try to stay ahead of the cheaters.  So, again….why do I follow the rules?

My mom is in a local nursing home. She's nearly 91, and she's declining, both physically and mentally.  But recently, my family and I began to notice some fairly dramatic changes in her mental status particularly, and it was intermittent. This was something that was, sadly, familiar to me, since a few years back, she'd had the same sort of reaction to opiates in the hospital. I began to investigate at the home, and lo and behold, the visiting doctor had my mom on so many meds, including these opiates, and some other things that, by the way, shouldn't even be GIVEN with opiates, and it was, in my opinion, like putting my mother in a speeding train toward her demise. We began to question everything and everyone. We managed to get them to take her off about 5 different meds, and began to notice an immediate change in her. But they kept asking us if they could put her back on the opiates, and when we refused to let them, they became rather threatening. Anyway, this culminated in not one, but two meetings with two different INTERIM directors of nursing, since the last one was let go. The second meeting we had was so full of errors and blunders on their part, I could write a book on that meeting alone! But during that meeting, the D.O.N. said to me, "You don't understand! If your mother is having pain, and is crying, and someone walks in here and hears her, we could get into trouble!" Yup. She said it just as seriously as she could too! Well, I followed the rules again, because I managed not to reach over and grab her by the neck and drag her ass across the table! Nope. I simply took a deep breath, looked her straight in the eye, and I said, "Well, I CERTAINLY don't want you to get in trouble! That's really high on my priority list right now!" And then I took another breath. "I'd like to remind you that we're talking about patient care: your institution's responsibility is to CARE FOR its patients, and unfortunately, my 90 year-old mother is one of them. I want you, just for a moment, to put yourself in MY seat, looking across the table at the second interim director he's talked to in as many weeks, worried to death that the nurses and doctors in this facility are going to kill his mother way before her time. I want you to tell me, after all the history you've seen and heard here today, where do you think your comfort level would be right now? Where?" I was respectful. I followed the rules!
 

Why do I, for instance:

·      hold the door open and allow another to enter almost anytime I meet someone near a door?

·      look behind me as I enter a door, just to see if perhaps someone is behind me and I might need to hold the door for them also?

·      drive for a mile or two in the left lane behind someone who’s going very slowly, giving them a chance to move back to the right lane?

·      always thank people who have done something for me?

·      always let someone know if for some reason I cannot be where they expect me to be?

·      work 10 minutes over if I happened to have been out an extra 10 minutes at lunch?

·      bust my ass to be somewhere even a few minutes early when someone is expecting me?

·      follow up with my colleagues after I’ve referred them to someone else who I felt could help them more, just to make sure they got what help they needed?

·      get up from my desk to help direct someone to an unfamiliar place in the building, or on campus?

·      get online nearly every morning before work and night before I go to bed to see if anyone at work has sent an email requesting support?

·      allow the dog across the street to bark at me and take a dump in my yard without drop-kicking it into the next neighborhood?

·      do most of the legwork to find a resolution to a multi-departmental issue, just to keep from pushing it off on someone else?

I could go on and on. Why do I follow the rules? Why am I always the guy who takes the high road? Why do I always try to do the right thing? As futile as it seems sometimes, it’s hard for me to do otherwise. Interestingly, my son jokingly answered that question tonight with, “because you’re not a damn hooligan, and your mama raised you right!” Truer words were never spoken. Well, I can be a hooligan, but Gertrude, I should thank you again for raising me right!

THE COTTAGE ON THE CORNER

Got time for a short story?

I have a great group of Facebook friends who have organized themselves specifically into a FB group because of a common love of photography. It was a chance to share ideas and information and, of course, the pictures we are most proud of!

We recently began doing weekly 'challenges'....each one actually a succession of 5-7 days of posting our photos following a 'theme' of sorts. We've done trees, bodies of water, and birds, for instance, among other things.

This week, during our CEMETERIES AND STATUARY challenge, I posted a picture of a cottage in the Outer Banks; a cottage which has a couple of little statues in the front yard; a cottage which, every time I ride by, and I've ridden by a lot of times, has always made me want to write a scary story about the place. When I revealed this to the group in the post, my friend, Dawn challenged me to go ahead and write a story! So I thought, sure! Why not?!

THE COTTAGE ON THE CORNER

 

It was late evening, just at dusk…not dark, but not very bright either. As he turned down the lane, the wind seemed to begin to blow almost immediately, shaking the Spanish moss in the scrubby trees and drawing his attention toward the little white cottage. A sick feeling came over him suddenly….a deep fear; no...a terror...a soul-shaking terror. The cottage was immediately familiar. He’d been here before. But when? How? He had no recollection of even having been in this region, and yet, this familiarity was unmistakable and unrelenting.

He had to pull the car over to get control of himself.  He turned off the engine. He gripped the wheel and took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, then open, then shut, then open again.  He rolled down the passenger side window from his armrest and slowly turned to look at the house again, now directly to his right.  The porch; the concrete Chinese dog statues; the trees! His eyes darted back and forth across the lawn and the façade of the house as he grew more full of dread by the second. His head throbbed. How could he know this place?

His heart was pounding now as he was both trying to absorb and analyze what lay before him, and retrieve whatever deep dark mystery was hiding in the recesses of his mind.  At exactly the same moment his gaze landed on the concrete angel on the lawn, a skull-splitting pain hit him, a flash of light seemed to illuminate the lawn, a far-off scream could be heard, and a splash of red seemed to appear across the angel, as if someone had thrown paint on it intentionally.  He jumped, so startled and panic-stricken and then closed his eyes tightly, almost afraid to open them again! He had to look though, to figure this out, to understand. Slowly he opened his eyes. The wind had died almost completely. The Spanish moss was motionless. The angel statue had returned to its weathered gray…no trace of red. There was a profound silence. 

“Bob.”  A whisper. Vague, even nearly imperceptible.  He craned his head around, both directions. He quickly looked in his back seat. He looked back at the lawn, and at the angel. In the stillness, he heard it again, this time a little louder.

“Bob. Bob” It was still a whisper now, but much louder, and more urgent.  Still no one in sight in any direction.

He fumbled with the ignition as he tried desperately to start his car. It took longer than usual for it to turn over, and he was shaking now,  and pouring sweat, and pounding the steering wheel with one hand and cursing. Finally the car started, and he put it into gear and peeled away from the house, sending dust, gravel, and sand flying in all directions.  As he pulled away, he was also fumbling with his armrest to find the buttons to roll up the windows. When he reached the end of the street, he’d come to a cul-de-sac. There was no outlet. He was going to have to turn around and drive by the house again.  

He swung the car around but drove a little more slowly up the street toward the little cottage. As he approached, he couldn’t take his eyes off the angel. It beckoned him, taunted him as he got closer.  And just as he was about to reach the edge of the property, he suddenly accelerated very rapidly again, as if he was afraid something would reach out and grab him. His eyes were still on the angel, sadly, as he charged forward, and straight into the cross street at the intersection. It all happened so fast, he couldn’t have known what hit him. Timing was such that he was right in the middle of the intersection as a large tank truck struck him directly on the driver-side of the car, while a very large pickup truck hit the passenger-side fender area, effectively blowing apart the entire front two thirds of the car. 

Of course, he was killed, mercifully, instantly.  By some miracle, the tanker driver and pickup driver were both spared, but suffered at great length, both physically and spiritually. Emergency personnel who were on the scene say they are still haunted by the body fragments they found all around the scene, especially in the lawn of the little cottage.  If you can get them into a conversation about the accident, many will relate how, as they cleaned up the area and the lawn, they had to use special chemicals to get the blood off the angel statue.

It's the stuff of legends, the making of a campfire story. It's fodder for generations of emergency personnel to distort and romanticize. It's the power of suggestion; the power of the mind to drive us to do strange things. It's the bent of a house to draw in and destroy helpless victims. It's the remote possibility of a life lived before, of a visit in another body, another time. It's a timeless mystery.