the newest boy

There are lots of things I could be posting about, but for sure I need to write this post.

Henry Herschel Wilde arrived at 11:29 am on Friday, January 19, 2018.  He weighed 7 lbs 2.6 oz, and measured 20 inches long.

He is perfect in every way.

Mom and dad and big sister, Meredith, couldn't be happier. 

I'm pretty happy too.  There's nothing like the miracle of a new baby to brighten your perspective and bring joy to life.

a previously unposted rant and a bit of insight

I wrote the post below about 18 months ago but never published it.  It feels like now is the time to update it and post it.  So here it is.

~~~



If you are my age or older and not dealing with a parent or spouse with dementia, please shout out mighty thanks.  I am not complaining here.  I am not looking for sympathy or advice or anything really but I need to vent.  Care centers, nursing homes, whatever you want to call them?  Nobody wants to go there.  Nobody wants to take their loved one there.  Nobody wants to change their parent's or spouse's diapers.  Nobody wants to have their diapers changed.  Sometimes I think that if one more person tells me they hope somebody shoots them or gives them a bunch of pills rather than take them to a care center, well, I might just scream--REALLY?  Is that what we should do with Jack's mom and my dad?  Yesterday some one told me if he developed dementia, his kids should just give him a granola bar and release him into the forest and walk away.  OMG.  This dementia thing sucks.  There is no easy answer.  It would be so great if everybody could keep their loved one in his or her home and take care of him or her and still have a full life.  But I watch my mom trying to care for my dad at home, totally isolating herself because she won't leave him there alone or with anybody else, and I think it's just a matter of time before he falls or has some other accident or she gets hurt or he loses the ability to walk or something worse that I haven't even imagined yet.  And then what?   And as hard as it is to see Jack's mom declining in a care center, I know we can't give her even a tenth of the compassionate, loving care she receives there.  I suspect it is even worse for people who didn't or weren't able to save and invest wisely like Jack's dad did all his life.  And even though we spend large sums of money for the compassionate care his mom receives, honestly, the place is still chaos.  So what are the options when bodies are failing, minds are going, life is ending?

~~~

Time changes everything.  Several months after I wrote those words, my dad suddenly declined and passed away.  It was a painful release.  So hard to let him go while knowing full well that his quality of life was nonexistent.

Seven months later, my mom was living with us.

And one month after that, on a Thursday afternoon in April, Jack got a call from Silverado, the care center where his mother was living.  The doctor said she had been having difficulties so they'd performed an ultrasound on her kidneys and found one was 90% blocked from draining and the other was completely blocked.  We had anticipated this call for several years and had expected she would die from kidney failure, so the call wasn't unexpected but it was still a surprise when it came.  We knew she had been declining, but she was still up walking around and reciting nursery rhymes and eating well and patting nurse's butts.  He said it was only a matter of days.  We told the family, and all day Friday, her loved ones came and visited.  She seemed to enjoy so much seeing everyone.  By late afternoon, she was exhausted, nodding off in the wheelchair we'd needed to use to move her to a room that was big enough to accommodate all of her visitors.

Jack and I stayed with her that night, doing whatever we could to keep her comfortable.  The staff was very helpful, administering pain medication as often as possible.  It seemed to us that she was still listening even though she didn't say much that night or the next day.  We stayed with her again Saturday all night.  I sat by her side, holding her hand, listening to her breath become more and more ragged.  The staff assured us she was not suffering.  We talked to her about good times in the past, told her how much we loved her, stroked her cheeks and forehead and hands and arms.

We went home around 8:00 a.m. and I fell into a deep sleep.  After two nights without sleep, I was exhausted.  Jack tossed and turned and eventually fell asleep.  At 11:30 a.m. we suddenly woke up and a moment later, his cell phone rang.  It was his sister calling to tell us their mother had passed away.  It was April 9, 2017.

~~~

I've been present for the births of several loved ones and present or nearby during the deaths of several loved ones, and I've come to realize that these experiences and the emotions I've felt are best described as sacred.  Not sacred as usually used in a religious way, even though sacred is defined as having to do with spiritual matters.  I'm defining it as a deeply emotional, deeply spiritual (but not necessarily religious or churchy) experience.  If that makes any sense.  Yes, there may be celebration or mourning, but these are events that every individual experiences in his or her own deeply felt way--we come in alone and we go out alone, even if surrounded by others.  It seems vital that we recognize the sacred nature of these events and respect the individuals who are experiencing them.

I felt my babies' movements during pregnancy, bonded with them long before they were born, but something special occurred when they transitioned from inside my body to outside my body and took their first breaths and released their first cries.  These were overwhelming, powerful moments in my life that included joy and fear and concern and love and I now recognize these times as deeply sacred moments. 

Watching a loved one die feels so very similar to me.  I felt a very clear transition, a process, an acceptance and a peace when my gramma passed away, when my father passed away, and during the time we stayed with Jack's mom as her body gradually died and her soul gradually left her body.  It was a deeply sacred time that we tried to honor with quiet respect and loving care.

I see life now as a time in which we begin as infants, helpless and alone.  We grow and gain and learn and experience life, and at some point, if we live a long, full life, we begin to decline and experience loss.  Loss occurs in many ways--loss of family, friends, abilities.  And eventually, we transition from life to death.  Perhaps it seems more difficult when a young person dies because they haven't had the time to find their way to the best version of themselves before they are gone?  Or they are living life with family, children, friends, and can't possibly be anywhere near the decline that logically should precede death? 

I don't know the answers for any of these questions, but I know the sacred experiences of birth and death are some of the greatest gifts I've been given.  I will always treasure them in my heart.

catching up some more

Today when I got out of the car at my house after a dental appointment, I smelled the scent of roses before I even saw them.  These beauties have been in my gardens as long as we've lived here and every year I am delighted by their effort to not only please the eye, but also the beautiful smell they produce.

It doesn't seem to matter to them how much effort I make to keep them healthy and blooming.  Roses are one of the easiest plants to grow, once they are established and as long as they don't freeze.  But even if they freeze, they convert to the wild rose stock they were grafted onto and cover themselves with countless, smaller but equally delightful blossoms. 

Earlier this year, after my mom joined us, I was out in the gardens one day and I thought about roses.  How very little effort they require to provide so much enjoyment.  They have so many good qualities--their lovely blossoms, their unparalleled scent, how easy they are to grow and enjoy.  But I also remembered the one thing about roses I don't love.  The pruning.  I don't like pruning because roses, for all of their good qualities, also have thorns.  I cannot prune them or even get very close to them without coming away a little scratched and even bleeding.  So incredible yet so prickly.

I realized as I pondered roses and gardening and the changes in my life at that time, that my mom is like a rose.  She has so many good qualities.  So many traits I admire and love.  Just like my roses.  And like my roses, my mom can be prickly sometimes.  Sometimes she only pokes or scratches a bit, but sometimes it feels like she is drawing blood.  Just like my roses.  And also like my roses, she isn't prickly on purpose--no, it is simply a part of who she is, just like all of her good qualities are parts of who she is.

These wandering thoughts in my mind were a gift, a blessing that has helped me remember the gift and blessing of having my mom living with us.  I never thought for a second that my gardens could help me adjust and willingly accept this gift.  But they have.  I love my roses even more now.

and yet another birthday gift!

Today I saw all of my kids and all of the grandkids.  My kids arranged a tasty dinner complete with pudding cake (yes, that's the second birthday cake for me this year) and Herschel caught this moment on his camera for me:

That's all nine of them, playing happily together in the basement. 

I'm gonna have to get that new toy room put together down there soon.

gardens update

When I retired, one of my goals was to spend hours and hours in my gardens.  They were feeling neglected, I could tell.

When I got the call that my mom had fallen in her bathroom, I had no idea what that would mean.  But after she was checked out, stitched up a bit, and released from the ER, she was in no shape, physically or emotionally to go back home alone.  So she came to our house.

We told her she was welcome to stay as long as she wanted or she could go home whenever she wanted.  After a while, she gradually decided she wanted to stay.  So we emptied the office and set up a sitting room for her along with her bathroom and bedroom.  It wasn't the whole house she was used to being in, but she seemed okay with it.

For the first few weeks she was here, she and I sat five feet from each other in chairs in the family room and watched movies, Jeopardy!, and Law & Order.  Every day.  She was used to sitting by herself in her empty house and I had not yet established a retirement schedule.  It didn't take long to realize we needed to have some space occasionally if this new arrangement was going to work well.

So I went ahead with my retirement plans for the gardens.  I weeded for days.  Pulled every big and little weed I could find.  Then I learned how to repair drip irrigation.  Then I bought plants, hundreds of new perennials, and then I planted them.  Last I bought three pallets of bags of mulch, which if your counting is 180 bags, and I spread the mulch.

These plants (and several others I bought on numerous visits to nurseries):

now look like this:

 I pulled out most of the overgrown plants in the courtyard and planted these:

The roses are still blooming even through the heat

These beauties have been giving it their all, all summer long.  In the morning, they are spectacular. 

One side of this bed looks like this and the other looks like that below:

The trumpet vine is a big hit with buzzing insects and humming birds

As always, the black-eyed suzies are stunning and this year the phlox is brilliant

The rose of sharon never disappoints

 And these new lilies are a bright spot.

The plants have settled in nicely.  So have the people living together in the house.

birthday week continues over here

Last night I met up with Jessie for our water color lessons.  Yep, we're learning techniques from a real artist!  And we also get to be together for a couple of hours every Thursday night. 

And last night she insisted I come to her house after class so she could give me something she made for me for my birthday.

It's a print one of her friends designed for a fabric designing contest.   It is lovely.


Kinda can't wait for the cooler weather now.

i'm back?

When you write a blog that details your personal life, and your personal life, rather than slowing down as planned, suddenly blows up into all kinds of different, you can find yourself six months down the road having posted nothing because you couldn't decide where to start, and everyday, even sometimes every hour and even every moment can become something to document, if only that weren't so overwhelming--the events as well as the posting of details of events.

So here I am, six months after my last post and I feel the need to start documenting again, which means there will need to be some documenting of the events of the past six months.  But, where to start?  I considered starting by writing chronologically, but that could easily end up dry, boring, or way too philosophical and less historical (at least historical from my perspective, which if we're being honest is kind of how history works, right?  We're presented a view from someone's perspective of a particular incident, which may be completely different from the perspectives of other people who might have been there.)

Last night, it occurred to me that I could get back into the blog by taking some pictures of my kitchen counter top.  It has accumulated a collection of items that describe some of the events of the past few days and some from the past six months.  This is how I've decided to jump back into the blog.  (Btw, that beautiful flower in the updated header is a plate-sized hibiscus that is growing just off my deck.  The shot is the view I had of that flower from behind with the morning sun shining through.  Breathtakingly delicate and beautiful.)

Herewith the photos with appropriate historical detail:

This shot is the corner of the bar counter top.  That red bowl almost always contains bananas.  And often there are a couple of avocados ripening nearby.  I've started enjoying avocados more on sandwiches and such because my mom likes avocado sandwiches and I make them for her frequently since she moved in with us in March after a fall in her bathroom.  Luckily she wasn't hurt seriously, but it was an eye opener that maybe it was time for her to not be alone so much.  We set up a bedroom, sitting room, and bathroom for her and her cat (yes there are now four cats and four dogs living in our house).  I will admit that there was an adjustment period of a couple of months, but after a bit of adjustment of attitudes and medications, we've all settled in just fine.  At some point in the future I'll fill in more of the details, but for now, I'll just say that this is a good thing for all of us.

Under the avocados are two different papers.  The white one is a report from the eye doctor I saw on Sunday morning.  Who knew they are available on Sundays?  They are if you call and report floaters and flashing lights in your left eye.  Come right in to the office to determine whether or not the jelly in the back of your eye is separating (normal for my age, apparently, in my family) or is tearing off some of your retina with it (normal in 5% of cases, including some in my family).  Give it a few weeks to see if it separates without damaging the retina--or if you suddenly see many flashing lights and hundreds of floaters or God-forbid, a curtain or shadow blocking your vision, get right back to the office for some procedure to keep you from losing sight in that eye.  I'm feeling relief that for now everything is going okay with my vision.  Fingers crossed for a few more weeks.

Happily, the other paper by the avocados, the red paper, is a program from the University of Utah School of Medicine White Coat Ceremony for the Class of 2021.  On Monday morning, we went to Kingsbury Hall to watch Herschel receive his first white coat and stethoscope and to watch him raise his hand and recite the Hippocratic oath.  He's on the long path to becoming a doctor.  I was astounded to learn that over 3,700 applications were submitted and only 125 were admitted to the School.  I think he will do compassionate and great things in his life.  But I thought that before he started medical school.

Near the fruit, are a couple of birthday cards I received yesterday on my 59th birthday.  That isn't an especially eventful number to me but 59 is apparently a lucky number for my brother-in-law, which is another story for the future.  I spent some of the day yesterday sorting books at my mom's house, which we're getting ready to sell, and some of the day picking up grocery and other items for my mom and for Jack's brother, but the best part of the day was dinner with Jack, my mom, Jr, and his roommate, which is another story for the future--Jr has moved into an apartment and is settling into actual grownupsville.  I am happy to see him moving on but I really miss having him around.  It is that simple, and happily, he lives nearby and stays in contact.

Truly, the actual best part of the day was this yummy German chocolate cake Jr baked for me.  It was super moist and delicious (Betty Crocker's claim is correct).  It may take me a day or two, but I'll force myself to finish off that cake.  Near the cake are the dogs' nighttime pills.  Yes, we are those people who give our dogs medication for arthritis and other older dog issues.

There's a glimpse of the watermelon I bought a few days ago.  I have been really enjoying the melons this year.  I think we're six of seven for sweet juicy melons so far.  I'll be cutting up that one today so there will be cold, sweet, juicy melon in the fridge for snacks.

Here are my burned birthday cake candles and my most recent favorite flavors of crystal lite--peach tea (think those words using a southern accent) and cherry pomegranate (which tastes like how I remember cherry Koolaid tasting when I was a kid).  Drinking more and more water (flavored and straight up) and less and less diet coke.  But I'll never give up the Diet Coke.  It's been my friend for a long time.

These are the succulents that have invaded my window sill this year.  I've had the orchid with the little flowers on the right for five years now.  Every year, it blooms around my birthday.  My friend from work gave me the metal container with the three succulents in it.  And a few weeks ago I was invited to a "Crazy Succulent Party" by a friend.  I will admit I didn't know what that meant and so googled it and asked Jr if it was a euphemism for something crazy (he wasn't aware of anything), but it turned out to be a fun little get-together with my friend (who is someone I met at weightwatchers who is an incredible defense attorney who works for and is successful at obtaining the release of wrongly convicted people) and her eclectic circle of friends.  There were attorneys, paralegals, others from weightwatchers, friends from her childhood and high school and college.  She provided all of the necessary ingredients for succulent planting (containers, soil, decorations) as well as food and drinks, and we had a great time together.  When I told Stu I was going to the party, he said he'd been thinking about planting succulents in some of the pots he made in our pottery class a couple of years ago and I realized that was a perfect thing to do with my little pots.  So those four pots in the middle are my creations with tiny little succulents in them, trying their best to grow even though my mom keeps watering them too frequently.  She means well.

This is the last picture for now.  It shows the watermelon, the dogs' pills, some corn pops I bought for Jack (I ate the Apple Jacks), and also the box of insulin needles I use for Millie the cat.  She's always been a round-bottomed tabby (some would say she is overweight, I thought she was perfect).  A few months ago, she started showing symptoms that were concerning so I took her to the vet.  She was diagnosed with diabetes.  So now I'm that woman who gives prescription food and twice-daily insulin shots to her 13-year-old cat.  Morning and night, Millie comes looking for me for the food and I dish it up and sit down and pet her while she eats and then I inject her.  She rarely notices the injections but loves the food and attention.  And she looks healthier than she has in a long time.  That feels like the insulin (and the crazy cat lady title) is worth it.

Finally, this picture also includes a little sign my friend gave me for my birthday.  In case you can't read it, it says, "Plant a garden & believe in tomorrow".  There was a time, a very long time, when I didn't know if there would be tomorrows for me.  But now, I feel so very good about today and many more tomorrows.  My life is complicated now but very right now.  Full of opportunities to do good things, time to do the things I want to do for myself, and good relationships all around me.  I'm grateful to have found my way back to this place.

a little misty

This retirement stuff is a pretty good gig.  Lots of reading, time with kids and grandkids, bits of projects in the house and gardens, some gym time. 

And I'm getting really good at naps.

Last week, Jack and I went to Ephraim for a few days.  He went to a class to learn to make another piece of furniture.  I stayed in the hotel for the first two days (which was like retirement without dogs) and then spent time driving around in the truck on the last day we were there. 

I drove down to Manti and stopped for lunch at the same place we ate breakfast at on the day Stu and Shi were married. 

then

It was the kind of place my dad used to love to drive to for a late lunch or early dinner.  A place that served a tossed salad followed by chicken fried steak with mashed potatoes and milk gravy.  Sitting in that booth, looking out the window at the motel where Shi and her parents stayed on her wedding eve fifteen years ago, remembering so many meals in restaurants just like that one with my dad, left me feeling misty and emotional. 

now

So much time passed by, so many good memories.

The other day at my mom's house, I picked out a Dove chocolate from a bag of them on her kitchen table.  I love that when I open a Dove chocolate I get not only a sweet little treat, but also a few words to read.  This is the wrapper from my Dove chocolate last week:

I thought this was excellent advice and got a little misty after reading it.  I showed it to my mom, who smiled and noted that I probably shouldn't be following that bit of advice. 

The first thing I remembered that I could quote from my dad was his never ending quest for someone to pull his finger, and then, of course, he would fart.  And laugh.  Every time. 

I thought of his determination to see the world watered and green if only everyone, everywhere would install rainbirds.

I thought of his stories about trains and working at the smelter and the Silverbell gas station and being in the army air corps. 

I thought of his tale of drinking a cup of tea with his mother who would then offer to read his tea leaves by tipping his cup upside down into his saucer and then carefully examining the leaves and proclaiming his future for that day.

Then I thought of the day when I learned my daughter and her family were moving to California.  Jack understood how distraught I was by this and immediately told me I would just have to plan to visit them often.  When I told my dad they were moving, he took my hand in his, looked me in the eye and said he knew how much I loved that little family and that must have been one of the hardest things ever for me.

I'm not sure my dad was really the kind of guy people would quote.  But he was funny and experienced and smart and thoughtful and very kind and he knew me.  Thinking about him and being in their house, sitting on the kitchen bench next to where he always sat, sitting on the couch next to where he always sat, and sitting in a small town cafe where we'd spent time together all likely contributed to my misty emotional state.  

I suppose that's how the thing called death works.  You can find joy in the memories even in the mist of still raw emotion.  And it's okay.

great news followed by yoga

Whitney talked me into going with her to a yoga class this morning at the gym.  I was looking forward to seeing her and Meredith and also figured I could handle an hour of yoga.  How hard could it be really?

I got through it all right.  It felt like an hour of stretching and warm up for a zumba class that made me realize all of the weak places in my body.  It seems my butt is my strongest part.  Or at least sitting on my butt was something I could do.  I can see how yoga could offer significant strengthening and flexibility opportunities.  And possibly a need for advil.

But the thing that made the yoga experience all totally worth it was the phone call Whitney got as we were walking into the gym. 

I was delighted to be with her when Herschel called to tell her he was accepted into the School of Medicine at the University of Utah. 

Pausing to savor that memory.

I am proud of all of my kids--the adults they've become, the lives they live, the joy they bring.  And while I know Herschel is at just the start of a long arduous path that will eventually take him to being a doctor, mostly, I know how hard he's worked over the past few years and the path he's taken in life so far to get to this point.  I could not be happier for him right now and I am so proud of him for deciding to do something hard and making the necessary sacrifices and taking the steps to get himself on his way to that goal. 

damn styes

The styes are back.  Been back for maybe three weeks?  Too long, however long it's been.  This post will, I'm sure, sound negative.  I prefer to think of it as simply documenting the events of yesterday.

I've been to the eye doctor three times this go round.  Realized yesterday I've seen at least six different docs about styes over the past few years.  (Thank you various insurance companies.)  Saw a new guy yesterday who is apparently a stye expert.  We had a very entertaining and enjoyable visit before he did the injections, which were so intense that I can't really remember much about the entertaining and enjoyable visit.

Without going into a lot of detail, I'll just say that the injections were so intense that they caused completely involuntary swearing to ensue and also caused my whole body to contract, from the hair on top of my head all the way to my curled up toes in my boots, also extending through my fingers that tightly--vicelike actually--gripped the arms of the exam chair. 

I'm pretty sure the injections lasted for less than a minute or two but just seemed like a lifetime.  Long enough for me to make a mental note about the viselike grip and the curled up toes.

But maybe I'm just a baby about pain.

Holy cow.  They're just styes for heck's sake.  Not massive cancerous growths.  Not blindness.  Not any one of countless medical emergencies.

Little tiny clogged oil ducts in my eyelids.

But they're buggers to open up.

Here's hoping the injections worked and the ducts will be just normal ducts for a while.

And while I'm hoping for miracles, how about some cleared out skies with sunshine and blue skies?

Or a sandy beach with ocean waves? 

Is this all to much to ask? 

I think not.

phew, it was only a nightmare

I had the worst nightmare last night.  Or early this morning.  I woke up at 5:55 feeling dreadful.  Full of dread.

I dreamed (nightmared?) that I was at work.  My office was large and had lots of windows but there were dark heavy drapes covering all of the windows so the room was dark and dreary and stuffy and oppressive. 

I had no work to do.  There were four documents on my massive, old, broken, metal desk but I couldn't remember what any of the documents were about even though I knew they were something I had worked on in the recent past. 

My two coworkers were in the dark office with me but they were lit up--bright little auras surrounding them in the otherwise stuffy room.

I felt so desperate in that room especially when I suddenly remembered I still had three days of work before my retirement. 

What a relief to wake up and realize it was all just a bad dream.

things i've already learned about retirement

After less than two days of retirement, I've already learned/realized several things.

1.  It would be very easy to sit in my chair all day, excluding the time spent fetching food, letting dogs out and back in, etc.  Note:  I have not done this.  I figured this out very early yesterday morning and if there's one thing I am, it's a getter-doner.  So I've made sure I got some stuff done each day.  Like, for example, I did the laundry yesterday.  Today I folded it and put it away.  And I washed the bedding and have clean sheets and blankets to sleep under tonight.  I met Jack, Jr, Jessie and her two youngest kids for lunch today.  Also today, I wandered through the house and made a list of projects--big and small--to keep myself busy and productive.  This list goes along with the list I made when first considering retirement that included daily tasks and/or options but also numerous potential vacation spots to plan for and dream about.  I love me a good list and I have a couple of good ones now.
2.  I can now spread over an entire week all of the tasks I used to do in two or three days of a weekend.  This is the definition of glorious.  Look it up in the dictionary.  Or someplace.  Or don't.  But it is awesome to have that extra 40+ hours to use however I choose.
3.  I've been doing all of the things for so long that I thought it would take me some big amount of time to slow down.  That was a big misunderstanding in my head.  This is like Christmas break without the stress, which is the main reason why I retired.  Lower the stress level.
4.  Also, yes to pancakes.

seventeen years four months and six days later (approximately)

Right now, I'm sitting at home in my chair by the fire looking out over the deck and back yard on a Monday morning.  For all these past years, I would have been sitting at my desk at work.  But last Thursday, January 26, 2017, was my last day of work.

I retired.

I was done.  And I am done with that stage of life.  It was time to move on into a new stage of life--one of actually living every day instead of slogging through yet another day.

Things I will not miss:

• Getting up and dressed and made up early.
• Thinking in my head that I am a valuable contributor while idling away the day waiting for work or interactions or conversation.

Things I will miss:

• Interactions with coworkers, good people.
• The thrill of a project--figuring it out and completing it.
• The beautiful view out of my office windows.
• Driving to and from work with Jack.
• Lunch with Jack.
• My paycheck.  Probably.  At least a little.

Things I am looking forward to:

• Free time
• More--skiing, reading, movies, time with kids, grandkids, parents, friends, etc., etc., etc.,
• Gardening
• Cleaning/Organizing/etc., etc., etc.
• Projects--big and small
• Travel--road trips (short and long), fly-away trips, etc., etc., etc.
• Jack's retirement--which should have happened on the same day as mine but for an annoying management snafu that will hopefully be resolved soon
• Naps

One of my major goals is to improve the behavior of the animals I live with.  Everybody needs to settle down and learn to get along with each other.  I will be conducting extensive research into how to get dogs to stop barking at EVERYTHING; also how to stop dogs from chasing the cats EVERY.TIME they see each other.  Seriously.  Just calm down you guys. We are now together in the chill-out time of life.

And we're going to rock this.

that hour we spent talking to dish network

Jack and I just spent the last hour on the phone with Dish Network.

Waste of time?  I don't know.

What are you supposed to do when your local NBC affiliate suddenly goes off the air because it can't reach an agreement with your tv provider so you realize you aren't going to get to watch the last week of football before the playoffs.  And if it goes anything like the last time this happened when Fox 13 couldn't come to terms with Dish and went off the air for weeks and only just resolved it all barely in time for the start of the football season--well, it seems likely we won't see the playoffs (playoffs!) or the super bowl and, well, it was concerning.

And since Jack had surgery on his thumb this afternoon and was a little medicated, it seemed like as good a time as any to tell Dish we either wanted our local NBC affiliate back or we wanted out of our contract.  And of course, they insisted they were working on the affiliate issue 24/7--seriously? 24/7?--and there wasn't any way they could waive the early termination fee, which, wait, there's nobody at Dish who can waive the fee and let us out of the contract?  Well then we need to talk to your supervisor.  So that was the story, one supervisor after another until we were talking to the secretary to the president of Dish.  Seriously?  And they all had the same script.  Which is, I'm just gonna say, really frustrating.

Pretty early on in the call, Jack realized Dish wasn't going to let him out and he didn't really want to change providers because we like those Dish hoppers. 

After an hour it was time for another pain pill for Jack.  And by then, the secretary to the president had set us up for half price HBO and Showtime and a $20 discount for some number of months that added up to more than the early termination fee. 

So we're still with Dish.  Paying $35 less per month for some amount of time.  And according to Jack's surgeon, in three months he'll be so glad he had the surgery.

the time when piano music returned

A few weeks ago, I told Jack I missed having a piano in the house.

When Stuart was in fifth grade, we went to the music store one night to rent a trumpet for him to learn to play in the grade school band.  We left a few hours later with a rental trumpet and a few days later a lovely piano was delivered to our house.  I was so excited to have a piano in our home remembering the joy I'd felt as a kid after hours of practicing and developing a love for sonatinas.

That night was a turning point for our family.  We changed from being a family who listened to music to being a family who played music.  Created music.  Loved music even more.

The kids all took piano lessons in addition to learning to play various instruments.  I remember hearing mothers complain that their kids wouldn't practice their piano lessons.  That was not a problem we had.  Our kids loved to play and if anything, there were quarrels over whose turn it was to play the piano. 

There was always piano music in the background of our lives.  It was a sweet gift.  A blessing to see and hear my children creating and enjoying something so beautiful.

When Stuart graduated from college, we gave him our piano as a graduation gift.  It seemed fitting to have the music continue in his home.  I was pleased when Jessie and Cory bought a piano for their home and when Herschel and Whitney inherited a piano from her grandmother. 

But there was no piano music in our home. 

Until last week.  Last week one night, on the way home from work, Jack made a turn from our normal commute and drove to the piano store.  The same company who had sold us our first piano.   We went inside, me unable to stop smiling.  We discussed the pros and cons of upright bersus baby grand, looked around and found a used upright piano that had just come into the store the night before.  The previous owner had signed the bill of sale and left as we walked in. 

It was, obviously, meant to be ours.  And now it is.

It was delivered on December 22.  Stu and his girls came over to check it out.  As I finished wrapping the last of the Christmas gifts in my bedroom, I heard the familiar sound of him playing some of his favorite memorized pieces.  I will easily admit to finding tears in my eyes in that moment.  And again when Stu brought me a copy of my favorite book of sonatinas--the book from my teenage years that I had played over and over again.

And now the piano music is back in our home again.

this christmas memory i want to remember

I want to remember this afternoon.

I had this idea that maybe if I bought four tickets for the matinee performance of The Nutcracker at Ballet West on the day after Christmas, and had Jack give one to my mom for Christmas, along with an invitation to lunch at Siegfried's, the German deli right next door to the theater, then maybe she would agree to join us--Jack, Jr, and me. 

Since my dad died, she hasn't wanted to go out much, other than to church on Sundays and frequently, Sunday dinner at my house.  I hoped she might come with us, and for a couple of hours, be able to simply enjoy herself.

So Jack gave her the ticket yesterday along with a hand-printed note, inviting her to lunch at Siegfried's at noon.  She agreed to go.

We picked her up at noon in Jr's car.  He drove us to the door of Siegfried's and she and I went in to get in the line while Jr and Jack parked the car.  She immediately asked if I wanted to share a reuben sandwich, which, hello, of course.  Siegfried's also has amazing fried potatoes and mom added a piece of apple streudel that we all shared.

Lunch was tasty.

We finished in plenty of time to walk the short distance to the theater.  We rode the elevator to the mezzanine and found our seats.  As we settled in, mom leaned over and said to me, "You done good, kid."  And then we were transported to the beauty and strength and grace that is ballet.

It could not have been a better afternoon.

swings and more

writing and healing

Two things.

First, I've realized in the past few weeks that writing is healing for me.  Painful perhaps for any readers, but so helpful for me.

Second, while I'm wondering how people walking by me can miss the hole in my heart, I also wonder whether or not they've been through the same loss of a parent.  Are we both members of that same club?  Because I can't see it on their faces, which makes me think that either they haven't joined the club yet, or they are in the club and there is hope for the future.  So there.  Hope for healing.


Also, I may be feeling better this morning because we're getting a new swingset in our back yard today.  It's supposed to be for the grandkids, but I'm thinking it will be a great form of exercise for me too, right?

pictures coming later...

more time please

I've learned a new thing in the past almost three weeks.

I thought I was pretty good at keeping my feelings hidden.  Apparently I am not.

I've also learned another new thing.

People, especially those who care about you, want you to feel better.  Soon.  Please.  Because it's uncomfortable to not be able to make someone feel better. 

I've read about these two things before, written by people who have experienced great loss.  Some have experienced hugely tragic losses--the loss of a child or the unexpected loss of a family member.  Losing my 91-year-old dad who had lived with dementia for over five years was nothing like that, I'm sure.  But it is hard in its own way. 

So when people who may or may not know about his passing ask me, casually, how am I doing, in my mind, I'm surprised that they are asking how I am instead of them being able to see the huge hole in my heart and instead asking me whatever has happened and how can I cope and go on with that gaping wound and shouldn't someone tend to that injury?

Perhaps I am too dramatic in my head. 

It probably doesn't help that my kid's health has been up and down over the past six weeks too.  I'm not a fan of saying stuff isn't fair--thanks to my high school teacher who printed in pastel-colored chalk across one whole wall of chalkboard, "LIFE ISN'T FAIR" because he was weary of students saying stuff wasn't fair--so I rarely say stuff isn't fair, but seriously.  It isn't fair for a kid to know more about health insurance and liver enzymes and blocked liver ducts than anybody else I know. 

So there's that.

I know people care about me so much and want so much to help or make it better or somehow ease the pain. And the hugs and pats and support are so very appreciated.  And even after this short amount of time, there are moments, minutes, even an hour, when I can get buried in a project that requires me to think and focus and for that brief bit of time, I'm not thinking about my dad and my kid.  Or my mom, which is a whole other concern. 

But the thing is, these feelings are always there, just below the surface, so if someone asks me earnestly how I'm doing, I'll likely say I'm okay but apparently my face gives me away.  I thought I was doing a really good job of keeping it all inside, but in the past two days I've realized that apparently I can keep it under check for about five seconds but if you look at me for longer than that, you'll likely see the pain seeping through.  And you'll want to help and I'll start to cry and it will be a mess.  Sorry about the mess.

The truth is, I'm doing the best I can right now.  I miss my dad.  Missing him feels sad.  I'm worried about my kid.  And that feels sad.  And worrisome.  Because I'm me, the worrier.

I've heard that time helps with the pain of loss.  I'm hanging on tight to that, hoping sometime I'll feel not so sad.  I don't expect I'll ever feel the way I felt before my dad died, because life isn't the same with him gone. 

But today was a better day for my kid so that feels good.  And I'll keep hoping for more of that. 

more sunshine

For years now, Jack has wanted to take out a couple of big trees in our yard.  One is a pine tree on the front corner of our lot, right next to the sidewalk, that used to grow in the company of another pine and a blue spruce in the neighbor's yard.  But a couple of years ago, the neighbor had his two trees cut down, leaving our pine the sole tree, with its south half barren because it was previously protected by the now missing spruce and pine on the other side of the fence.  To be honest, our pine did its best to fill in that bare space on its south side, but it also always did its best to fill up the flower beds, lawn, and rain gutters on the house with fallen pine needles and cones.  Lawn mowers hated that pine, especially its cones that would shoot out like missiles whenever one of them was discovered by the blades of the mower and would explode and fly across the yard at any unsuspecting victim who happened to be wandering nearby.

During the last microburst rainstorm a few months ago, our newly remodeled basement was flooded with two inches of water when the rain gutters on the house couldn't effectively move water away from the roof line because of the winter-long collection of pine needles clogging them.  Two inches of water in a basement doesn't sound like much, but really, it is a lot when it's soaking through papers and books and dog beds and furniture and also newly laid carpet (but so glad we went with commercial grade, no pad required carpet squares last year).

The other tree Jack has wanted to remove is a silver maple.  It too must have been at least 30 years old and sat at the back corner of our yard.  It was huge.  Massive.  Many branches, a trunk so big I couldn't wrap my arms around it.  And while I loved that it tracked the seasons amazingly well (it always knew spring was coming and would begin to green up before I sensed the end of winter, also knew when fall was around the corner even though it felt like bright, hot summer still to me), it gave me a feeling that no matter what was going on in the world, the world was still right because the tree knew.  Spring follows winter every year, summer is next, then fall, and then dark winter.  But then fresh bright green spring again.  The tree knew and the world was constant and safe and right.

That tree also took very seriously its commandment to multiply and replenish the earth.  Every year, it sent forth millions--I don't think that's an exaggeration--but literally millions of its seeds to sprout in every bit of bare soil in my gardens.  Every year it tried to reproduce a forest of its seedlings in my gardens.  Honestly, I loved that tree for all of its gifts, but I really didn't want hundreds of it growing in my yard.  Or even tens.  Or more than just that one.  So every year, I spent a fair amount of time, pulling up countless tiny little two-inch seedlings, and every year, I pulled up more than a few six or twelve-inch tall sprouts that I'd missed during previous weedings, and every now and then, I dug up a young treeling that was certain it was going to establish a home in a bed in my gardens.

During one of the recent wind storms--which sounds so uneventful, but really was very eventful, tipping over trees everywhere, knocking down power lines, blowing away shed roofs and trampolines--anyway, apparently that wind storm got a little bossy with our maple.  A few days after the storm, we found one of the huge branches split nearly off the tree, laying across the roof of our shed.  Luckily, it hadn't crushed the shed, but probably only because half of it was still attached to the tree.  But poor tree.  A major limb hanging on but nearly torn off.  Seems to me that must have been painful.  And then we noticed the split down the back side of the tree.  Insects? Disease?  Lightning strike?  We don't know.  But we knew the tree was in peril of splitting and falling on our house, or shed, or block wall, or maybe even the neighbors' houses.  It was a huge tree.

Like I said, Jack had wanted to cut down those trees for years and I had argued against it because who can cut down a beautiful living thing without good reason?  But then I realized, we had good reason.  Both of the trees were doing damage to our home.  And it wasn't the trees' fault, they just grew where they were planted.  But they had been planted, wrong tree, wrong place.  Both of them are park trees.  Or forest trees.  But not neighborhood, small-lot trees.

So for Jack's birthday, I told him I was agreeing we could have the trees removed.  As long as we agreed to buy and plant new trees that would be the right trees in the right places in our gardens.

Jack knew this was a hard thing for me to come to, but he knew I'd come to it in my own time and on my own terms.  He said it was the best gift I'd ever given to him.

After shedding a few tears, I looked around and found a company that could remove these trees safely, who would make sure they didn't come back in suckers all around the yard, and who would take them to their yard to be made into mulch to be sold to add back to the earth.  I found that company and their guy came out and gave us a bid and we made arrangements for them to bring a crane and a crew with lots of equipment to remove the trees.  But they couldn't come for six weeks.

They showed up bright and early yesterday morning with the crane and the bucket truck and the backhoe and the dumpster and a bunch of smart, capable guys who did a remarkable job working together and removing the trees.  Maybe it was all of the cool equipment they brought, or maybe it was how efficiently they worked, or maybe the events of the past few weeks put it all into perspective, but somehow, yesterday wasn't a sad day.  The grandkids all came over to watch the crane and we played together and laughed and some stayed for lunch and in the end, it was all okay.  Sometimes your perspective changes and things you thought would be really sad, end up being okay after you've endured truly hard things.  The trees being gone is okay.  We'll find some new great trees.  And time will heal the pain of losing my dad.  And Stu is back home from the hospital again, looking much better.

Sometimes you just need a little perspective.   What seems like it will be so very hard, ends up being not so hard at all.

And with the trees gone, there is more sunshine then ever in my gardens. And who can't use a little extra sunshine in today's world?