Despite her initial reluctance, mom has now moved twice in one year. Her first choice of apartments turned out to be too large. She is now making herself comfortable in a studio size unit.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Another Move
Monday, June 13, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Inertia
I suppose it was inevitable. After all that moving and bustling and worrying and packing and organizing and traveling, things on my end slowed to a crawl yesterday.
Actually, things slowed to a nap -- followed by some more resting. I think after that I stared at some TV for a while. Yeah, I didn't do much and it felt pretty great.
Today I'm still tired so I'm thinking another nap is not far off. I've only been up a few hours as it is but, hey, I'm gonna have to expend some energy toward a breakfast situation soon and that will probably put me down for the count.
It's hard to describe how draining it is to support a parent in this process. Unless you've done it, I'm not sure words can really convey the complexity of the challenge. I found myself walking many, many ever-shifting boundaries to handle the fundamental task at hand. I'd say the most difficult was the fluid nature of when to behave like a daughter versus when to behave like a parent to my own mom. It was weird.
There were situations where we both laughed hysterically, moments where I wanted to handcuff her to the chair, times when I cried alone or in front of her and a few incidents where I felt like I was being manipulative to get past the fact that mom is a full-fledged adult to who gets to make her own decisions.
I remember almost shouting at her back in Kentucky that she had to deal with her belongings. "Mom! There is no 'later.' The truck is coming. You have to decide NOW." I felt like crap about it. I haven't had a full-blown fight with my mom since I was about 27 years old. I decided I was too old to be yelling like a hormonal teenager, so I cut it out. We've certainly had arguments and snapped at each other since then but I haven't had a complete knock-down-drag-out with her in 20 years. So raising my voice to her (unless we're all laughing) doesn't feel so good. I told her that I was doing it as the lesser of two evils: I was not about to watch that truck pull up and see her confused and upset about what was and wasn't going to California because other people were making decisions that she hadn't faced.
I know it was the right thing to do. I know all of it was basically the right thing to do. My sister and I have handled everything as best we can and mom has expressed profound gratitude and conceded that most if not all of our methods were necessary. We're all grateful she's in California now and in one piece.
We just all need lots of naps. Too bad we still have to assemble that damn Ikea table!
Actually, things slowed to a nap -- followed by some more resting. I think after that I stared at some TV for a while. Yeah, I didn't do much and it felt pretty great.
Today I'm still tired so I'm thinking another nap is not far off. I've only been up a few hours as it is but, hey, I'm gonna have to expend some energy toward a breakfast situation soon and that will probably put me down for the count.
It's hard to describe how draining it is to support a parent in this process. Unless you've done it, I'm not sure words can really convey the complexity of the challenge. I found myself walking many, many ever-shifting boundaries to handle the fundamental task at hand. I'd say the most difficult was the fluid nature of when to behave like a daughter versus when to behave like a parent to my own mom. It was weird.
There were situations where we both laughed hysterically, moments where I wanted to handcuff her to the chair, times when I cried alone or in front of her and a few incidents where I felt like I was being manipulative to get past the fact that mom is a full-fledged adult to who gets to make her own decisions.
I remember almost shouting at her back in Kentucky that she had to deal with her belongings. "Mom! There is no 'later.' The truck is coming. You have to decide NOW." I felt like crap about it. I haven't had a full-blown fight with my mom since I was about 27 years old. I decided I was too old to be yelling like a hormonal teenager, so I cut it out. We've certainly had arguments and snapped at each other since then but I haven't had a complete knock-down-drag-out with her in 20 years. So raising my voice to her (unless we're all laughing) doesn't feel so good. I told her that I was doing it as the lesser of two evils: I was not about to watch that truck pull up and see her confused and upset about what was and wasn't going to California because other people were making decisions that she hadn't faced.
I know it was the right thing to do. I know all of it was basically the right thing to do. My sister and I have handled everything as best we can and mom has expressed profound gratitude and conceded that most if not all of our methods were necessary. We're all grateful she's in California now and in one piece.
We just all need lots of naps. Too bad we still have to assemble that damn Ikea table!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A Tall Tale
Mom telling us about some of the folks she's meeting at her new home while we're waiting to meet the new neurologist.
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Construction Crew
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| Sylvie working on a chair. |
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| She did it! |
Time Out!
I'm so angry right now I could spit nails.
I can NOT count the number of times in the past three days that I have watched children charge toward my mother as if she, with walker, could gracefully dodge their trajectory.
What the hell is wrong with people? And, by the way, I'm not talking about the kids here. I'm talking about the adults. I happen to think kids are supposed to be kids -- and adults are supposed to rein them in when they are on the verge of mowing down the elderly.
That, however, might be too much to ask since in EVERY case the adults in question were completely absorbed in their mobile devices and distracted from their children.
One of the problems here is a culture clash. I'm about to "go Kentucky" on these folks and discipline their children for them if they won't do it themselves. I've bitten my tongue so far but I come from a land where any adult can chastise any child if their public behavior is out of line. It doesn't happen all the time and in recent years everyone has become more permissive toward children, regardless of geography. I don't necessarily mind that. I mean, I think it's a good thing that corporal punishment has gone the way of the toaster Mac.
But manners and consideration never go out of style. If you can't prevent your kids from racing in and out of a doctor's office building (where many sick and old folks are trying to get care), then please hold their hands. How about speaking to them if they do happen to get rowdy in the wrong place around the wrong people. I'm completely willing to understand that the child may have some issue going on at that moment, too, that explains their behavior. My point is, whatever the problem, I would appreciate it if the adult "in charge" would do something! I can certainly tell you what is NOT a recommended response: looking at my mom like SHE is the one who is supposed to accommodate your kid by getting out of the way.
Honestly...the children in my own life are just as wild and crazy as the next kids. The differences is, if one of them does flail in the vicinity of another person, they hear about it. Such was the case the first day my nephew came to visit his grandmother at her new place. My sister's kids are very polite children, but they are still children.
As we were on the way to mom's room, my nephew did one of those motions only an 11-year-old can manage where he sort of walk/jumped/hurled himself forward down the hallway. I don't remember if he was actually close to crashing into mom, but my sister immediately called him over with a stern whisper and I overheard bits and pieces of her reprimand as I continued on with mom.
"...now does that seem like a good idea?...you can SEE that grammy is having trouble walking...what are you thinking?...be more careful! I shouldn't have to tell you this..."
It hasn't happened since -- not that it won't. He's just a kid so I won't be surprised when he forgets himself. But my sister will handle it.
Now please don't make me handle YOUR kids. We finally got mom here safely. I'm not about to let your lack of good sense put her in a wheelchair!
I can NOT count the number of times in the past three days that I have watched children charge toward my mother as if she, with walker, could gracefully dodge their trajectory.
What the hell is wrong with people? And, by the way, I'm not talking about the kids here. I'm talking about the adults. I happen to think kids are supposed to be kids -- and adults are supposed to rein them in when they are on the verge of mowing down the elderly.
 |
| Could you let your kid mow down this sweet old lady? |
One of the problems here is a culture clash. I'm about to "go Kentucky" on these folks and discipline their children for them if they won't do it themselves. I've bitten my tongue so far but I come from a land where any adult can chastise any child if their public behavior is out of line. It doesn't happen all the time and in recent years everyone has become more permissive toward children, regardless of geography. I don't necessarily mind that. I mean, I think it's a good thing that corporal punishment has gone the way of the toaster Mac.
But manners and consideration never go out of style. If you can't prevent your kids from racing in and out of a doctor's office building (where many sick and old folks are trying to get care), then please hold their hands. How about speaking to them if they do happen to get rowdy in the wrong place around the wrong people. I'm completely willing to understand that the child may have some issue going on at that moment, too, that explains their behavior. My point is, whatever the problem, I would appreciate it if the adult "in charge" would do something! I can certainly tell you what is NOT a recommended response: looking at my mom like SHE is the one who is supposed to accommodate your kid by getting out of the way.
Honestly...the children in my own life are just as wild and crazy as the next kids. The differences is, if one of them does flail in the vicinity of another person, they hear about it. Such was the case the first day my nephew came to visit his grandmother at her new place. My sister's kids are very polite children, but they are still children.
As we were on the way to mom's room, my nephew did one of those motions only an 11-year-old can manage where he sort of walk/jumped/hurled himself forward down the hallway. I don't remember if he was actually close to crashing into mom, but my sister immediately called him over with a stern whisper and I overheard bits and pieces of her reprimand as I continued on with mom.
"...now does that seem like a good idea?...you can SEE that grammy is having trouble walking...what are you thinking?...be more careful! I shouldn't have to tell you this..."
It hasn't happened since -- not that it won't. He's just a kid so I won't be surprised when he forgets himself. But my sister will handle it.
Now please don't make me handle YOUR kids. We finally got mom here safely. I'm not about to let your lack of good sense put her in a wheelchair!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
The Boxmaster
Ruth, Divine Master of All Things Boxed, creating some order out of the chaos in mom's new apartment.
Thanks, Jerry
Jerry, the beleagured driver, unloading my grandmother's secretary. After being stuck in Arizona for two days with engine trouble, I think Jerry is as relieved as we are that he's here -- maybe more!
The Familiar & the Fresh
Ruth dusting off a shelf as the furniture is slowly coming into mom's apartment.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Roughing It
Mom taking a nap on my camping cot, her makeshift bed until the truck arrives.
It's actually pretty comfortable.
Grrrrr
Okay, shite happens. It's April Fool's Day after all.
The moving van broke down in Arizona. They are trying to fix it. Mom was pretty rattled but Ruth and I seem to have cheered her up.
We all decided to go to Ikea with our unintended free time. Stay tuned for various pics of that escapade!
Red Alert
No, she's not under house arrest. This is mom's solution to wearing her medical ID bracelet. She had a free ankle!
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Ouch!
I knew I was crashing into a lot of things during this adventure. I even figured I had a bruise on my leg. It's just a lot uglier than I guessed!
Social Networking
Mom & my friend absorbed in their individual mobile devices in mom's new kitchen. We stopped in to discuss design options before tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Use Your Head!
When mom and I walked over to meet her new doctor today, it was 85 degrees and sunny. The office building was pretty much across the street from her residence.
Gotta love that! And we do.
Despite the beautiful weather, mom's knee was hurting a lot. The doc gave her a cortisone shot which seemed to hurt A LOT! All I know is, I would not want a needle going into my knee that way. Ick! However, it's supposed to help and mom is really interested in getting rid of that walker. I have to admit, it sometimes seems like the walker is as hazardous as her trying to walk without it! There are pretty harrowing (or at least interesting and funny) moments during mom's operation of "this contraption," as she called it today.
My favorite thus far: to get into her apartment door, she stopped in the hallway with the walker pressed against the door, turned the key in the lock and then used HER HEAD to push the door open and proceed forward with the walker!!! I can NOT believe I didn't have my camera ready for that one. Shame on me!
I'll try to do better next time, I promise.
Gotta love that! And we do.
Despite the beautiful weather, mom's knee was hurting a lot. The doc gave her a cortisone shot which seemed to hurt A LOT! All I know is, I would not want a needle going into my knee that way. Ick! However, it's supposed to help and mom is really interested in getting rid of that walker. I have to admit, it sometimes seems like the walker is as hazardous as her trying to walk without it! There are pretty harrowing (or at least interesting and funny) moments during mom's operation of "this contraption," as she called it today.
My favorite thus far: to get into her apartment door, she stopped in the hallway with the walker pressed against the door, turned the key in the lock and then used HER HEAD to push the door open and proceed forward with the walker!!! I can NOT believe I didn't have my camera ready for that one. Shame on me!
I'll try to do better next time, I promise.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Have Your People Call My People
I just had a GREAT phone call with my mom.
She couldn't really talk because Carol was with her helping her sort out some paperwork. She'd had breakfast and was trying to organize some stuff in her room. She sounded very bright and busy.
I told her I was going to come by a little later and she said to let her know first because she might be in the middle of something! She wants to go to the 3 p.m. voter registration seminar (she's leaning toward vote-by-mail). I told her I would be sure to text before I came over.
YIPEE!!
I have honestly fantasized of such a phone call -- I didn't think it would happen so soon but I am so thrilled for her, for me and my sis, for everyone.
She already seems to be bouncing back from the physical toll of prepping and executing the move itself. Granted, her belongings will not arrive until Friday morning (oh, THAT will be some fun) and I know she hasn't really had time to miss Kentucky in any significant way yet. So there are plenty more issues and obstacles to face. But to see her already enjoying herself feels fanastic.
On my end: I'm about halfway through unpacking my one small suitcase -- only because I can't seem to focus on any task too long. I'm forgetful and spacey and tired -- not to mention there are plenty of emotions I'm trying to sort through myself. I kind of expected that would happen once I got home. I rallied to get mom here and in the process kind of drained my mental/emotional bank account. It's going to take a little time to build it back up.
She couldn't really talk because Carol was with her helping her sort out some paperwork. She'd had breakfast and was trying to organize some stuff in her room. She sounded very bright and busy.
I told her I was going to come by a little later and she said to let her know first because she might be in the middle of something! She wants to go to the 3 p.m. voter registration seminar (she's leaning toward vote-by-mail). I told her I would be sure to text before I came over.
YIPEE!!
I have honestly fantasized of such a phone call -- I didn't think it would happen so soon but I am so thrilled for her, for me and my sis, for everyone.
She already seems to be bouncing back from the physical toll of prepping and executing the move itself. Granted, her belongings will not arrive until Friday morning (oh, THAT will be some fun) and I know she hasn't really had time to miss Kentucky in any significant way yet. So there are plenty more issues and obstacles to face. But to see her already enjoying herself feels fanastic.
On my end: I'm about halfway through unpacking my one small suitcase -- only because I can't seem to focus on any task too long. I'm forgetful and spacey and tired -- not to mention there are plenty of emotions I'm trying to sort through myself. I kind of expected that would happen once I got home. I rallied to get mom here and in the process kind of drained my mental/emotional bank account. It's going to take a little time to build it back up.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Beam Me Up
If I could have any superpower, it would, without a doubt, hands down, be teleportation.
So underrated! When will it ever get its due? Maybe when Hollywood decides to make a really expensive movie about it? (I suggest Natalie Portman to play me!)
I've thought a lot about this superpower recently because Mary and her mother Patricia had been on the road, attempting a cross-country trek from our hometown in Louisville, Ky., to Los Angeles. That's 2,200 hard miles, even under ideal conditions. And as we all know, those don't exist. Their trip was complicated before it even go started, and it became more so as the miles wore on. (No spoilers here -- catch up by scrolling and reading).
If I had to do that drive again -- and I've sworn I never will -- I'd be praying like crazy to the gods at DC Comics or Stan Lee or the Pope or anybody who might be at all helpful in this matter. Just teleport me there. Please! Otherwise, it's not happening.
Note: There was a time, back in the days when air travel was glamourous and fun and didn't resemble riding on a giant city bus in the sky, where a plane trip was about as close as mere mortals could come to teleportation.
Alas, it's overstuffed and germy and annoying and slow now. Not at all like the "Bewitched" twinkle-the-nose or snap-the-fingers and pop up in the place you want to be. No, it's nothing like that.
Not that I have one handy, but not even a jet pack will do the trick.
So I'll keep dreaming about that most useful and freeing superpower. And I'll remain forever grateful that I didn't just have to make the arduous and exhausting trip (via blacktop and toll roads and other down-to-Earth avenues) that my friends Mary and Pat just made. (Read on to see how it all unfolded).
Look Ma, No Hands!
It would've been cool but completely unrealistic if Mary could've posted and Tweeted her little fingers off as she crossed the country. But since she was doing the actual driving -- not being ferried in high style, like, in a limo or something -- she had to pick and choose her opportunities.
Luckily for all of us keeping track, she still managed -- with a safe 10 and 2 grasp on the wheel at all times, no doubt -- to give us some peeks into a journey that ended far more differently than it began. Mary and Patricia, with a newly banged-up knee, got in the car together in our hometown of Louisville, Ky., on Sunday, March 20.
By Wednesday the 23rd, the trip was taking its toll on both of them. The anxiety, for Mary at least, was mounting more quickly than the miles driven.
So the next day, Mary put Patricia on a plane and made the rest of the trip alone, stumbling across rapidly climbing gas rates, all her favorite songs via her iPod playlist, a trucker who watched out for her and a shady fellow traveler up to no good.
A tidbit I really love is the darling Marky Mark Wahlberg look-alike who greeted her at the California border. No, she wasn't trying to smuggle any fruit from a buggy place into our Western paradise, but if I'd been her, I would've tried to think of some way to prolong that all-too-brief conversation.
Check out her posts from the road -- just keep scrolling down -- and don't forget the Twitter feed on the upper right. There are photos and videos, too, so don't skip anything.
Like Mary's already said, this isn't the end of the story. She may be back here now in Burbank, but so is Pat, just starting a completely new chapter of her life at an assisted living facility. Since getting here was kind of an ordeal, the travel itself has likely been a distraction. Now may come some real adjustments for everyone involved, mostly Pat.
Her new home is lovely, but it's not her home just yet. She may settle in, meaning unpack her clothes and arrange the furniture as soon as the movers arrive. But that's a superficial kind of settling in.
There's plenty more to come. So keep checking back. Again, we haven't decided on a name change for the blog yet, but today I'm calling it MarysStillMovingMom.
Take Your Pick
Mom reviewing the schedule of activities for the week. She's already very pleased with the place.
Controlled Chaos
The realtor from Louisville calling Mom about the sale of the house while she is signing all the paperwork for her Burbank move-in. Who says Mom can't multitask!
The State of Things
Like I said before: it's far from over.
In about a half hour, we will take mom for her medical assessment at the assisted living facility that will be her home. I'm trying to let go of any expectations I may have of this event. It's important to keep an open mind to what they will observe and recommend.
I'll be posting updates about the situation, of course. Wish us luck today!
In about a half hour, we will take mom for her medical assessment at the assisted living facility that will be her home. I'm trying to let go of any expectations I may have of this event. It's important to keep an open mind to what they will observe and recommend.
I'll be posting updates about the situation, of course. Wish us luck today!
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Stay Tuned!
The gang's all here but we're not finished yet! Mom officially moves to her new digs on Monday and I'll be posting all about it.
Watch "The Road Home" on YouTube
Some morning video before I started out today. I couldn't upload it earlier.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Sleep: The Miracle Cure
Well, what a difference a day can make.
Last night by the time I arrived at the hotel I was exhausted, which gave way to a full-blown anxiety attack about my mom. (Long story, suffice to say I get them periodically, let's move on.) All you faithful followers got a glimpse in my 3/24 post titled "Acceptance." I then dropped onto the hotel bed, read a string of supportive texts from various folks, called a friend and got everything off my mind (a.k.a. cried more), and, mercifully, fell asleep.
When I got in the car this morning, it really did feel like a brand new day. I had repeated assurances from my sister that mom was comfortable and enjoying herself. Mom texted me (yes, she's cool like that) that she had breakfast with my niece and nephew and the awesome family dog, Fozzie. With all these factors in place, I was ready (and hoping) to enjoy myself.
Aside from the impressive wind gusts, the weather was gorgeous and I made it all the way from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to my stop now in Kingman, Ariz. I felt alert and calm and even cheerful as I rolled along through New Mexico and Arizona. I set up my iPod with my travel speakers and proceeded across I-40 giving a vocal concert of magnificent skill and passion. I mean, that's what I thought. No one was there to contradict my review of my own performance, so you'll just have to trust me.
It was kind of a blast and it reminded me of the zillions of road trips I've been on in my life. I've never been to Europe or Mexico, but I've been to, or at least driven through, every state in the continental U.S. except Montana and Wyoming (I guess you guys are next). I've honestly been on so many road trips I don't remember some -- like the one to Dallas that Terry referred to in an earlier post. I had totally forgotten about it and then the image of her snoozing peacefully in the back seat came creeping back along with the memory of my resentment! But, hey, what's done is done.
I took the most road trips with my best friend, Lisa, until I moved to New York in 1997. I do remember that feeling of getting in the car and just taking off. Often we were hightailing it to some awesome stadium concert (The Rolling Stones, U2, The Police, etc.) or partaking of the Chicago Blues Fest or Mardi Gras. Sometimes we were going to a Kentucky State Park. We had instinctively coordinated bathroom stops down to a science. Lisa was usually in charge of the mix tapes (oh, my God, I just burst out laughing in the hotel business center thinking about mix tapes!) and we always agreed on the destination -- not that we cared so much. Anywhere was better than here.
There were moments today where I actually felt free and alive like that girl -- only without the wicked post-adolescent angst. As I drove along, I mentally visited events and people, some of which I haven't thought of in years: hanging out at Lisa's house watching MTV; how seriously I took being a hall monitor in 5th grade!; my first boyfriend and how much we adored each other; my sister and I drawing the Imaginary Line down the backseat of the car. The memories were all set to a soundtrack of my choice thanks to shuffle mode, so I pretty much had a great time.
There was also a really cool truck driver who managed to prevent me from getting a speeding ticket by sort of boxing me in between two semis. I wasn't really ticked because I was going with the flow anyway, but in just a few moments we rolled past a trooper waiting for some poor sucker to breeze by -- and thanks to that trucker, it wasn't me.
Tomorrow (Saturday) I should make it all the way to Los Angeles. I'm so excited! As much as I love a good road trip, there's no place like home.
Last night by the time I arrived at the hotel I was exhausted, which gave way to a full-blown anxiety attack about my mom. (Long story, suffice to say I get them periodically, let's move on.) All you faithful followers got a glimpse in my 3/24 post titled "Acceptance." I then dropped onto the hotel bed, read a string of supportive texts from various folks, called a friend and got everything off my mind (a.k.a. cried more), and, mercifully, fell asleep.
When I got in the car this morning, it really did feel like a brand new day. I had repeated assurances from my sister that mom was comfortable and enjoying herself. Mom texted me (yes, she's cool like that) that she had breakfast with my niece and nephew and the awesome family dog, Fozzie. With all these factors in place, I was ready (and hoping) to enjoy myself.
Aside from the impressive wind gusts, the weather was gorgeous and I made it all the way from Albuquerque, New Mexico, to my stop now in Kingman, Ariz. I felt alert and calm and even cheerful as I rolled along through New Mexico and Arizona. I set up my iPod with my travel speakers and proceeded across I-40 giving a vocal concert of magnificent skill and passion. I mean, that's what I thought. No one was there to contradict my review of my own performance, so you'll just have to trust me.
It was kind of a blast and it reminded me of the zillions of road trips I've been on in my life. I've never been to Europe or Mexico, but I've been to, or at least driven through, every state in the continental U.S. except Montana and Wyoming (I guess you guys are next). I've honestly been on so many road trips I don't remember some -- like the one to Dallas that Terry referred to in an earlier post. I had totally forgotten about it and then the image of her snoozing peacefully in the back seat came creeping back along with the memory of my resentment! But, hey, what's done is done.
I took the most road trips with my best friend, Lisa, until I moved to New York in 1997. I do remember that feeling of getting in the car and just taking off. Often we were hightailing it to some awesome stadium concert (The Rolling Stones, U2, The Police, etc.) or partaking of the Chicago Blues Fest or Mardi Gras. Sometimes we were going to a Kentucky State Park. We had instinctively coordinated bathroom stops down to a science. Lisa was usually in charge of the mix tapes (oh, my God, I just burst out laughing in the hotel business center thinking about mix tapes!) and we always agreed on the destination -- not that we cared so much. Anywhere was better than here.
There were moments today where I actually felt free and alive like that girl -- only without the wicked post-adolescent angst. As I drove along, I mentally visited events and people, some of which I haven't thought of in years: hanging out at Lisa's house watching MTV; how seriously I took being a hall monitor in 5th grade!; my first boyfriend and how much we adored each other; my sister and I drawing the Imaginary Line down the backseat of the car. The memories were all set to a soundtrack of my choice thanks to shuffle mode, so I pretty much had a great time.
There was also a really cool truck driver who managed to prevent me from getting a speeding ticket by sort of boxing me in between two semis. I wasn't really ticked because I was going with the flow anyway, but in just a few moments we rolled past a trooper waiting for some poor sucker to breeze by -- and thanks to that trucker, it wasn't me.
Tomorrow (Saturday) I should make it all the way to Los Angeles. I'm so excited! As much as I love a good road trip, there's no place like home.
Do I Flatter Myself?
Folks are still trying to get their kicks on Route 66...or something like it.
I'm pretty sure a guy tried to pick me up (wait, is that the right phrase when traveling by car?) at a gas station just outside of Flagstaff, AZ. He pulled up to the pump right beside me, although I didn't notice him until he said, "Hey, you come from Kentucky?"
I was fueling the car and since the gas pump didn't have one of those little stopper things on the handle I had to stand there in the wind and the cold while the tank filled. So I was already a little unhappy but I smiled and said, "Yep, sure am." (For those of you not from The Bluegrass State, allow me to translate: "Yes.") Then he asked where I was going, which immediately sent up my Freak Radar.
"California," I said.
He said he had just come from Kentucky, too, which surprised me since he didn't seem, well, Kentuckian. But I said, "Really?" He said he had driven all the way (um, major red flag there because he's either lying or hopped up on meth) and he was headed to Phoenix.
Then he started groaning about how tired he was and how much farther he had to go. And how much farther I had to go to get to California. As if we might commiserate on our mutual fatigue -- and, what, decide to take a room together at a friendly inn?
Now when I lived in New York City, some guy in a business suit on the 1/9 caught my eye by smiling at me and I smiled back (give me a break, I was new to the city). Then he ever so slightly glanced from me to the doors of the train and then back at me. I didn't quite get what he was doing (give me a break, I was new to the city), so he motioned again with his eyes. THEN I caught on (give me a little credit, I wasn't THAT new). I must have looked like a deer in headlights and since he was just apparently a guy seeking to fulfill a fetish and not Ted Bundy, he got off the train at the next stop. I later read in a women's magazine that there are people who ride the NYC trains with the sole objective of picking someone up for a tryst. Eeeyuuuu! But who am I to judge?
My gut tells me, however, that this guy was looking for an easy mark. I wasn't it. Not only am I naturally cautious, I took one of those self-defense classes where you beat the living daylights out of a guy in an ultra-padded suit. I also used to be a crime reporter. And I wrote a dating colum for a while. If you think on it, you'll see the connection.
Anyway I handled it very well, if I do say so myself, with just the right mix of friendly attention and firm disinterest. I let him ramble on, repeating himself about how tired he was, and after about a minute I said evenly, "Good luck with that."
Allow me to translate this message for various groups of readers:
Kentucky: Back the f*** up, motherf****r!!
California: Wow. Really.
New York: HEY! Move it along, a**hole!
My loved ones in the yoga community: "Don't be so sweet that people want to eat you up or so bitter that they want to spit you out." (words of wisdom from Yogi Bhajan, Kundalini yoga master)
Anyone working 12 steps: You know, everyone is doing the best they can. Peace out.
Before I could even put the gas cap back on, he jumped in his car and sped off. He might have been a serial killer, he might have hoped for a little Interstate Nookie, or maybe he was just a very stupid man (because it's just a bad idea to approach a single woman traveling that way). Whatever he wanted, he was wasting his time with me. Now just in case he was some poor dude who was tired: good luck and Godspeed.
(P.S. If you are female and you have never read "The Gift of Fear," by Gavin DeBecker, do that soon.)
I'm pretty sure a guy tried to pick me up (wait, is that the right phrase when traveling by car?) at a gas station just outside of Flagstaff, AZ. He pulled up to the pump right beside me, although I didn't notice him until he said, "Hey, you come from Kentucky?"
I was fueling the car and since the gas pump didn't have one of those little stopper things on the handle I had to stand there in the wind and the cold while the tank filled. So I was already a little unhappy but I smiled and said, "Yep, sure am." (For those of you not from The Bluegrass State, allow me to translate: "Yes.") Then he asked where I was going, which immediately sent up my Freak Radar.
"California," I said.
He said he had just come from Kentucky, too, which surprised me since he didn't seem, well, Kentuckian. But I said, "Really?" He said he had driven all the way (um, major red flag there because he's either lying or hopped up on meth) and he was headed to Phoenix.
Then he started groaning about how tired he was and how much farther he had to go. And how much farther I had to go to get to California. As if we might commiserate on our mutual fatigue -- and, what, decide to take a room together at a friendly inn?
Now when I lived in New York City, some guy in a business suit on the 1/9 caught my eye by smiling at me and I smiled back (give me a break, I was new to the city). Then he ever so slightly glanced from me to the doors of the train and then back at me. I didn't quite get what he was doing (give me a break, I was new to the city), so he motioned again with his eyes. THEN I caught on (give me a little credit, I wasn't THAT new). I must have looked like a deer in headlights and since he was just apparently a guy seeking to fulfill a fetish and not Ted Bundy, he got off the train at the next stop. I later read in a women's magazine that there are people who ride the NYC trains with the sole objective of picking someone up for a tryst. Eeeyuuuu! But who am I to judge?
My gut tells me, however, that this guy was looking for an easy mark. I wasn't it. Not only am I naturally cautious, I took one of those self-defense classes where you beat the living daylights out of a guy in an ultra-padded suit. I also used to be a crime reporter. And I wrote a dating colum for a while. If you think on it, you'll see the connection.
Anyway I handled it very well, if I do say so myself, with just the right mix of friendly attention and firm disinterest. I let him ramble on, repeating himself about how tired he was, and after about a minute I said evenly, "Good luck with that."
Allow me to translate this message for various groups of readers:
Kentucky: Back the f*** up, motherf****r!!
California: Wow. Really.
New York: HEY! Move it along, a**hole!
My loved ones in the yoga community: "Don't be so sweet that people want to eat you up or so bitter that they want to spit you out." (words of wisdom from Yogi Bhajan, Kundalini yoga master)
Anyone working 12 steps: You know, everyone is doing the best they can. Peace out.
Before I could even put the gas cap back on, he jumped in his car and sped off. He might have been a serial killer, he might have hoped for a little Interstate Nookie, or maybe he was just a very stupid man (because it's just a bad idea to approach a single woman traveling that way). Whatever he wanted, he was wasting his time with me. Now just in case he was some poor dude who was tired: good luck and Godspeed.
(P.S. If you are female and you have never read "The Gift of Fear," by Gavin DeBecker, do that soon.)
The Heart Grows Fonder
I don't know if we have any plans to rename this blog, but if we did, it might be called something like, MarysMissingMom.
Readers, you can see from Mary's earlier post called Acceptance that Patricia just wasn't well enough to make the cross-country trip. She'd wanted to do it, and they'd both been looking forward to a journey of laughing, bonding and sightseeing. They'd never kidded themselves that driving some 2,200 miles would be a cakewalk, but they had made the decision, chuckled at my "Thelma and Louise" references and readied themselves for a long haul.
As it turned out, Pat's pre-trip injury -- she hurt her knee, making it really tough to walk and uncomfortable to sit for long stretches -- slowed them to a crawl. At the rate they were traveling -- about 250 miles a day -- it would've been a week or more before they'd arrived in Los Angeles from our hometown in Louisville, Ky.
Since Pat was worn to a nub after the first few days, Mary knew it wasn't feasible for her to keep going. She put Pat on a plane Thursday, and now she's finishing the trip alone.
She's trying to make up a little time today (Friday), planning to go from Albuquerque N.M. to Williams, Ariz. She may push it a bit further, depending on weather conditions, on-board snacks and potential second wind.
No doubt some of this final leg will be calming and freeing for Mary, which is part of the rationale behind taking a road trip to being with. And her mind is eased knowing that Pat's now happily ensconced with her daughter, Ruth, hanging out with the grandkids and truly chillaxing. She'll be here when Mary gets home, and that's mighty comforting, whether Mary'd just spent six hard days on the road or not.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Acceptance
My mom is now in California with my sister.
I cried off and on all morning getting mom ready for the plane. I felt like I was sending my child off to camp and she didn't want to go.
After I left the airport, I pulled over, called my sister and cried more. If I think about it all very much (which I'm about to do in order to post), I'll start crying again.
My tears are complicated. I feel mostly sorrow but also fear, guilt and anger.
As far as I can tell, most of the fear and guilt stem from second-guessing myself. Maybe I should have planned smarter. Maybe I should have bullied her into the move last November for her own good. Maybe I should have known a car trip was never wise and planned all along to fly her. Maybe I was being selfish and I somehow pushed her -- and what if I've permanently degraded her health by dragging her across the country. Whatever those feelings are, they will pass -- and then, perhaps, return. But I've had more therapy than a human being might need in five lifetimes, so I'm going to trust that I will cope with those emotions as they ebb and flow.
The sorrow and anger feel like they come from a deeper place and are actually mixed up together a little bit. I'm mostly feeling the sadness (hence the crying), but I know anger is there as well.
It was especially hard to watch my mom struggle the past few days with increasing levels of weakness, disorientation, pain, and confusion. I never expected us to leap tall buildings, but she was truly handicapped on our journey -- and not just physically. As we discussed the plan for her to fly the rest of the way, she responded with reasoning that implied she was actually unaware of how hindered she was. For example, she suggested that her presence was necessary in the car to help me with the remainder of the drive. I didn't know what to say except, "It's become too hard on me."
In fact, she often mixed up east and west, she teetered and stumbled whenever she tried to walk, and repeated herself often. She also could not read the maps due to her vision and her disorientation, which I found especially sad since she reminisced about her role as navigator/co-pilot on trips with my dad. I didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't helping but she probably figured it out.
I feel like I've been walking on eggshells the past 48 hours while the situation became progressively worse and mom mostly denied it. She told me several times as she argued against the flight that she could walk on her own, or travel another hundred miles a day and get started earlier in the morning. All I could do was shake my head and say, "No, mom. You can't." To the extent that her denial may be a defense mechanism against feeling humiliated or useless, it felt pretty awful to be in a position where I had to concretely state how disabled she was.
Even now I don't know what her perception is of herself. I think she agreed to fly mostly because she could tell Ruth and I were worrying. And she could see my face as I welled up describing the worst-case scenarios I feared if we continued by car. I told her how exhausted I was and that I didn't think I could do it the way we planned any longer. So she agreed and got on that plane.
She sent me a text at the connecting airport: "...tired u were right xo"
I think all in all, my tears today have to do with the fact that this was necessary at all and what that implies about mom's wellness. I love my mom and I still need her. I don't like what I saw, however much it validates the plan for her move to assisted living. I feel a deep fear blooming again -- the fear that I have held in tight check just waiting for the day until she gets proper care. But, then again, I'm pretty sure after I get some rest, I won't feel so discouraged.
At least she's with Ruth now, in a house that's familiar to her, and with her grandchildren. I'll get back to Los Angeles sometime Saturday. Monday mom will head over to the facility to officially move into her new home.
For now, good night from Albuquerque.
I cried off and on all morning getting mom ready for the plane. I felt like I was sending my child off to camp and she didn't want to go.
After I left the airport, I pulled over, called my sister and cried more. If I think about it all very much (which I'm about to do in order to post), I'll start crying again.
My tears are complicated. I feel mostly sorrow but also fear, guilt and anger.
As far as I can tell, most of the fear and guilt stem from second-guessing myself. Maybe I should have planned smarter. Maybe I should have bullied her into the move last November for her own good. Maybe I should have known a car trip was never wise and planned all along to fly her. Maybe I was being selfish and I somehow pushed her -- and what if I've permanently degraded her health by dragging her across the country. Whatever those feelings are, they will pass -- and then, perhaps, return. But I've had more therapy than a human being might need in five lifetimes, so I'm going to trust that I will cope with those emotions as they ebb and flow.
The sorrow and anger feel like they come from a deeper place and are actually mixed up together a little bit. I'm mostly feeling the sadness (hence the crying), but I know anger is there as well.
It was especially hard to watch my mom struggle the past few days with increasing levels of weakness, disorientation, pain, and confusion. I never expected us to leap tall buildings, but she was truly handicapped on our journey -- and not just physically. As we discussed the plan for her to fly the rest of the way, she responded with reasoning that implied she was actually unaware of how hindered she was. For example, she suggested that her presence was necessary in the car to help me with the remainder of the drive. I didn't know what to say except, "It's become too hard on me."
In fact, she often mixed up east and west, she teetered and stumbled whenever she tried to walk, and repeated herself often. She also could not read the maps due to her vision and her disorientation, which I found especially sad since she reminisced about her role as navigator/co-pilot on trips with my dad. I didn't have the heart to tell her it wasn't helping but she probably figured it out.
I feel like I've been walking on eggshells the past 48 hours while the situation became progressively worse and mom mostly denied it. She told me several times as she argued against the flight that she could walk on her own, or travel another hundred miles a day and get started earlier in the morning. All I could do was shake my head and say, "No, mom. You can't." To the extent that her denial may be a defense mechanism against feeling humiliated or useless, it felt pretty awful to be in a position where I had to concretely state how disabled she was.
Even now I don't know what her perception is of herself. I think she agreed to fly mostly because she could tell Ruth and I were worrying. And she could see my face as I welled up describing the worst-case scenarios I feared if we continued by car. I told her how exhausted I was and that I didn't think I could do it the way we planned any longer. So she agreed and got on that plane.
She sent me a text at the connecting airport: "...tired u were right xo"
I think all in all, my tears today have to do with the fact that this was necessary at all and what that implies about mom's wellness. I love my mom and I still need her. I don't like what I saw, however much it validates the plan for her move to assisted living. I feel a deep fear blooming again -- the fear that I have held in tight check just waiting for the day until she gets proper care. But, then again, I'm pretty sure after I get some rest, I won't feel so discouraged.
At least she's with Ruth now, in a house that's familiar to her, and with her grandchildren. I'll get back to Los Angeles sometime Saturday. Monday mom will head over to the facility to officially move into her new home.
For now, good night from Albuquerque.
Checking in
Mom about to go through security in a Southwest Airlines wheelchair. I'll have to say goodbye soon.
Thursday morning
Mom packing up to head out to airport. Very slow progress but we're gonna get there.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Mixed Feelings
We've made the only decision that was safe and smart for all involved: Mom will board a plane in Amarillo, Texas, tomorrow afternoon and arrive in Burbank at 4:15 p.m. She will then stay at my sister's house until she can officially move into her new place.
I will continue on with the car (and many of mom's belongings) and arrive in Los Angeles sometime Friday.
This change of plans is, without question, for everyone's greatest good. The farther we have come on this journey, the more fragile mom seems to become. I think (I hope) she can improve once everything settles down. But for now, I was becoming very afraid that our desire to continue on the road could actually jeopardize her overall health (mostly by way of a fall).
As for me, I am completely exhausted. If we'd had a pack horse tethered to the back of the car, maybe it would have saved some energy. Probably not since the most fatiguing part for me had become worrying about mom.
When we all agreed to this new plan, I cried. I wanted for mom and I to see it through on the road, together, as we envisioned. But this trip was supposed to be fun along with some difficult stuff rather than difficult and occasionally fun. Somewhere in the last 24 hours, it all turned upside down. We aren't taking our time across the great USA because we keep stopping to sightsee or explore. We are barely moving because it is physically impossible to go any faster under these circumstances. So I feel many things, most of all relief that mom is going to get safely to her new home. That's the point.
Tomorrow I will take mom to the airport and head for Albuquerque. She will worry about me until she sees me again in Los Angeles.
I will continue to blog...we may have changed our methods but this journey is far from over. Please keep following us.
I will continue on with the car (and many of mom's belongings) and arrive in Los Angeles sometime Friday.
This change of plans is, without question, for everyone's greatest good. The farther we have come on this journey, the more fragile mom seems to become. I think (I hope) she can improve once everything settles down. But for now, I was becoming very afraid that our desire to continue on the road could actually jeopardize her overall health (mostly by way of a fall).
As for me, I am completely exhausted. If we'd had a pack horse tethered to the back of the car, maybe it would have saved some energy. Probably not since the most fatiguing part for me had become worrying about mom.
When we all agreed to this new plan, I cried. I wanted for mom and I to see it through on the road, together, as we envisioned. But this trip was supposed to be fun along with some difficult stuff rather than difficult and occasionally fun. Somewhere in the last 24 hours, it all turned upside down. We aren't taking our time across the great USA because we keep stopping to sightsee or explore. We are barely moving because it is physically impossible to go any faster under these circumstances. So I feel many things, most of all relief that mom is going to get safely to her new home. That's the point.
Tomorrow I will take mom to the airport and head for Albuquerque. She will worry about me until she sees me again in Los Angeles.
I will continue to blog...we may have changed our methods but this journey is far from over. Please keep following us.
Options?
Watch "Rerouting?" on YouTube
Today the knees were no better and that seems to be a game-changer. We have to consider alternatives.
Today the knees were no better and that seems to be a game-changer. We have to consider alternatives.
The Lives of Others
Open letter to my mother, Peggy Stanley, and the rest of my family:
I have a confession to make: I've talked trash about you. A lot.
Sometimes it came from anger, confusion or frustration. Other times I just needed to vent -- with love, of course! -- about that year you dramatically cancelled Christmas because no one was getting along, fought with each other until someone nearly drew blood and played a juvenile game of phone tag with predictable results.
There, now you know.
But if it makes you feel any better -- and it should -- I was talking to Mary when I unleashed those tirades. And no one understands me -- or, by extension, you all -- better than she does.
It's a gift in this life to have a friend so close that she can finish your thoughts and your sentences. Mary's always been that friend to me. And since we've known each other for so long -- we were college roommates back, oh, a few years ago, and have been tight now for a couple decades -- she's had an equally long relationship with my family.
That gives her a unique perspective, a bird's eye view, if you will, where she knows the personalities, the motivations, the history, the quirks and the neuroses. She's involved without being "one of us," which means she can be a good deal more impartial than I can. Oh how valuable that's been over the years.
So if I ever launched a blog about the Stanley clan, I'd want her perspective included.
That hasn't happened -- yet -- but there was no question in either of our minds that the reverse would be true for MarysMovingMom. As a friend of the family and a longtime fan of Patricia's, I have a point of view that's intimate without being tethered. In other words, I can say what I want -- kindly, of course -- and I'm not likely to get rapped on the knuckles for it or be written out of the will.
Not that I've ever been shy about throwing in my two cents, but in this case it seemed logical and natural to both of us. And it's always nice, as writers, to have someone else's work to bounce off because, as close as we are, we definitely have different voices.
I'm not in the car with Mary and Pat on this cross-country odyssey from our hometown in Louisville, Ky., to Los Angeles, dealing with thunderstorms in Tulsa or trip tik lost on the way to Amarillo. (That was one of Mary's latest Tweets, by the way. Check the feed on the right for more). That means I'm probably a lot less stressed and exhausted than they are, and I can help steer the ship (that would be the blog) with a fairly clear head.
Mary and Pat are doing the best they can from the road, though it's a trial, made more difficult by an injury that Pat suffered right before they left Louisville. Her knee's achy and sore, so sitting for long stretches in the car isn't comfortable. Pat's not much on riding and napping, so their progress has been exceedingly slow.
It could take them a week or more to arrive in Burbank, where Pat has a lovely apartment waiting for her at an assisted living facility that's about equidistant from Mary's place, her sister Ruth's home and my house.
As Mary's said from the beginning, she has to be nimble enough to alter this journey, whether that means only driving a few hundred miles a day or considering scrapping it all together out of concern for Pat's health.
From the start, it's been a joyful and painful trip, filled with instant memories of a lifetime and aggravations large and small. I'll be hearing a lot more about it, if only because I know where I'd turn to share all those details.
So go ahead, Mare, let it rip. I'm listening.
Independence?
Mom getting her own coffee this morning. I agreed because she didn't need the cane inside the room earlier. We'll see if it's a sign of improvement as the day unfolds.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Where's the Peanut Butter?
So, mom & I can't find the jar of peanut butter we ate from last night, prompting speculation as to its whereabouts.
We assumed I had mistakenly thrown it in the trash. Then mom rightly pointed out, "It could be anywhere."
Some possibilities: the bottom of the cooler (no, we both looked); the bottom of the laundry bag, which is really a brown paper sack so you can appreciate the opportunity for error; or on the floor of the car having tumbled out of the bag en route (not like we were making donuts in the parking lot or drag racing today).
But my personal favorite is the idea that the jar of PB may be at the bottom of mom's suitcase, safely packed away.
For some reason the whole thing made us howl with laughter -- so at least we're entertained while deprived. Mom says if the peanut butter doesn't show up in somebody's underwear soon, we'll have to get more tomorrow.
We assumed I had mistakenly thrown it in the trash. Then mom rightly pointed out, "It could be anywhere."
Some possibilities: the bottom of the cooler (no, we both looked); the bottom of the laundry bag, which is really a brown paper sack so you can appreciate the opportunity for error; or on the floor of the car having tumbled out of the bag en route (not like we were making donuts in the parking lot or drag racing today).
But my personal favorite is the idea that the jar of PB may be at the bottom of mom's suitcase, safely packed away.
For some reason the whole thing made us howl with laughter -- so at least we're entertained while deprived. Mom says if the peanut butter doesn't show up in somebody's underwear soon, we'll have to get more tomorrow.
3 Days, 762 Miles, 2 travelers
Something I've always loved: the wacky animated trail that Bugs Bunny leaves behind him when he's a) running from Elmer Fudd; b) foiling Elmer Fudd; c) heading toward Albuquerque; d) ending up at the North Pole because he didn't take that left turn at Albuquerque.
I'd love to be proficient enough at charts and graphs to make a Looney Tunes-style visual that would help all the readers of this blog keep up with Mary and Patricia's progress on their cross-country trek. Alas, I'm not. (And I'm no Bugs Bunny, but I'll do what I can on the hijinks front).
So far, the intrepid travelers have logged about 762 miles. They left Louisville, Ky., on Sunday and they're in Oklahoma City, Ok., tonight, according to Mary's latest Tweet. (See Twitter feed on the right).
I'd estimated a bit high in previous posts when I said it was 3,000 miles between point A and point B. (That would be from Louisville to Los Angeles). It's more like 2,180, according to a couple web sites I just checked.
I'm sure Mary has this number stuck in her head already. It has to have been frightening to think of how much distance that was to cover with Pat before they hit the road. It may be kind of overwhelming now, since Pat hurt her knee just before the trip started and needs a lot of extra time and help in navigating rest stops, hotels and restaurants.
Not that it was ever a quick jaunt, but it's become vastly more complicated. At this rate, it'll take about a week for them to arrive in L.A.
I shared Mary and Pat's coordinates this morning with my dad back in Kentucky, who instantly did the math.
"They might as well be in a covered wagon," he said.
Please, Mary, take that in the spirit in which it was intended. He's commiserating with you, and so am I.
Keep checking back, readers, and keep your fingers crossed for good weather, sturdy tires and unending patience. Mary and Pat will need all these.
From the Frying Pan into the Fire
Leave it to my buddy, Mary, to make a John Steinbeck reference at a time like this.
One of her early Tweets, just after she'd arrived to finish packing up her mother's house for a gargantuan cross-country move, reads as follows:
Yep first head butt: a brief tussle re iron skillets. She wants them in car not moving van! Huh??? We're not the Joads!
Well, Mare, it worked for Jed Clampett.
Note to self: ask for Patricia's rationale for lugging about a thousand pounds of cookware in the car. Traction? Weapons?
At any rate, guess who won that argument?
If you're not following MarysMovingMom on Twitter, allow me to wholeheartedly recommend it. My dear friend since college, where we were roommates, is Tweeting her experiences as she and Patricia make their way -- s-l-o-w-l-y -- across country from Louisville, Ky., where we're all from, to Los Angeles, where Pat has a lovely assisted living apartment and an entirely new life waiting for her.
There's a whole lot of ground to cover between there and here. Keep checking back for all the gory/funny/painful/joyful details.
-- T.L. Stanley
Road Trip of a Different Stripe
Road trip!!!!
Remember the last time you said that with genuine enthusiasm? In college, maybe? Or was it more recently? Before or after gas hit $4 a gallon?
In spite of what "Repo Man" told us -- among that flick's many truisms, "The more you drive, the less intelligent you are," has really stuck with me all these years -- I love to get behind the wheel and just take off. The feel of the open road, the rush of forward momentum, the promise of new scenery -- it's an escape that a time-pressed control freak like me can understand. No seat on an Airbus has the same effect.
My friend, Mary (of this blog's title), has always had an affinity for the road, too, and a sense of adventure that's taken her across the country multiple times. She's even been smart enough to make pit stops in historically or geographically significant locations, while I whipped by all that so fast on my one Kentucky-to-Los-Angeles drive that I might've missed the Grand Canyon if it hadn't been so, well, grand.
Mary and I come from a car culture in the South, where you are what you drive, and motoring long distances was just part of the fabric of the place. It's no surprise that it's ingrained in both of us.
In my case, if my family wanted to see our cousins or grandparents, we had to pile into the station wagon -- the one with missing seat belts, mind you -- since we lived in the "big city" of Louisville, Ky., and our kin was out in the country.
Those daylong jaunts involved lots of two-lane roads and some "Dukes of Hazzard" driving by my dad, but we all survived. My mom's lecture about keeping our hands and feet in the car had been unusually effective. Never mind that any wreck would've sent us shooting around like missiles inside that wood-paneled Ford. Ah, the '70s.
We'd venture further away from home during spring break and sometimes summers, but those trips would involve only a subset of my large family. The travel party would consist of my mom, my aunt, a random sibling and me (the youngest). Usually that sibling hadn't been sly enough to talk his or her way out of the "vacation" that would include constant rest stops for the little sister with a pea-sized bladder and no roadside diner that didn't have an orange roof.
Since sitting still had never been my strong suit, I was always just thrilled to be going somewhere, anywhere. Gary, Ind., the home of a relative, was no garden spot, quite the opposite, but I didn't care. Give me a bag of sourballs to stave off the motion sickness, and I was ready to roll. (I had none of the responsibility or stress of driving, navigating, paying, so of course it was one long line of Howard Johnson's banana split for me).
Later, we made it all the way to Florida so I could see Disney World, palm trees, the ocean, copious amounts of road kill and scenic Interstate 95. It never occurred to us to fly, or at least I never heard any discussion of it, and I doubt we could've afforded it. And anyway, "Have car, will travel" could be part of the family crest.
Mary and I have made a number of road trips of varying distances together, the longest was a weekend in Dallas when we were in college in Louisville. Packed into the car with some friends, mix tapes, junk food and pillows, I slept the entire way there and back. And if I didn't appropriately apologize before, allow me to do so now. Sorry, Mare, that I was such a house afire. I think I violated any number of rules in the unofficial road trip handbook, like, "Thou shalt stay awake long enough to play a raunchy version of the license plate game." Glad there were conscious people there to keep you company.
It's been decades since then, and times certainly have changed. While I do still love to get up and go, I'm good these days for about two, three hours in the car, tops, before I'm bored and stiff, annoyed and road ragey. I don't need an antsy kid in the back seat, since I'm the one constantly chanting, "Are we there yet?"
I've done the cross-country drive from Kentucky to Los Angeles only once, as I mentioned before. It was not a leisure trip. I was traveling at breakneck speed, driving a U-Haul with all my belongings and my travel-ready gray tabby, Ellie, and towing a car crammed with more junk, to get to a new job.
I've sworn I'll never do that again, under any circumstances.
When Mary told me she intended to make the drive with Patricia, I'll admit to being completely stunned. It's a long, tedious, exhausting trip under the absolutely best conditions. With an aging parent on board, what would that even mean? An estimated week in the car, for starters, with backup plans for a slower journey if Pat has any health issues or Mary, the sole driver, needs extra breaks.
I've already joked about their "Thelma-and-Louise"-style trek, and I know there will be plenty of laughs as Mary and Pat bond across 3,000 miles. But it won't be easy for either of them: for Mary, the weight's all on her to safely make it across country with Pat, who, as you'll learn from earlier posts on this blog, hurt her knee just before the trip and needs help walking. And for Pat, it's exciting to come to a new life in L.A., where both her daughters live, but it's bittersweet to leave the home she's known for 40-plus years.
So it's a road trip of a different stripe, not the kind we took as kids or as students. From what I've already seen from Mary's photo posts, the food's definitely better this time around. But so much has changed about the logistics and the day to day.
The goal, of course, is the same. See the country, put one place behind and wrap your arms around another, feed the wind (maybe metaphorically) in your face. Sourballs optional.
Keep up with Mary as she and Pat inch across our fine country -- you'll find the Twitter feed to the right of this blog (up top). And say a little prayer for their journey.
-- T.L. Stanley
Trip Legs and Trip Knees
My sister sent me an email with the breakdowns of where our road stops might be in four-hour increments. Last night I charted three-hour legs, so I was really excited to see this layout instead.
Until I took stock of our status this morning.
Mom has had a little breakfast and her morning meds. She's now lying down and working a crossword. She will probably nod off while she's doing the puzzle. She actually looked kind of peaceful when she said she wanted to do one, unless, she said, I was in a hurry to get going. I honestly didn't have the heart or the will to say, "Look, do it in the car." Getting started on the right foot each day makes a huge difference in both our lives.
So I could try to get her all loaded up in the car (SO much easier said than done, by the way) to puzzle and nap there, while we churned out some miles, but it's not that simple. She also really wants to take a bath this morning (or some facsimilie of it) and that is going to be quite the project. Hopefully it will go off without a hitch, but it will only be if she moves at a snail's pace to avoid wobbling or falling. And if she skips a nap to try to be more efficient regarding the bath, forget it. That's a scenario I don't even wish to entertain.
Her medicine knocks her out and if she doesn't get that nap, as she often hasn't in the past few weeks, she's more disoriented and weak than usual. Those are not aggravations we can afford. She needs all her available strength to negotiate walking -- and it takes a lot of thought. She stopped for a full minute at the curb trying to figure out which foot should go first to best support her. She's already stepped off numerous curbs since she hurt her knee but she confessed (with some embarrassment) that she can't remember the formula that works each time she has to do it. So it's like starting all over again. If she picks the wrong foot, she crumples and/or winces and goes forward even more gingerly.
I told her it was okay that she had to take the extra time. I'm not sure she can believe me because she feels like she's a burden at this point. I'm hoping that she can find some enjoyment out of the day, but that surely can't happen if we're operating under tension.
On the other hand, when she came out of the bathroom this morning, she pointed at her head and said, "Look at my hair," and we both cracked up. Her bed head was most impressive! I would have snapped a photo but my phone was charging...and she might have killed me!
Having those chuckles is worth the extra time. Going three hours or four hours each day will add up to how long the trip takes overall, but I don't feel like forcing a system. So I'm going to take a few minutes to set myself, probably meditate a little, ponder all the ways I am deeply grateful mom and I can do this (even in strained conditions) and then let go of any notions of how this day could or should unfold.
It is what it is. I'd like to enjoy it.
Until I took stock of our status this morning.
Mom has had a little breakfast and her morning meds. She's now lying down and working a crossword. She will probably nod off while she's doing the puzzle. She actually looked kind of peaceful when she said she wanted to do one, unless, she said, I was in a hurry to get going. I honestly didn't have the heart or the will to say, "Look, do it in the car." Getting started on the right foot each day makes a huge difference in both our lives.
So I could try to get her all loaded up in the car (SO much easier said than done, by the way) to puzzle and nap there, while we churned out some miles, but it's not that simple. She also really wants to take a bath this morning (or some facsimilie of it) and that is going to be quite the project. Hopefully it will go off without a hitch, but it will only be if she moves at a snail's pace to avoid wobbling or falling. And if she skips a nap to try to be more efficient regarding the bath, forget it. That's a scenario I don't even wish to entertain.
Her medicine knocks her out and if she doesn't get that nap, as she often hasn't in the past few weeks, she's more disoriented and weak than usual. Those are not aggravations we can afford. She needs all her available strength to negotiate walking -- and it takes a lot of thought. She stopped for a full minute at the curb trying to figure out which foot should go first to best support her. She's already stepped off numerous curbs since she hurt her knee but she confessed (with some embarrassment) that she can't remember the formula that works each time she has to do it. So it's like starting all over again. If she picks the wrong foot, she crumples and/or winces and goes forward even more gingerly.
I told her it was okay that she had to take the extra time. I'm not sure she can believe me because she feels like she's a burden at this point. I'm hoping that she can find some enjoyment out of the day, but that surely can't happen if we're operating under tension.
On the other hand, when she came out of the bathroom this morning, she pointed at her head and said, "Look at my hair," and we both cracked up. Her bed head was most impressive! I would have snapped a photo but my phone was charging...and she might have killed me!
Having those chuckles is worth the extra time. Going three hours or four hours each day will add up to how long the trip takes overall, but I don't feel like forcing a system. So I'm going to take a few minutes to set myself, probably meditate a little, ponder all the ways I am deeply grateful mom and I can do this (even in strained conditions) and then let go of any notions of how this day could or should unfold.
It is what it is. I'd like to enjoy it.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Bend, Don't Break
"It's hard to speculate at this point because our situation is evolving on the ground."
Isn't that how the government describes delicate military operations when asked to predict an outcome?
And that's basically what I told my sister when we stopped here in Joplin, Mo., and I called her. She wondered when I thought we might arrive in Burbank. I officially have no idea.
Thursday...no way. Friday, she asked. I seriously doubt it. Sunday?? I'm not comfortable speculating.
We have traveled about 500 miles in 2 days, which is 300 miles less than my most leisurely estimate for travel. We just can't move normally right now.
Example: Usually we might stop for gas & take a bathroom break as well. Just pick an exit off the interstate, roll up to the pump & take turns in the loo. One person might even stroll through the mini mart for chewing gum or snacks. Then we pile back in the car and take off. Well, that is quite literally NOT how we roll in this case.
Instead, whether or not either of us actually needs a bathroom, I notice that my mom is trying to get comfortable and can't. She can't stay in one position too long without her knee getting worse. When we stop, it's a huge effort for mom to get out of the car without tweaking her knee. She has to use the car door, the cane and a boost from me to stand up. Only then can she tell if her knee is stable or not. Now begins the painstaking walk to the restroom. This afternoon, her OTHER knee buckled along the way. Fortunately a chair was only a few steps further so she was able to sit.
She still hadn't even made it to the bathroom. I think you're getting the idea, right?
I feel myself about to cry watching her try so hard. Then I want to clobber her because she starts speeding up to get out of someone's way, jeopardizing her own safety so she won't be a bother. *sigh* Does anyone else smell the irony?
This evening I had to break it to her that we are not going to make it to LA as soon as I thought. It freaked her out for many reasons, among them the added costs of more hotels. She's also feeling nervous about her destination residence after we discovered a logistical glitch regarding her anticipated date of arrival. It appears we worked it out but it rattled her.
Even still we had a couple of chuckles over dinner (apples, string cheese, celery, carrots and potato chips -- we were both quite content). I'm hoping that tomorrow, having accepted our revised plan, mom can resume having fun on her trip.
I guess we'll see. After all, our situation is evolving on the ground.
I Love Holiday Inn!
OMG! The folks in this hotel have been SO kind & they just made my life a million times easier. They are letting us have an extra hour to check out at no extra cost!
Thank you, Holiday Inn Express in Fenton, Mo. (off I-44)!
Monday Morning
It's 8 a.m. in St. Louis. I slept 8 hours. I've had breakfast in the hotel lobby. I'm back in bed & in no hurry to beat the 11 a.m. checkout.
I've been trying to find words to describe how the trip has changed because of mom's knee.
I don't mind the extra effort. I don't feel angry or resentful that mom needs more help. But I do feel a perpetual tension & fear that mom could fall. And I'm constantly making mental adjustments for every detail affected by her new limitation.
She's off balance anyway because of her meds and the conditions they are intended to treat. The demands of the move have deprived her of her regular medication-induced naps, which has a huge affect on her stability. But now she can't put any weight at all on her left knee, which requires compensation by her right side. Yet she's fairly weak in general anymore and the more tired she gets, the less ability she has to support herself on the cane.
So I am extremely grateful that she is back in bed taking a post-breakfast snooze. That gives me a little time to think about the day ahead realistically.
I originally thought we would get to Oklahoma City on this leg of the trip, or we could stop in Tulsa if we couldn't make it that far. Now I'm hoping we get to Tulsa but preparing to stop in Joplin if necessary.
I guess I'll find out when we get there. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to more giggle fits. I'm hoping to capture one on video so all you followers can share in the fun!
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Cut Me Some Slack!
I have just discovered that my video is posting sideways. I think I now know why but I have one more 2 post that way. So hopefully after that, they will appear the right way.
After just facilitating a miracle (getting my mom out the door), I am not feeling hypercritical of myself.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Why Knee?
I am so tired right now.
Mom's knee went out this afternoon & she can barely walk. Actually she can't walk at all without a cane & even then she needs help getting up & down. Her balance is not great anyway so this is not good.
Mercifully her spirits are good (we even had a couple of giggle fits from the urgent care back home) but she is in a lot of pain.
On my end of things, her inability to walk by herself just made our trip extremely complicated. I'm almost feeling despairing, which I'm sure is an overreaction fueled by exhaustion. But this development adds a huge factor to the physical demands I face during travel, not to mention my concern that she could fall. She is completely worn out getting up from a chair to walk to the bathroom. Now she's supposed to spend five plus days in and out of a car?
I have to go to sleep. Maybe things won't look so difficult after a night's rest.
Realty Reality
Mom going over paperwork with Mary Eckler, her realtor, for selling the house. Mimi (center) will be handling things for mom once we leave Sunday.
Friday, March 18, 2011
In Brief
I am fried.
I think we cleared the biggest logistical hurdle today getting everything on the truck. From here on out we have some leeway with our timetable.
I don't really feel clear-headed enough to write my usual pithy, brilliant post so the photos from earlier today will have to suffice. I'll just say this:
Thank God It's Friday!
The Directors
Mom, Jodi (mom's faithful housekeeper) and mom's brother, Charles, supervising the loading of the moving truck.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Final task?
Ha! I wish!
No such luck. I'm about to write a list of stuff going on the truck. This chore is (I hope & pray) my last task for Thursday night before the movers arrive tomorrow at 8 a.m.
There's PLENTY more stuff to do after that to get mom out of Dodge, but I'm focusing only on what's right in front of me. As you can see in the photo, that amounts to the pen and paper in my lap as I prepare the inventory. (Yes, those ARE rubber ducky pajamas I am wearing.)
Inventory, you ask? Why, yes. Have I failed to mention that we are phenomenal control freaks in this family?
My mom instructed me earlier today that once we had everything packed, we needed a list of everything going on the truck. And then we needed to photocopy it for the driver and fax a copy to my sister.
Did you get all that?
Well, don't worry. I did. I think the only person a control freak ever really trusts in such circumstances is a fellow control freak. So my mom picked the right person to carry out these wishes: me.
So I better get started. The moving truck will be here all too soon & I have a pretty good idea of the epic meltdown that could occur if we are lacking said list!
See you tomorrow!
No such luck. I'm about to write a list of stuff going on the truck. This chore is (I hope & pray) my last task for Thursday night before the movers arrive tomorrow at 8 a.m.
There's PLENTY more stuff to do after that to get mom out of Dodge, but I'm focusing only on what's right in front of me. As you can see in the photo, that amounts to the pen and paper in my lap as I prepare the inventory. (Yes, those ARE rubber ducky pajamas I am wearing.)
Inventory, you ask? Why, yes. Have I failed to mention that we are phenomenal control freaks in this family?
My mom instructed me earlier today that once we had everything packed, we needed a list of everything going on the truck. And then we needed to photocopy it for the driver and fax a copy to my sister.
Did you get all that?
Well, don't worry. I did. I think the only person a control freak ever really trusts in such circumstances is a fellow control freak. So my mom picked the right person to carry out these wishes: me.
So I better get started. The moving truck will be here all too soon & I have a pretty good idea of the epic meltdown that could occur if we are lacking said list!
See you tomorrow!
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
The Wheat and the Chaff
You may be familiar with the old saying, "separating the wheat from the chaff," and since I love a good Biblical cliché, I can't resist trotting it out.
In this case, I'm talking about material possessions -- keeping what's valuable and tossing what isn't. Not that we don't all hold onto some really useless and worthless junk, myself included. But for some reason I've fixated on this concept when it comes to my family's stuff, with my mother, Peggy, being the gatekeeper and the ultimate arbiter of what stayed and what went at the Stanley compound.
And for years, she's been pulling a reverse wheat/chaff on me.
To wit, where's that fabulous Formica table from the '50s that I spy in some of our old photographs? "That old thing? We threw it out," she says. And what about some of those amazing Pucci-esque dresses you were wearing around that time? She shrugs. Gone. In the ether.
Instead, I've spent my entire life combing through thrift stores, flea markets and yard sales looking for vintage wares just like the ones she discarded. (Yes, I do love the thrill of the hunt and I have come up with some pretty sweet finds. But, hey, could she have saved me the trouble?)
Meanwhile, there's a closet in her basement stuffed full of my former homecoming, prom and bridesmaids dresses that for some unknown reason she hasn't set ablaze with the nearest Bic lighter. Why? I certainly would have by now, and Lord knows all that taffeta would burn in about 47 seconds.
Seriously, nobody goes to that many Halloween parties, needing that many hideous outfits to recreate Horrifying Looks of the '80s. So these garments are just taking up valuable space (extra, if they have crinoline. Yeah, I'm from the South).
I asked Peggy about the wheat/chaff switcheroo, and she was at a loss to explain why some things become part of the home landscape and others don't. It seemed like a good idea at the time to purge certain items, she said, and the mood hasn't struck her yet to dump the others.
In general, though, she's been on a mission to lighten the load at the home in Louisville, Ky., that she shares with my dad, for her own peace of mind. And so she doesn't end up on an episode of "Horders." She gathers boxes of clothes and books for donation every time the DAV calls; she puts canned goods in the drop boxes for poor families. An incredibly talented crafter, she's trying to use her tons of accumulated silk flowers to make arrangements as gifts.
My father, who's always been anti-clutter, runs lean and mean and told me recently that he didn't even have extra clothes lying around that he doesn't wear. "I think I'm standing in the middle of my entire wardrobe," he said, meaning the outfit on his back.
I've had stuff on the brain lately, and not just because it's spring, a time that many of us go through an annual top-to-bottom cleaning ritual. I've been thinking about the decades worth of stuff that my dear friend Mary has been sorting, labeling and winnowing with her mother, Patricia, who's about to move 3,000 miles to a new life and a new lifestyle.
As you know from reading this blog (and if you don't, scroll down and catch up), my buddy/former college roommate Mary and her sister Ruth have been chipping away at the mounds of belongings in Patricia's house, decades worth of accumulated paperwork, knickknacks, linens, furniture and tons more.
They've taken several trips from where we all live now in Los Angeles to Pat's place in our hometown, the Derby City. When the packing is finished (or kind of finished), Mary and Pat will drive across the country to Pat's new assisted-living apartment that's conveniently close to all of us.
By then, much of the wheat will have been separated from the chaff, a process that's a lot easier said than done, especially when Pat has tended to hold onto plenty of both. Example: She's kept everything from meal plan tickets from Mary's college days to letters from her war veteran husband. Trash and treasure, side by side.
At least she won't have the time or latitude to follow in my mom's footsteps -- no reverse wheat/chaff for her -- so I can be assured of maybe only one thing from this journey: She and Mary will not arrive in Burbank with a trunk full of fuchsia hoop skirts.
It's Also Sad
This afternoon mom told me about all the "administrative" stuff she has to do before we leave: paying bills, returning phone calls, calculating budget issues and on and on. As she spoke, her voice got higher, she flailed her arms and started breathing faster.
I pointed out that she could do those things in the car, from her cell phone, once we drove out of town. In fact, those would be perfect tasks for the road. For now, she needs to go through a file cabinet that was my dad's and make some sort of decision about its contents. She also has to tell me which dishes she wants to take with her, pack her clothes that are going on the truck not in the car, finish going through her "pile" and about a hundred other mission critical assignments before the moving truck arrives Friday morning.
She looked at me and said, "See, the problem with that is I didn't process anything you just said."
She wasn't joking and she wasn't exaggerating. That moment represents, for me, the sad part and why I'm glad to be here doing what I can for my mom. Most of my observations about this "moving mom" thing are meant to be at least a little bit funny if not downright hilarious. It keeps me sane and keeps the situation in some perspective. But when I presented this option for making those calls in the car, she truly didn't understand what I was telling her. The stress of watching her entire life boxed, shredded, donated or discarded has aggravated her conditions, which compromise her memory, recall and processing. This difficulty is basically why she can't live by herself anymore.
I feel a lot of compassion and patience for her in these moments.
Imagine trying to leave your home and move across the country without being able to trust your own thinking. Imagine trying to pack up a three-story house you have lived in for 35 years when you can't stay awake at times because of your medication. This event is incredibly complicated emotionally, mentally and physically.
I am hoping, and I have reason to believe, that when she settles into her new apartment and acclimates to a new life, some of the stress will ease and, along with it, some of these symptoms. I don't know. Maybe that's my denial. I know that several medical professionals told me her issues would all get worse during the transition and then improve once she was settled. But no one knows for sure, so we'll just have to see.
I pointed out that she could do those things in the car, from her cell phone, once we drove out of town. In fact, those would be perfect tasks for the road. For now, she needs to go through a file cabinet that was my dad's and make some sort of decision about its contents. She also has to tell me which dishes she wants to take with her, pack her clothes that are going on the truck not in the car, finish going through her "pile" and about a hundred other mission critical assignments before the moving truck arrives Friday morning.
She looked at me and said, "See, the problem with that is I didn't process anything you just said."
She wasn't joking and she wasn't exaggerating. That moment represents, for me, the sad part and why I'm glad to be here doing what I can for my mom. Most of my observations about this "moving mom" thing are meant to be at least a little bit funny if not downright hilarious. It keeps me sane and keeps the situation in some perspective. But when I presented this option for making those calls in the car, she truly didn't understand what I was telling her. The stress of watching her entire life boxed, shredded, donated or discarded has aggravated her conditions, which compromise her memory, recall and processing. This difficulty is basically why she can't live by herself anymore.
I feel a lot of compassion and patience for her in these moments.
Imagine trying to leave your home and move across the country without being able to trust your own thinking. Imagine trying to pack up a three-story house you have lived in for 35 years when you can't stay awake at times because of your medication. This event is incredibly complicated emotionally, mentally and physically.
I am hoping, and I have reason to believe, that when she settles into her new apartment and acclimates to a new life, some of the stress will ease and, along with it, some of these symptoms. I don't know. Maybe that's my denial. I know that several medical professionals told me her issues would all get worse during the transition and then improve once she was settled. But no one knows for sure, so we'll just have to see.
Homage to Ruth
My sister just informed me that when she arrived at mom's Sunday there were only six packed boxes along this wall.
In about 48 hours, she managed to accomplish this much. (Apparently Speed Packing is a fine weight-loss plan because she reports that her new jeans are now falling off!)
I shudder to think what I would have walked into had Ruth not been here before me. Thanks, Sis!
In about 48 hours, she managed to accomplish this much. (Apparently Speed Packing is a fine weight-loss plan because she reports that her new jeans are now falling off!)
I shudder to think what I would have walked into had Ruth not been here before me. Thanks, Sis!
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Too Much & Not Enough
Oh, wow. Wow. Wow. WOW. Yikes.
That is my eloquent response to the status of mom and house upon my arrival here in Louisville this afternoon.
It's hard to even describe. My sister had only been gone a couple of hours when I arrived "on scene." All I can say is: THANK GOD SHE HAD BEEN HERE. I do not wish to imagine the state things were in before her epic effort to put some organization back into the madness.
This house is in chaos but that's to be expected with any move so it didn't phase me. But when mom started showing me the various things she was "going to take care of" or "look through," I began to feel a lump of dread building up in my throat. Everywhere I look, there are piles of things -- including but not limited to belongings, boxes (some empty, some not), linens, files, lists, furniture, clothing, cleaning supplies, vacuum cleaners (yes, more than one) -- that apparently are slated for some sort of action at what appears to be some mysterious point in the future.
Have I mentioned the moving truck will be here FRIDAY morning? This is TUESDAY evening.
And then there are the repeated utterances I hear as mom paces through the various rooms of the house brushing up against the physical evidence of her life, marriage and children. Little gems such as, "Oh, I really need to call these people tomorrow" or "I wonder if So-and-So would want that for their backyard." Statements that reflect plenty of speculation and possibility but not nearly as much action as we need.
I feel for my mom, I seriously do. She wants and needs some control over these events. Yet she can't seem to get it together enough to really manage the situation. She's done SO much but this is a task so enormous on so many levels, it's just too much for her. So when I came in this afternoon and immediately lowered the boom, she wasn't exactly happy. (Refer to my 3/15 tweet regarding the iron skillets.)
"Mom, there is no more time," I said. "You have to stop telling me about all the things you're going to do and just let me help you DO them."
Discussion ensued. She attempted to explain to me exactly why all of her plans and ideas were sound. I listened for a bit and then basically said that I knew that logic all made sense to her, it just wasn't going to get her furniture on the moving van on Friday and us in the car on Sunday. I pointed out some very concrete decisions that needed to be made. She completely shut down and didn't say a word or look at me for at least 10 minutes. I kept silent (by biting my lips so hard they bled!) and let her have her moment. I kept telling myself, "I can't fix this for her. She has a right to be upset."
After a bit she picked up the phone and called her brother who lives in a nearby apartment complex. They spoke a few minutes and resolved what to do with a family memento that mom will not have room for in her new residence. Then we went into the kitchen and organized some files that will have to go with us in the car. Then she went into another room and chipped away at her massive pile of letters, papers, photos, birthday cards to her from my dad, cartoon clippings, page-a-day calendar wisdom that seemed worth saving at the time, political bumper stickers, and many, many more items.
For the sake of our mutual sanity, I insist on perceiving those actions as progress.
Now she's in bed and I'm not far behind. Wednesday will be here in a flash.
That is my eloquent response to the status of mom and house upon my arrival here in Louisville this afternoon.
It's hard to even describe. My sister had only been gone a couple of hours when I arrived "on scene." All I can say is: THANK GOD SHE HAD BEEN HERE. I do not wish to imagine the state things were in before her epic effort to put some organization back into the madness.
This house is in chaos but that's to be expected with any move so it didn't phase me. But when mom started showing me the various things she was "going to take care of" or "look through," I began to feel a lump of dread building up in my throat. Everywhere I look, there are piles of things -- including but not limited to belongings, boxes (some empty, some not), linens, files, lists, furniture, clothing, cleaning supplies, vacuum cleaners (yes, more than one) -- that apparently are slated for some sort of action at what appears to be some mysterious point in the future.
Have I mentioned the moving truck will be here FRIDAY morning? This is TUESDAY evening.
And then there are the repeated utterances I hear as mom paces through the various rooms of the house brushing up against the physical evidence of her life, marriage and children. Little gems such as, "Oh, I really need to call these people tomorrow" or "I wonder if So-and-So would want that for their backyard." Statements that reflect plenty of speculation and possibility but not nearly as much action as we need.
I feel for my mom, I seriously do. She wants and needs some control over these events. Yet she can't seem to get it together enough to really manage the situation. She's done SO much but this is a task so enormous on so many levels, it's just too much for her. So when I came in this afternoon and immediately lowered the boom, she wasn't exactly happy. (Refer to my 3/15 tweet regarding the iron skillets.)
"Mom, there is no more time," I said. "You have to stop telling me about all the things you're going to do and just let me help you DO them."
Discussion ensued. She attempted to explain to me exactly why all of her plans and ideas were sound. I listened for a bit and then basically said that I knew that logic all made sense to her, it just wasn't going to get her furniture on the moving van on Friday and us in the car on Sunday. I pointed out some very concrete decisions that needed to be made. She completely shut down and didn't say a word or look at me for at least 10 minutes. I kept silent (by biting my lips so hard they bled!) and let her have her moment. I kept telling myself, "I can't fix this for her. She has a right to be upset."
After a bit she picked up the phone and called her brother who lives in a nearby apartment complex. They spoke a few minutes and resolved what to do with a family memento that mom will not have room for in her new residence. Then we went into the kitchen and organized some files that will have to go with us in the car. Then she went into another room and chipped away at her massive pile of letters, papers, photos, birthday cards to her from my dad, cartoon clippings, page-a-day calendar wisdom that seemed worth saving at the time, political bumper stickers, and many, many more items.
For the sake of our mutual sanity, I insist on perceiving those actions as progress.
Now she's in bed and I'm not far behind. Wednesday will be here in a flash.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Ruh Roh!
I've just hung up with my sister on the front lines. She flew to Kentucky today to help mom with the final push before the moving truck comes next week.
Except according to Ruth, there is "a lot left to be done."
*Gulp*
We didn't talk long because she wanted to check in with her family in Glendale, Ca., and then go back to the basement to sort more of mom's things. Apparently the distinct categories we left behind during our trip a few weeks back have been lost quite literally in the shuffle.
Then I spoke to my mom. She sounded disappointed and apologetic that she "hadn't made much progress." I reminded her that she's been doing a great deal, it's just that there is so much to be done. I encouraged her to wind down for the evening (it's her bedtime there) and tell me about anything other than her piles of stuff. It was a challenge but she managed to come up with a few topics of conversation (NCAA basketball and the weather).
My sister will be working her little fingers to the bone the rest of tonight, Monday and part of Tuesday. She will fly back to Los Angeles at the same time I am flying into Louisville -- like a baton pass in an Olympic relay race.
Stay tuned...
Except according to Ruth, there is "a lot left to be done."
*Gulp*
We didn't talk long because she wanted to check in with her family in Glendale, Ca., and then go back to the basement to sort more of mom's things. Apparently the distinct categories we left behind during our trip a few weeks back have been lost quite literally in the shuffle.
Then I spoke to my mom. She sounded disappointed and apologetic that she "hadn't made much progress." I reminded her that she's been doing a great deal, it's just that there is so much to be done. I encouraged her to wind down for the evening (it's her bedtime there) and tell me about anything other than her piles of stuff. It was a challenge but she managed to come up with a few topics of conversation (NCAA basketball and the weather).
My sister will be working her little fingers to the bone the rest of tonight, Monday and part of Tuesday. She will fly back to Los Angeles at the same time I am flying into Louisville -- like a baton pass in an Olympic relay race.
Stay tuned...
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Saving Daylight
Tonight I lose an hour of sleep thanks to Daylight Savings Time. No biggie, really. I often lose hours of sleep. Or really I just misplace them. I tend to get my sleep whenever and where ever possible.
The fact is: I require plenty of rest. I know there are people in the world who can go on very little sleep. I am not one of them. I believe in napping and our culture tends to peg that as lazy or self-indulgent. In fact, we have been conditioned to expect ourselves to function well on little sleep, high stress and lousy food -- but that is simply absurd. And in my case if I don't get enough rest, I become a bit insane. Okay, QUITE a bit insane. I get in this state where I'm cranky or weepy or spacey or some combination of all three. Trust me, it isn't pretty!
Which is why I'm so pleased to be spending the days before my departure immersed in my yoga practice. I'm flying to Kentucky on Tuesday and the list of things I have left to do before leaving makes concentrating on anything other than errands pretty much unjustifiable. Yet halfway through my weekend of downward facing dog and meditation, it's obvious to me that this is the best possible use of my time.
Instead of loading up on travel sizes at Walgreens or mentally packing the car over and over again, I'm doing something as radical as sitting on a mat and BREATHING. Pretty revolutionary considering how much "sense" it makes to get my ducks in a row before I get on that plane. This activity is going to do a lot more than any last-minute errand possibly could to support my mom and me in the move. I'm balancing myself with breath and movement, cultivating a state of relaxation and regaining a sense of perspective that I will greatly need in the days to come.
I expect at times I will still feel frustrated, lose my patience, become overwhelmed with anxiety and experience plenty of other feelings. But I'm setting my baseline at a level of calm that can only improve my chances of making this trip with my best foot forward.
Now remember I said this when I tweet "Get out of my lane you *&#!**!!!!" from somewhere in Texas.
The fact is: I require plenty of rest. I know there are people in the world who can go on very little sleep. I am not one of them. I believe in napping and our culture tends to peg that as lazy or self-indulgent. In fact, we have been conditioned to expect ourselves to function well on little sleep, high stress and lousy food -- but that is simply absurd. And in my case if I don't get enough rest, I become a bit insane. Okay, QUITE a bit insane. I get in this state where I'm cranky or weepy or spacey or some combination of all three. Trust me, it isn't pretty!
Which is why I'm so pleased to be spending the days before my departure immersed in my yoga practice. I'm flying to Kentucky on Tuesday and the list of things I have left to do before leaving makes concentrating on anything other than errands pretty much unjustifiable. Yet halfway through my weekend of downward facing dog and meditation, it's obvious to me that this is the best possible use of my time.
Instead of loading up on travel sizes at Walgreens or mentally packing the car over and over again, I'm doing something as radical as sitting on a mat and BREATHING. Pretty revolutionary considering how much "sense" it makes to get my ducks in a row before I get on that plane. This activity is going to do a lot more than any last-minute errand possibly could to support my mom and me in the move. I'm balancing myself with breath and movement, cultivating a state of relaxation and regaining a sense of perspective that I will greatly need in the days to come.
I expect at times I will still feel frustrated, lose my patience, become overwhelmed with anxiety and experience plenty of other feelings. But I'm setting my baseline at a level of calm that can only improve my chances of making this trip with my best foot forward.
Now remember I said this when I tweet "Get out of my lane you *&#!**!!!!" from somewhere in Texas.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Choosing Change
I was having trouble falling asleep last night (not uncommon) when the news broke about the massive earthquake and tsunami that has struck Japan.
Looking at all that devastation while preparing for mom's move reminded me again how capricious life can be. We walk around thinking we have control and there are plenty of little choices we make all day long. Stuff like whether to have a donut or oatmeal for breakfast, if we should get gas on the way home from work or wait til morning (my tip: don't wait; gas prices go up every time you blink right now) or whether the kids should do soccer and music lessons or pick just one.
But the truth is we have no real control. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Most of us know from personal experience how true that is. Heaven knows when folks in Northern Japan started their week, they didn't know they would end it facing thorough devastation.
Our family knows, and has known for a while, that mom is moving to an independent/assisted living facility in Burbank, Calif. In that respect, we have had the luxury of planning and preparation that those suffering a natural disaster or sudden tragedy do not. We are not facing massive loss of life and property, desperate pleas for international aid, and concerns about nuclear meltdown.
I am deeply grateful for that difference. You don't get to choose when the tsunami or heart attack or job loss hits. But there are times when you do have the option of choosing aspects of your major life changes.
Right after the doctor told my mom she could no longer live alone, she went into a formidable state of denial. Mercifully, that didn't last too long. For a variety of reasons, she soon accepted the reality that it was time to make the change she always knew she would eventually face. It's a complicated experience and she has slipped in and out of various degrees of acceptance, all of which are perfectly understandable.
My sister and I were quite frightened during those initial days of denial. We are a determined (okay, stubborn) bunch. It seems to be in the DNA. My mom is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet in your life -- but don't mess with her if she's made up her mind about something! Even though her reaction was typical, I was scared out of my mind. In addition to having wild visions of her tumbling down the stairs of her three-story townhouse, I was getting a disturbing bit of feedback as I began researching possible residences for her.
When I shared about her resistance, the staff at these various homes raised their eyebrows and all said the same thing in the same tone of restrained urgency: It sounds like you and your sister are going to have to make the decision for her.
Huh? What the hell does THAT mean?
I was told that if she was in "that much denial" and her health was at risk, her daughters would have to step in and force her to move.
"Um, you haven't met my mom," I said to one staff member. "That is NOT going to fly." She looked at me and gave me one of those kind, almost pitying looks and said, "Well, if it's a matter of her safety, you're going to have to do it."
Those were some of the darkest days yet in this process. Terrified my mom was going to die in her house and faced with the possibility of...what, binding and gagging her before throwing her on a plane against her will? Taking her to court to declare her incompetent? Good God. My mom couldn't live alone anymore, but she was FAR from incoherent or demented. I felt helpless, anxious and frustrated.
I contemplated these horrors, talking to my mom on the phone each day to reassure myself that she was still alive, wondering if I would find some magic word or phrase to make her see what had to be done. Then one day she told me she knew it was time to go. She confessed that a part of her felt a relief that the doctor had made the determination. The house, as much as she loves being in it, had become too much for her to keep up. The prospect of a more simplified existence actually held some appeal.
I was surprised and relieved -- and tremendously proud of my mom. She's one tough cookie. She drives me nuts sometimes (oh, you'll be hearing about that as we roll across the highways), but I admire and respect her for finding her way to accepting the doctor's news. As a result of that courage, I believe our family averted a disaster.
As much as anyone can ever can.
Looking at all that devastation while preparing for mom's move reminded me again how capricious life can be. We walk around thinking we have control and there are plenty of little choices we make all day long. Stuff like whether to have a donut or oatmeal for breakfast, if we should get gas on the way home from work or wait til morning (my tip: don't wait; gas prices go up every time you blink right now) or whether the kids should do soccer and music lessons or pick just one.
But the truth is we have no real control. As John Lennon said, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." Most of us know from personal experience how true that is. Heaven knows when folks in Northern Japan started their week, they didn't know they would end it facing thorough devastation.
Our family knows, and has known for a while, that mom is moving to an independent/assisted living facility in Burbank, Calif. In that respect, we have had the luxury of planning and preparation that those suffering a natural disaster or sudden tragedy do not. We are not facing massive loss of life and property, desperate pleas for international aid, and concerns about nuclear meltdown.
I am deeply grateful for that difference. You don't get to choose when the tsunami or heart attack or job loss hits. But there are times when you do have the option of choosing aspects of your major life changes.
Right after the doctor told my mom she could no longer live alone, she went into a formidable state of denial. Mercifully, that didn't last too long. For a variety of reasons, she soon accepted the reality that it was time to make the change she always knew she would eventually face. It's a complicated experience and she has slipped in and out of various degrees of acceptance, all of which are perfectly understandable.
My sister and I were quite frightened during those initial days of denial. We are a determined (okay, stubborn) bunch. It seems to be in the DNA. My mom is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet in your life -- but don't mess with her if she's made up her mind about something! Even though her reaction was typical, I was scared out of my mind. In addition to having wild visions of her tumbling down the stairs of her three-story townhouse, I was getting a disturbing bit of feedback as I began researching possible residences for her.
When I shared about her resistance, the staff at these various homes raised their eyebrows and all said the same thing in the same tone of restrained urgency: It sounds like you and your sister are going to have to make the decision for her.
Huh? What the hell does THAT mean?
I was told that if she was in "that much denial" and her health was at risk, her daughters would have to step in and force her to move.
"Um, you haven't met my mom," I said to one staff member. "That is NOT going to fly." She looked at me and gave me one of those kind, almost pitying looks and said, "Well, if it's a matter of her safety, you're going to have to do it."
Those were some of the darkest days yet in this process. Terrified my mom was going to die in her house and faced with the possibility of...what, binding and gagging her before throwing her on a plane against her will? Taking her to court to declare her incompetent? Good God. My mom couldn't live alone anymore, but she was FAR from incoherent or demented. I felt helpless, anxious and frustrated.
I contemplated these horrors, talking to my mom on the phone each day to reassure myself that she was still alive, wondering if I would find some magic word or phrase to make her see what had to be done. Then one day she told me she knew it was time to go. She confessed that a part of her felt a relief that the doctor had made the determination. The house, as much as she loves being in it, had become too much for her to keep up. The prospect of a more simplified existence actually held some appeal.
I was surprised and relieved -- and tremendously proud of my mom. She's one tough cookie. She drives me nuts sometimes (oh, you'll be hearing about that as we roll across the highways), but I admire and respect her for finding her way to accepting the doctor's news. As a result of that courage, I believe our family averted a disaster.
As much as anyone can ever can.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Thursday (or "How I Blew My Cool At The AAA Office")
My first mistake was leaving the house without having breakfast. Oh, it made sense at the time, but I really know better than that. I come from a long line of people who tend toward hypoglycemia and, therefore, become quite nasty when hungry.
I was running a bunch of errands -- you know, more stuff to do before I leave -- one of which was to go to the local AAA office and get the maps and guide books for the driving route back from Kentucky. How complicated is that?
Well, usually, it isn't. Today, however, I checked in and took my "seat in the middle," the group of chairs that amounts to the waiting area. I sat and sat and sat some more. And then I sat a little longer. I was keeping myself busy texting and reading stuff on my phone when I realized I had been waiting a full 20 minutes. I should have gotten up right that minute but I waited some more, a poor judgment call no doubt influenced by my lack of nourishment. So I started getting annoyed.
Finally I walked over to the check-in desk and tersely informed them that I had been waiting 30 minutes (it actually may have been more but 30 was enough to make my point). The receptionist dialed a few numbers and told me someone would be with me shortly. Hmmm. Could those numbers not have been dialed 30 minutes ago?
I again took my "seat in the middle" and waited. Two names were called before mine -- they needed other services so it's not like they were bumping me but I was still peeved. I decided enough was enough and that if my name was not the next one called, I was leaving.
Guess what...my name was not the next one called. I stood up and muttered, "I am not waiting" and marched for the exit. I was almost through the door when I thought I heard...no, could it be?...MY NAME BEING CALLED!!!
I turned around and walked up to the window in the travel section but the woman there said she hadn't called me. "It might be Window 10," she said. Okay, hello Window 10, did you call me? Nope. Try Window 8. Seriously?? I take the few steps to Window 8 as that clerk is calling a man's name. I stare at her. She stares at me and my membership card. "Did you call my name?" Yes, she did. "I'll take care of you right after I help this man."
KA-BOOM!
No, no you won't. I stormed out in a state of subdued fury (is there such a thing?). Although there is some good news: I left without tearing anyone a new you-know-what, which is what I would have done in my younger, less humble days. I'm so glad I didn't take it out on anyone because I really do not wish to be that person anymore. It's not someone else's job to be my punching bag because I was inconvenienced. Besides, I was the one who decided to skip breakfast and wait too long before speaking up to the check-in desk.
When I got in the car I felt so angry that I called a friend to vent. After a little discussion I could see that I'm trying to do to much. I'm trying to prepare for every possible need or situation my mom and I could encounter during the move. As soon as I said it out loud, I realized how absurd that really is. My heart is in the right place, wanting to make things as easy on my mom as possible. But the truth is I don't have that kind of power. This move is going to be challenging and messy and overwhelming. I can't protect her or myself from that fact. I can accept the reality or drive myself (and others) crazy trying to make everything work out, which it won't anyway. At least not the way I think it's supposed to.
Instead of trying to fix the world, I'm going to make a sandwich now.
I was running a bunch of errands -- you know, more stuff to do before I leave -- one of which was to go to the local AAA office and get the maps and guide books for the driving route back from Kentucky. How complicated is that?
Well, usually, it isn't. Today, however, I checked in and took my "seat in the middle," the group of chairs that amounts to the waiting area. I sat and sat and sat some more. And then I sat a little longer. I was keeping myself busy texting and reading stuff on my phone when I realized I had been waiting a full 20 minutes. I should have gotten up right that minute but I waited some more, a poor judgment call no doubt influenced by my lack of nourishment. So I started getting annoyed.
Finally I walked over to the check-in desk and tersely informed them that I had been waiting 30 minutes (it actually may have been more but 30 was enough to make my point). The receptionist dialed a few numbers and told me someone would be with me shortly. Hmmm. Could those numbers not have been dialed 30 minutes ago?
I again took my "seat in the middle" and waited. Two names were called before mine -- they needed other services so it's not like they were bumping me but I was still peeved. I decided enough was enough and that if my name was not the next one called, I was leaving.
Guess what...my name was not the next one called. I stood up and muttered, "I am not waiting" and marched for the exit. I was almost through the door when I thought I heard...no, could it be?...MY NAME BEING CALLED!!!
I turned around and walked up to the window in the travel section but the woman there said she hadn't called me. "It might be Window 10," she said. Okay, hello Window 10, did you call me? Nope. Try Window 8. Seriously?? I take the few steps to Window 8 as that clerk is calling a man's name. I stare at her. She stares at me and my membership card. "Did you call my name?" Yes, she did. "I'll take care of you right after I help this man."
KA-BOOM!
No, no you won't. I stormed out in a state of subdued fury (is there such a thing?). Although there is some good news: I left without tearing anyone a new you-know-what, which is what I would have done in my younger, less humble days. I'm so glad I didn't take it out on anyone because I really do not wish to be that person anymore. It's not someone else's job to be my punching bag because I was inconvenienced. Besides, I was the one who decided to skip breakfast and wait too long before speaking up to the check-in desk.
When I got in the car I felt so angry that I called a friend to vent. After a little discussion I could see that I'm trying to do to much. I'm trying to prepare for every possible need or situation my mom and I could encounter during the move. As soon as I said it out loud, I realized how absurd that really is. My heart is in the right place, wanting to make things as easy on my mom as possible. But the truth is I don't have that kind of power. This move is going to be challenging and messy and overwhelming. I can't protect her or myself from that fact. I can accept the reality or drive myself (and others) crazy trying to make everything work out, which it won't anyway. At least not the way I think it's supposed to.
Instead of trying to fix the world, I'm going to make a sandwich now.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Going Viral
Soon my mom will know about this blog. So will her family and friends. And anyone on the world wide web who finds our little sojourn an interesting read.
She'll be surprised and curious and thrilled. She's always been a big fan of my "work," all the way back to that decorative Thanksgiving plate I made in Brownies with my drawing of a turkey saying, "Goble" (sic). Awwww! (And, yes, it made the cut of mementos slated for packing and moving.)
But this is a wee bit different. This blog is in large part about impressions of HER life and I'm about to spend a considerable amount of time, energy and megabytes commenting on that, exposing it and (let's not forget) laughing about it. Although I don't want to sell my mom short. The truth is one of her most outstanding qualities is her ability to REALLY laugh at herself so she may not mind at all. I guess we'll soon find out.
Mom, how about we make a deal:. If you end up hating all this publicity and wanting revenge on me, I promise I will teach you how to blog once you're settled into your new pad in California. Then you can set the record straight!
Love, Mare
She'll be surprised and curious and thrilled. She's always been a big fan of my "work," all the way back to that decorative Thanksgiving plate I made in Brownies with my drawing of a turkey saying, "Goble" (sic). Awwww! (And, yes, it made the cut of mementos slated for packing and moving.)
But this is a wee bit different. This blog is in large part about impressions of HER life and I'm about to spend a considerable amount of time, energy and megabytes commenting on that, exposing it and (let's not forget) laughing about it. Although I don't want to sell my mom short. The truth is one of her most outstanding qualities is her ability to REALLY laugh at herself so she may not mind at all. I guess we'll soon find out.
Mom, how about we make a deal:. If you end up hating all this publicity and wanting revenge on me, I promise I will teach you how to blog once you're settled into your new pad in California. Then you can set the record straight!
Love, Mare
The Stuff o' Life
One day in the near or distant future, I may have to sort through piles of belongings at my parents' house that could include but not be limited to: every birthday card they've ever received; piles of snapshots with no dates, captions or identifiers; shoes no one's worn in 20 years and stockpiles of canned peaches.
But that day is not today. Not for me, anyway.
That day came recently for my friend, Mary (of this blog's title), who's been making trips from California to our native Kentucky to help her elderly mother, Patricia, shut down and pack up the family home and prep for the cross-country move of her life. It's not been, shall we say, an easy process and I happen to have a unique perspective. I've known the family since Mary and I were college roommates in Kentucky and I love them dearly. So I'm the perfect mix of familiar insider and detached observer when she needs to let off a little steam (okay, maybe a LOT).
I believe you learn a lot about people by the stuff they hold onto. Not just the daily detritus lying around on the countertops, but the things they keep, put in drawers and closets -- the things they save.
And after going through three floors of her mom's house with a fine-tooth comb (and there were probably a couple dozen of those hanging around, by the way), Mary knows a lot more about Pat than she ever did before.
I'll let her expound on some of that because a) it'll be funnier when she tells it and b) she might need to vent about the jaw-dropping amounts of paper clips, random pieces of metal and file drawers brimming with musty cancelled checks that she unearthed.
Important note: when it's someone else's junk, it's considered bad form to just chuck it into the Dumpster while rolling your eyes and saying things like, "Who lives this way?" When it's your elderly/ill/infirm parent's junk, it's an even more delicate situation, as many of us Gen Xers are finding out as our parents downsize the family compounds, heading to manageable apartments or that Melrose Place for the geriatric set, Leisureworld.
Especially when there's a deadline, and there often is, you don't have time to hear the twisted rationalizations about why your mom hordes sugar packets from restaurants (that would be my poor friend Marc's current dilemma). You need only ask: "Keep or toss?" And even that is a loaded question.
Mary's heading back to Louisville for the final phase, where she'll be faced, no doubt, with massive piles of Pat's life that have yet to be labeled, categorized, boxed or tamed. I do not envy her. And though Pat will be coming to a new home, a beautiful place to live in the Valley close to both Mary, her sister, Ruth, and me, she's parting with more than just a condo in eastern Jefferson County, Kentucky. She's leaving everything she's known for decades, including her friends, her favorite grocery store, her familiar routes and routines and many of the material possessions she's collected over the last 50-plus years.
Granted, she probably didn't need Mary's college report cards from the '80s or that belt from a dress she hasn't worn (or even seen) in years. Other stuff has been tougher to part with, emotionally and psychologically.
Once the packing's done, or at least mostly done, Mary and Pat will haul themselves by car, Thelma-and-Louise-style, to Los Angeles. (Much more on that later -- check back for the play-by-play as Mary charts their progress across the great U. S. of A. and I provide commentary like only a smartass observer who's not in a confined space with an aged parent can do).
Meanwhile, since I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by my own clutter, I think I'll purge some of the approximately 87 wash cloths and guest towels I've uncovered in the linen closet. Since I don't have nearly that many faces, hands or visitors, I think I can safely get rid of most of these without ever feeling their loss. Superfluous crap, be gone!
But that day is not today. Not for me, anyway.
That day came recently for my friend, Mary (of this blog's title), who's been making trips from California to our native Kentucky to help her elderly mother, Patricia, shut down and pack up the family home and prep for the cross-country move of her life. It's not been, shall we say, an easy process and I happen to have a unique perspective. I've known the family since Mary and I were college roommates in Kentucky and I love them dearly. So I'm the perfect mix of familiar insider and detached observer when she needs to let off a little steam (okay, maybe a LOT).
I believe you learn a lot about people by the stuff they hold onto. Not just the daily detritus lying around on the countertops, but the things they keep, put in drawers and closets -- the things they save.
And after going through three floors of her mom's house with a fine-tooth comb (and there were probably a couple dozen of those hanging around, by the way), Mary knows a lot more about Pat than she ever did before.
I'll let her expound on some of that because a) it'll be funnier when she tells it and b) she might need to vent about the jaw-dropping amounts of paper clips, random pieces of metal and file drawers brimming with musty cancelled checks that she unearthed.
Important note: when it's someone else's junk, it's considered bad form to just chuck it into the Dumpster while rolling your eyes and saying things like, "Who lives this way?" When it's your elderly/ill/infirm parent's junk, it's an even more delicate situation, as many of us Gen Xers are finding out as our parents downsize the family compounds, heading to manageable apartments or that Melrose Place for the geriatric set, Leisureworld.
Especially when there's a deadline, and there often is, you don't have time to hear the twisted rationalizations about why your mom hordes sugar packets from restaurants (that would be my poor friend Marc's current dilemma). You need only ask: "Keep or toss?" And even that is a loaded question.
Mary's heading back to Louisville for the final phase, where she'll be faced, no doubt, with massive piles of Pat's life that have yet to be labeled, categorized, boxed or tamed. I do not envy her. And though Pat will be coming to a new home, a beautiful place to live in the Valley close to both Mary, her sister, Ruth, and me, she's parting with more than just a condo in eastern Jefferson County, Kentucky. She's leaving everything she's known for decades, including her friends, her favorite grocery store, her familiar routes and routines and many of the material possessions she's collected over the last 50-plus years.
Granted, she probably didn't need Mary's college report cards from the '80s or that belt from a dress she hasn't worn (or even seen) in years. Other stuff has been tougher to part with, emotionally and psychologically.
Once the packing's done, or at least mostly done, Mary and Pat will haul themselves by car, Thelma-and-Louise-style, to Los Angeles. (Much more on that later -- check back for the play-by-play as Mary charts their progress across the great U. S. of A. and I provide commentary like only a smartass observer who's not in a confined space with an aged parent can do).
Meanwhile, since I'm feeling a little overwhelmed by my own clutter, I think I'll purge some of the approximately 87 wash cloths and guest towels I've uncovered in the linen closet. Since I don't have nearly that many faces, hands or visitors, I think I can safely get rid of most of these without ever feeling their loss. Superfluous crap, be gone!
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