SECOND CHILDHOOD?

I wonder if any of us really “grow up”. I found myself being childish (or being “like a child”? There’s a difference) last week in a rather dire situation. I had been taken ill suddenly with what seemed to be a heart attack. The neighbors who were in the group, gathered around, chatting and working on a jigsaw puzzle, became rather agitated when I came in and almost fell into a chair.

I asked them, as it became harder and harder to breathe and I became more and more faint, to call 911 for me, that it seemed a heart attack and I needed help. After all the fright and confusion, everyone talking at once giving directions, the ambulance finally came. It seemed we were waiting forever, but, in actuality, I’m told, it was just five minutes.

I don’t remember much about being “loaded”, just that the EMTs were very kind and very efficient. They were in constant communication with the hospital and
before we set off, I got oxygen which was an immediate relief, aspirin, (orange flavored which was nice as I had to chew three or four of them) an IV, took blood pressure and temperature, asked what seemed like 100 questions and I can’t remember what else.

The young man finally said to the driver, “OK, Dave, let’s roll” and I had to smile inwardly as the young MT sounded like someone from House, the TV show.. We went down the long drive to Route 9, slowly and quietly until we came to the stop light where Dave hesitated for just a moment, then hit the siren and we were off.

Now I would suppose that a woman my age (76 now) would have been startled and a little frightened by the use of the siren. It certainly was a signal that all was not well and that the patient was in a bad way and was being rushed to the ER as quickly as possible. Perhaps so, but I wasn’t frightened. I was delighted, excited as a child, that I was in an ambulance and the SIREN WAS GOING! Now, I’m not mentally challenged, in fact considered by some as an educated, intelligent woman, but I admit to a quirky sense of humor.

Thanks to the good and immediate care both in the ambulance, then in the ER, and by the wonderful nurses in the Cardiac/Telemetry Unit, I was able to go home the next day. I had not had a heart attack, only a scary cardiac situation that was soon controlled.

I was kindly welcomed home, was not allowed to carry even my purse and cautioned by my sweet friends to be careful on the stairs. I felt rather like a fraud, but had to accept as much help as seemed reasonable. They were so dear and so eager to help. They were all finally persuaded that I, responding with quiet gratitude, was able to sit down and turn on the TV myself.


Thinking back, I know the event was serious and was told I could have died. However, fear was not in my heart, just the childish delight I felt riding in an ambulance with the SIREN on.

"DIFFERENT STROKES"

We were talking the other day about books, I was really excited to share that I had found a new (to me) writer. When I have a favorite, I tend to read everything he/she has written from their first publication , so it is good to discover someone I hadn’t as yet met . The book, COLD SHOULDER by Lynda LaPlante was a page turner. (I like police procedurals, mysteries (usually not the bloody kind!) and some memoir-types. In the non-fiction area, my favorites are those that explain human nature, parapsychology, psychological therapy, photography, anything horsey or about cats and always, cookbooks! A strange collection, perhaps, but I’ve had quite a bit of time to become acquainted with many areas of interest. Interest, that is, for me.

In the general discussion, I shared my enthusiasm for LaPlante’s novel and was really surprised to have one of the women, whom I thought quite well-read, make the lofty statement, “I NEVER read fiction.” I think it was the tone of her statement that brought an awkward pause to our conversation, until one very kind woman asked her what she had been reading and thus smoothed over the seeming “put down”. We heard a great deal about a trip down the Amazon that was fatal to many of the expedition. . .not of great interest to any of us.

There are as many different interests as there are types of people – those we like a lot, those with whom we get along, and then, those we dislike and kindly (?) tolerate. Not one of these “types” is better than another in essence – the only difference is in the “reader”. It seems to me that even among those we tolerate, there are things to learn, to perhaps spark an interest in our own reading lives.

This small episode had a rather large impact on me. I think compassion indicates a kind of acceptance of individuals and their tastes. Not necessarily a liking, but an acceptance that they are what they are. Therefore, to even mentally judge them, has unkind implications. To use a cliché, as long as we are not “walking in their shoes” we have no basis or right to judge. And certainly not with such an air of superiority in a groups’ conversation.

And what did I learn? That kindness, compassion, acceptance are desirable for all and need daily practice even daily meditation. Noting my words of a certain judgment above, I think I’d best increase my own mediation and practice, practice, practice!

THOU SHALT NOT WHINE - WHAT IS, IS

We called this the 11th commandment. But just this once, ok?

I was asked the other day what I found to be the hardest part of aging. I didn’t even have to think about it. The hardest thing has been hitting me in the face for months now. It isn’t the arthritic pain in my spine, the wakeful nights, the occasional incontinence. It isn’t that I can stand or walk for only about 10 minutes a time before I have to sit down and let the pain ease. It isn’t that I have to use the electric carts in the grocery store, or that my eyesight is getting worse and I am unable to drive after dark with any safety. It isn't the raised toilet seat or the little chair in the shower. It isn’t that to cuddle my cats, they have to get up in my lap by themselves because I can’t pick them up and it isn’t that everything takes twice or maybe three times longer to accomplish than it used to. This I can accept as natural, for me, at my age.

The hardest part of aging for me is the inability to be of any use to those I love. They don’t call me to drive them to the vet’s or the hospital. They don’t call me to pick up groceries when they are ill. They don’t call me to go shopping with them or to clean their houses, change their beds, or take care of their animals. I offer, of course, foolishly, because what can I really do to help? They are kind, always, and tell me how much it means to them that I do offer help and they surely will call me if I can do anything for them. But it is never me they call. They need someone younger and more able, more courageous to drive in the city and on the interstates, to run errands. It hurts when I find out that someone more capable, more efficient was the one who got the phone call for help. But – I am eternally grateful that there was help from anyone.

I know that I must practice living in the moment, that I must remember that trying to change someone or something from what they are to what I want them to be, to what I want me to be, will only cause me pain. I must accept what is (even if it sucks) with good grace and gratitude that I am at least able to provide my love and encouragement over the phone. And I can pray for them and be grateful that they have the best help and health they can find. And – I pray for me that I can accept what is, what I am now and not yearn for the days when I could be the capable one someone needed. I accept – I can – I will.

How Tines Change

Today is the day pension checks from GIC show up on our bank statements. I wonder how many retirees get their pensions from the state today and if it is a real hastle getting them out. I suppose someone today has to hit just a few buttons and it’s done.

I worked payroll for a rather large company in my early working days. No automatic bank deposits there – I had to type out each check after I got the time cards and it was an all-day job. Often I didn’t get to punch out on time, but had to stay until all were finished. Funny how memories like that pop up when I am taking my automatic deposit so casually.

Yes, times do change and usually for the better. I am grateful to GIC. No matter how many fluctuations there are in the market, it has not only maintained but has improved every year its care of retired state employees. We are blessed.

In the Shadow of the Wheelchair

It was a good thing that home was so near school. It was the second time I had been called home because my mother had fallen. I know I broke speed laws getting there. The home health aide said Mom was still on the floor, that she couldn’t move her so she had called the fire dept and her doctor for help getting her up and checking her over.

The fire dept guys were there before I was and had gotten her up and on the day bed I had fixed for her by the windows. She had one hip that the specialist told us was “gone” and she shouldn’t even by up using her walker. She was 87 and did as she pleased. ( passed her “terminal stubbornness on to me it seems.)

Dr. R., bless him, was still making house calls and after examining her, told me she was going to hurt for a time and that she was going to have to use a wheelchair from now on so it would be safe for her to stay at home with me with the help of an occasional home health aide. I was a couple of years away from retirement but decided we could manage. I wanted her to be happy in her home as long as possible.

I had a wheel chair from a tag sale – it was not pretty and had no brakes, but I knew it would do until the week-end and I could go to get the stuff she would need. I made a list and the first thing that had to be done was take up the carpets to make rolling the chair around as easy as possible. I was so overwhelmed with the whole situation that I accomplished that myself, that night. I had to do something and that was it. I moved furniture, ripped up and rolled up carpets in three rooms. There was nice flooring underneath so using the vac made it livable. Washing, waxing and polishing would have to wait.

Other than picking up that old chair, just in case, I hadn’t envisioned her being permanently in a wheelchair. Thankfully she could get into it on her own. There were steps down to the porch and out the back door into the yard. She couldn’t go out that way. One step down onto the large front porch and I could get a friend to make a little ramp for now, a bigger one ASA to cover the steps from the porch to the front yard. Then she could get out of the house safely if need be.

There was a step up into the bathroom that she couldn’t handle. That meant bed-pans until I could get a commode to stand beside her bed. I would need to take on meal prep because it wasn’t safe for her to use the stove. I reasoned I could make large portions and plate them and have them in the freezer or ‘fridge. She could get them there.

I don’t know where my brain had been that I hadn’t envisioned this possibility before. I had just accepted her as she was and not thinking of anything beyond her current condition. When asked, she was always “just fine” and everything was “OK” and we, my sister, the visiting nurses, the home health aides and I, allowed ourselves to believe her.

I was finally able (through Medicare– I don’t remember) to get her a new wheelchair. There was such a happy celebration when it arrived – bright, shiny blue, with brakes, comfortable seat and back, and foot rests! She was soon zipping around the house, happy with her new mode of transportation. She went to bed happy. She dealt with reality and acceptance much better than I. I went to bed and wept.

After Mom died, the wheelchair was the first thing I sold – to a delighted little lady who came with her daughter to see it. I couldn’t bear the sight of it. It represented too much pain, too much reliance on others, too much a loss of freedom of movement, too much of a loss of control, too much giving in to the conditions of old age, too much of the reality that old age was coming for me too.

And here it is. Now that I am having trouble getting around, kind friends have suggested a wheelchair so they could take me to places walking would be not only hard but impossible for me. A wheelchair, a temporary aid, they suggest, not a permanent addition to my life. A wheelchair - and I remember all its implications. When that day comes, I need to forget all the problems a wheelchair entailed and keep alive Mom’s positive, cheerful disposition, her acceptance of the reality of her life and the lack of complaint when she would say she was “fine” and everything was “OK”. I must admit though, it scares me.

DREAMER

I can’t get rid of the dream. No matter how I try to kill it, it won’t die. Instead it stays and taunts me, that it will never, ever come true.

This is not a direct quote but it echoes what I could have said and, you the reader, probably could also. I would be amazed to find an adult who didn’t have a dream such as this tucked away somewhere in the heart.

How I regard myself for nurturing this precious dream is what matters. Do I, as the poet said, try to wipe it out of my life? Or perhaps consider how that dream, even without coming true, has influenced me? For good? For evil? Or do I scoff at myself for being so dimwitted that I had such big ideas for myself, of myself? After all, who am I? Looking at it, remembering it like this can be a real putdown, a powerful blow to self-acceptance.

To accept myself means to accept what I think, feel what I feel, desire what I desire, have done what I have done and what is in this present moment. That dream, not yet fulfilled is a beautiful place in my soul – a place to rest, to recommit. It is where I can retreat when those “never, ever” thoughts bombard me and where, reorganizing my thoughts, my desires and my knowledge that the dream is good, I gain acceptance that “what will be, will be.” However the dream is real and is mine. I hold it close and only with my dying breath will I let it go.

Negative Thoughts

My negative thoughts are like a virus. They lie dormant until my mental immune system weakens. Then they bubble to the surface where they fight to take over. For me acceptance is the remedy, the key –accepting the moment and the truth that what is, is. Worries about the future or regrets for the past can have no bearing on this one moment – only acceptance empowers my positive thoughts and the recognition that what is, IS in this moment and embrace its blessings. It seems that each battle is over more quickly and my positive thoughts stronger. Gratefully I realize that the IS and this moment are pretty damn fine. I am truly blessed.

LIVES JOINED BY LOVE. . .

     Lives joined by love emit a joyous song. This peal of joy, in the beginning sung in close harmony, rises and falls with the rhythm of time. The melody can rush ahead, then drop back while the harmony sings alone. 
 
      When one of the players in the duet strikes a wrong note the other plays on, keeping the music flowing until both once more have found the place and continue together, again in harmony.

     When the song grows old, as one day it must, if it has been played truly, it fades away, gently, naturally, to a soft hum, then, in the normal course of things, a whisper sung by one. But even when it seems to fall silent, if you listen carefully, you can still hear the faint but lovely echo of the love song that was their life.

     So excuse the discordant notes, forgive the frailty of the song carried alone and continue on until your partner finds the place and the full melody can swell forth again in all its loveliness
.
     You are the music of each other’s life – live it, love it, cherish it – and each other. A beautiful song is a rare and lovely thing.
                                                                                                                     Shirley - September 2, 2003

THE WOMAN IN THE ALLEY

I’m in the middle of Kathryn Stockett’s book THE HELP and trying to slow my reading down. I know when I have finished, I’m going to be wishing there would be a new episode, a new chapter every week. I don’t remember why I bought the book – it’s a hardback and the price is around $25, not my usual budget range. But there it was and somehow, I know now I was meant to read it.

It is fiction, but it isn’t. Reading about these three African American women and their lives has opened for me a door I didn’t know was there to a way of living that has shocked and terribly saddened me. It has made me wonder why the individual tragedies of the Civil Rights movement and the reasons for It, the understanding of the vital need, never touched my life, or my heart.

I wonder why, at this late time in my life, I’m learning and understanding things like this. It seems I should have been aware of life beyond my own. As a college student and beyond, life was pretty much all about me. What was happening in the country, in the world, was simply background “music”. How very sad, how reprehensible!

I remember riding the bus up Biscayne Blvd to my college campus. It was always in the early morning and usually there were only a few passengers. Often, however, there was just I, the young college student almost bouncing with plans for the day and the excitement of being in college and another. She was there every morning, sitting in the back of the bus.

I was naïve, a New Englander, living in Florida most of my life. It seemed to me that when there were only the two of us, she could sit up front with me or I could sit back with her. I certainly was old enough to know “how it was” but still I tried to engage her in conversation many times in the beginning. She was quiet and kind, but refused to share in any kind of conversation. I knew, of course, why she was sitting in the back of the bus, but like too many of my generation, I thought it was stupid and the custom could be just brushed aside, forgotten.

I grew up seeing the separate facilities for “the colored” and as a child questioned it. I was told that was the way it was. I wasn’t a normally defiant child, but I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand why my little brother and I were forbidden to go through the garage door into the alley to visit with the “lady doing the wash outside in a tub over a fire.” The first time we met her, she was sweet to us, if a bit tentative. Oh, and yes, she was black but at our early ages, my brother and I were colorblind.

We never knew her name, only that she was nice to us, and we took every opportunity, carefully lest we get caught, to go out to visit with her. We never knew what happened, but after six months or so, she just wasn’t there any more. I can’t remember how many days we looked for her, always to be disappointed.

Looking back now, I wonder. She was very old, wrinkled and stooped, so did she get sick, did she die? Or, worse, did my parents, without saying anything to us, or her employers have something to do with it? You know, “unless she is officially taking care of them, they should know their place in the world and so should she.” I can hear it all now!

My brother is long dead, but the memory of our escapades and of the kindness of that sweet old woman are among the most vivid of my thoughts of him, that time of our lives, and of her. I wish I could tell her how she alone perpetuated the color blindness of my whole life. It seemed that she formed my perception of color and it makes me glad but it makes me sad too. Sad that I didn’t pay more attention and lend my strength, my voice to the Civil Rights Movement – even for her alone.

I am grateful we met and I know by now she is in the glorious Love, she sang to us about and that she understands. When I was asked who I am most looking forward to meeting in Heaven, it is she, the little lady whose name I never knew.

LOSS and ACCEPTANCE

We all experience loss from the beginning of our lives to the end. And, there are all kinds of loss.

For today, I’m thinking about the physical/emotional loss we seniors experience. Not only seniors, I know, but let’s stay with them here. Other than the loss of friends and families by separation or death, age brings its own set of problems in this field.

Alexander Graham Bell said: ******"When one door closes another door opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door, that we do not see the ones which open for us."
I think the power to do this is an example of inner strength, which I will think about in detail later. These that follow are the losses that have recently moved my heart and, then, my admiration.

One woman learned she could no longer ride or care for her horse of 25 years. She had debilitating arthritis.

A gifted woman whose hands had been weakened by arthritis could no longer handle the sharp tools of her woodworking shop safely. . .

Another lost the ability to keep her hives of bees, and bottle the honey. Physically, she just couldn’t do it on her own any longer. . .

A younger woman who was working and caring for her family was suddenly beset with pain, surgeries, hospitals and is largely confined to her home.

Death came for the cat-companion of a dear woman who now lives alone.

Another lost both breasts to breast cancer.

A certain Mistress of Novices taught that “There was no use to kick against the goad.” (goad - A long stick with a pointed end used for prodding animals.) and that is what we often mindlessly do when initially we simply cannot accept our losses. We must remember the beginning of the Serenity Prayer:

“God grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change;

courage to change the things I can;

and wisdom to know the difference.”

These women above, like so many of their counterparts the world over, have learned to stop mourning the door that has closed and have begun to see the one that has opened for them.

May we all be that strong.

The Wonders of the Internet

My friends and I are living proof that old dogs can learn new tricks. And those of us who are fortunate have a grandchild or young neighbor to get us out of trouble on the computer. There are neighbors here who don’t own a computer and then there are those who use it only for e-mail. Well, that’s a start anyway. The amount of information on line is amazing. For example, I just spent two hours investigating various sites and reading some of your blogs. Now, I know that as a retired person I could be out to lunch with “the girls” or shopping or playing bridge. But the fun of meeting new people, connecting with old friends, learning something new is just plain irresistible to me. I have been learning about Tibet (I know a woman who will teach me phrases in Tibetan). I am also reading Greg Mortenson’s Stones into Schools so have done a lot of reading on Afghanistan. Did you know “-Stan is formed from the old Iranian root *sta- "to stand, stay," and means "place where one stays," i.e. homeland or country? Names such as Afghani-stan, Tajiki-stan, Hindu-stan are formed by adding this suffix to the usually pluralized names of the people living in that country, as the Afghani (one Afghan) live in Afghanistan.” (with thanks to the author whose name I couldn’t find) And, in addition, the Arabic, Greek and Mediterranean team’s recipes on Spark.com lead to fascinating background on those interesting places. I know I am preaching to the choir here, but if any blogger can encourage their elders to make the internet a friend, it will change their lives. Don’t let those you love be afraid of the computer. I’m soon to be 76 and I’m having a ball with mine.

Bliss

Not long ago I decided that Trader Joe's instant coffee had some real merits for me.  It was quicker to prepare than my coffee maker, it had the caffeine I needed and it wasn't costly.  Yesterday I had a longing for the brew I used to get, so I got a can of the French dark roast beans and ground them.  Brewed the very fragrant result this morning.  At first sip - pure bliss.  The instant goes on the "emergency foods" shelf and the French Dark Roast to its own place in my heart and cuddled close to Mr. Coffee on the kitchen counter.  For me, another reminder - when you find a good thing - hold on to it!