Ratios and Perspective

I'm addicted to numbers and I love math. I also love words so I'm trying to decide if that makes me a little smart or ultra-weird. No need to comment.

Writing is hard. If it's not raw and honest, it's not worth doing. There's also a balance so you don't throw too many people "under the bus," as the husband calls it.

Let me share some numbers with you:

For every thought and experience with the oldies, there were at least 10 where I resprected their privacy and did not write about it.

For every childhood memory of the daughter or the baby, there are 100 moments of glory or difficulties that are private and stay only with me.

For every fun story I've shared about the husband and our endless idiosyncrasies, there are 10,000 tears shed in laughter and pain that remain my memories. Mine alone.

For every friend who has leaned on me, I have put 100 lbs. more pressure on him or her.

For every vignette I share about my parents (who continue to be supportive of their little nutcase,} the five phone calls a day are not enough.

For everyone who thinks I've thrown them under the bus, I hope you realize that occasionally that three-ton bus is running over me.

My conscience is clear. Ten-four.

Thinking About Tomorrow

I usually read novels when I go on a trip. But last year, I picked up a book, "Thinking About Tomorrow -- Reinventing Yourself at Midlife." The author is Susan Crandell. I read it on a plane and put it aside.

It's haunting me.

We all need to evaluate and make sure the choices we made yesterday still work for us today. So, I am trying to do that and it's hard. I can't figure out how I blinked and the daughter is grown and thriving in another part of the country. I can't figure out how the toddler who used to snuggle with me is grown and off to college, with bigger adventures to come. I can't comprehend that we just buried the Belle. I can't get over the sadness of Hangdog in the Home. He hates it and I hate it for him, yet, it is the only solution we seem to find.

There's a blank page in front of me. The decisions are mine and mine alone. The husband has dreams and aspirations. He thinks I've lost mine but they're still there.

I guess that's the dance of marriage.

Not Paying Extra for That

It must be a generational thing. Hangdog is obsessed with the price of everything. I am the opposite; I just want what I want.

Please keep in mind that he cannot see and has not written a check in a couple of decades. The mother-in-law kept him dutifully informed of their finances and then did whatever she chose to do.

As we were driving from the airport to the hotel in Mississippi, the husband was informed that his brother arranged for a handicapped room for Hangdog. Good idea, right? Hangdog said, "I'm not paying extra for that."

On one of our plane trips, the flight attendant asked him if he would like something to drink. "No!" was the immediate response. The husband had a drink put in front of him. (Thankfully, I was in another section of the plane.) Hangdog said, "Did they give you that for free?" Husband said, "Yes." Hangdog said, "They give you booze for free?"

The husband answered, "Dad, it's apple juice."

Maybe We Are

As you know, we schlepped Hangdog from Indiana to Mississippi for the mother-in-law's funeral and burial. Once we reached our destination, lots of people pitched in to help. But, the traveling part (planes, automobiles and wheelchairs) was left to us.

The husband ran like a lackey. Coffee? He's on it. Don't they have any danishes? He's on it. Pop has to go to the bathroom. He's on it. Again and again and again.

At one point, we left him (in the wheelchair) parked at the appropriate gate. Then, the airline changed the gate. We were trying to steal 10 minutes. A Bloody Mary seemed like a good idea.

My wife-in-law (who had already had her flight diverted) found him in the airport and moved him to the appropriate gate. Then, she called the husband to let him know of the gate change.

In the midst of this, Hangdog said to her, "They are so lucky to be so care free." I won't repeat the conversation but I think the gist of it was annihilating him. (Kindly!) I think she told him that the stress is showing on our faces, our bodies and our lives.

So, we bolted back to take care of Pop. As we're sailing through the airport, the husband said to me, "You know how everyone always says we're saints for all that we've done? Maybe we are."

The Man with Three Wives

I love all those cheesy Lifetime movies. My favorite is the one about Betty Broderick. It's called "A Woman Scorned." It's actually two movies and they usually run them back to back.

Some of my other favorites are:

Dead By Sunset with Ken Olin(another true story)
When Husbands Cheat with Patricia Kalember (super cheesy and extremely unrealistic!)
The House of Secrets and Lies with Connie Selleca
A Chance of Snow with JoBeth Williams

There are countless others and I'm pretty sure I've seen them all.

The other night I couldn't sleep so I watched "The Man with Three Wives." Beau Bridges plays a doctor who is married to three women: Joanna Kerns, Pam Dawber and some other woman. The juggling and the deception ultimately kill him. (Sorry to spoil the ending.)

I'm living a different version of this movie. The husband is only married to me but he IS a man with three wives. Many women would have a problem with this but I don't. Many, many people feel free to comment to me that our friendship is unsettling. I don't care and frankly, I don't think either of my wives-in-law care either.

There are legal bonds and there are ethical bonds. These are the mothers of his children. Their safety and well-being is important to him. We all may squabble over different things but like any family, we're a unit. That really hit me full force when I stood in front of the Belle's casket (in Mississippi) crying with my wives-in-law.

The daughter and the baby are better off for this relationship. (Although they probably complain about having too many mothers.) We all try to put them first but the truth is, we also genuinely love each other. There's a reason people get divorced but there's also a reason people get married. I did not marry either of these women but I see why the husband did.

We celebrate many things together ... holidays, graduations, and this week, a funeral for the Belle.

Fighting over the Dog Pillow

Houseboy and his family took great care of my dog while we attended to family matters. He and his wife brought Gabby back today and the first thing she did was head for my office and her pillow. I suspect their dog gave her a little run for her money.

I am still weepy and emotional. I am also one of those weird people who likes dog smells. Puppy breath? Bring it on. I wanted to curl on the dog pillow and wallow in my sorrow.

So, I decided I would just put my head down for a second and reflect on the last few days. Like me, the dog is an only child (in this household) and she doesn't do the sharing thing well.

She pawed me and I kept saying, "Move over Fungus!" Then we fell asleep for 10 minutes or so.

I am used to sprawling with Big Daddy and griping about pillows and covers. I have reached a new arena. Gabby and I are wrestling for the dog pillow.

Officer Unfriendly

Last week, the husband and I barely stopped to breathe. Decisions, notifications, endless phone calls, funeral arrangements, travel arrangements, etc.

I was trained as a journalist and my current writing work always involves deadlines. I understand deadlines and in fact, I work a little faster and a little better with my feet held to the fire.

We wanted the Belle's obit to appear in several papers. The husband instructed me to get it to the funeral home (with the photo) by noon -- so I had 20 minutes.

An aside -- I had just finished editing it for the umpteenth time and I was very emotional. The husband and I had gone through photos before he left for work and I was weepy with memories. But I threw on some clothes and headed off with tears in my eyes.

I was speeding (not much) through a school zone. This is not the kind of school zone where children walk to school. This is a gated community school -- the kind where your biggest risk is a 16-year old child runs into you with his Jaguar. But, it is a school zone.

I got pulled over for speeding. I was crying uncontrollably. I had the obit and the photo sitting on my passenger seat. I gave Officer Unfriendly my driver's licence and attempted to explain the circumstances.

Officer Unfriendly gave me a speeding ticket.

And Now There is One

We have returned from the trek to Mississippi, the funeral and the whirlwind. Planes, automobiles and wheelchairs! (I will write more about that later.)

Although I hate this expression, it is what it is.

The Captain/Hangdog/the Unabomber is a lost soul. He didn't just lose his wife. He lost it all ... best friend, nurse, protector, soul mate. In his world, he just lost the biggest part of him. He doesn't know how to be a person without her.

He wanted to go first but apparently, God had other plans.

They Come in Threes

My grandmother was very superstitious. (Bird in the house -- someone is going to die, don't walk under a ladder, etc.)

She was a big believer that death came in threes. It could be three Hollywood celebrities or three people you know.

I am not superstitious. But, within the last 3 (THREE) weeks, our dear friend and neighbor lost his mom, our dear friend lost his dad and we lost the Belle.

Is she tapping me on the shoulder or throwing a boulder?

Wacky Houseboy

I was supposed to be in Arizona this week. You know what they say about "the best laid plans..."

When I scheduled my trip, I made reservations for the dog to go to puppy camp. Yes, it's a kennel but it sounds more fun if you call it camp. Then, the death of the mother-in-law, changes in schedules, changes in flights, and so on. So, we'll be off to Mississippi with Hangdog in tow. I asked Houseboy if he would take the dog to camp.

No, he won't. He's taking our maniacal, frenzied, jumping and opinionated dog to his house. I tried to talk him out of it. I even said, "I cannot be responsible if she eats your sofa." He's doing it anyway. I told the husband of this plan and he said, "Is he crazy?"

I think Houseboy's wife likes me but after this weekend, she may not speak to me again.

The Dance

This week has been brutal and we've only just begun. Our next super-fun adventure is packing and schlepping Hangdog to some 'burg in Mississippi. We don't have to get on a train but there will be wheelchairs, planes and automobiles involved.

There will also be some interesting family dynamics. I'll try to keep my notebook hidden but I will make notes.

Last night, I decided to lie down for a second. I promptly fell asleep and was awakened by voices. I came out to find the husband and our physician (saint-in-training) sitting by the fire, sharing stories about the Belle. Not a dry eye in the house.

Our doc went home. The husband went to visit Hangdog. I sat by the fire and listened to music. Garth Brooks, The Dance, came on. It's really about the end of a marriage (or at least a relationship,) but these words hit me hard:

I'm glad -- glad I didn't know
The way that it would end, the way that it would go
Our lives are better left to chance.
I could've missed the pain
But, I'd have had to miss the dance.

I would not have missed this dance for anything.

Some Tips about Dying

I'm learning a lot. Here are a few tips:

Die in the city where your burial plot is located.
Let people know your history, especially dates.
Let people know your wishes, i.e. service or no service, closed casket or open, religious preferences.
Let people know your songs or quotes or the bible passages you would like included, if any.
Let people know where the relevant papers are kept.
Let people know what you would like to be buried in.

Give people great memories, like this one of the Belle, in her kicky shoes, standing by the piano.

Last Rites

The husband authorized the hospice chaplain/priest to give the mother-in-law last rites. This was done a few hours before she died.

She and Hangdog raised their four boys as Catholic. They attended parochial schools. Then, after they were grown, she got a little irritated with the Catholic church and they joined the Presbyterian church. (Not a big stretch.)

I am a Methodist. I have been baptized and confirmed in the Methodist church but I am not quite the member I should be. I'm working on it.

We can debate forever ... should churches pay taxes? Do they provide solace or hope or both? Does the fellowship outweigh the constant issues?

Here's what I know. I lost my mother-in-law yesterday. I do not know our minister well because I have been default in making that a priority. But I know him well enough that he was one of the first calls I made. I don't need him to preside over a service. I don't need him to visit an oldie. I wanted to hear his voice and connect with my church. I wanted to say a prayer and have someone on the phone who could guide me through it.

Handwriting

The husband should have been a doctor. Not because he's educated in medical things... simply because I cannot read his handwriting. We're writing the obit and making hundreds of phone calls. He keeps leaving information for me and I want to scream, "I can't read it!" (Of course, I do not act on this instinct.)

My handwriting is extrememly legible. I credit that to my parents who used to make me rewrite my homework so it was neat and tidy.

Nothing else in my life is neat and tidy at the moment.

Bye Bye Belle

The mother-in-law passed away this morning.

Delilah

We are music junkies. But we have extremely different tastes. In the car, the husband refuses to listen to my favorite country station and I refuse to listen to hard rock. Since he's driving, I already have a headache.

If it's after 7:00PM, we have an easy compromise. We listen to Delilah. It's schmaltzy. She's over-the-top. For a ride home, it's extremely entertaining.

The other night, we had dealt with Hangdog, been informed of the mother-in-law's deteriorating condition and spent countless hours on the phone. On the way home, we listened to Delilah. Our two favorites for that night were:

Total Eclipse of the Heart
(which the husband believes is the ultimate suicide song.)
And, a special dedication from a wife to her husband:

Thank you for being there for my every need, yada, yada, yada.

Delilah asked how long they had been married. The answer was three weeks. That's when we both started screaming at the radio and thankfully, pulled into our driveway,

The Captain

You're used to me referring to the father-in-law as Hangdog or the Unabomber. With respect to his military training, our physician (and saint-in-training) always calls him "Captain."

Today, the husband and his brother picked up the Captain at the Home. They explained the situation and headed to the hospice facility. The baby came home from college and we met them there. Our doctor was there because no one knew what to expect. Would he faint? Would he have a heart attack? Would he have medical questions about her condition?

He handled it like a trooper. (I swear I should've had some military training.) He kept the stiff upper lip and tried to talk to her. Then he decided she wasn't answering him so he accosted the doctor with all of his various ailments. That's the Hangdog I know and love!

This was probably the Captain's last visit with his wife. He's handling the transition much better than expected. He wants to know what's going to happen to him. That's normal and expected.

This was a tough day for the baby. And, I do remember my turn when my own grandparents were dropping like flies. I threw my arms around the baby so many times today that I'm sure he wanted to say, "Get off of me, Fungus!"

Captain is back in the Home. The phone call circle has begun.

A Thong Thing

My friend Patsy just informed me that women must have panties for their burial. What lobbyist got this done? Who cares what kind of underwear they're wearing? Who cares if they're wearing underwear? If I ever get a moment, I may write my congressmen about this. It is absurd.

There's been a lot of nakedness around here in the last couple of years. All vanity is gone.

Sometimes you take stuff out of the dryer, trying to be helpful. But if you knew my mother-in-law, you would know that she was often perplexed with that wisp of material.

She's still with us, but not for long. I'm tempted to run to Victoria's Secret and buy her black, lacy thongs. She may be a Southern Belle but she's a kicky girl too.

Writing an Obit

In Journalism school, one of your first assignments is learning to write an obituary. It's good writing experience, plus you learn to do a little research. Every journalist (with credible training) has written numerous obits.

The husband (the boss of me) is handing out assignments. Call this person! Figure this out! Then he said, "Would you please start a draft of her obituary?"

I am a writer by trade but in this moment, I am the daughter-in-law. I'll do it for Big Daddy but I am struggling. I do not want to write about her military experience, her nursing career, her stellar ability to maneuver wifedom and motherhood. Here's what I want to write:

She

is the ultimate southern belle.
Trying to out cranky each other made us laugh and cry.
She's a clothes horse and I will miss watching her shop or try on clothes.
There is no wife on earth who has been a more fierce protector of her husband.
She's been the "leap the fence" kind of Mom and Grandma.
Her huge family always knows that the sister is there for them any time.
She is cute, kicky and sassy.

She did not give birth to me but I am losing a mom.

So, I must get back to the regular obit. We probably won't include much of the above. But, I've said it.

No More Tears

I'm not talking about baby shampoo; I'm talking about me.

You would think the human body could only hold so many tears. In my case, that is not true. I've got the super duper tear-producing machinery. I cannot seem to dry up.

The mother-in-law is being moved to Hospice today. Her vitals are screwy and her toxicity levels are escalating at an alarming rate. She may have hours; she may have days. The doctors recommend (and we agree) that we have reached the point of no return. We're not trying to get her back. She just needs to be comfortable.

Hangdog only knows a portion of this. He knows she's in the hospital. He knows she is not doing well. Tomorrow morning, we will pick him up at the Home and drive him to the Hospice for their final visit. (Well, their final one here.) Our friend and family doctor is going with us because frankly, we're terrified he may stroke out.

One of the brothers is probably on his way here. He only lives about four hours away. I don't know if he's bringing his wife or five children. We've spent countless hours on the phone and it's just a little past noon.

So, I'm changing sheets, washing towels and crying.

I keep going in the dungeon and then forgetting why I'm in there. Then it came to me. I must figure out what she would want to be buried in. I sat on the floor and cried. Then, as I always do, I called my parents. "What outfit did you think she looked the prettiest in?"

The husband is holding up. His tear ducts are working quite well also. But, he's better when he's busy and there is lots to do.

Do you know the laws and regulations that accompany shipping a body? Neither do I. But, I'm learning. Especially difficult if you have to cross several state lines. Their family plot is in southern Mississippi and there is not an airport. So we've sort of moved into planes, trains and automobile territory. (I'm reminded of that scene in National Lampoon's Vacation, where they strapped Aunt Edna on top of the car.) So I laugh for a minute and then I sob and hiccup like a baby with colic.

I'm tempted to go buy some of that baby shampoo that promises "No More Tears." Instead, I will probably crawl on the dog pillow.

I Do Not Have a Weapon

Last night, I knew we were going to visit Hangdog this morning and I had retreived messages. One of them was the jeweler telling me Hangdog's favorite watch had a new battery and was ready to go. It's the one that he pushes the button and it says, "DING! It's 8:40 a.m." This makes him very happy.

I called the jewelry store. I got a live person but she informed me that they had closed about a half an hour ago. Once I explained the situation, she said, "Oh, come on over." I have no clue why they are so nice to me because I NEVER buy jewelry.

I was instructed to go to the back door and bang on it. It's heavy and thick -- probably some kind of security thing. Finally, it was opened by a humongous security person, cop, night watchman, whatever. I threw up my hands and said,"I am unarmed."

He laughed and gave me Hangdog's watch.

Favorite Parent

I don't have a favorite parent. Sorry to be gushy but I think they're both pretty wonderful. As the user that I have become, I rely on both of them for different things.

The husband is kind to both parents but his loyalty is to his mother. His brother is the constant defender of the father. It's interesting to eavesdrop on those conversations. They both defend their views like they're in a court of law. (He has two other brothers but ... when you can't say something nice, say nothing at all.)

We adopted this crazy, maniacal dog a little over a year ago. I feed her, walk her, provide the treats, and see to her every need. She treats me like a litter mate. Big Daddy is her favorite parent.

Another Sleepless Night

We're sleeping in fits and starts. I don't really know what that means but it seems to be appropriate.

The husband and I went to visit Hangdog in the Home this morning. Beforehand, we had our coffee, competed on the crossword and did our normal routine. (Repetition gives me comfort.) Then the husband said, "Want to know what I was thinking about at 3:00 a.m.?"

I'll give you a few clues:

Guilt
Benefits, insurance, etc.
Obituaries
Funeral Plans
Financial things that need to be done
Paperwork and more paperwork

Yep, I was awake too and thinking about many of the same things.

I've Got Your Number

Really smart people know to go into duck and cover mode if they see me approaching with a pen and notebook in hand. I'm not going to write an expose -- I just need your phone numbers.

I've never let a vet treat my dog(s) without knowing his or her home phone, cell phone, office phone and fax numbers. If you are not willing to make these available to me, I am not willing to work with you. Every single person treating the oldies has my numbers and I have all of theirs.

My mom went to visit Hangdog today. I will be heading up there later. She stopped by and mentioned that the thing on my face (non-malignant, but unsightly) needs to be removed. So, I thought I could perhaps fit that in over the next few days. I called my dermatologist.

Like all doctor's offices, I had to meander through the convoluted system until I finally reached a recording that told me she will be out of the office until Monday. I am working on patience but it hasn't kicked in yet. So, I left a message on her home phone and her cell phone.

She'll get me in. But she probably regrets that I have her numbers.

Driver's License

Do you remember passing the test and getting your driver's licence? I do. But even more so, I remember when Jan got hers. Who cares who is driving? One of us had the freedom and flexibility to take on the world.

This is the way the doctor explained the oldie's situation to me. (Remember, he has been instructed by me to speak to me like I'm a 5-year old.) "This is the antithesis of the day you get your driver's license. That day represents an open world, open choices, everything is an option. The day you go into (or are put into) a Home, it is the complete full circle. Your options are narrowing. The road is limited. You are no longer in the driver's seat."

I could use some military training. Both Hangdog and Big Daddy are keeping a stiff upper lip. I'm still spending a lot of time on the dog's pillow.

Peeps

I am blessed with so many people who love me. It's reciprocated but I don't do nearly as much for them as they do for me. I am also blessed with people who let me call them day or night -- and I do. So what if it's 4:00am, I need to talk to you. These are my peeps. The husband finds this extremely weird but he lets it pass.

Whenever there's news to be shared or a crisis, I am reminded of the power of the circle. Need food? Done. Need phone calls made? Done. Need someone to transport the oldies somewhere or visit the oldies? Done. Of course my parents have pitched in with their usual fervor. She's visiting Hangdog as I write this. Before long she'll just sign over their house to me. She can't give enough and I am guilty of being the taker. I'm not sure what more I could ask of them. I neglect them while I freak about the oldies.

My parents would give me (or you) the shirt off their backs. Then, they would run topless to get you a meal.

Opposite

Is it opposite extremes or extreme opposites? All I know is we're living it.

In many ways, the husband and I are polar opposites. He would prefer urban living; I prefer a yard and trees. He's enthralled with high-rise condos; I get claustrophobic just thinking about it. He would prefer no pets; I would have several. (We're a little like Green Acres except I'm the farm-living one and he's the big city one.)

When there's a situation or a crisis, something kicks in for him and he does what needs to be done. I go into a coma or curl into a ball.

We have a crisis at the moment. (We had about 12 hours without one -- you can't expect too much.) Lithuania called this morning while the husband was in the shower. They had to call 911 and dispatch the mother-in-law to the emergency room. She is stable now but we don't really know what's going on. Infection is the possible explanation. Her blood pressure and oxygen levels are screwy.

Here's an ironic twist. While the husband was in the shower, I was going through some paperwork from the Home. When the phone call came, I was reading the document that demands a choice: Use all means available or Do Not Resuscitate. Since he has Power of Attorney, the husband must sign this document -- we just had not gotten to it yet. (Silly me, I was trying to let him relax for a few hours last night.)

Sometimes God taps you on the shoulder. Other times He throws a boulder.

Running into People

I swear Big Daddy knows every person in this city, the Midwest, and various other cities. I learned long ago to either step it up a notch or be prepared to be without makeup, clad in sweats and run into several people we know. A lot of these people don't really know me, they just know me as the wife of someone they know.

Usually I get caught at the drug store or the grocery store. Those are the destinations I am most likely to run to without giving a thought to my appearance. I don't think I've been in an airport in my life without running into someone I know but at least when traveling, I've made a minimal attempt at being presentable.

Yesterday, Big Daddy was taking Hangdog to the Home. I went to visit the mother-in-law. Still in sweats, not a stitch of makeup on my face. (She wouldn't notice or care.) I brushed my teeth and ran a brush through my hair. That's about all I could manage.

I ran into Cynthia. Thank goodness she is my friend.

I can give up worrying about running into people in the grocery or the drug store. Now that we have two places to visit, I am guaranteed to run into someone I know at one of the Homes.

What's Going Through His Mind?

The husband just left to take Hangdog to the Home. I've tried to keep my emotions out of it but I've spent a fair amount of time hanging out in my office, trying to keep my crying private.

Suddenly, all the little things I used to stress about seem minuscule and somewhat cruel. So what if he wants dessert with every meal? I'm tempted to call the Home and tell them they do not have enough butter.

I haven't transformed completely. I totally lied to him, pretending I was calling his wife. (We are not ready for that discussion.) I left the TIC TAC prescription with the nurses.

We both knelt and said our prayers. I reminded him that this is just one more transition and he has done that repeatedly throughout his life. I suggested that he might make some new friends who haven't heard his stories -- and they're good stories. I promised that we will be there every possible day.

Than I curled up on the dog pillow, called my parents and cried.

Looking at Both Sides

I'm not a dark or depressing person. I wouldn't say I'm chipper but if I have a choice, I'll choose laughter over tears. But I seem to be drawn to artists with a dark side.

Today is a Joni Mitchell day. She's dark, mysterious, slightly weird and definitely haunting. I've put "Both Sides Now" on constant repeat on my iPod today. It's gloomy but it matches my mood. (And yet, surprisingly upbeat!)

I've sent two smart young people off into the world. I've shed lots of tears. But they were headed to bigger and better things. This is different.

Hangdog will be taken to the Home today. I have a Sharpie clipped to my shirt and I'm writing his name in everything, pretending he's going to oldie's camp. It's just like when I take the dog to the kennel and I tell her she's going to puppy camp. The exception is I do go and retrieve her. The difference is she doesn't know or care. The other difference is his stiff upper lip. I admire it and I also want to curl into a ball.

Many of you are dealing with some version of this situation. From the musical genius of Joni Mitchell, I share these thoughts:

But now it's just another show
You leave 'em laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away.

Or ...

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads; they say I've changed
Well, something's lost but something's gained
In living every day.

Or ...

I've looked at life from both sides now
I really don't know life at all.

The beginning of the song is an obsession with clouds and how she doesn't know clouds at all. I've chosen to move beyond this weirdness because the rest of the song is poignant and heart wrenching.

Timing

I'm doing laundry and trying to coordinate packing for Hangdog who is headed to the Home. It's not politically correct but let's be real, that's what it is.

The mother-in-law is still in a different facility. Eventually, they might (might!) be together but it's not looking like any time soon.

She's in the Cadillac. He's headed for the Ford Taurus. There's nothing wrong with it, it's just not as deluxe. Unfortunately, she doesn't appreciate it. We'll be making some decisions soon and I'm terrified she's just plain given up.

What should we do with the stuff? I don't want to make any rash decisions. But, I have a car in my driveway, a basement full of wheelchairs, walkers, vision machines, shower chairs and more. At what point do you turn this stuff in so it can be useful to someone else? There's a storage facility in Texas with some of their things. At what point do we say, "Donate it or sell it."

When I went off to college, my parents kept my childhood room. Then the guest room became my mom's office and my bedroom became the guest room. This made sense to me but I imagine it was much harder for them than for me. My aura must still permeate those walls because whenever I walk in there, it's still my room.

I'm itching to go in the oldie's room and fumigate, plus get rid of the gizmos and clutter. It's too soon.

The Placebo

My sister-in-law has offered to send me a nurse's cap. She's also the one who gave me the placebo idea.

I'm very nervous about narcotics. I'm diligent about the necessary medications, i.e. heart, thyroid, etc. I'm even ok with the nerve pills. But, I keep the narcotics locked in the safe in my office. Hangdog asks for a pain pill several times a day and I know this is partially due to pain, partially due to habit and partially due to the fact that he knows there are some in this house. I refuse to give him one just because he's bored, lonely or can't sleep. I've earned the nurse's cap -- I can assess the situation in about 10 seconds.

Instead of arguing or trying to reason with him, I've found a new approach: I give him a TIC TAC. Every time I've done this, he informs me the next morning that it was the best night's sleep he's had in weeks.

If all goes according to plan, he will be moving to the "facility" today. I must remember to tell them my TIC TAC plan.

Holding Court

I'm watching and listening to the husband on the phone. He's holding court and he's damn good at it. I'm trying to decide if it would be weird or rude to take notes. (It's a little like watching my Crossman cousins -- I always want to copy their behavior or at least, take notes for later.)

We've made some decisions. We have a bit of a game plan. It's scary and an awful day. We must keep certain people notified. The husband does this very well. He explains things. Someone on the other end makes a comment. He either gets loud or does the Elmer Fudd thing: VEWWY, VEWWY QUIET!

Then he becomes the smart person I know and love. I watch and I learn.

Surprisingly Upbeat!

Did you ever see that movie, How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days? It's completely a chick flick and I love it.

She's a writer and he's in marketing -- both fields I have dipped a toe in -- and the premise is ridiculous but it's fun to watch.

Here's my favorite part. As they pitch stories or ideas to the editor in charge, everything is very morose or maudlin, "but surprisingly upbeat!"

I'm in touch.

Back to the Day

I honestly wouldn't choose to go back but let's just fantasize a bit ...

I'd pick those days when Greg used to do my pesky lawn chores and then sneak a kiss in the back of my parent's pick-up truck while we were on our way to some convoluted hoe-down.

I'd pick those days when Jeff used to tell me I was the prettiest woman on earth and he meant it.

I'd pick those days when Kirk fell in love with me (or I tricked him into thinking he was) and for a while, it was bliss.

I'd pick those days when the neighborhood kids ran around like maniacs. I'd climb a tree, play spin the bottle, get punched in the gut ... bring it on.

I'd pick those days when Jan and Deb decided Sheri made a good threesome. Still going strong.

I'd pick those college days. Again and again and again.

I'd pick the daughter's teenage years and the baby's young years.

I'd pick when I was courting the husband and he was courting me.

Tomorrow Hangdog goes to the "Home." All he's asked me for is some laundry and my cell phone number.

I'd pick any day except today or tomorrow.

Break Time

I'm a worker. I love it. I was selling painted rocks as a child, moved into babysitting and by the time I was 15-years old, I was working as many hours as they would give me -- first in the jewelry stand and then in the drug store. (When I accomplished the pharmacy tech training and got to wear the white coat, I thought I was very cool.)

Eventually, I moved to the corporate world. I accomplished some things and I messed up some things. No time clock was involved. If I decided to take a walk at 2:00 PM, no one noticed or cared.

Everything comes full circle. Now I work from home and you would think my time is my own. Hah! I've reverted to the 15-year old person who works in retail and wants to know, "When is my break?"

Like Fairy Dust

I'm tossing around guilt like Tinkerbell threw fairy dust.

People are actually calling me to apologize that they are not helping enough. This is completely and undeniably untrue. Everyone -- friends, family, parents, children, other people's children have helped tremendously.

I give a special salute to Houseboy.

I can load enough guilt on myself. I certainly don't need to spread it around.

Should I Go?

My annual girlfriend trip to Phoenix is coming up. Normally, I would be giddy with anticipation. This year is a little different. The mother-in-law is still in the rehab facility. Hangdog is here and we have very few days to make some tough choices, get answers from VA and Medicare, choose a facility and actually move him. (Including packing for him and coordinating meds, etc.) Then, she will need to be moved as well.

This is my relaxation trip. I read. I get up early and sit with Abby (the other early riser) and we light a fire and sip our coffee. Other than a couple of trips to our favorite Mexican Cantina and the cowboy bar and the coffee shop, we eat whatever great stuff Big Sal has on hand. We're all easy to please. Jeans, sweats or PJs are the favored attire. We watch schmaltzy Lifetime movies. Then we eventually figure out the DVD player and watch other movies. We cuddle with Big Sal's dogs and we sit on the humongous patio or on the rooftop perch and solve the problems of the world, or just our lives.

I get to laugh. A LOT! Last year, I stumbled on Pam in the bathroom in the middle of the night. She thought I was a bear. Not only did we both scream but then we heard Cynthia laughing in her bed. (We had the bunkhouse last time, which is fabulous and for the record, I don't believe a bear could manage those stairs.)

We're all very predictable. Abby will be the first to go to bed, although I might challenge her this year. Mickey will be the last to rise, although I might challenge her this year. We will watch for the javelinas. (Don't call them pigs!)
We will go to Last Chance although none of us needs a single thing.

But...my house is in crisis. The oldies are in crisis. The husband cannot attend to all of these things alone.

I'll believe I'm actually going once someone throws me on the plane and I hear, "Cross check and call forward." Until then, I'm a little skeptical. But, I have been threatened with bodily harm by the girlfriends if I don't make the trip. That might do it. My girlfriends are mighty strong women. I'm a tad afeared of them.

Don't Run Over the Dog

It's dark in the morning when the husband leaves for work. When the oldies were driving, I didn't necessarily trust her vision or navigation skills. (Turns out I was right since she drove through my front yard, plowed into the mailbox and left Hangdog to roam the streets in the middle of the night.) It's dark when the husband comes home.

Have I mentioned we own a black Lab? Have I mentioned that she's not the sharpest crayon in the box? I am also not operating on full throttle. So, I often forget that she's outside until she shows up at my office window doing the "Let me in" moan.

I've started to call the husband and announce, "The dog is outside. Please don't run over her."

You Betcha!

I used to consider myself an honorable person. Those days are a faint memory.

I used to try to accommodate everyone. Those days are fading fast.

I used to enjoy cooking. Now if anyone asks me what's for dinner, I turn into a boxer. (So far I haven't actually punched anyone.)

I vaguely recall quiet time. I used to enjoy it.

Hangdog is so lonely and lost without his Honey. I understand this and it breaks my heart. It does not turn me into her or a servant. There is a new and different need every ten minutes.

I've tried to be extremely responsible with medications. I've even moved the one narcotic into my office. But, here's what I know... it knocks him out.

So, tonight when he asked for one I did not give him a placebo. I said, "You betcha!"

My New Favorite Expression

The brother-in-law taught me this expression during their visit:

You can't argue with stupid.
They just drag you down to their level
And then beat you with experience.

I can be smart; I can be stupid. I can be as tenacious as any dog with a bone. I seem to deal with a lot of people who overcomplicate situations so I love this expression.

If anyone knows who coined this little phrase, please let me know.

Lithuania

Lithuania is my new best friend. She is the care giver for my mother-in-law. Lots of other people are involved but Lithuania seems to be there all the time.

Of course, this is not her actual name. It's something more simple like LaWanda or LaThania. My mind could not process this. So, I asked her if she had any siblings named "Kenya." Thankfully, she found that funny.

Lithuania calls me multiple times a day. Sometimes it's good news; sometimes it's not. I always end the call by saying, "Tell Kenya I said hello."

Pop Goes the Muscle

Somewhere between picking up oldies, moving Christmas decorations from the basement and moving furniture to accommodate the Christmas tree (which I have been forbidden to do) I heard something go "Pop!" This was accompanied by excruciating pain.

This was several weeks ago. I am much, much better. But, for a while, I moaned like an oldie.

It made me think. Do we always think we can do more than we really should? The oldies do it. Before the hospitalization, she always thought she was capable of driving. That's probably why she kept sneaking out in the middle of the night. She was trying to avoid me just like I get annoyed when someone says, "You shouldn't be doing that."

My friend, Big S, attended a holiday party that involved some impromptu stamina and flexibility competitions. (There might have been some eggnog involved.) After her dazzling show of flexibility, she couldn't work out for a week. My friend (M) regularly goes to her mother's, gets on her hands and knees and scrubs things. She's in pain for a week. My friend (C) overdoes things on a regular basis (like lifting her mother into and out of the wheelchair) and then her back goes into spasms. I could list a dozen more examples but that's enough.

I've promised the husband, my parents, my doctor and houseboy that I will no longer attempt to move furniture by myself. But it makes me a little sad.

99 Bottles of Beer (and Wine) on the Wall

For the record, I've never taken a narcotic in my life. I've also never met a bottle of wine that didn't sound like a great idea at the time. You could serve me box o' wine and I would use Hangdog's expression: It's EXCELLENT!

The brother-in-law and his wife have left. We've accomplished some things and we're all very clear on the road ahead: bumpy and scary and sad. (And busy.)

Like the ostrich that I am, I tend to hide my head in the sand. We're all tense and scared.

We have gone through a lot of bottles of wine and beer. It's not the healthiest way to deal with the situations at hand but we did. Instead of the rational reaction to that, my first thought was, "We must restock."

The Sexy Sinus Medication

You would never guess it but I'm pretty private about bodily things. I am not one of those people that thinks it's ok to go to the bathroom in front of the husband. (Thankfully, he isn't either.) We share a bathroom so we often wash our faces or brush our teeth at the same time but everything else is done in solitude.

Until ...

The husband returned from his business trip. His brother and wife were here. We had moved the mother-in-law. As we were preparing to go to bed, I got out my new magic sinus potion. It's hot water mixed with some powdered stuff that you shake up and then shove up one nostril until it makes its way through your sinus cavities and comes pouring out the other nostril. The entire process involves hanging your head over the sink for a while. But, it does work.

I was in the middle of this charming ritual the other night when the husband walked into our bathroom. He already thinks I'm the weirdest duck walking the planet but I think this one may have put him over the edge.

You Must've Gone to College

There's a slight chance that we might get a little bit of snow over the weekend. Like a lot of Midwestern women, that triggers something in my mind: Must go to the store and get milk, bread and eggs! (My friend Jim has decided that the entire Midwest eats nothing but french toast in any kind of weather crisis.)

Of course, I truly don't care if we have milk, bread or eggs. But, I bought some. I also bought ingredients for soup and a few other essentials like wine.

As the (very polite) 9-year old boy was ringing up my order, he was puzzled by a couple of the specials. For example, if you buy a carton of XXXX, you get $2 off. I did buy 10 (the quantity in the carton) but I mixed different flavors and made my own carton. This was too much for him so I had to explain how to ring it up. He thanked me and then said, "You must've gone to college."

I said, "I don't think it has anything to do with college but I worked in retail a long, long time."

Then I bagged my own groceries because I have my own system.

No vanity; No shame

Yesterday, the sister-in-law and I went to retrieve the oldie's car from the dealership. Of course, I decided to take the dog.

The dog doesn't understand calling "Shotgun" but she does understand when someone else is in her seat. She was completely confused with being put in the back seat. I shoved her back quite a few times. I even had to use my mean voice.

Then my sister-in-law reached behind my neck and said, "Is your shirt on inside out?" Yep, it was.

So, I'm driving through a main thoroughfare in my city... I'm elbowing the dog to get back to her own seat ... then, I took my shirt off, turned it to the correct position and waited for the next red light so I could put it on properly.

You might have another name for it. I call these "bonding moments."

Don't Mess with the Belle

Our favorite doctor always refers to Hangdog as "Captain" and the mother-in-law as "The Southern Belle." He's earned the Captain title and she is certainly a southern belle.

Some blogs give interesting and delicious recipes. If you're looking for that, you're reading the wrong blog. But, I am going to give you a recipe:

Take one southern belle and make some decisions for her.
Toss in food that isn't coated in nine pounds of butter.
Move her from a hospital to a rehab facility, preferably in an ambulance.
Throw in some painkillers and various narcotics.

Let stew until the anger begins to boil over. Get out of the way.

There you go. You now have my personal recipe for an oldies explosion/meltdown. I'm happy to share it but I don't recommend it.

I'll Sit This One Out

The brother-in-law and his wife are leaving in a few hours. When I'm overwhelmed, I go into a little stupor. I've probably been in a semi-stupor for a long time but the last couple of weeks have been extreme stuporville.

Then they swept in and pitched in. They've helped with both oldies. They've helped the husband look at options and make some (not all) decisions. We don't exactly have a game plan but we're a lot further ahead than we were three days ago. The brother-in-law has organized Hangdog's medications into a system that I actually understand. As I mentioned yesterday, the sister-in-law has cooked and organized my pantry.

They've been so attentive and nice to Hangdog. I don't know if he understands that they are leaving and then it's back to Big, Mean Me.

Of course, they wanted to visit the mother-in-law before they have to leave. Of course, they were kind enough to include Hangdog. Since I spent a fair amount of time on the phone last night getting an update on her condition and behavior, I decided to let the three of them go. The husband and I will be running up there constantly after they leave so I opted to say, "No thank you very much. I'll sit this one out."

I'm alone in my house. I'm doing a short happy dance.

Dysfunction

We (the husband, his brother, the sister-in-law and I) got into a conversation last night about dysfunctional families. There was wine involved.

I've led a pretty cushy life and have wonderful parents and friends. But, just scratch the surface on either side of the gene pool -- you'll find dysfunction.

During this conversation last night, my big fat mouth got ahead of my brain. I said, "Show me the family that isn't dealing with some variation of dysfunction. I'd like to meet them."

We all toasted each other.

Then we decided to put the "fun" back in "dysfunctional." (I wish I knew who said that first -- I love it.)

A Port in the Storm

Things have come to a head around here. The word "storm" is too subtle but I might offend you if I used the words that are swirling in my mind.

While the husband was on a business trip, I was informed it was time to move the mother-in-law from the hospital. She is not well enough to be home but she's not sick enough to remain in the hospital. A temporary care facility is the only option.

Have you ever tried to arrange that in less than 24 hours? I don't know about other cities but the facilities here all have waiting lists. So, I started pleading with the doctor, "Please find some way to give me another 24 hours. Say she has an infected toenail, say she has a fever, etc." He is an honorable guy; I am an unconvicted FELON!

Then the Cavalry came to town. The husband's brother and his wife arrived. They are the relatives in Texas who just hosted them for nine days over the holidays. All blinders are off. Plus, they are medical people so I could turn over the medication dispensing chore to them. Relief does not begin to describe it. They are also very funny and interesting people so I got to talk about something other than body functions or food.

Well, I take that back. My sister-in-law finds cooking relaxing. (I'm not sure what planet she hails from.) I did make a meal for their arrival but since then, she's done all the cooking and she is an amazing cook. She's also cleaned out and rearranged my pantry. She enjoys doing these kinds of things. I'm wondering if she hears, "ET -- Phone Home" in her brain.

So, we're making decisions. Still an incredible amount of indescribable details to attend to. The husband and his brother have taken Hangdog for his regular appointment at the VA but I loaded them up with questions and information. Tonight should be interesting.

The sister and I are going to pick up their car from the dealership. We had it towed there after the last two incidents: car in the front yard, car in the mailbox. If I have anything to say about it, the car is going away.

Yesterday was an emotional roller coaster. Last night was family discussions and lots of laughs and tears. There's a lot ahead of us but these two people have saved me.

Assisted Living

Just so you know the husband and I are not two idiots sitting around and waiting to see what ailment, fall, disease is going to plague us next, the answer is,"Yes, we are looking into assisted living." It's overdue and we both know it. So, we're investigating and having pretty frank conversations with the oldies.

They both consider it Being Sent To The Home. But, in their own way, they understand.

The oldies raised four boys. Only the husband and one of his brothers seems to give a hoot. The brother that lives in Texas is investigating facilities in their area. Although they hate the weather in Indiana, I am absolutely sure they will not move to Texas. (Although, that may make it on my prayer list.)

Legal issues, financial issues, health issues ... I am overwhelmed.

When she's healthy, the mother-in law is a social butterfly. Some of the activities would make her giddy -- bridge groups, hair salon, etc. But, she will never leave Hangdog. I've tried to convince him that he could make an entire new network of friends. Just think about it -- people who have never heard the stories! They'll be enthralled.

We have lots of friends who are able to advise us about care facilities. Yet, the oldies are living in an assisted living facility right now -- the husband and I are the assistants.

So, (guilt, guilt, guilt,) we're sort of kicking them out the door. Of course, we have to get all the legal, financial and health matters in order. Not to mention, the car and their personal finances.

Cursing In My Mind

The husband left on a business trip this morning. I convinced him that he should not cancel the trip. Although I gripe about it, I can handle Hangdog's requests.

The doctor just called and the mother-in-law is ready to be released from the hospital. Not because she's well but because Medicare only covers XX number of days. Through my magical powers of persuasion, I've bought myself one more day. Still, the phrase that is going through my mind is "F*** me!"

Silly me, I was trying to do a little paper work this morning. I jumped out of my skin when Hangdog came up behind me and announced he was ready for breakfast. Take off the writing hat; put on the short-order cook hat and the pharmacist cap. Guess what phrase is going through my mind?

I'm not just cursing. I'm cursed.

BODA

In case this phrase has not made it into your vernacular, it stands for Big Ol' Dumb A**. We love this phrase.

Depending on who wins the crossword competition, the husband and I say to each other, "Who's the BODA today?"

I can be a BODA about almost anything. The Middle East? I study and study and I still am a BODA. Politics? I still don't understand the difference between the caucuses and the primaries. I'm a BODA about how Iowa and New Hampshire (two teensy states) have so much influence. I'm a BODA about why the candidate's religious beliefs seem to be front and center, yet no one has caught my attention with exactly how they're going to change/fix the problems in this country.

Elder care is the area that I am struggling with on a daily basis. I am a BODA about the VA system, the Medicare system, the necessary versus unnecessary medications, etc. I am terrified that the oldies are in the wrong hands. I try to tend to things but ...

Last night involved multiple requests. I gave Hangdog a manicure. I fetched things (something I should teach the dog.) If he can't find me, he stands in the living room and shouts my name. I'm thinking of changing my name to BODA.

Shock Proof

There's a difference between legitimate shock or just being jumpy. I'm extremely jumpy but very little shocks me anymore.

People get divorced. It's sad but it no longer shocks me.

XXXX number of people were killed in the Middle East today. It no longer shocks me.

Some politician (local, national, international) has done something corrupt. It no longer shocks me.

Teenagers push the limit, get caught and still do some stupid things. This is not a shock to me.

Marriage is a marvel of good times and bad times. It took me a long time to learn this but it no longer shocks me.

Sometimes people who you think are on your side will throw you under the bus. I forgive. And, I'm never shocked -- just disappointed.

The moment you're flip enough to think all is under control, God has other plans. Doesn't shock me.

The cutest and most animated puppy in the litter will turn out to be the dog that's hardest to train. Doesn't shock me and doesn't stop me.

Jumpy is harder to cure.

Reckless Mothers

So, I'm watching the interview with the mother of the 6-year old daughter who was trying to win tickets to see Hannah Montana. The mother helped her write a completely false essay about losing her father in Iraq. Turns out, the father is alive and well. The contest people decided she did not deserve the tickets. (Duh!) The mother went on national television to apologize for her role in this fiasco.

Maybe it's a sign of my age but the mother looked about 18-years old to me. Then she mentioned that she has two other children.

In her well-crafted, attorney-drafted statement, she sounded remorseful. Then she made the crucial mistake of answering questions. One question was, "What's the worst thing about all of this?"

She's had to move from her apartment. She didn't mention that her daughter has been taught that cheating and lying is ok. I could go on and on. Her answer was, "I had to shut down my My Space page." This made me crazy.

Britney Spears has once again lost custody of her children. She refuses to comply with those silly court-ordered things like drug tests, visitation rights, etc. Now she's OD'd or had a nervous breakdown and was rushed to the hospital. Her 16-year old sister is pregnant. The mother (Lynne) was writing a book about parenting. The publisher has decided to shelve it. If you were pregnant or the mother of a young child, isn't this the person you would turn to for parental advice?

I have a mother who checks on me daily to make sure I'm ok. She brings me things like notebooks and pens because she knows my affection for school/office supplies. She sends me food.

If I tried to win a contest by writing an essay, she would've made me write it myself. (But she would've helped with proofreading.)

Good mothers let you know that they are always in your corner. They also pick you up, prop you up, point a direction and insist that you stand on your own two feet.

Self-Inflicted Guilt

I should be Jewish or Catholic. Aren't these the stereotypes for guilty women? Or women who do a great job of inflicting guilt? (Before anyone sends me a hateful message -- I'm just referencing stereotypes -- I didn't say I agree with them.)

I do a great job of guilt but it's mainly directed to me. Today, I feel guilty because the mother-in-law is still in the hospital and I have not been to see her. The husband has gone every day. It's not like I've been sitting around reading or eating bon bons. I've dealt with the car. I've been unraveling the medication system. I've fed and watered hangdog three times a day, plus snacks. I've changed bed linens and started the lengthy job of doing the laundry from their trip. I've kept a couple of the relatives up to date on her condition. I've investigated (or started to) senior transportation options. I've begun gathering information on assisted living facilities. With the husband's help, I've put all the holiday decorations away. In my spare time, I've written three business proposals and paid some bills.

Yet, I still feel guilty. Although I've called twice a day, I haven't been to the hospital.

Alarms

We have a household alarm system. I use it when I am home alone. Otherwise, one of the oldies will set it off and I am the one who has to crawl out of bed and deal with it.

My overly complicated and convoluted car has an alarm system. If I leave the dog in the car with the doors unlocked, I'm afraid someone will steal her. If I lock the car, she always sets off the alarm. I just announce to the crowd in the drug store or the grocery store, "It's mine -- I'll handle it."

Our wake-up alarm is on my bedside table. I set it. I turn it off. I reset it for the husband on my workout days.

I guess alarms are a good thing. They make you feel a little safer. Some alarms are going off in my head right now.

What are you doing?

I like it when people explain tbings to me like I'm a toddler. It's simplified and I don't feel guilty asking questions.

The oldies are well-educated people but life has thrown a few curves. The mother-in-law is in the hospital (she's fine, just recovering.) The husband has that pesky job of RUNNING A COMPANY. Meanwhile, he's dealing with doctors, VA people, visiting his mother, questioning legal things, investigating options and of course, ordering me around.

I am of the house. That means that I try very hard to meet the needs of the household. I fail every day but I keep plugging away,

There is always food around here but I have never cooked three meals a day. Before the oldies came to live with us, I was doing good if I cooked three meals a week. I was spawned from farm women (not my mother) but I have no interest in this. No thank you very much.

This morning I tried to have a serious conversation with Hangdog. Not about his wife or anything medical ... I simply said, "I need a few hours alone to get some things done." He nodded and I built a fire for him to sit by and enjoy. He had been fed and watered. I called the hospital so he could talk to his wife. All daily medications have been dispersed. Wooooo --hoooo! A moment for me!

Thirty minutes later he came in my office and asked, "What are you doing?"

The Feeding and Watering of Hangdog

Well, the trip just about did them in. They returned to us exhausted. The mother-in-law was obviously ill. The husband took her to the doctor and she was immediately admitted to the hospital. She has a mild case of pneumonia which is responding to medication. Other tests are happening as I write this.

The husband told our physician to wear his coat of armor when he does rounds. She is not a happy camper.

In the meantime, Hangdog must be fed and watered. This is not a tough job because even if he hates what is put in front of him, he will tell you, "It is EXCELLENT!" (He is well trained.) But, it does involve a few interruptions in the day. Her medication disbursement system is unintelligible to anyone but her -- that's on purpose -- so we are spending inordinate amounts of time deciphering what he needs to take and when. This involves several calls to the doctor's office.

The banged-up car is still in my driveway. Hangdog is very concerned about getting it fixed. I've obsessed with getting it out of here. She's not driving on my watch.