All Hail Broke Loose

My friend, Maggie, Jason and his friend, Josh, and I had just returned home from spending the weekend at our cabin at Lake Patoka in French Lick, Indiana, when the sky suddenly turned black from an impending storm. Maggie and I (where did the boys go?) were unpacking my Volkswagen when I heard the first ping hit the hood of the Jetta. Another, then another and within seconds, all hail broke loose.

It was the summer of 1998. Jason was seventeen and a collector of things. His favorite things were cars--mostly older, high maintenance, money-guzzling, non-working cars. His most recent purchase, a Monte Carlo, had some age on it, but it did run, and it was enjoying the special attention one gives to a new thing. Inside and out, the car was spotless. Unlike his other cars where hoarding made it difficult to find a place to sit, this new car was clutter free.

So when the hail hit, it was no surprise that Jason would take notice. He leaped off the couch, dropped the bag of Cheetos, and raced out to the driveway where his precious Carlo was being attacked, and, and, and, he did what?

Oh No! He didn't! Oh, yes he did!

With absolutely nothing on his mind but saving Carlo, Jason sped past my sweet little Jetta (who had never run over an ant in her entire life), past Maggie's new-to-her Volvo, and drove right into the garage, crushing everything in its path, including my brand new lawnmower.

What's a Mother to do?

Since I don't believe in spanking (physical abuse by another name), and I am not a screamer (emotional abuse by another name, and it solves nothing), I calmly walked up to my son as he stepped out of Carlo and said, "Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, and further more, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah." At least, that's what Jason heard.  What I actually said to his back as he was walking away was, "Do you think that what you just did for your own self interest is acceptable? And, further more, do you think I have a right to be upset?" No response.  I followed him back into the house and stood over him as he resumed his position on the couch and continued to eat the Cheetos that were now sprinkled all over the living room floor. "What punishment do you think you deserve for the damage you have caused?" He ignored me.

Obviously my approach at handling this parent/child conflict was not working, so I thought about how Hazel (my childhood surrogate father) would have behaved in this situation.  I marched outside with fury in my soul, ripped a prickly switch from the nearest tree, stormed back inside, grabbed Jason by the collar on his shirt, raising him off the couch, laid him over my lap, pulled his pants down, and WAPED! WAPED! WAPED! his bare ass, while, at the same time screaming, "SPARE THE ROD, SPOIL THE CHILD!"  Whew! Suddenly, after having released all of my frustration and anger on to Jason, I felt so much better.

Liar, Liar. Pants on fyeeer!

Okay, that last part is a lie. Instead, I took Jason's Nintendo away for an afternoon and gave him a thirty-minute timeout.  That punishment apparently worked because he never ran over a lawnmower again.

Mom's Story-Catch & Keep

(Mom's story-Catch & Release is a continuation from July 23, and 29)

We had been given only a short time to find and furnish a small apartment for Tom's mom at an assisted living facility. A few weeks before her release from the rehab center, Mom was excited about returning to her beautiful home and beloved car. But, her enthusiasm turned to dread when her doctor told her the pneumonia had altered her body and mind forever, and she could no longer live alone or drive.

We knew finding a place that was best suited for Mom would be a challenge, but the difficulties exceeded our expectations. In their eagerness to get Mom to come live with them, they offered her the moon and beyond, but the offers, we discovered later, were shrouded with ambiguities and inconsistencies and outright lies. The promises made in the comfortable setting of a lush office were no where to be found or were contradicted in the sixty-five page contract we had to sign but did not read. Who reads every word in a sixty-five page contract?

With two days remaining before we had to move a four-bedroom house into a small apartment, Tom's mom said "yes" to a man who gained her confidence and affection by his charm, smile, and promises.  We signed the voluminous contract and wrote a check for $2,500, a non-refundable move-in fee. (Mr. Charm said the fee was normally $5,000, but, for us, he would cut it in half. How nice of him.)

The morning before the move, we developed buyers' remorse. Unable to sleep and looking for something to read, I picked up the contract. On page one, in very small letters, I read: Move-in fee $3,000. The blatant lie was a deal breaker.

With one day left, we were back at square one. The contract with Mr. Charm was voided and our $2,500 check returned. Now, with full knowledge of how the game of Catch & Keep works, we headed out again. This time we knew the questions to ask and were able to discern reality from bullshit. We found an apartment perfect for Mom, and with no time to spare, it was furnished with her favorite things. But will she go willingly or will we have to carry her there, kicking and screaming?

Mom's Story to be continued

Mom's Story-Hypoxia

(Mom's Story-Hypoxia is a continuation from July 23.)

Her expression was one of urgency when she motioned for me to come closer. She was sitting up in her hospital bed at Whitehall Rehab Center when Tom and I centered her room, and she had something important on her mind.  She was no longer suffering from pneumonia, but her breathing was still labored even though she was connected to oxygen.

"I saw you in the car with him and those five white puppies," she said. "What white puppies?" Tom asked. "Never mind," she told him. Then she leaned closer to me and whispered, "It's okay. I won't tell anyone. We women have our secrets. I'll keep yours." I smiled and told my mother-in-law that I appreciated her discretion.

Later that afternoon, during a visit to Dr. Johnson, she came very close to leaving his office with her driving privilege intact. At ninety-four, she was a good driver and there was little thought given to her ability to live alone, handle her own affairs, and drive anywhere she pleased. But then all of that changed when, at the very end of her appointment when the doctor stood up to leave, she said, "So Dr. Johnson,  how long have you been practicing in Boca Raton? For the last seven years, I've been driving to Indianapolis to see you." Oops!

Now no longer able to live alone or drive, life as Mom had known it for nine decades was changed in an instant. The lack of oxygen to the brain had created a condition called hypoxia, and hypoxia was responsible for my affair with the man who kept five white puppies in his car and Dr. Johnson's move from Indy to Boca. Hypoxia was the reason why Mom could not go home and back to independence.

As the four of us (Mom's two sons and daughters-in-law) hurried to find an apartment in an assisted living facility, one topic of conversation continued to surface. "Had we been remiss in allowing Mom to live alone and drive as long has she had? Had we stuck our heads in the sand because we didn't want to face the consequences from taking away a loved one's independence?" There had been signs that all was not well before she was rushed to the emergency room with pneumonia and spent close to a month in rehab. Bill, her late husband, had made several unwelcome visits to see her, and he always brought along his new girlfriend. The rowdy children who kept running through her house were annoying. And the man across the street had installed a soundbox in her living room so she could hear his golf cart whenever he drove around her house. Should we have taken those hypoxia-induced hallucinations more seriously? Had she been safe on the road? What if she'd caused an accident that had harmed herself and others or, God forbid, killed someone?

We were lucky. Very lucky, but Mom is not buying it--none of it!! She is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and she is going to continue driving!

Mom's story to be continued

Person of Interest

It happened again yesterday. I was walking down Main Street in downtown Franklin, North Carolina, when a young man about thirty passed me on the sidewalk. I smiled. He looked away. What the bleep? Just because I'm not young and attractive doesn't mean I'm not worthy of good manners. I turned around as he continued to walk away with his rudeness unchecked and yelled, "HEY! I'M NOT INVISIBLE, YA KNOW! Okay, that's a lie. I didn't challenge his rudeness. I just continued on down the sidewalk mumbling to myself about my invisibility and trying to remember why I was on Main Street in the first place. It's my memory, not so good anymore.

Lynnette has always been a person of interest to the opposite sex. Me? Not so much, but there was a period of time from twenty to fortyish when men did take notice, on occasion. I took it for granted. I didn't appreciate the attention when it was so freely giving to me. Now, in its blatant absence--with added insult from bad manners--I, in hindsight, appreciate the perks of youth and, in real time, acknowledge the disadvantages of old age. Putting aside, for now, the aches, pain, and monetary strain caused by the body growing older, I want to share a little elder perspective about the emotional discomfort that comes from one aspect of aging.

RINGA DING, DING

Lynnette's calling to talk about the furrow on her forehead.

Lynnette: "I've noticed a furrow on my forehead."

Me: "My entire body is furrowed, but I'm glad you brought that subject up. I need to talk to you about something."

Lynnette: "Can it wait? I have a date with this handsome man from Michigan, and I need to wax my bindi."

Me: "No, actually, it can't wait. Now that the furrowing has started, I want to prepare you for something bad that's about to happen. It's about the attention you've been getting."

Lynnette: "If I don't wax my bindi before my date tonight, something good won't happen."

Me: "You're going to lose it, ya know. It's going away."

Lynnette: "I've used a laser on it, but it's still there. That's why I need to wax it."

Me: "All of the attention that you've been getting is going away."

Lynnette: "Exactly! If I keep it waxed, no one notices."

Me: "Well, okay then. I have to go now. I need to pluck the hairs on Tom's ears."

Lynnette: "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Me: "Oh, never mind."

The Book of Me

I'm in the second to last chapter of my life. Tom cringes every time I say that, but it's most likely true, unless, that is, the book of me has an early surprise ending. My ninety-one-year-old mother is in her last chapter, but her book is way too long for me. If I had to live through 33, 365 pages, by the end I'd be exhausted, cranky, and loopy.

It's not that I want the book of me to end, but I know it must. It's the way of things. All good books must come to an end, and so far mine--except for a few inconveniences along the way--has been very good. I realize that there have been billions of tomes penned before mine, and there will be billions more after I'm gone, but mine is special. Why? Because it's mine.

Everyone has a book of them. From the peasant who picked weeds in King Henry VIII's garden to the great-grandmother of Prince George Alexander Louis, from the caveman who discovered fire to the inventor of the atom bomb, from you to me, we all have a special cache of stories to pass along to those following behind us on the treadmill of life.

Today I'm on page 24,785. I woke up this morning and immediately stretched myself into five minutes of very painful leg cramps. After the cramps subsided, I thought about getting up, but the room was spinning from an episode of benign paroxysmal positional vertigo. I thought that annoying ringing in my one good ear was from the alarm clock until I realized I don't have an alarm clock. So I'm afraid that page 24,785 in my book will be blank.  I'm going back to sleep, and hopefully I can pick up where I left off with that handsome Hugh Jackman and the Wolverines. It seems my dreams have better stories these days.

The Sweet Addiction

Lynnette and I followed the tall, handsome bellboy through the retro modern hotel lobby and into the tiny elevator that barely held the three of us and our luggage. It was the early nineties, and I was a spec writer in the Design Center for a french-owned company called Thomson. My boss had sent me to the Big Apple to attend a meeting in his place. It was my first visit to New York City, and I was intimidated by its girth, height, energy, diversity, fast-paced inhabitants, and reputation. When I offered my sister an all-expenses-paid vacation to Manhattan to accompany me on my trip, she didn't hesitate to say yes.

The bellboy opened the door to our room, then stepped back to allow us to enter first. For the price we paid--I mean Thomson paid--for our accommodations, I was expecting a suite with two large king-size beds, a kitchenette, a bathroom with a bidet, whirlpool tub, and a separate room just for lounging. Instead, our room was the size of my sister's walk-in closet. There was one full-size bed, a small chest of drawers from the 1940's (retro), and a brand new faucet in the 4' x 6' bathroom (modern). But the window was huge, it gave us a spectacular view of Manhattan, and we were happy. But what about Owen?

With the business meeting behind me, Lynnette and I had two full days to cram in as much of NYC as possible: museums, Central Park, Twin Towers, China Town, Grand Central Station, Broadway, Times Square, subway excursions. We left nothing unexplored. We were having the time of our lives, but what about Owen?

Everywhere we went the men took notice of my little sister. I wasn't surprised; it happens wherever she goes. She pretends she doesn't see it, but on one particular occasion, while we were walking through the garment district, she had no choice but to acknowledge the scene she had caused. We were walking together on the sidewalk when Lynnette decided to cross over to the other side to check out a sale. As Lynnette was walking down the middle of the narrow street, a man pushing a large metal cart full of clothes became fixated on the beauty in the street and ran into another man who was also fixated on Lynnette. I was thrilled with the attention New York City was giving my sister, but what about Owen?

SO WHO THE HECK IS OWEN?

Owen is the reason why everything I did at home and away always ended with the question, "But what about Owen?" Owen was my boyfriend, my fifth chance at love. When we met, the logical part of my brain warned, "Run away as fast as you can! Please Carol Louise. Not him!" but the other part--the spontaneous, irrational part--said, "He's cute, a really good kisser, and mysterious. Why not him?"

So, here I was in New York City, having a great time with my best friend, but I couldn't stop thinking about Love Number Five back home in Indiana. How would he feel about that picture with the handsome bellboy's hand on my shoulder? Were there any single men at the business meeting? Did I prefer traveling with Lynnette over him? Was she more fun? Why didn't I ask him to go instead of her? How many men stumbled after looking at me? (None!) I knew I would have a lot of explaining to do when I returned home.

After two years of dating, I knew if there was going to be a Mrs. Owen, it wouldn't be me. (I had reoccurring nightmares where a minister was saying, "I now pronounce you man and wife," and I ran out of the church screaming.) But still there was something about Owen that kept me from leaving. It was the Saccharine. He placed me on a pedestal, smothered me with attention, and spoon fed me artificial sweetener. As long as my behavior warranted the special treatment, he continued the sweet addiction. But--you knew there would be a but, didn't you?--what goes up must come down. On too many occasions I failed to live up to his unreasonable, unattainable expectations, and over and over again I found myself back down on the ground, a witness to my own verbal and emotional abuse. I knew I needed to leave, but I was addicted.

ENTER LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT

One day, shortly after I returned from my business trip to New York, Owen and I stopped at a retro modern art gallery on East Michigan Street. While Love Number Five was admiring a 1940's chair that had been painted in 1990's paint, the very beautiful gallery owner walked out of her office and strolled right into the heart of, well, you know. It was love at first sight. I knew immediately, and if there was any doubt, Owen confirmed it later that night in a breakup phone call.

A few months after Owen left me sobbing at the altar of saccharine, I received a call from a retro modern art gallery owner. Yep! You guessed it! Seems that love at first sight can be dangerous on occasion.  Was I ever hit? she wanted to know. Did I ever have my tires slashed? she asked. Was he emotionally unstable? Nope! Nope! and what is the definition of emotionally unstable?

Over the next few months, I continued to take her calls about Number Five's bad behavior. She wanted to leave, she said, but she was addicted. Then the calls stopped, but by then I was no longer interested. I was dating my sixth chance at love and little did I know what Perfect Number Six had in store for me.

Mom's Story--Independence Gone Forever

In the first week of June, Tom's ninety-four-year-old mother was rushed to the emergency room in West Palm Beach County, Florida, with what turned out to be pneumonia. After a week in the hospital and three weeks in rehab, she was told by her doctor that she could no longer live alone, and she had to turn in her car keys. Tom and I were by her side when she heard the news, and it was heartbreaking to watch her stunned reaction.  In an instant her independence was gone forever.

Later that night, back at Whitehall Rehab Center, Tom walked into his mother's room to find her lying in bed, crying. Many times, as a young child, he had discovered his mother weeping alone in her room, and in an effort to comfort her, he would climb into her bed and hold her. Sixty plus years later, that would once again become the antidote to Mom's sadness. Tom kicked off his shoes and slid in behind his mother and held on tight. Within minutes, the tears dried, and a smile (albeit slight) appeared.

The next eight days would turn Mom's world upside down as she headed to a place she had begged her sons to never take her.

Mom's story to be continued

The Meaning of Life

YESTERDAY

I am young and I know the answer to the question What is the meaning of life? I have to say I'm pretty proud of myself, and I'm patting myself on the back for having figured it out at such a young age.  Yes, I do have a sense of exaggerated importance but with all of this knowledge comes arrogance.  I'm way smarter than those white-haired slow movers who years ago ran along the same path as the one I'm running on now. In my hurry to get to wherever it is I'm going, I race past them everyday as they sit in their porch rockers and wave to me but I give them little notice. We have nothing in common. Absolutely nothing. I am young and they are, well, not.

TODAY

I am old and I know that much of what I thought was true in my youth was, in fact, false. I feel humbled by how much I really didn't know. Because my body is in compliance with the natural laws of aging, I am viewed differently now. Yet, I still have the same brain now as I did when I used to run past the folks who just yesterday (or so it seems) sat on the same porch and in the same rocker that I'm sitting in now. Why are these young people always in a hurry to get to wherever it is they're going? I wave to them but they don't notice me sitting here. Excuse me? Did you say something? It's my hearing, ya know. Not so good anymore. Am I leaning to the right? Well, yes. Yes I am. Thank you for stopping long enough to notice. I was trying to scratch my back, and my arm got stuck in the rocker. Oh, sorry. That wasn't the question. You're asking if I know anything about breeding lice? Oh no, honey, I don't like bugs. I ate a grasshopper once in Thailand, though, but that was oh so long ago and on a dare. Would you like to hear that story? Oh, sorry. That wasn't the question, either. Ask me again, only this time talk into my good ear.

"DO YOU KNOW THE MEANING OF LIFE?"

Well, no. No, I don't. But I know someone who does. Have a seat, honey, and I'll ask my husband, Tom, to hobble on over here to answer your question.

"ZZZZZzzzzzzz" (Tom is napping two rockers away.)

"Tom?"

"Heh?"

"Can you come here, please?"

"HEH?"

"I said, 'CAN YOU COME HERE, PLEASE?'"

"WHY? I'M NAPPING!"

"There's a young person here who has a question about cleaning a pipe."