Politics in the Desert

When we decided to move to Tucson, it was trending purple.  Honest.  I'm not lying. We had a Jewish, Democrat, woman in the House and John McCain, the maverick, in the Senate, and a woman in the governor's chair, not for the first time, either.

Then, President Obama stole Janet for Homeland Security and John McCain decided Sarah Palin was fit to be one 71 year old heartbeat away from the presidency and instead of Gabby in the Senate I have Jeff Flake.  Sometimes it's a little bit of an embarrassment to admit that I'm from Arizona.

On Sunday, Sgt. Lois and I were surrounded by a house full of like-minded, pro-choice, Democrats, at Arizona List's fete honoring Pam Simon, a fellow January 8th shootee, for her quiet determination and hard work on the issue of sensible gun legislation  It was muggy and close quarters and it filled my heart with joy.

The Assistant Leader of the Democratic Caucus of the Arizona Senate was there, telling us that three women now lead the Senate Democrats.  Being women, and willing to compromise, they have forged bonds across the aisle with female Republicans and have been able to nibble around the edges of some of the more egregious pieces of legislation proposed by the Conservative Republican majority.

There was a Tucson City Councilwoman and assorted movers and shakers in the liberal Democrat world.  There was Stephanie, Myla's friend, who spent an afternoon in my backyard just after I intersected with bullets. Jocelyn from Moms Demand Action was there, proud of her new role as Regional Director for the organization. Talk about getting in on the ground level; she co-founded the Tucson chapter less than six months ago and now she is running the show in five western states.

There was networking galore.  "Let me introduce you to...." was the order of the day. Sgt. Lois hadn't seen Dot since the 1970's; they recognized one another as if no decades had passed at all. There wasn't a necktie in the house; it was Tucson in August and we were warm.

The speechifying, mercifully, was brief and humorous, even if the laughs were unintentional.  "We are working with Suntrans to make it illegal to carry an assault weapon on a bus ... even though it's against state law to enforce such a ban."  Who says such a sentence?  Who lives in a place where that can be said? Unfortunately, I heard someone say it about my very own state, and here's the picture, captured from KVOA, to prove it:

Never fear, Moms Demand Action was on it 

and their Stroller Jam made the point several days later.

Ah, yes, politics in the desert.  

Moms Demand Action has collected over 1.5 million signatures on a petition demanding a plan, on the federal and state levels, to bring sensible gun legislation to a vote.  Gabby and Mark's PAC, Americans for Responsible Solutions, now has the resources to be an effective financial counterweight to the NRA's money, and they are putting that power to good use. The NRA has targeted legislators who voted for the state's revised, sensible-to-me, gun laws and ARS is providing a monetary bulwark. If legislation is held up because law makers are afraid, ARS is proving that we are here for the long haul, willing to put our money where our mouths are, if they, too, will stay the course. The speeches were hopeful, if not terribly optimistic.  

Pam Simon was Gabby's Community Outreach Director; now she's an effective voice lobbying for attention to how we sell and regulate firearms in this country.  She, like most of us, was a reluctant convert to the cause.  Little Cuter begged me to stay away, because "the people on the other side have weapons, Mom!" Pam's son asked the same of her, in a similar vein.  "If you're going to take on guns, Mom, could you do it in a way that no one notices you?"

It's scary. It's necessary.  We can't change minds, because the sides are so entrenched. It seems that we have to change the people, instead.  Pam, in her quiet yet certainly noticed way, is helping to make that happen.  She is, as Arizona List dubbed her on Sunday, a True Champion.

If she can do it, having faced bullets tearing through her body, then so can I.  

And so can you.

Obamacare and Me

I have health insurance. I probably wouldn't have health insurance were it not for the Affordable Care Act.

My room-and-board bill after eleven days in the hospital back in January, 2011, was $145,000. That's for the bed and the sheets and the cleaning staff and the food and the aides and the nurses.  It doesn't include any of the tests, procedures, materials, surgeries, anesthesia, physicians, therapists, or consultations. It cost that much for me to sleep there... though I didn't do much sleeping, if the truth be told.

I was lucky.  My costs were covered by several government programs which come into play when you are shot standing ten feet from your Congresswoman.  That's called "participation in a federally protected activity" and interfering with my participation in that activity is the reason the shooter is spending twenty of his 140-years-after-his-seven-life-sentences in a Federal penitentiary.  Getting shot is never a good idea.  If it's going to happen to you, though, I suggest standing near a Congressperson.  The benefits are awesome.

The Victim Witness Compensation Fund and others have covered most of my care.  I am lucky enough to be able to front the cash and be reimbursed.  We're into five figures for 2013... the third year of my recovery... and there's no end in sight.

My policy with Blue Cross/Blue Shield of Arizona doesn't cover much in the way of therapy. It's not interested in Pilates (the single most effective modality I've found) nor massage, even when the physiatrist states that I have tissue issues which are treated best with myofascial release. I can do it at home, with a foam roller, but LouAnn at Precision Touch Therapy, has magic fingers and amazing strength and I walk better after every session.  I'm covering the costs myself.

Still, my mammogram was covered and my so was my gynecologist appointment.  I can see a family physician and Blue Cross will cover all but the co-pay. I wouldn't have those benefits were it not for the ACA.  I'd maxed out my lifetime limits by February, 2011.  I would be among the uninsured... the uninsurable... the oh-I-hope-I-don't-get-sick populace.

G'ma received a check from her long-term care policy provider.  They had not spent enough on patient care and education in 2012; her refund is their acknowledgment that they must do better, or charge her less.  TBG and I received a similar - and much larger - check from BC/BS/AZ last year. One has not yet arrived in 2013; perhaps the company is spending more of my (exorbitant) premiums on care than advertising or CEO salaries and we won't be receiving one at all.  That would be fine with me.  I don't mind paying for something if it does some good.  I like knowing that someone is watching out for my dollars, even if it is some anonymous bureaucrat in Washington, D.C.  I'll take whatever help I can get.

There are still issues.  Hospital bills are inexplicable.  Could G'ma's Operating Room Services really cost exactly $14,300?  Did she spend exactly $2,210 on Supplies-Sterile? I can understand that the Occupational Therapy cost $467; the therapist (who I don't remember seeing and about whose charge I must call) might well earn an exact dollar amount, without any cents at all.  But supplies? Drugs-General are listed at $773.20 and $780.80 and the Drugs IV Solutions cost $25.85.  I refuse to believe that there what she used added up to a round number.

Not that there is anything I can do about it.  There is no way to determine which supplies she used, nor how much they cost. Did they charge her for the incontinence pads on her bed?  If so, I wish I had taken the ones which were in the open baggie at the foot of her bed.  They were hers, after all. She paid for them.  I have the bill to prove it.

This is not a rant about skyrocketing hospital costs, so I will move on.

Today's mail brought a questionnaire.  The Affordable Care Act wants us to evaluate the first home care agency. I can tell someone how they left us in the lurch, discharging G'ma with no follow up plan.  I can report the fact that they left us in the dark about required medical follow-up and that they were unresponsive to my inquiries. I wrote to the company itself, but this is going further up-stream.  As the letter accompanying the questions noted, these results will be compiled and promulgated so that consumers can rate an agency's performance before becoming a client. I can't imagine that we were the only people who were disappointed in this way.  It would have been nice to have access to that kind of report when I was setting up the plan.  In the future, I will.

The hospital sent a list of comparative pricing structures at similar facilities in our area.  The physician's office sent an evaluative piece, as well. We are making our voices heard and we are being given answers.  It's not enough.  There are wrinkles. It's not perfect.  But, I have health care and, for the moment, that satisfies me.

A Blatant Request for Money

In the months I spent lying on Douglas-the-couch, adjusting my pillows so that I could avoid being blinded by the sun traipsing across the sky, willing my bones to grow and my nerves to regenerate, missing Christina-Taylor and my lost physical capabilities in alternating breaths, I reexamined my life.

Well before I heard Sheryl Sandberg, COO of Facebook and author of Lean In, wonder What would you do if you weren't afraid? at BlogHer'13, I was asking myself the same question. What did I want to do with this new path? Why was I focusing on the problems instead of the actions? Why was I afraid?

True, bullets had penetrated my previously intact self.  My little friend was dead. My Congresswoman was damaged and a young man was being forcibly medicated so that he could stand trial for trying to kill us all.  Some of my fears were justified.  I knew that.  I faced them every day, and every day they became just a little less intense, a little more knowable, a little bit easier to consider.  They never went away.  I just found places in my head to stow them.

The obvious answers aside, I also went deeper.  Channeling Big Cuter, I adopted his Platonic view of existence: the unexamined life is not worth living.  The lint in my stapled-together-navel was reviewed and considered and evaluated. What was holding me back?

Surely, I was no smarter than I was before the bullets began to fly. I was somewhat wiser, since new information and experiences had entered my realm, and none of it could be ignored.  Being at Congress on Your Corner on January 8th had become a master status.  Like being pregnant, no one could see beyond it.  It was all that I was, and, for many people, it was quite attractive.

Amanda Myers became "my friend at the Associated Press."  Ted Robbins, of NPR fame, gained access to my backyard and my heart.  Ben Tracey, CBS's West Coast go-to-guy, and his production crew knew just how to light my particular face... and they took the time to do it. Brian Williams said he'd bring his wife back so that TBG and I could show them great Mexican food here in the Old Pueblo. He was sure we would have a great time.  I was dumbstruck, gob smacked, overwhelmed.  These were people who had talked to the people I'd heard on the radio, seen on tv, read about in the papers.  Suddenly, I was one of them.

Surely, that wouldn't have happened if I had nothing to say. They kept coming back, even after the initial onslaught, to see what I thought. My thoughts mattered and were being spread beyond my circle of family and friends.  I was an opinion shaper, a news maker, a semi-celebrity.  As unwarranted as I might think it was, I was unwilling to squander the currency.

So, I thought. I pondered. I considered. I wanted to do more than the individual volunteering which had always been a part of my life.  I wanted to organize a movement, to create excitement around a project, to get others involved.  I didn't know where to start.

The kids talk about things being in my wheelhouse, referring to that which feels comfortable and familiar.  For me, that centers around schools.  G'ma was PTA president at all sorts of local levels. I was a classroom volunteer and school board president and team mom and field trip chaperon and all the other roles an involved parent plays in her chidren's education. If I was going to step out of my comfort zone and into the wider world around me, I decided to start where I felt at ease.

I fell in love with an elementary school.  I was surrounded by volunteers who brought me food and fun and news of the world outside. I became a pen pals with a fifth grader in New Jersey. Over it all, Christina-Taylor sat in the niche in my living room, unseen by anyone but me, smiling on my ruminations and reminding me that I could do anything I set my mind to.

For a snarky, New York, heathen, her presence was unusual but not unsettling. I liked having my own angel in my corner. It wasn't the drugs... at least after the first month or so when I began tapering off the narcotics and moving to Advil and Aspirin... she was there and she knew I could do it.  I took all the help I could get.

I founded GRandparentsINresidence and brought volunteers into the classrooms and the fiestas and Trunk or Treat. We bring Back to School Love Fest treats when faculty and staff return from summer break. We try to lighten the load and bring joy to the volunteers along the way. It's kept me from sinking into the abyss when the sadness tries to overwhelm me.  It's impossible to be sad when 25 five year olds are hugging my legs.  I know. I self-medicate that way a lot.

I've also brought my treatment team into the fold.  Kyria Sabin, Master Disseminator and caretaker of the Fletcher Pilates legacy, told me she'd always wanted to get into the school system and, a short time later, she was.  We had a rocky start, trying to attract enough students after school or at lunch time, but, through a fortuitous series of resignations and new teachers and frustration on all sides, the Pilates Youth Program was born.

The first component is in the classroom.  Every Wednesday, the girls in the Sports Conditioning section of Amphitheater Middle School's physical education program participate in a Pilates class. Led by a certified teacher from Kyria's Body Works Studio, using equipment donated by Balanced Body, with research on their social and physical status supported by graduate students from the University of Arizona, wearing colorful socks courtesy of GRIN, the girls develop all kinds of inner strength.  They are mentally and physically centered, they are more aware of the connections between their inner and outer selves, they are taller and stronger and straighter... and it doesn't cost anyone anything at all.

I love volunteers.

Fletcher Pilates runs a conference, and PYP's second component was a part of it. Fourteen middle schoolers, from eight different Tucson area schools, met every Sunday to practice and perfect a Pilates mat routine.  No one paid them.  No one gave them school credit.  The assistant principal from Amphi Middle drove three girls from their homes to the studio and back every week.  She didn't ask for anything in return.  It needed to be done, so she did it.

Their performance in May at the Tucson Fletcher conference was met with stunned silence, burst of applause, and an audience on its feet so as not to miss one move. PYP proved to the hundreds of professionals in the room that pilates can and should be done by teens.  We were in the vanguard of a movement, and Elizabeth Anderson jumped right into our wagon.

As the president of the Pilates Method Alliance, the certification and professional organization for Pilates professionals from all teaching legacies, she invited PYP to present at the opening session of PMA's 2013 Annual Meeting, in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, on October 10th.  My job, as keynote speaker, would be to tell my tale and introduce the group.

PMA will provide the rooms.  Body Works will provide the outfits, the rehearsal space, the teachers.  Can you provide the air fare?

GRIN has linked up with fundraise.com.  We've created a site where donations are cheerfully accepted. Fundraise.com will send us almost all of every dollar we raise on the site, and they've been incredibly helpful in creating a clean, clear, inviting space for us to present our case. I, of course, ever helpful and ever mindful of people's reluctance to click away from The Burrow, am adding the donation link at the end of this post.

Either way, if you can find it in your hearts and wallets to contribute to sending the kids across the country to strut their stuff in front of more than 1000 Pilates professionals, to receive the accolades they deserve, to show themselves that they, too, are part of moving the conversation forward, please take a moment and send us a donation.

Every donor will receive a personal postcard from a PYP participant once we get to Ft. Lauderdale. Every donor will receive a letter certifying that GRIN is a 501c3 corporation for tax deduction purposes (check with your tax advisor). Most important, every donor will bring us that much closer to showing the PYP kids that they are not alone in the world.

Can you help?

Donate Now - Secure Online Fundraising

I Pee My Pants?

At least she understood the word incontinent.

That's about as happy as I can be about the scene in G'ma's apartment last Thursday. The physical therapist was discharging her from home care.  She's walking better than she has in years, lifting her quads and bending her ankles and using her entire leg in the process. The PT has instructed the staff and watched as they perform the two sets of exercises my two-months-past-her-broken-leg-90-year-old mother does every day.  She complains. She moans. She cajoles.  She complies. The therapy is working.  She's made enough progress to continue on her own.

Thus, the creation of a discharge summary and a plan. The PT, G'ma, and I sat in her apartment and reviewed her systems, inside and out.  Heart, lungs, activities of daily living... all were considered.  "Can she brush her own hair?" set my short hairs on edge... she was sitting right there and was as aggravated as I was.

"Of course I can brush my own hair... and my own teeth, while you're at it."

I love it when my feisty mom reappears.  The PT apologized for talking about her instead of to her and the rest of the questions went more smoothly.  She has stand by assistance for dressing and bathing. The alarms will remain on her chair and her bed. She's capable of getting into and out of her regular bed, and I must make arrangements to retrieve it from my garage and return it to her bedroom this week.  I'll be discussing an order for a safety rail with her gerontologist, but she's strong enough to sit up and get started on her walker now, so the immediate danger has passed.

She eats well, if little, and has no problems chewing or swallowing... if you don't consider traveling dentures an issue.  My mom does not. We moved on.

There are no household chores to be done, the major benefit of assisted living according to my maternal unit, so that section of the discharge plan could be skipped. She's actively involved in activities, if active means she goes along when prodded and has a good time once she gets there. Her lifelong reluctance to exercise has persisted; she is a willing if cranky participant in her exercise regime.

Her blood pressure medication is still being monitored, her other pills remain the same.  Yes, she is on a medicine to prevent leakage, and yes she is, on occasion, incontinent, and...

"I pee my pants?"

There was horror and shame and worry and confusion on my mother's face. She was humiliated and surprised and shamed.

We jumped into the fray.  "Not often." "It's a natural consequence of being very old." "You never smell."

As usual, changing the subject rendered the conversation moot. She had no memory of it as we moved on to how and who and when the exercise program would be continued. My heart wasn't in it any more, though. I pee my pants??? was running on a continuous loop through my head.

I've gone out of my way to keep her life a series of happy days. She knows I was shot, but adds in the ass with a smile every time.  Life isn't pretty, but she's not unhappy.  I've known for a while that this state of affairs depends on me being the buffer between reality and my mother. They will take care of the things she used to focus on. You don't need to worry about that; I've got it under control works for bills and presents. She knows I am in charge and she trusts that she raised a person who is capable of caring for her so she relaxes.

She goes with the flow.

Oh, I am so sorry I typed that.  I'm laughing and I'm crying at the same time. She is too slow to get up and to the toilet and so she has accidents.  She wears protective undergarments (notice my reluctance to use less awkward terminology) and she is never wet for long. She doesn't carry the odor of an unclean old woman - her major fear of aging, truth be told. But yes, she pees her pants.

I know that I am the only one of us who remembers that conversation.  I know that I am the only one of us who is concerned about that conversation. Still, I remember. I am concerned.

But, she is not and that's what's important.  I will do a better job of shielding her from the harsh realities of her life, and I will try to live in her moments, rather than mine. I don't know what else to do.

Replacing Blanky

He's eight.  Blanky has holes. Blanky is too small.  He can't curl up inside and hide from the world. Blanky's not big enough to comfort him completely. Life's thrown him a curve or two, none of his own making, all of which hurt his heart.  It's a sweet, loving, gentle heart. The Ben's Bells necklace he wears every day is but one indication of his kind soul. People this good often need more protection than the rest of us.  Hence, the need to improve Blanky.  Sometimes, an inanimate object is needed when hugs are the only thing that will assuage the pain...and the person whose hugs are required is not available. 

What to do?  He asked, and I answered. We'd make a new blanket. We might even learn to sew along the way. Amster bought Miss Texas a bright pink sewing machine for $5 at a garage sale. She made the purchase knowing that I would be the instructor; her many talents do not include stichery of any kind. Miss Texas's brothers wanted to learn to use it too. Since I've not plugged in G'ma's portable machine since I moved it to my closet five years ago, my skills might be a little rusty. The pink machine was new to me, and I was intimidated.  Replacing Blanky was a chore left undone.

Then, I spent a week on Cozy Rosie with Little Cuter and SIR. We each had our own corner of the world's most comfortable couch, and we each had our own favorite blanket. I chose the one Aunt Terri made for their wedding. SIR opted for the heavier, silkier blue one.  Little Cuter had dibs on her favorite, the best blanket ever, the one she made herself.... without wielding a needle or thread.

This was a project I could create with Mr. 8. This was the solution I'd been seeking.  I asked many more questions than were necessary, collected all the information I needed, and waited for the kid to return from his Dad's house. 

The first stop was the fabric store, filled with so many many options.  

We never made it past the football section.

It's hard to photograph an unwilling participant.

 We discussed bolts of cloth, and the silver guide rail for the scissors 

 and spent a considerable amount of time purchasing the right pair of sewing shears.

They will not be used for paper or wire or plastic or wood.

They are Fiskars.  They are Mr. 8's shears.

He put them to good use. 

 The craft table was too small for our purposes, so we used the floor.

 Unfortunately, Sasha was using the floor, too.

Mr. 8 wasn't peeved.  

He picked up my cell phone and found the camera before I could explain how to find it and as I laughed at the technical adeptness of his generation and the utter impenetrability of the subject to mine Mr. 8 took many pictures (like this one) and was pleased to know that I'd use them for this post.

His heart was gladdened by the fact that Sasha thought the fabric was soft and inviting. He is truly the kindest human on the planet. He was never annoyed that the beast was in our way.  He took it all in stride, as we snipped, fat then skinny then fat then skinny, all the way through the selvage (another new word) and down both of the long sides of the new blanket.

 The dog got out of his way as the scissors approached.

It wasn't all work.  We had time to test the softness of the "when I'm cold" side, remembering the yoga he learned at pre-school.

 There was more careful cutting,

 and then there was the tying.  

It was hard, and required some encouragement and agreement that the skinny ones were escaping from the knots.  One knot was insufficient.  I insisted on double knots, to maintain the structural integrity of the blanket.  Agreeing, we got to work.  It was tedious and annoying and left no time for picture-taking.  

And then, we were done!

 Mr. 8 wasted no time; he was on his way to put New Blanky on his bed before I could grab the camera and ask him to pose.

The kid has the right attitude.  No pictures.  Let's use the thing right now.

And so, to the oversized bottom bunk he shares with his big brother because neither of them likes the notion of being alone and neither want to sleep on the top. The first order of business was clearing off the detritus of life which accumulates when you only see your bed on alternate weeks. Without going into too much detail, I can guarantee that there will be more laundry than expected in the machine this week.  The clean clothes went into the drawers, the books went onto the shelves, and he got down to business.  

 Scooby-Doo mesmerized him as I shot photo after photo without any complaints.

If I had my way, that television would be gone.

He's lucky I am not his mom.

This is not an easy bed to make. Especially when Scooby Doo is on the screen.

 Unfortunately, he is not graced with expandable arms. Climbing was required.

It took some doing

to get everything just right, 

 since symmetry

was important 

 and the process had to be examined every time he moved,

 but it got done.

All by himself, he straightened and organized and created a masterpiece.

I hope he had sweet dreams, with the cool side down because it was warm last night.

I was sad yesterday. I typed to you before I'd been back to visit G'ma in the pod castle.  I was trying to prolong the vacation feeling, the I can't do anything about it so why worry-ness of the past two weeks.  But I was home and G'ma was down the road instead of across the country and there was work to be done.

I try to avoid guilt about not visiting her sooner. I delude myself into thinking it's too long for me to walk in the heat from the parking lot to her apartment.... but I'm having a hard time just typing that with a straight face. The truth is she doesn't know if I come every day or every month. Sometimes she has my name, sometimes she is merely recognizing a familiar face. I try to concentrate on the smile in her eyes and not the loss in mine.

It's hard to watch her fade away.  Even worse, it's boring.

It used to be that I would talk and she would listen.  I liked to talk.  She liked me.  It worked. I always knew that she found me infinitely fascinating, that my words were pearls of wisdom, that I was funny and smart and worthy.  Whether or not any of that was true from her side of the equation, I will never know.  I do know that I knew it then and I know it now.  It has to be enough for both of us.

Part of being a good audience includes the ability to interject brilliance when the speaker pauses for breath.  G'ma was an expert at it; there was never a doubt that she was listening with her ears and her heart and her mind. She was judging and furrowing her brow and contorting her shoulders, too. I always knew where I stood with her. We didn't have to agree, but we always knew.

And now, I'm providing all the depth... and I find that I'm not that interesting when I'm talking to myself.

As we get further from her surgery and the anesthesia is no longer clouding her mind, she's recovered the back and forth, the banter, the snarky humor that makes the caregivers love her. She's fun to be around, as long as we're doing a puzzle or some other craft.  There are others at the table, and the rec therapist keeps things moving. On our own, keeping the conversation going is getting harder and harder. I try not to worry, remembering that she won't.

She can't remember and she knows it. It's one of the things she remembers. Not her broken leg or where she is or who I am, but the fact that she does not remember.  Somehow, it doesn't scare her.

I don't know how she manages that trick; when I say that I am going to school on being a very old person by watching my mother this is the class I like the most. Her surroundings are familiar, but she hasn't a clue beyond that. The dining room might as well be on Mars.  She can navigate from there to her apartment, but only if someone aims her in the right direction and tells her where to go.

"What am I doing now?" always brings an answer and assistance. That's the level of comfort she requires. The woman she used to be would resent the intrusiveness; the woman she is right now smiles and follows. I'm the only one who seems to have issues with it.

I want her to be aggravated that I only stayed for an hour today. I want her to wonder why I didn't call and let her know that I'd returned from my vacation... not because she was lonely, but because she wanted to know that I was safe. I want her to recognize Little Cuter and SIR and Thomas the WonderDog and to revel in the fact of her grand-daughter's newly discovered green thumb. I want her to laugh over the similarities between SIR and his grandfathers-in-law, all three tool-happy-makers-and-fixers.

Time to put the tune on continuous repeat, I think.

Did She Fall?

The phone rang at 10pm. I knew it would be bad news before I lifted the receiver; Caller ID told me that the pod castle was calling.  There was nothing I wanted to hear from them at that hour of the night.  I was right.

"Your mom fell."

My heart dropped. The plane to Chicago and BlogHer and Little Cuter was leaving in fifteen hours, and I planned to be on it no matter what. 

"How long was she on the floor?" I asked.  "Is she bleeding?  Have you called the doctor?

"Not long. No. No. She's fine.  We just wanted to tell you.  We found her in her chair.  She doesn't remember a thing."

This is where it starts to get fuzzy for me.  G'ma was not bruised.  She was on her chair.  She, of course, was unable to tell the staff what had happened.  I wondered how they knew she had fallen. No one was able to give me an answer.  I'm not suggesting that they didn't give me a good answer, I'm saying that they didn't have an answer at all.

I appreciated the phone call, required as it might have been.  I like being kept in the loop.  I just wasn't sure that there was a loop to be completed.  With no damage, with G'ma found on her chair, without complaints of pain or blood running onto the carpet, I am left scratching my head and wondering. 

Is this the edge of a massive cover-up?  If it is, what can I do?  There is no way to prove anything, no way to rerun the hands of time and determine exactly what precipitated the phone call, no way to know what went on.

The lack of control is frightening.  My job is to be certain my mother is safe.  I can't do anything about her increasing dementia, her lack of appetite, her unwilliness to get off her chair and join me for lunch out at Subway.  I can try to keep her safe.  At least, that was the plan when we admitted her to the pod castle.  Sixteen apartments, four or five staff during the day, alarms on her chair and her bed, overnight staff that is aware of her limitations, all of these were in place and, for a while, working well.

Then, there was that phone call.

She is losing muscle tone and interest in the world around her.  The surgery's anesthesia, though mild, left less of her in the world.  It's a commonly reported side-effect among the already demented, though I've not found reliable research that would suggest that surgery be avoided.  And really, the woman had a broken leg; surgery was not optional. I thought that returning to the pod-castle would reawaken neurons and synapses, that she would relax into her familiar, comfortable, surroundings, that she would be the same.

I'm a dreamer.  I look at the bright side.  I'm often disappointed.

There is blather where there was none.  I used to say, with confidence, that G'ma was fine in the moment.  She might not remember where she had been ten seconds ago, but within the confines of a conversation, she was on-task and coherent.  That's not true any more.

She pointed to Mark Harmon's gorgeous face on the television set, and began to tell me something about him.  The sentence started off well enough, but it devolved into a string of unconnected words before the second comma.  G'ma looked confused, surprised, perplexed.  I finished what I thought she was saying and didn't make a big deal over the drivel I heard, but my heart was breaking.

I treasured those moments of clarity, those conversations about the weather or the kids or the outfits on the people across the room.  They were glimpses of what had been, reminders of the woman she was.  Those encounters reinforced the notion that the old lady in the recliner-she-can't-remember-how-to-operate was still the woman who gave me sage advice, whether I wanted it or not.

I'd really like some now, Mommy.

I'd like to know if you are happy inside.  I'd like to know if you realize you are unable to complete your thoughts.  I'd like to know what to do about it all.  I'd like to know if you fell.

Channeling Mick isn't helping at all. I know I can't get what I want.  I'm trying, but I'm not getting what I need, either.  I'm not giving up, but I'm not sure where to turn. If there are answers out there, they are well hidden. 

It's really no fun at all.

Back in the Swing of Things

I had to set my alarm last night.  I never have to set my alarm.  I don't like to set my alarm.  But, I had to do it so I did and then I woke up an hour before the music began to play.  I knew, deep down in my sleeping self, that I was back in the saddle, again.

On vacation, I can get up to see the sunrise and stay awake til after midnight, and never feel the worse for wear.  At home, in the daily routine, those kinds of hours leave me limp.  Proof positive is living on my shoulders and in my feet today - my head is throbbing and my feet keep cramping. My body is sending me a message; I wish I had time to pay attention.

I was at the bagel store before 7 and at Prince Elementary thirty minutes later.  The custodian waved to me from atop the ladder he was using to put the Welcome Back to School letters on the street-side-sign. Ms. P opened the door with this year's pass key, inhaling the odor of dough and sesame and onion and jalapeno as I walked past her, into the lobby where I said hello to the staff... the people who keep the place running... the ones who smile at you when you come through the door.

Walking down the hall to the teachers' lounge, I flashed back to the first time I came to that school. NBC's West Coast correspondent, Ben Tracey, was there, grinning hello as his crew filmed me maneuvering my walker over their wires.  It was my first outing on my own; a friend dropped me off and another would bring me home, but for two hours I was responsible for my own well-being.

It was overwhelming and empowering at the same time. I try to channel those feelings whenever I encounter one of the Prince Mustangs. School is big and scary and makes you so much smarter as it pushes you to test your limits and expand your horizons and it's okay to be a little bit frightened. I give out stickers for dimples and missing teeth and shy glances and sparkly shoes and whatever is unique to the little one in front of me. There's something in the air in this school that creates kindness and resilience, no matter who is sitting in the principal's office. It's a place of hope and joy and wonder and they welcome me as one of their own.

I hope you are picturing the big smile I wore as I left the Back To School Love Fest breakfast on the table. My hip was hurting, but my heart was full.

Respite over, I began clearing off the front seat of The Schnozz.  Errands had accumulated there, envelopes and packages and notes to myself, but I was on my way to help Elizibeth register for sophomore year so I tossed them into the back. I know where they are when I decide to deal with them.

We waited in many many lines in her high school cafeteria. I judged outfits and tried my best to embarrass her, but Elizibeth has a high tolerance for my dorkiness and besides, everyone knows about you.  I like that she's proud to be my friend.

Students don't pay for their books (unless they lose them), but they do pay to take band and photography and theater arts and it broke my heart to see how far our public schools must go in order to offer the bare minimum of instruction beyond the three R's.  On the other hand, Elizibeth's schedule includes Chemistry/Forensics and I am here to tell you that no one ever tried to make chemistry interesting when I took it in high school.  "CSI??" I wondered?  "Oh, yes!" was her reply.

My hip was screaming by the time we walked back to the car; I'd long before given up trying to affect a smooth gait.  I galumphed into the drivers' seat and made a plan to take her shopping for school supplies tomorrow. I'll copy her backpack and its contents and drop mine off at Youth On Their Own which reminded me in today's mail that teenagers need school supplies, too. I can't think of a better way to determine what a high schooler might need than to go shopping with one.

We'll shop and have lunch and get the boys to meet their teachers and then I'll drop her at home before I go to Pilates. There will be trips to the grocery store and the physical therapist and somehow I have to repair my washing machine but that's what it's like in the real world. There's a steep reentry curve that has set me on my heels a few times today, but lunch with Sgt. Lois reminded me that lots of the things I have to do are things that I really want to do.

As the Cuters' prayers begin: Thank you God for my nice life.

I'm Tired and Grumpy

TBG and I flew home from Illinois today.  I have no idea whether it is 7pm or 9pm and the fact that I got up at 5:30am or 3:30am to say goodbye to the kids isn't helping the situation any.  I miss my family, all the extended pieces of it, and while I'm happy that they are all finding their way, I wish those ways crossed my path more often.

Getting there used to be half the fun.  I loved to fly.  Sometimes I pretended to be a dancer or a ballerina or a surgeon.  We flew JetBlue and Midway Airlines and now, Southwest, smaller companies whose employees seemed to enjoy their jobs.  It was pleasant, even when the plane was full and I was scrunched in the middle seat.

It's not so much fun any more. I walk around airports with my cane, trying to look pitiful so that no one will bump into me and knock me to the ground.  People are so focused on their destinations that they pay no attention to their immediate surroundings. The possibilities for disaster are infinite.

But, I'm slow and patient, and by taking my time I'm able to arrive at the gate, well fed, blue pre-boarding envelope in hand.  I sit close to the jet-way entrance, read, people watch....


... and see this on the t-shirt adorning the 60-something-year-old-man in the wheelchair across the aisle from me.

It was just that kind of a day, denizens.

It was just that kind of a day.





The girl working the check-in lane for the rental car (Budget, if you're interested) took her own sweet time getting to us and Jasmine, if you're reading this, manners are not optional in a customer service business.  Polite is pretty much what distinguishes your presence from that of Robby the Robot. And yes, I called you a girl, because women don't treat other women that way.

It was that kind of a day.

The plane was full and the air was foul and we each had our own personal headache from hell to nurse as we flew over the clouds. It was bumpy and I was hurting and I couldn't get comfortable no matter how hard I tried.  And then, there were the clothes.

(I warned you; I'm tired and grumpy.)

Mr. S&W above notwithstanding, the most startling appearances were those of the teenage girls. Years ago, as Little Cuter created her own, similar style, I came to a comfortable place with college girls in pajamas in public and even created my own personal absolutely-no-tightness-anyplace outfits which covered enough to be presentable. Somehow, the last part of that equation was missing today.

I do not need, nor do I want, to have your belly button pass my nose.  Nor do I want to see four inches of skin above and below it.  As Little Cuter says about spandex, exposing that much flesh is a privilege, not a right. And with privileges come responsibilities, and one of those responsibilities is being appropriate.

I'm not gasping at Marian the Librarian baring her ankles; I'm seeing way more than any stranger needs to see.  I had no idea shorts could be that short, that form fitting, that revealing, and be worn without shame.  It was without mystery.  It was sad.

I felt old, out of date, judgmental, crotchety, prudish.  And then I read my 30-ish friend,Jake's Mom's post on Facebook this afternoon. Driving her sophomore son home from school, she was appalled .

Parents expect our boys to "respect their girls", yet send their girls to school looking like Miracle Mile trash. It's amazing how many HS girls just walked by with their asses hanging half way out of their shorts and skirts. 

I guess I'm not the only one who's cranky today,

I think I ought to go to sleep and wake up in a better mood.  The commercials are for chemically created hamburgers sizzling in grease on a non-stick saute pan.  Alex Rodriguez is losing 35 or 75 or some huge number of millions of dollars and who cares?  There are no role models in the world any more and I have mosquito bites on my feet and I miss my grand-dog and my children and I think I'll take my own advice and go to sleep.

In the morning, I'm bringing First Week of School Love Fest treats to the faculty and staff at the elementary school which adopted me and has helped me to heal.  It will be impossible to be tired and grumpy then.

Is It Everything You Wanted... and More?

 Oh, yes!

TBG's favorite human, Dr. Jim, shares his love of all things automotive. They've motivated one another through Porsches and Mercedes, discussed cross-overs and Ferrari's and commodity trading over a thirty year friendship. TBG's inability to find a new car which intrigues him has been a source of amusement for them.  The 335i and the Boxster S and the VW GTI in our garage have kept him satisfied for the past six years. That's approximately six times as long as he's ever gone between a new car purchase.

Some people buy art.  Some travel the world.  I married a man who buys cars.  It's something you get used to, over time.

At the wedding last summer, Dr. Jim revealed that he was on the waiting list for the Tesla.  TBG began to drool. As I was planning this trip to Chicago-land, his only request was an afternoon with Dr. Jim and his new toy.  Since he and the Dr. Mrs. Dr. were my friends first, it was an easy of course. And so, there we were, in their kitchen for hellos and then in the garage for the main event. 

It knocked our socks off.

It doesn't have as many bells and whistles as its garage-mate, the Mercedes S550 sedan, but that's not really the point.  The things it has and the ways it does them are on a totally different level.  So is the way he talks about it.  Elon Musk has created an experience around his automobile, and Dr. Jim warned us that proselytizing would be part of our afternoon. And, proselytize he did.

His smile lit up the dim garage.  He bought the Model S

 with the largest battery available. He can travel 275 miles between charges.

Tesla made a P40 but no one bought it; they changed the platform to provide the 40 via an adaptor to the 60.  It costs more to get less. As I said, no one bought it. The company plans to have a network of solar powered, free for Tesla owners, 220v chargers across the country.  For now, commuting between Chicago and their lake house, plugging in takes place in their garages.

He had to add a 220 line in each house, but that cost was obviated by the fact that he drives past gas stations with impunity.  His costs work out to the equivalent of 180 miles per gallon.  No, that's not a typo... the operating costs are basically nil.

There are no fluids.  There is no radiator. The battery is warrantied for six years, and the company will subsidize its replacement.  The low center of gravity created by placing the battery underneath the car, running down the middle, gives it a solid, hold the road, feel.  It's rear wheel drive, and may need snow tires in the Chicago winter, but there's really nothing to go wrong.

The navigation system appears on a 17" screen on the front console. I could read the display while standing in the rear, behind the opened trunk.  And, there's a frunk... a trunk in the front. We've had cars with front trunk, but I've never heard the word before.  It was just another part of the experience which made us smile.

The door handles lie flush to the panels when the car is locked. They pop out when you push the button to unlock the vehicle.  Mrs. Dr. Mrs. worries a lot; this visual cue makes her feel very secure.

The arm rests are molded to fit the curve of your forearm. The handle is part of the arm rest. There is nothing extraneous.  There is everything you need.

The Cuters sat in the back, with plenty of leg room.  There's no hump in the middle; their legs could be anywhere.  No one's head was pressed to the ceiling, and they both had clear lines of sight out the front windshield.  When they came back into the house after cruising Lake Shore drive, their smiles were ginormous.  There is no other word for it.

Dr. Jim smiled shyly as he described feeling the thrust of acceleration in his testicles.  I giggled as he said it... and then I got into the car myself.  We were going (back) to Greek Islands, for saganaki and taramosalata and chicken riganati,

and the trip was on city streets. He went around the corner in his residential neighborhood, saw no other cars on the street, and then he hit the gas.

The beauty of a battery powered vehicle is that all the torque is available at the very beginning.  We went from zero to eighty in the blink of a eye.... except I couldn't blink.  I was plastered to my seat. My eyes were bulging out of my face. There was an idiotic smile on my face.

WHEEEEEEEEEE!!!

As Dr. Mrs. Dr. said to her sweetie: "I wish there was something I could buy that would make me as happy as this makes you."

I couldn't agree more.

Sitting in Backyards

I spent the afternoon in Little Cuter's backyard.  Their deck chairs are exactly as they should be - waterproof, classy, and comfortable.  Though the pillows are boring, they are fine for now.  Next year, when they are looking sad after 365 days of sunshine, she can replace the covers with something more fun. I don't know why she'd bother, though.  The rest of the yard more than makes up for these plain, brown, wrappers.

My girl was never one for gardening.  Then, she became a homeowner.  Now, she barely waits to change her clothes before she and SIR are out in the yard, watering, pruning, tending, cleaning.  I watched the mourning dove poop on the ledge; she came home and wiped it off.  Is this the same human who quailed at the thought of bird droppings on the deck in California? Apparently, paying the mortgage causes a profound change in attitude. If I'd only known that when she was a child, I'd have had her contribute just to get her to love the yard.

Loving the yard is something that comes easily for me.  G'ma and Daddooooo shared a backyard with his brother next door; we had no fence between the houses.  Kids ran freely from Uncle's rhubarb to G'ma's snowball bushes. Our yard was the one where all the neighborhood kids congregated.  We played Association (Daddooooo's faux-soccer invention) and whiffle ball and tag and hide and seek, using the tree as home base/plate.

The swings were in the corner - three singles and a push-me-pull-you at the end. There was a sandbox there too, for a while.  I think G'ma got tired of kids with grainy underwear well before we were ready to give it up.

Our dinnertimes were constantly interrupted by gently tapping on the back door.  "Can we play here til you're done?"  I've never felt more popular.

There was always something to do in the yard.  Daddooooo rigged up a long handled pruner with which he would remove the squirrels' nests.  They would dive bomb G'ma's bird feeders from above.  It wasn't the food thievery which bothered him. It was the wastefulness of the seeds strewn on the ground.  If he was going to put them into the feeder, they were going to stay there.

I had a blueberry bush of my very own, in the middle of the garden.  We covered it with cheesecloth.  We put up chicken wire.  We spread foul smelling potions around the roots.  Nothing helped. The birds and the beasts ate every single berry.  I never tasted one.

We had better luck with the strawberries.  They were the border of the back corner garden, and the covering seemed to work for them.  They were small and sweet and never lasted long enough to make it to the dinner table for dessert.  The tastiest berries were hidden well under the foliage; it was fun to forage.

Daddooooo built a grown-up swing once we were adults. There were pillows stored in the shed, and I can bring back their slightly musty odor without any effort at all.  I'd head out to the yard with a book or the NYTimes, prop the pillow on one armrest, my feet on the other, and promptly fall asleep.  I don't believe that I ever read more than a page at a time.  The birds, the breeze, the blue sky through the tree's leaves.... it defined soporific.

Accompanying us on house-hunting trips, my parents would judge a prospective residence by the viability of its backyard for a wedding. "This would be beautiful...." seemed far away when the Cuters were seven and nine; last summer, my own house was exactly that  beautiful for Little Cuter and SIR. When I reminded G'ma of those trips and comments her reply was quintessentially her: "And what else should you use it for?"

Well, let's see, Mommy.  SIR has his "throwing the ball with his kids" lanes scoped out in his head. Little Cuter is looking forward to the raised bed for veggies he'll build for her in the grassless far corner. Thomas, the Wonder Dog, finds the bunnies and squirrels and gnats infinitely amusing. And I, I enjoy sitting on the furniture, cocktail in hand, watching the clouds.

Some things never get old.

Bright Eyes

Smart young people make me happy.... even when I am seeing them at 7am.

Why was I awake, showered, dressed and there?  Because Dr. Roth asked and I couldn't say no. After all, he's kept my spirits up for the past eighteen months. I can refuse him nothing, even when it means that my dreams are filled with "Oh, no, I've overslept and missed the meeting."  I'm typing this at 3pm and my eyelids are fluttering.  It's hard to type through the yawns.

I spent an afternoon and a morning at the Rehabilitation Institute of Chicago, sharing and being shared. I was evaluated and observed and treated and admired.  I liked the admiration most of all, especially since I was able to send it right back to the professionals who were watching me walk and lift and swing and curl and press. They were impressed with my progress.  I was impressed with their skills.  It was a love fest, in all directions.

It's been thirty-two months since I was perforated.  The numbness is gone, except for a small piece just above my knee.  I can access my abductors and my adductors and my glutes. My toes and ankles are fully integrated pieces of every step... when I remember to include them.  I don't need to protect my hip from the effects of moving; I can swing my arms... when I remember... and twist from the waist.  Who knew that walking started from the shoulders?  Not I, until my physical therapist told me so.

I strode down the hallway I'd lurched down last year, and, when I turned to retrace my steps, Dr. Roth's smile lit up the runway.  He pointed out my frozen arms to the medical student in tow, and I, laughing at myself, showed him that I was, in fact, able to alternate my arms and legs as I moved.  It's just a matter of remembering to do it.   It's not as easy as it sounds.

I've spent nearly three years taking very good care of my repaired hip.  I haven't jumped or run or fallen down.  Not once have I put the surgeon's work in jeopardy.  He would be very proud of the way I've protected his hip. The downside of that is the frozen posture I adopt when I move.  If I don't shake it, it won't hurt.  Even now, when the pain comes only at the end of a long day, it's hard to relax. I've spent so long avoiding the agony that now, when it's (for the most part) gone, I can't get my brain to tell my body to loosen up.

Both the physiatrist and the physical therapist noticed it, commented on it, didn't like it at all. I can do better. That's the best message a patient can receive.

Their confidence in my ability to improve was encapsulated in one sentence.  Dr. Roth told me that he "would be very disappointed if (I) had (my) hip replaced." My hip is not the issue.  I have tissue issues (isn't that a lovely phrase?). I am tight and flaccid and torn, and none of that has anything to do with my acetabula. Replacing my bone with metal won't solve the problem. Rehab will.

Rehab will. That's a powerful statement.  It puts the burden on me, and that's where I want it to be. I like being in control of myself.  I like being responsible for my well-being. I don't relish the thought of surgery, of anesthesia, of dealing with a prosthesis. I hated my IUD, and that was removable. I don't like imagining how I'd feel with a faux joint.  It's nice to know that I don't have to do that.

Little Cuter worried that I was relying on strengthening when the problem was the hip itself. She hurts for me when I wince, she aches when I ache.  She shares my distress over that which I can no longer do, like long hikes or exiting escalators with dignity. Surgery seemed like a simple fix. Replace it and begin walking with a brand new zip in my stride. Would that it were that simple.

According to Dr. Roth and Kelly, PT extraordinaire, I can expect to make progress for many moons to come. They pinpointed the areas which require attention. They scripted a program I can incorporate with the work I am already doing. I may have time for nothing else in my life, but I can get better.

Good news like that is hard to ignore. It's also fun to share.

And so, this morning, I rolled off Not Kathy and Dr. K's wall bed and into my speaking clothes and drove up Michigan Avenue to RIC. It was dark. There was traffic. Drizzle was the weather and overcast was the sky. It was 6:30 in the morning. Retirees don't usually get up that early; I object to setting my alarm on general principles.  But, Dr. Roth had asked me to speak at his Chief's Rounds, and nothing was going to stand in my way.

The Magnusson Auditorium was empty at 6:50 and full at 7:01. I had two friends in the front corner seats, but the rest of the room was filled with medical students and interns and residents. They were there to learn from me. I was there to tell them what it was like to be a patient. Dr. Roth and I sat on fancy, high, red chairs in the front of the room; he likened it to Oprah, and the audience laughed. Then he turned it over to me, and I made them cry.

Telling the story of January 8th never loses its impact. Bullets and children and the woman addressing the crowd should not be mentioned in the same breath, and yet there I was, sharing the joy we felt and the horror that followed.  Their eyes never left my face.

For an hour, I told my story and answered questions and tried to give them the benefit of the wisdom I've accrued during my eleven days as an in-patient and my nearly three years of recovery. Don't imagine that a drugged patient will remember your instructions. Don't assume that everyone understands the medical terminology you use. Remember who the patient was "before" and try to craft a discharge plan that meets her where she is. Even the simplest things, like a portable potty, might not be readily understandable to a family dealing with trauma.

I talked and their eyes were glued to my face.  Each and every one of them was present and paying attention. At 7am, just starting their days, no one was on a cell phone or whispering to a neighbor. No one was napping or staring at the ceiling.  Their eyes were watching me. It gave me hope for the future.

I spoke about PTSD and answered questions that were pointed and pertinent. I shared my fears and my problems and my refusal to be poked and prodded. They laughed, they sighed, and they listened. They watched me walk and diagnosed what they saw.  Their comments told me what needed work. I had no doubt that they thought I could do better. It brought a smile to my face.

At the end, I received a framed certificate.  I love certificates.  I'll be hanging it on the library wall when I get home, and I'll look at it whenever I need a reminder that a roomful of doctors think I will eventually have a fluid gait. They were grateful for my presence; I hope they know that I return the feeling.... in spades.