Random Thoughts - The Sitting Shiva Edition

She got her wish.

She went to sleep and she didn't wake up.
*****
I was there the night before, bringing brownies for the caregivers, making sure she was in a comfy, flannel, Lanz nightgown, turning down the lights, kissing her cheek. Every tiny movement caused tiny little ouch's and so I chattered over them, trying to distract her.  I told her about my phone call with Gladys, her oldest friend, and the memories she shared of horseback riding and skiing and driving in the days when girls didn't do those things and the caregiver smiled at me as I said, "You're not really hearing any of this. You're not really here at all, are you, Mommy?"

We were both stunned when the wraith-masquerading-as-my-mother looked up at me from the bed and said "Nope."

Not one to give up on a responsive moment, I went right back at her.

"Do you know where you are?"

"No," she said, bemused.

"Is it okay?"

And whether she said yes, or smiled, or asked why wouldn't it be, I can't really remember, though from time to time I can hear her saying any one of the three. The intent was clear, if my memory is faulty.

What I know is that it's as close to a glimpse of heaven I've ever heard.
*****
Her brain is part of a long-term dementia study being conducted by Columbia University. Her living self participated in verbal examinations, fPET scans, and fMRI's; her brain was removed here in Tucson and shipped out to NYC before the rest of her arrived at the funeral home.

Are you, like everyone else I've told, saying How cool is that right now?  She didn't think it was creepy or strange.  "I'll be dead.  I won't be needing it anymore, will I?"
*****
The hearse attendants forgot to bring her teeth when they took her body.  At one point, her brain was in the air over the mid-west, her carcass was in mid-town Tucson, and her dentures were on the front seat of my car.

In another adage come to life moment, I really did not know whether to laugh or to cry.  Where are you, Mommy??
*****
Though certain nieces entertained a wicked fantasy of G'ma going 'round and 'round on the luggage carousel, in fact she was packed in dry ice and shipped as cargo.  TBG and I felt like cargo as we strapped ourselves into two pay-extra-for-them aisle seats from Phoenix to Newark.  Hours in the air, hours in a strange hotel, hours in my sister's house, hours without my mom.  They all blended together. None were better or worse than the others.  They were hours without my mom.
*****
G'ma has the last plot in Daddooooo's family's section of the Jewish cemetery right around the corner from Belmont Raceway.  We toured the stables and the grandstand and the main entrance and I would have taken pictures were we not in a funeral cortege, circling the facility from the other side of the chain-link fence.

We paused as the gravediggers donned their warm clothes and mourners headed to the rest rooms and then we drove past big stones and little stones and crypts and dates from the 1800's and lots of beloved relatives before we got to the corner at which G'ma was laid to rest.

There's a certain way to hold the shovel and a certain way to put it down and I followed the instructions because it was all I could do.  Little Cuter and SIR hugged and tossed dirt and we breathed a little easier when it was all done.
*****
We rotated between the hotel and the diner across the street and my sister's house for three days.  Three days without a glimpse of the sun.  Three days surrounded by nieces and nephew and cousins and stories... lots and lots of stories.

We played games and looked at pictures and ate and drank and saw old friends.  As IntrepidCat said, "This was a really fun party.  It's too bad that G'ma had to die for it to happen."
*****
From time to time I'll comment on the loss, the process, the clean up, the distribution, the love.  For now, I'm easing back into the world.  I've taken the last seven days to consider my mother's place in the universe, to grow accustomed to her absence, to make a plan for going forward.

It was a long life and an easy passing.  Wouldn't we all like to say the same for ourselves?

Musings on G'ma

This series of reprinted posts is a tribute to my mother, Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis, who died on December 5, 2013. 
Fresh posts will resume sometime soon.  For now, I hope you'll spend the time with us as we remember our mom.

One year ago, G'ma was in the rehabilitation hospital trying not to melt into the bed. Friday night she was in the middle of the Happy Ladies Club cocktail party in my living room. If I'm going to beat myself up when she rolls off the couch, I'm going to have to remember to revel in the times she's up and out and having fun. 

G'ma's a member of the Club, and we've been to luncheons and, of course, she's the cheerleader when we bowl. Not that she remembers any of this, but the women who've been there with us all recognize her limitations and they've learned to create conversations in which she can participate. The bowling ladies all spent time yakking with her and my hiking buddies each made a special effort to wonder whyshe didn't hike with us...... which led to G'ma demonstrating her exercise routine (bending and unbending her index finger) and laughing. Laughing is good.

Those who didn't know her were respectful of her short term memory issues and talked about old times and the here and now and then wandered away. And there she sat, Sprite Zero with a straw in one hand, a plate of cookies resting on her lap, and her eyes sharp as they ever were.

And she sat and she watched and she judged. From her comfy chair right in the middle but not in the way (just as she'd like it if she gave it any thought) she had the perfect vantage point to scan the crowd and make her internal pronouncements. TBG and I knew what she was thinking as her eyebrows moved over her forehead and her head gave those almost imperceptible shakes and her mouth smiled then pursed then disapproved, but I'm certain no one else could tell that anything was going on at all. But it certainly was. 

We'd been to the luncheon/gift exchange at her pod-castle that afternoon. With the list of the caregivers' names our only guide, we'd thought and pondered and cogitated and deliberated and considered and rejected and discarded dozens of ideas. The facility has a "no cash gifts" policy, and that extended to gift certificates and those pretty credit card gift cards from Target and Barnes and Noble and Home Depot. Handkerchiefs, candy, perfume, picture frames.... we decided on body wash, puffs and a blessing charm in pretty bags with tissue paper and pretty tags. Walmart and the Beauty Warehouse and the grocery store...... not nearly as much fun as shopping for this kind of thing would have been in Marin or in Chicago but I'm in 
Tucson and I love it even if the shopping is boring.

The luncheon was a pot-luck buffet and it had the usual array of pizza, chicken and rice casseroles, Swedish meatballs and deviled eggs. I'd love to know who thought that spare ribs was an appropriate addition to the festivities..... one cannot really use utensils to eat a rib, and greasy fingers combined with 80 years of life on the planet leads to some interesting experiences. 

G'ma eats with the same 3 ladies at every meal. One says nothing. One introduces herself as "completely deaf" despite the 2 industrial-strength hearing aids she's sporting. The third defines querulous. The deaf lady and G'ma exchanging winks over the whispering, whining, wondering tablemate between them was a sight to behold. G'ma would answer her questions or suggest solutions and she'd sigh and tell us why it wouldn't work and the deaf lady, though missing the words, knewwhat was going on and she and G'ma rolled their eyes, subtly, as the middle one tried to get the food into her mouth. They may be old, but they've retained their edge. After asking me if I was the daughter, deaf-but-feisty looked straight at G'ma and said, "I know enough not to ask you" and they shared a laugh. 

It was the kind of laugh women whose brains are functional within limits they'd never imagined and whose bodies don't respond to the commands those brains are sending laugh. The kind of laugh that would be a cry if they were querulous but instead is realistic and acknowledging and rueful and honest. Because it is what it is whether they laugh or they cry.

And it's much more pleasant to be around them when they're laughing.

(First published December 21, 2009)

Voting With G'ma

This series of reprinted posts is a tribute to my mother, Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis, who died on December 5, 2013. 

Fresh posts will resume sometime soon.  For now, I hope you'll spend the time with us as we remember our mom.

It's election day.  I took myself to my polling place and walked right into a voting booth (after proving that I was who I said I was by presenting my driver's license) and was finished in 3 minutes.  It was vaguely unsatisfying. 

The room was empty except for the poll workers and me.  It was lonely voting without another citizen to share a smile and a civic connection.  A low turn out is probably bad news for the candidates and issues about which I care, but that wasn't what was going through my head as I inked in my choices.  Instead, I was wondering about the lack of respect for the privilege of being a citizen of these United States of America which obviously exists in this precinct.  The franchise was fought for and suffered for and cherished and treasured and it's not that hard to find the polling place and still there were no lines, no fellow citizens, no camaraderie.  There were the elderly worker bees supervised by one younger woman just sitting there, waiting for someone to help.  It's not a very exciting job, but today it looked more dismal than usual.

I left the gym at the Y after commiserating with the ballot-drop-box-worker about the lack of enthusiasm I was able to muster for this voting experience, and then I went over to the pod-castle to help G'ma with her ballot.  Yes, it was an Early Ballot but we were late getting to it.  Amster's law offices held a Proposition Party last week, and I had to wait for that input before I could properly advise G'ma on the myriad issues we were asked to decide upon.  Pizza and garlic twists and an hour of laughter and insight stood me in good stead; I knew what was behind the ballot initiatives and I knew where I stood on those issues.  I was able to make a good argument for the opposing side, and TBG thought enough of my decision making prowess to ask me for a list of who and what were appropriate decisions.  We often disagree on the issues; this year his distaste for the Republicans here in Arizona led to our votes being identical.  I can't remember when he didn't vote for at least one non-Democrat.  Of course, most of our Republicans are more Tea Party types than Lincoln types, a division which should be interesting when/if they end up in Congress.  Wondering what the Republican Caucuses will sound like next January kept me occupied on the drive to the pod-castle.

G'ma's first reaction to her early ballot was "You just fill it in for me"..... but I don't reinforce laziness so I waited a minute or two for her to forget why she was sitting next to me on the couch before I reintroduced the ballot.  This time, she was ready to play.  Though her initial reaction was to vote for all the Democrats (like any lefty from the 1930's she's a die-hard liberal and do not try to get her to change), she listened to my description of the candidates, pro and con, before she colored in the circles next to her (Democratic) choices.  Since our Republican candidates are uniformly against spending for education or health care and seem to be incapable of putting two sentences together to make a paragraph, my synopses of their positions had us both laughing out loud.  John Huppenthal is running for State Superintendent of Education on a platform of speaking English and discipline in the classroom.  "With a switch and a scowl?" asked G'ma as she filled in the dot next to his opponent.  I was surprised to realize how many of the Democrats had served on school boards before running for higher office.  I was equally surprised to see how many of the Republicans had not gone to college, or even high school.  A GED means something, but not as much as sitting in the classroom and finishing with your peers.  "What does he know about education, then?" she wondered, while voting for his opponent.  There was the joy in voting for a nice Jewish girl married to an astronaut (Gabrielle Giffords) and the disgust in being unable to vote for the local school board. 

Neither of us had received any information at all about that race - no phone calls, no door to door meet-and-greets, no mailers outlining the issues and the positions.  It's times like these that I miss living in Marin.  Our politics were truly local there; when 13,000 voters comprise the electorate it was  hard to ignore a race.  Everyone was concerned about everything - quality schools equaled high property values and well-heeled residents to shop in the local businesses which drew tourist-trade from the well-protected open spaces surrounding the community.  Here, I have a general sense of living in the Amphitheatre School District but not much beyond that.  My friends with school age kids do and don't use them, but no one seems too concerned about them, one way or the other.  I could exert some effort and figure it out for myself, but I am tired of being responsible for the education of other people's children when those people don't care enough to try and involve me themselves.  There are a lot of voters without a specific-child-related-interest who live in this District.  I can't believe it hasn't occurred to anyone that we might be a significant voting bloc.  In similar situations in the past, G'ma used to look for the one's she knew, then the Jews, then the women and then the Democrats.  We knew none of them, none were obviously co-religionists, and voting for a woman seemed downright sexist, even to G'ma's 87 year old self.  I should have called Mommy Crayola and asked her advice, but I didn't. We left those circles blank.

Then came the Propositions.  She's not against ObamaCare (which is now an epithet but which, I predict, someday will be said with as much reverence as Medicare) and she's a Union girl from way back, and anything with which Karl Rove might be connected is definitely not something she wants, no matter what that might be and so we were able to cut through the first third without much discussion.  Medical Marijuana?  "They want to tell my doctor what he can prescribe for me?" came right before she winked and said "And if someone wants to get it he'll get it anyway, right?" and I reminded her that a doctor had suggested it for her as an appetite enhancer while she was recovering from bilateral broken ankles and we wandered around the fact that she has "no memory at all of that" before we voted in favor of prescription pot and moved on to refusing to allow the legislature to sweep monies from voter approved funds for early childhood health and education and open space and trust lands into the general fund.  The argument that this would offset raising taxes to meet the budget deficit held no sway with my totally engaged, completely focused on the task at hand ("what's the next one?") maternal unit.  "And then we have no open space and kids go without..... hmphfffffff" and there was that face again, the one with the lips pursed and eyebrows knitted and the whole thing drawn into the center like a furious prune and believe you me you do not want to be on the receiving end of that look.  My mother filled in those circles with venom, with fury, with distaste for the idiots who could conceive of such a thing

and my heart was bursting. 

I knew she was in there.  I wasn't even peeved that she was sucking her dentures around in her mouth ("Gross Mommy!!  Stop It!!!" and she just smiles and does what she wants and I shrug and move on).

Nope, not at all.  We were involved and invested even if no one else seemed to be.

Thank you, suffragists.  

Helena  Hill Weed, Norwalk , Conn.    Serving 3 day sentence in D.C.  prison for carrying banner,      'Governments  derive their just powers from the consent of the  governed.'

 Thank you very very much.

And thanks to Bunionella for the photo and info on the suffragists

(First published November 23, 2010)

Care Packages from G'ma

This series of reprinted posts is a tribute to my mother, Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis, who died on December 5, 2013. 

Fresh posts will resume sometime soon.  For now, I hope you'll spend the time with us as we remember our mom.

I was in Costco last week, shopping for G'ma.  Tissues and toilet paper are two areas in which I can really make a difference in her quality of life.  The pod castle would provide both of them, and I'm sure they are included in her cost of care, but Posh Plus and Kleenex with Aloe are much nicer for my only mother.  The product placement people know what they're doing -  the bulk items are all the way in the back of the store.  I had to walk the gantlet of neatly folded temptations on my way to the Ultra-Soft Charmin.  It was hopeless.  I succumbed immediately.  

The Little Cuter and I love Costco.  She sat on the big orange flat-bed as I pushed her up and down the aisles.... until she went off to college.  We giggled and we investigated and we surmised ("Who could possibly use this many.......") and we always had a good time.  So, she really wasn't surprised when I called her at work and asked if she needed .... or wanted... new underwear and new socks and what color camisoles would be most appreciated and then we went on to the plaid cotton hang-out-pants that had SIR written all over them.  By the time I was back at the toilet paper my cart was filled with love. 

I paid and I left and then it occurred to me that I had used G'ma's debit card.  For everything.  But we never reconciled the bills after our Los Angeles adventure, and the Visa people do want to be paid.  This would have to be discussed. 

I dragged all the goodies into G'ma's apartment and collapsed onto the couch. "What do you have here?" was all she could say before the laughter over took us both.  I'm not sure what was so funny, and neither was she, but there was something going on and we were enjoying it.  Sports bras and tissue boxes were commingling in an ever expanding mess as I tried to pile things atop one another only to be thwarted by less than cohesive plastic wrapping.  "Give me that!" she demanded but I had no idea what she was asking for and when I asked her what she wanted she said she couldn't remember and we laughed some more. 

I packed the medium USPS Priority Mail box and everything fit nicely.  In our continuing efforts to use up the collected  (or collective?) contents of stationary drawers gone by, of knowing that this card will be perfect for someone... someday... I picked one from the Thinking of You stack and gave it to G'ma for some words of endearment.  It's true that I had to remind her that this was a just because gift every so often, but there were many boxes of Puffs and many rolls of toilet paper to collect and store in the single closet she calls her own so I was busy and we were in no rush at all. 

"Now what?" she asked.  I tossed her a sheet of stickers and she went to town.  The envelope and the box were carefully and precisely decorated.  She wasn't complaining that her hands didn't work.  She was sitting back and deciding and then placing, with intention and attention, each and every sticker on the sheet.  When she was finished, we dropped the package at the post office and went on to lunch.

There were emails flooding my in-box once the box arrived:

The camisoles you sent me are the softest camisoles in the history of camisoles. I would like to wear one on myself every day all day and then not even have to take it off to shower. Grand-dog agrees, as I left one on the floor last night and he chose to forgo the bed and sleep on the camisole.

And: 

I hope you bought some of these camisoles for yourself. I catch myself rotating in my chair just so I can feel them move. Remember when I couldn’t stop hugging myself in my first magenta cashmere sweater? SAME DEAL.

 And:

Who knew Costco had such awesome underthings?

And, from SIR himself:

You didn't have to send me anything!!   They are my favorite!  Oh, and please tell G'ma I loved the card.

That was not an add-on to the emails his sweetie had sent, but a personal thank you... he has a little thing going with G'ma and bizarre cards...... it any wonder I love him so?

The Little Cuter laughed about the stickers on the box, reporting that they kept her amused and smiling all the way up in the elevator. 

Alas, I recycled the box before I could take a picture…

so G'ma and I were forced to return to the scene of the crime and continue to shop.  She has other grandchildren, and one of them, IntrepidCat, was available for a g-chat with her aunt prior to our excursion.  We discussed curves and comfort and style and colors and G'ma and I were well-prepared as she pushed and I directed the cart down the aisles.

Standing in Costco, my mother on my cell phone with my daughter, discussing camisole colors and life in general....... I'm not sure it gets better than this.

I left G'ma the cards and the boxes and a sheet of instructions directing her to choose a blank card, write Happy New Year (Rosh HaShonah begins on Wednesday night) and Love, G'ma and decorate it with stickers.  The boxes were to receive the same adhesive accouterments.

I left them on the couch so that she couldn't take a nap without dealing with them.  Or so I thought.  Turns out that she used them as foot rests and never imagined that they were a task awaiting her attention.  No one reminded her, and she wasn't uncomfortable,  just a bit confused but "Aren't I always just a little confused?" so we did it as our post-prandial activity on Sunday and here are the results

I do love having my mother around. 

(First published September 6, 2010)

Tuesdays with G'ma

This series of reprinted posts is a tribute to my mother, Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis, who died on December 5, 2013. 
Fresh posts will resume sometime soon.  For now, I hope you'll spend the time with us as we remember our mom.

G'ma and I went bowling with the Happy Ladies Club yesterday.

When I stopped by the pod-castle just after 9am, she was curled up snug as a bug in a rug in her comforter. Without her glasses on, she could only see my outline until I bent down to kiss her hello. I guess the caregivers don't include that service in their daily rounds, because she knew it was I, even with her eyes closed. I do love having a mother around.
I'd come to remind her that I'd be back at 11:30 to collect her for lunch. As she sank deeper into her blankets to resume the sleep I'd so rudely interrupted, I left with little confidence that she'd remember to get up and get ready. I backtracked and left her a written reminder on the seat of her walker. I do wish my mother could remember her itinerary on her own.

But later, when I knocked and then opened her door, her fully clothed, ready and waiting self greeted me with a smile and a laughing remonstrance: "It's 11:31. I've been waiting." So much for worrying. As always, when something involving her children had to be done and done right, G'ma never missed a beat. I do love having a mother around.

We shared a caesar salad and a chicken-pesto-shaved romano thin but really tasty crust pizza and had leftovers for the newspaper seller in the intersection. The wait staff flirted with her and she did her cute little old lady thing and everyone told her how adorable she was. In the past, this would have set her teeth on edge; adorablewas never something to which she aspired. Intelligent or competent perhaps, if she were to allow any complimenting at all. When asked about her reluctance to accept the nice words thrown her way, she reflected on her parents' Socialism and their constant reminders that, despite her A+ report cards and perfect Shirley Temple ringlets, she was no better than anyone else. Every once in a while whole relevant memories like these spring to the part of her brain that's remembering at the moment and she tells me stories I've never heard before, with emotions she's never shown before. I miss the old G'ma, but I do love having this version of my mother around.

We had some extra time ("To go with the extra food," according to G'ma) so we went shopping for the essentials : chocolate and Fixodent. Such is the 9th decade of life. On the theory that you can never over-pay your caregivers but knowing that they cannot accept gratuities other than food stuffs, this just had to be purchased for them as a Thanksgiving Thank You:Of course, G'ma kept forgetting that the sampler wasn't for her. "This is an awfully big box, don't you think?" I smiled to myself everytime I reminded her that it was for the helpers at the pod-castle. I do so love having my mother around.


(The apple is there to demonstrate just how big this box really is.... we stopped traffic in the aisles of Walgreens as we carted it to the cashier.)


She kibbitzed while we bowled, and supervised the opening and en-bowling of the Hershey's Kisses and plain M&M's once we got back to her suite and I watched in astonishment as the stream of visitors began. The word had gone out that G'ma had new chocolate and before I could unwrap the mini-Hershey bars (milk chocolate and she doesn't care if dark is better for you because she likes milk chocolate and you don't want to get between G'ma and her chocolate if you know what's good for you) three different people had dropped by for a sample. G'ma was the gracious hostess, circa Jewish-mother-1955: "Please, take another. Don't be so stingy with yourself." If it takes chocolate to bring the party to her room, she'll never be without. I love that they love having my mother around.

A truth (after all, the Burrow's masthead promises them....) that surprises me is the equanimity with which I am now able to accept the-woman-who-is-inhabiting-my-mother's-body as Mommy. I have given up trying to re-make her into her old self. Age and a hospitalization gone awry have robbed her of the capacity to retrieve newly received information. To say that she can't remember, though, seems to imply that she has the capacity to create and store the information. I try to pry this mystery apart with her every once in a while, but she really can't give shape to the situation. And so I let it be, and go with the flow, and chill out and somehow I've gotten to a place of not worrying. She's happy and living with people who like her and she returns the favor and what more could I ask?

I do so love having my mother around.

(First published November 18, 2009)

I Am NOT an Old Lady!

This series of reprinted posts is a tribute to my mother, Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis, who died on December 5, 2013. 
Fresh posts will resume sometime soon.  For now, I hope you'll spend the time with us as we remember our mom.

"I am NOT an Old Lady", she said.

JannyLou and G'ma and I were at what passes for a deli here in Tucson, chowing down on pastrami, turkey, and salami-and-eggs because that's what G'ma said when we asked her what she wanted to eat.  The fact that she's craving salty food might be coupled with the fact that her feet are a little bit swollen; I'm talking to the doctor in the morning. Today was girls' time. We weren't worrying about anything.

I went to the pod castle after finalizing the flowers for the wedding.  I was feeling relieved, un-burdened, list free.  G'ma was, to my surprise, sitting on the couch in the family room, surrounded on each side by what passes for a handsome man in her arena, participating in the group exercise class. Olga, she who cannot be refused, was tossing an inflated globe to the residents.  As it bounced and arced and was caught and returned, her gently accented English spoke of the cruise they'd be taking that afternoon.

No one wondered if the tickets had been purchased.  No one asked about the itinerary.  No one was processing her words.  So much of what goes on in my mother's life is new to her - no matter how many times she's been-there-done-that-heard-that-been-told-that. She's decided to accept that as a fact.  She doesn't rail against it; doing so wouldn't help her remember any better than she is right now, as she reminds me on a regular basis. The fact that this young woman was telling her that she was boarding a ship in a few hours made no impact at all; it was incomprehensible, as is so much of her life these days. She sees no sense in being pissed at the whole thing.  It is what it is.

I am so going to school on being a very old person on my mother. G'ma is living proof that there's no age limit on being the exemplar.

I sat in the comfy recliner in the back of the room, reading Wallace Stegner's Angle of Repose on my Kindle, as the air-filled-globe was tossed and that cruise kept on coming up. Following the shoulder shrugs (careful of G'ma's fragility in that area) and the toe points and flexes,  Olga had them touch their toes and their knees and try to touch the ceiling and by the time they were leaning forward on their chairs to aim for the furthest post for the ring toss she'd moved every bit of them without a single grunt or groan.  All those gentle stretches and my mother was right there, in the middle of it all.

I've spent hours trying to motivate her.  Olga, apparently, has the touch.  I'm not complaining, I'm just sayin'.....

Vern wanted to go back to his room; Olga left to aim him in the right direction.  Norman missed the post with his ring and, not missing a beat, G'ma told him to "bend down and pick it up.... she's not here... she won't know!"  To an encouraging chorus of miscreant octogenarians, he did just that.  They may not be sure where they are or what they're doing, but getting something over on the teacher seems to be hardwired in the American genome.

After decorating the September calendar that adorns the hallway, much like that in an elementary school classroom.... and I try not to feel sad... or to go there.... because G'ma thinks it is a pretty thing on the wall when she bothers to look that way at all.... and I go back and forth feeling sad and lonely and delighted with her spirit and the joy she takes in the mundane.

I try not to conside the fact that anything beyond the mundane, the here and now, is also beyond her ken. If she's not sad, how dare I be?

We went over to JannyLou's house and then we went out to lunch and we were talking about the wedding and the party and if G'ma wanted someone to watch over her and that's when she told us, in no uncertain terms, that she is NOT an Old Lady.

Old Lady.  With capitals.  It's a state of mind, not a state of being.  She's 5 months from 90.... that's old in anybody's book.  She can't remember her address or the year or my name most of the time, but her attitude is still around.  She manages to annoy me in the same ways she's always annoyed me, and she is able to comfort me in the old familiar ways, too.

Character is immutable. I'm not sure who she is right now, and neither is she.  But we do agree on one thing - she's not an Old Lady.  Not yet.

(First published September 11, 2012)

The Move to Assisted Living

This series of reprinted posts is a tribute to my mother, Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis, who died on December 5, 2013. 
Fresh posts will resume sometime soon.  For now, I hope you'll spend the time with us as we remember our mom.

You get what you pay for. The "2 guys and a truck" were exactly that - and they were 6 hours late, too. But G'ma is moved into her pod-castle, and nothing was broken or lost during the move. I probably should've checked the apartment before we left, but G'ma was in the car and it was already 4pm and I was tired. Very very tired. And she doesn't have to vacate the Old Folks Home space until mid-September, so I have time to dispose of the detritus left behind.

I'm guessing that architects of pod-castles have determined that residents in Assisted Living spend most of their time in the bedroom. G'ma's is huge, with a picture window framing the mountains and the sunset. All of her bedroom furniture and some of the living room furniture fits comfortably. The living room space is another story entirely. She's watching tv at an angle, there's no getting out onto the patio without moving an arm-chair, and that 27" tv really should be a flat screen instead of jutting out into the room like an elephant's trunk. But she's safe and her immediate surroundings are familiar and those were my main goals.

And I'm exhausted. Fell asleep on the couch at 9:15 last night (hence the delay in publishing this post) and woke up at 4am grinding my teeth and panicked. With nothing to which I could attach my heebie-jeebies (a great word from childhood which does not get enough use in adulthood) I felt like an idiot - but an awake idiot. She's in. The move is done. The major pieces we left behind have been spoken for. What am I worrying about?

The caregivers in the pod-castle were responsive and kind and remembered G'ma's name and told her they wer glad she had come to join them. There was a 20-something volunteer perkily volunteering. The med-tech had issues with the punctuation on a medicine bottle's label (omitting the period between do not crush and open capsule and mix with applesauce leads to an interpretation requiring G'ma to swallow a capsule the size of her pinkie --- the whole pinkie --- instead of snacking on an applesauce/potassium fruit cup 3 times a day) and no one seemed to want me to write a check for her rent, but other than that the pod-castle was exactly as advertised. The residents were friendly, the big screen tv in the rec room has an easily understood remote, and dinner, though served earlier than she'd have liked, was "good.... interesting.... good." The morning staff will bring her a breakfast tray at 10am, and it will be just what she's been eating for the past 40 years. "OOOH, that will be lovely."

I left notes everywhere, reminding her that she's in her new home and reiterating the process which will bring help to her suite. I never lost my patience when she asked (every 15 minutes) "Why am I moving?" I connected her tv (though I lost the remote) and found Star Trek for her to watch. I laid her nightgown and bathrobe and slippers on the bed. Her laundry hamper is just where she wanted it to be and her clocks are all re-set to the right time.

So why is my stomach in knots this morning?

As we were falling asleep last night, TBG murmured "You're a good daughter. You know that, don't you?" Yes, I know that. I just wish the status didn't come with so much angst.

First published August 4, 2009)

She's Gone

Esther Tamara Rukasin Annis

Born February 19, 1923

Died December 5, 2013

A smart, thoughtful, interested and interesting woman.

A loving grandmother and mother and aunt.

She is wallowing in chocolate, Hershey's kisses on the side, 

watching Christina-Taylor jump in mud puddles.

Listen in to the conversation:

"You're getting filthy, sweetheart!"

"It's fun!"

"Come, have some chocolate.... take more... don't be stingy with yourself."

Peacefully,in her sleep, surrounded by her memories and supported by Hospice and staff and family,

she left this world and is now reunited with the woman she used to be. 

Sad but not tragic, her loss leaves a void to be filled with good books, loving children, and more photographs than any family should ever collect in ten lifetimes. 

She will be missed and remembered.

*****

I'm taking a funeral hiatus for the next few days.

The Burrow will feature a series of G'ma related posts.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed living them.

The Chanukah Party - Celebrating and Storytelling

When I left you, we were waiting for the kids to come home and finish the decorating.

Their enthusiasm was overwhelming.

I put turkey and Oreos in their mouths and suddenly there was energy aplenty.

They hung the sign and snapped the photo and they didn't seem to think it was relevant that passage between the party and the main entry was obscured.  

"They can pay attention and duck their heads," was the ten year olds' reply.

I had nothing in the way of a retort.

 One of my favorite things about parties in Tucson is that the Dads usually come along, too.

Will's father listened 

as I contemplated creating menorahs out of clay.

When I was ready, the crowd gathered for a brief period of instruction.

Instruction, you ask?  

Yes, I reply.

 Few of our guests had ever seen a menorah up close and personal before.

I had some metal ones out on the table as exemplars, but once the artists got started, those became irrelevant.

Some were quite independent, like Miss Texas, the snake maker.

 Some were happier with mom sitting nearby, not helping, but not leaving, either.

 Some tried unusual shapes

 which turned out to have structural integrity issues.  

 He ended up with a straight one, after the candles refused to stay upright.

When her first try didn't work out, 

this happy one smashed it to smithereens, grinning all the way.

"I'm flatttttening it!"

The big girls played dreidle for pennies,

and ate veggies

while the rest of us fit candles into menorahs

and lit the shamash with a recalcitrant lighter

and then, with the other Jewish mother at the party we chanted the blessings in Hebrew and in English 

as we lit our candles

 and sang songs and smiled,

 watching the lights create their own little miracle right there in Amster's living room.

 He was mesmerized by it all.

Then, it was time to eat.

Latkes frying in my pans

 turned into lusciousness on the plate, although in need of a bit of salt, it seems.

 Chanukah cookies satisfied the sweet tooths.

(Should that be teeth? I pondered. Comment below if you choose.)

And yes, there was protein. I made a turkey.

You've already seen the veggies.

It was a magical, wonderful, special evening, with parents willing to come out on a school night and see what Chanukah is all about.  They're all signed up for next year's event.  

After all, this is what they saw:

Who wouldn't want to do it all over again?

The Chanukah Party - Planning and Preparing

I"m typing at Amster's computer, smelling the roasted turkey cooling on the countertop.  Our joint Chanukah party is starting in two hours, and I'm in charge of the preparation.

That's actually not fair to Amster and her family; they are in the midst of a major home renovation and spent last night putting in flooring and baseboards.  She's cleaned and reorganized and made the space available.  It's my job to create the foodstuffs and the activities and the story telling and the candle lighting ceremony.  This is our third year and we're getting more and more organized as time goes by.  The proof is right here - I have time to type to you.

I stopped at her house on the way to my class this morning and put the turkey in the roaster. I remembered the rack and the bird and she had the cheesecloth in the storage bins.  I'm not sure why I use cheesecloth on top of the skin, but I do.  I didn't baste this beast nor add anything but a bit of oil drizzled on the top; it smells delicious.

I dragged ten pounds of potatoes from the market to The Schnozz to her kitchen, along with sour cream and onions and eggs.  She's got flour and baking soda and apple sauce and Marie is bringing challah and kugel to compliment the four pans of frying latkes I'll be tending as the kids play with dreidles and make menorahs out of clay.  Beautiful Annie would have brought jelly donuts were she not on a plane traveling back from Georgia.  I left the tall box of gelt at home on Little Cuter's chair and I'm not traipsing across Ina Road again to get it.  I've already gone back to get the Cuisinart; there was no way that I was going to be grating ten pounds of spuds by hand.

That side trip gave me a chance to see TBG for lunch; I left before he was out of the shower this morning and I won't be home until the third quarter of the best football game of the season. Don't be surprised that he's not joining the fun.  For him, kid parties are pure torture.  He worries about the damage done to floors and walls and furniture, he monitors behavior. and he cannot allow himself to relax.  He attended the Cuters' first birthday celebrations  After that, we encouraged him to spend the party hours at the gym.  Everyone was much happier that way.

There will be Amster's four and their school friends and some neighbors and work colleagues and we'll play and eat and sing and try not to burn their house to the ground.  Fifteen menorahs times seven candles makes me exceptionally happy that Amster's love is the Fire Chief.  I have no interest in an arson investigation.

I have a latke recipe from play group days. and G'ma's food processor, and towels sent by FAMBB some years ago. My family and friends are with me in my heart as I introduce a group of heathens to the story of Judah Maccabee, my favorite historical terrorist.  The kids are always more interested in the fighting elephants than they are in the miracle of one-night-of-oil-lasting-for-eight-nights and that's just fine.  I've never been able to reconcile the two pieces, myself.  They are part and parcel of the tale, though, so they will both be shared and commented upon and then we'll light the candles and spin the dreidles and I'll take myself back in time to when I was the little one doing the very same things.

Tradition.... as Tevye sang and reminded us that that's what makes the world go 'round.... at least at this time of the year.

Tune in tomorrow for pictures and the recap.  At this time of year, I find it hard to think about anything but celebratory joys; I apologize to those of you who are looking for a more trenchant analysis of the issues of the day.  I'm just not there, nor am I going there anytime soon.  This is so much more fun.

Kindness Day

There never was such a thing at Oceanside Junior High School.

It was never considered.

We bullied and were bullied and no one noticed.

We lost family members and friends and there was no public outpouring of love or concern.

We were there to learn the facts and figures the teachers had to offer.

Our emotional lives were secondary.

That's not the case these days.

Schools are rising to the occasion, teasing out feelings and offering opportunities to share in public.

Sometimes the activities are event specific, responding to a current horror.

Sometimes the activities are more general, touching deeper pieces with a lighter touch.

The day before Thanksgiving Break was just such an activity.

Amphi Middle Schoolers spent the day moving from classroom to classroom with their homeroom advisories, writing letters to servicemen, creating Beads of Courage bracelets, sculpting beads from clay, and painting Ben's Bells flowers.

As always, the principal invited me to share the joy.

As always, I left with a full heart.

Look at all the fun we had.

Ms. Taylor, wearing her AMS t-shirt, gave the instructions to a smiling crowd.

Classrooms haven't changed that much since I was 13.

This looks just like the science room I remember from OJHS.

 The unglazed bisqueware flowers were ready .

Ms. Taylor explained the three coat process. 

Choose your color.

Apply a thin coat on all surfaces.

Wait.

Apply a second coat.

 Wait.

Apply a third coat.

Wait.

Once it's all dry, decorations can be added.

The paintbrushes had seen better days (notice the upward tilt on this one)

but the artists didn't seem to care.

 The big boys weren't too proud to paint, either.

 although I had to be surreptitious in my photography.

 Giggling was the order of the day, because painting Kindness Flowers is a happy chore.

 The teachers got into the spirit of the event, 

supervised by a vigilant student to insure that all the surfaces were covered.

This tutu stopped me in my tracks.

I want one.

When they were all done, the sticks were set in styrofoam blocks to dry.

 By the end of the morning, we had a table full of love.

 It was an amazing sight.

 Through it all, I shared the mess and the clean up and the story telling.

Who was I?

I was there?

That day?

With Christina?

 The sixth graders are as old as she would be today.

One of them shares her birthday; she told me that she loved C-T all the more because of that.

Another was a classmate of hers in elementary school, before she moved to be closer to AMS.

Another was on the way to the grocery store when the police directed his father away from the scene.

One lost her Uncle Chuy two weeks ago; the pain was still raw.

Sharing CTG's father's maxim -  Christina does not want you to be sad all the time - put a big smile on her face.  Her Uncle Chuy was always laughing, always cheering her up, she'd take that maxim and make it her own.

One lost his younger brother to gunfire in Chicago. His younger brother.... several years ago.... and he's only in middle school now.  So much rage and fury and thoughts of revenge for the unknown shooter, and he knew I knew just what he meant.  That young man looked at me with eyes that saw into my soul. We had both experienced the loss of one taken too soon, by inexplicable violence, with no rhyme or reason, leaving us behind to bear the burden.  His fists clenched and unclenched as he shared his story.  

I didn't suggest moving forward or forgiveness.  I didn't suggest anything at all. I listened and nodded and we kept on painting, wiping the feelings into the bisqueware, soaking them into the clay, turning our sorrow into a small medallion of hope and smiles and kindness shared.

It's a small gesture, a tiny step, but it helps .... a lot.

We cannot bring them back.

We can share the love they felt.

That's all there is.

Last Wednesday, it was enough.