God's Waiting Room

Recently, I returned home from an overnight trip out of town to find my father lying on his bedroom floor, covered in blood and his own feces. In hindsight, I should have recognized the clues ...his shoes were haphazardly abandoned in the garage, the kitchen trash can was overturned, dark smears in a path on the carpet and an offending smell that threatened to peel the paint from the walls. Upon discovering him, I gave a quick once-over to determine the origin of the blood and found a nasty scrape on his head. He eventually admitted that he ventured outside into his shed and upon returning to the house, he tripped and fell, hitting his head on the brick exterior of the house. He spent nearly 18 hours crawling into the house. He was a mess! Rather than attempt to handle this situation on my own, I called an ambulance. A lovely bonus to the whole scene was a half dozen firefighters/paramedics parading into my house to soothe me and help my dad. A trip to the emergency room and a laundry list of tests later, Dad was released without even being cleaned up or having his head wound bandaged. I brought him home, gave him a shower, covered his boo boo with Neosporin and fed him. 

Crisis handled.  So, now what?

I've threatened to put him into a nursing home if he places himself in a dangerous situation again. I have support from members of my family to begin the process of relocating him. But the truth is, I don't think I can do it. I watched both of my parents make the heart wrenching decision to place their mothers into full-time nursing facilities; I then watched my grandmothers decline quickly and simply exist until they left this Earth. For years, I've referred to nursing homes as "God's Waiting Room" because that's the impression I get when I walk into one. First, there's the smell. That dominant bouquet of urine and Lysol, with the underlying aroma of Band-Aids, latex gloves, sweat and something very similar to tapioca, smells like someone just washed a dog that's been dead for a couple of months. Secondly, I can't stand the idea of imprisoning my father in a place that treats him merely as a means to making money. Nursing homes strip residents of their personality, their essence, their lives. And ALL their money! It's all disguised behind planned crafts or bingo games, but no one on staff looks at the patients as human beings. And that hurts my heart. I discussed the situation with a physician friend of mine, who begged me not to consider placing him in a home. She likened it to taking a dog to the pound. 

I want my father to live the rest of his time here with as much dignity as possible. That is why I moved in - to give him the best care available. Admittedly, I feel a sense of obligation. I'm not his biological child. He and my mother adopted me as an infant. They cared for someone else's child as their own. He took care of me, so now it's my turn to take care of him. Simple as that. It would feel like giving up on him...and I just can't do that. He never gave up on me, when there were plenty of times that he could have. 

In the recent past, he and I have had our disagreements and issues. He swung his cane at me in his frustration and anger. I allowed him to go without meals and meds following his inappropriate groping of me. I tolerate the way he speaks to me because I feel I owe him something...I just don't know what. I know my father to be coarse, quick tempered and physically aggressive. But I'd like to know the man he used to be - the man my mother fell in love with, the man who sang and read to me as a child - I know he's in there...somewhere. 

I may never know that man. Twenty-one years ago, the day my mother died, I realized that I didn't really know my father. I've spent all this time trying to know him as an adult, but I don't think he ever prepared himself to see me as an adult. He especially didn't plan on seeing me as a mother! His vision of me is clouded, lost in his mind amid all his memories. It's not his fault, so I can't very well blame him for his inability to connect. 

I'll continue to care for him to the absolute best of my physical and emotional ability. So, when God wants him, He will have to look a little bit farther than His waiting room. 

One of These is Not Like the Others...I Hope

I admit it. I take my daughter for granted. I sometimes complain that she is spoiled (I accept my responsibility in that), needy (ditto) and too dependent upon me. But here's the truth...The Pie is a good kid. She has lots of friends, from school and the neighborhood, and I've gotten to know most of them quite well. Some of them spend hours at my house and if I thought my daughter behaved the way some of these kids do, I would be horrified. 

From possessing no voice modulation to relying on me for their entire nutritional daily intake, those kids...I'll call them the "others"...drive me batshit crazy! There are a couple of them that I truly love in spite of those little quirks, don't misunderstand. Hell, there are times when the actual fruit of my loins drives me nearly certifiable! The "others" make no attempt to comply with the rules of the house and repeated requests to lower their voices fall on deaf ears - probably ruined their hearing with all their loudness! 

I try - I really, do - to be patient, understanding that their home life is most likely vastly different from that of The Pie. Perhaps the parental dynamic, number of siblings or a custody issue affects their behavior...or maybe they're just brats. I can't say with any clinical certainty on that one. What I can say, with the caveat that the statement is to the best of my knowledge, is that The Pie is one of the best behaved kids I know. I make the statement with full acceptance that it may appear biased, but I speak the truth. She's a great kid. 

She doesn't walk into a friend's home and announce, "I'm hungry. I want a snack!" Nor does she just help herself to whatever happens to be available in the kitchen. In our home, our snacks are displayed for easy access, and she even asks my permission before she takes a snack from the basket. In her own home! She doesn't drain her friend's parents of juice, milk soda or other beverages; she saves that honor just for me! She follows the lead of the friend whose home she is visiting, she doesn't arrive and demand to play Barbies or Littlest Pet Shop. Admittedly, she pretty much takes over the activities when she is hosting kids at our house. I cannot, in good conscience, proclaim that my girl  is not a...shall we say...strong personality. She does like to be in charge...it's a genetic flaw. 

Generally, The Pie isn't too awfully loud, but she is susceptible to the loudness of others. One of her favorite books is "The Loudness of Sam," the story of a young boy who lives his life at the highest decibel he can.  She thinks it funny that just because Sam talks loudly, so does everyone else in his life. The irony escapes her little 6 year old brain, but not mine. When her little girlfriends scream, so does she. When the "others" yell at the top of their lungs for no apparent reason, after my admonishments to keep it down, she follows suit. Why is loudness so contagious? The other children holler my name to get my attention, burst out random phrases; apropos of nothing, one girl will blurt "skooch bus" at a level that only neighborhood dogs can hear! Then everyone else in the car apes her and before I know, I am seriously considering purchasing a Taser! The Pie does have a friend who can come over and play quietly and nicely...so much so that I hardly even know they are in the house. I often have to check to see if they haven't succumbed to carbon monoxide poisoning! 

My daughter acts honestly like I am the best thing since chocolate that ever happened to her. She never hesitates to tell me that she loves me,  she always offers kisses and hugs to me, whether we're at home or in public. She draws pictures for me in her free time at school. I love the smile that slowly creeps across her face into a beaming beacon when I pick her up at school. The "others" seem to simply tolerate their parents and don't seem to want to be around them, accept in cases of injury or fear. Or the need for money, there's that.  

One the most disconcerting issues I face with entertaining The Pie's friends is that of peer pressure. So early in her life, I believe she has been forced to do things that she wouldn't otherwise do. when left to her own devices. She will bend to the will of a girl that warns she will no longer be The Pie's friend if she doesn't play the game her way. or won't play with/tear up something they found in the garage. Losing a friend is pretty high on The Pie's list of fears, so without thought to consequences, she will often do the bidding of another kid, just to be accepted. I know further conversation on this topic is in our future. 

For the past six years, I have worried often, daily...sometimes hourly..., if I am a good parent. Have I taught my child good manners, kindness, compassion, respect? Were the words spoken in a moment of anger too harsh for her innocent psyche? Has she learned how to properly treat the people she loves? Does the absence of a father figure affect her in a negative manner? Followed by myriad questions that can only be answered in the future, when she is an adult woman. Then the result of my work will be evident. But in the meantime, I'm glad she's different from her friends. I don't want to consign her to a being "just like everybody else."  As long as she's happy with her life and herself, that's fine with me. 

Medicare...Doesn't Care

For several years, my father has used the services of a home health care company. Before I moved in to care for him, I was grateful for the service because I knew his medical needs were being attended to and he was getting regular baths. Over the past four years, the nurses have changed and the service in general has slacked off. And it’s my fault…according to MediCare.  And his eligibility to continue the service is about to expire.

Because I live full time with my father and provide cleaning, cooking and other personal chores for him, I am considered a caregiver by MediCare standards. The government agency will no longer provide payment for a certified nurse aide to visit twice weekly to bathe my father; nor will it pay for the services of a nurse to visit weekly to check his vital signs and check on his general physical well-being. That leaves me entirely responsible for his care. I would like to note that I have no medical training and haven’t the first clue how to use a stethoscope, other to drape it in a cool fashion around my neck.  Because I am reasonably bright individual, the home health service has “educated” me on proper diet, medication interactions and safety precautions and feel I am well prepared to take over complete responsibility for my father. That makes me very nervous.

My fears exist on many levels, not the least of which is the frustration I am bound to feel when my father fails to comply with medical orders, as he is wont to do. Without the back up of his regular nurse, I will have no ammunition to fight him. That frustration, gone unchecked, can be dangerous. I am anxious that one or both of us may get injured, or if I make a mistake with his medicine, there could be adverse results. It’s an astronomical burden to place upon a family member to be solely responsible for the elder. I most worry about my father’s personal hygiene. He has been known to go more than six weeks without properly bathing and I depended on the home health agency to provide that service. Now, however, the responsibility falls to me. I want to provide my father with as much dignity and privacy as possible in his final years, and I don’t think scrubbing him down twice weekly is the way to go about it. It’s not so much that it will bother me; I’ve seen it already. I am more concerned for the psychological repercussions for him. I feel it will degrade and belittle him to have his daughter bathe him like a child. I know, I know…Circle of Life and all that, but still…

I completely understand that it was my choice to care for my father in his final time on earth. He adopted me when I was a helpless infant, fed me, provided for me, nursed me. I feel a strong obligation to him for that. I am equipped with the knowledge of his condition and its maintenance, but I do possess the skills to manage it. I firmly believe that some training should be made available to care givers of elderly patients. It would lower the hospital admission rate, perhaps lower elder abuse rates and at minimum, prepare us…for whatever happens.

Over the past few weeks, I have conducted extensive internet searches and read a number of articles, pamphlets and editorials on caring for an elderly family member. I don’t take my responsibility lightly, folks! A common thread in those publications is that caregivers must take time for themselves and request respite care. Will Medicare pay for that? Nope. Who, in the end, pays for that? The caregiver. 

Me.

Somebody's Hero

This woman? She is my new hero. Her name is Linda Tirado. Up until a couple of days ago, she was a hard working mother of two small children who worked two jobs and averaged 4 hours of sleep a night. Then she wrote an essay that was published on the Huffington Post and her life changed...almost immediately. She is a complete stranger to me, yet I am thrilled for her new found celebrity. 

Ms. Tirado's essay focused on poverty and how it affects women. Her objective was to shine a light on the bad decisions made by the lower class and, in a sense, explain to those in the middle and upper classes the thought process behind those decisions. 

This Is Why Poor People's Bad Decisions Make Perfect Sense exposes what women in the lower class must deal with every day just to put food on the table for their families and pay the necessary bills to get them by one more month. Ms. Tirado writes:

"We have learned not to try too hard to be middle-class. It never works out well and always makes you feel worse for having tried and failed yet again. " 

"There's a certain pull to live what bits of life you can while there's money in your pocket, because no matter how responsible you are you will be broke in three days anyway. When you never have enough money it ceases to have meaning. I imagine having a lot of it is the same thing."

 Her words struck me to my core. It was if she reached deep into my psyche and discovered my thoughts, fears and feelings of the last 8 years. Someone finally understood what I was going through with paying bills and buying groceries and gas for the car. She KNEW I wear disguises when I use the CoinStar machine just so I can get a little after-dinner surprise for everyone instead of just the bland pasta dish and bread. 
Ms. Tirado's essay was fraught with references from her life that were mirror images of my own: the struggle to get bills paid, going into a tailspin when an unexpected expense arose, worrying about what her family was going to eat. 

I haven't always been poor. My parents were solidly middle class - my father was a life-long railroad employee and my mother worked for a sporting goods manufacturer. I grew up without a clue of how my parents provided for me; they just did. I got what I wanted for Christmas and birthdays and we did pretty well, I guess. I went to college on their dime - no students loans, scholarships or grants for me. I did a fair job of managing life after college, up until my mom died. I admittedly fell apart on every level and became very financially irresponsible in the following couple of years. I established a solid financial footing during the 9 years I worked at a private school. I shared a house with my best friend at the time, so I only had minimal basic bills. I could afford almost all of what I wanted and was able to acquire larger ticket items with my recently rebuilt credit. Life was good; I had money in the bank, I had good medical insurance and I felt quite stable. Then the proverbial boom was lowered. 

I lost my job, along with 15 others, in a layoff due to an operations budget shortfall at the school. I was offered a generous severance package, but the blow to my emotional and mental state was damn near impossible to overcome. I was severely depressed and ended up making some REALLY bad decisions, acting more on alcohol induced impulse than on logic. Within about 6 months, I was broke and about to be evicted. I moved in with a guy that I thought would be the answer to all my problems. Suffice it to say that he most definitely was not. During a particularly dark period, I wandered around in a fog, participating in more rash behavior. Remarkably, I ended up pregnant and unmarried. 

In that moment - and every moment since then - I was poverty stricken. It's been so difficult to accept my station in life. But once I learned how to shed my pride, I found no shame in becoming a couponer and bargain shopper! It's especially challenging to have physicians, educators, and other high earners as good friends, but because I love them, I've learned to live with their salaries and I am extremely grateful when they share their good fortune with me in the form of dinner, shows, toys for the Pie. 

The world looks down on the poor. Society judges the lower class without knowing the circumstances under which they became so. Yes, it's embarrassing. It's humiliating, is what it is. But it's the life we have and we try to make the best of it. Linda Tirado summed it up this way: 

"I am not asking for sympathy. I am just trying to explain, on a human level, how it is that people make what look from the outside like awful decisions. This is what our lives are like, and here are our defense mechanisms, and here is why we think differently. It's certainly self-defeating, but it's safer. That's all. I hope it helps make sense of it."

To read the entire essay by Ms. Tirado, click here 

Funds Needed

http://www.gofundme.com/5gpa6k


This link will take you to a GoFundMe page where you can donate, if you wish, to helping to pay for plumbing repairs.

thank you for your consideration

Mixed Messages

Suddenly, everyone is talking about princesses. A few days ago, a media outlet ran a story about a private girls school in Kentucky that has launched a new development campaign. The school poses that modern girls are not vapid, helpless princesses, but strong, capable and independent young women. Here is one of the several print ads they offer:

I find this very intriguing since Disney just released their new spots on television:

So, which is it? Do we encourage our daughters to be princesses or not? The so-called experts on child development and psychology have conflicting opinions and are sending mixed messages to parents of little girls. There are valid points to each side of the argument, but I'm trying to determine which point weighs more heavily with me. 

On the one hand, we have called our daughters "princess" since time immemorial. A daughter is such a sweet little creature that we take pains to shelter her from harm or negativity. We swaddle them in pink the instant they leave the womb and painstakingly buy them dolls, play kitchen equipment and tiny vacuums in order to prepare them for their roles as homemakers. We shower them with whatever they want at the sight of the first tear, pouty lip or batted lash. And why not? They are our precious baby girls - our princesses!  

Disney would have us believe that being a princess is the ultimate goal for every little girl. I question this singular path of thought. Every Disney princess I have seen (and that's a lot!) presents in appearance as perfect. They are all stunningly beautiful with long flowing locks, huge eyes, lovely and radiant skin, and many of them have the singing voice of an angel. They are immediately adored by all those they meet and usually have gentlemen falling over themselves to make the her their bride. That ideal is unattainable. Is that what we should be training our girls for? To become a wife...and then what? We never hear about what happens "happily ever after." 

Click here to see a very interesting take on modern women and how they are princess-ified. 

Admittedly, some Disney princesses do possess characteristics and values that I would like my daughter to emulate: kindness (Snow White), compassion (Ariel), intelligence (Belle), humility (Cinderella), strength (Mulan), courage (Merida), determination (Tiana), and adventurousness (Jasmine). But I look at it as more my responsibility to model those values every day at home, rather than cross my fingers and hope she picks it up by watching the movies. The Pie often inquires, "Is this real?" when we watch a movie together. I explain that they are made up stories, but they teach us a lesson about life. I try to let her figure out that lesson, instead of brow beating her with it. 

What I want my daughter to grow up knowing is that she - as herself - is good enough. She is perfect in my eyes and she makes me proud to be her mother. I need her to understand that she doesn't need a tiara to be special. She already is.  

The Other Woman

In recent weeks, some people have told me that I am "too nice." I'm not entirely certain what that is supposed to imply, but I found myself reflecting on it. Before I became a mother, I had an edge. I was tough ...didn't take crap from anybody. Now, upon careful examination, I can see soft spots. Little chinks in my armor show up more often than I would like. I don't care about how I look, as long as I'm clean. I've become another woman. 

There was a time when I would never dare to leave my house without my hair and make-up done and dressed presentably. I regularly had my hair colored and styled, visited tanning salons and had manicures every 3 weeks. Nowadays, I make regular trips to Wal-Mart not only without make-up, but with my hair pulled back and many times without a bra! My hair turns grayer every day and is desperate need of a cut... and my nails? I'm lucky to get to cut and file them myself, rather than chew them off! Pedicures? A very rare treat! 

Before I was a mommy, I was a tough chick. My exterior was hard, crusty and nearly impenetrable. I spoke harshly and sarcastically to people and didn't care if I offended anyone. I was honest and straightforward. No sugar coating for me. Now, 6 years after birthing the most awesome child on the planet, I am more aware of tact and diplomacy. I choose my words carefully and make a concerted effort to remain positive in difficult situations. I am more friendly to strangers and find polite conversation less annoying than I used to. 

Once upon a time, my agenda was all that mattered. I worked 10 or 12 hour days, stopped for a drink on the way home. Stayed out all night and slept all day on weekends. Mornings consisted of sleeping until the last possible minute, repeatedly slapping the snooze button. (Oh, wait...I still do that last thing!) I had no one else to answer to, no one to feed but myself, no one to take care of but myself. I didn't ingratiate myself with the neighbors. I wasn't a part of a community. If I didn't want to do something, I didn't; and harbored no guilt whatsoever about saying "no." In present day, I sleep very little. I am always the first one up to make sure homework is in the book bag, clothes are ready to be worn, breakfast is made and lunch is packed. I have a strict schedule of dropping at school, nap times, picking up from school, extracurricular activities, preparing meals, getting baths and stories read, slathering lotions and potions on old,

neuropathic feet and then cleaning up before I can finally fall into bed. On many occasions, I am responsible for not only my kid and father, but the children of other people, as well. Neighbors rely on me to plan their garage sales, teach them to use a new piece of technology, babysit and otherwise counsel. And I do it all! I don't want to let anyone down. I care now about being a part of something bigger than me. I help because I once needed help and was afraid to ask. When I received what I needed, gratitude became my way of life. 

Admittedly, there are times when I wish I could morph back into that hard edged, stone cold bitch that I was when I wasn't a parent. But for the most part, I like being the other woman.