Pedicures, Pleasure and Pain

I have this friend. I will call her Doc. She is spectacularly generous and knew I desperately needed a day of pampering and fun, so on the day before I left to retrieve The Pie from her summer visit to Kansas, we planned such a day. I initially had some misgivings about taking a day to myself, but I received encouragement from my friends and I knew that Dad was well taken care of at the hospital. When you are constantly in "caregiver" mode, it's a monumental challenge to break from the norm and do something for yourself. But Doc is pretty damn good at her job and she prescribed a fabulous Girls' Day. 

After breakfast, which included a raspberry jelly-filled doughnut that was filled specifically for me, Doc and I headed out for mani/pedis.
 As nice Asian ladies soaked and scrubbed our feet, we drank wine and chatted. We had lunch at a flatbread restaurant, which was delightful. A stop at the mall had us getting our eyebrows threaded (I highly recommend it) and Doc shopped for a dress for our evening plans (Michael Buble' concert, thank you very much). Next on the agenda was a Chinese massage. 

I don't care for being touched by strangers, but conversely, I love a massage. The whole point of the exercise is to relax, so if I must endure foreign fingers on my skin, then I will definitely suck it up! We arrived at our appointed time to a quiet storefront in a strip mall, but what awaited me behind that non-descript door was an experience I had only read about in magazines of questionable taste or seen in bad Jackie Chan movies (is that statement redundant?). A little old Asian lady greeted us, took payment and called to the massage "technicians." As a couple of nice little Chinese girls led us into a darkened room and wordlessly bade us to lie supine on Naugahyde cot tables, indeterminate Asian music tinkled over the speakers and I began to think that "happy endings" may not be on the menu, but were available for an additional charge.   

Doc showed no hesitation, so I followed suit. Remaining fully clothed, I placed my feet in a bushel basket lined with a plastic trash bag, filled with warm - no, scalding - water and made the Herculean effort not to pee my pants. While my feet steeped, my girl massaged my head, face, neck and ...ear lobes? New to me, but surprisingly pleasant. The massage continued in a fairly normal fashion, deep tissue stimulation to get all those nasty toxins out, joint movement and your basic generally enjoyable rubbing. Upon completion of rubbing the tops of my toes (at which point I discovered a new erogenous zone), I was asked to flip over onto my stomach. Have you ever tried to lift warm Jell-o with a fork? Trust me, it's no easy feat. 

I sat up and looked immediately for Doc. She was sitting up with her hair sticking straight out behind her head and I erupted in a fit of giggles. Then I looked in a mirror and nearly collapsed into laughter. My hair was eerily reminiscent of The Bride of Frankenstein, but my face had a healthy glow, so I guess that's a plus. Anyway, I turned over, put my face in the specially designed Asian massage table face hole and got comfortable. My "technician" began raising my shirt in the back and then POP, in a flashback to a particularly skillful young man I dated in college, my bra unsnapped! I became instantly less comfortable...there were other people in the room! The Chinese massage ministrations continued, making me no longer care about other people, and I felt a sweet, nearly euphoric sense of relaxation. Suddenly, I experienced a considerable weight atop of me and through a series of mental flashes and complex mathematical equations, I realized that the small Chinese girl was CRAWLING on my back! 

Not a photo of the actual experience. 

My eyes widened and I stared at the gaudy carpet beneath my face, contemplating putting a stop to the assault of my wee tormentor. Just as I started to lift my head, she placed her tiny hands on my shoulders and her, no doubt steel capped, knees at the tops of my thighs. A sound similar to a ferret strangling on curling ribbon escaped my lips, a few tears dropped onto that colorful carpet, and I struggled to maintain consciousness. It was a spectacular sensation of pleasure and pain that I have only read about in magazines of questionable taste or seen in bad Demi Moore movies (there I go being redundant again! It appears I may need to find more intellectual entertainment options...). Waves of shooting stars caromed through my nerve endings and my muscles contracted in response to their incredible journey. How they expect a person to walk out there instead of wobble out is beyond me. I felt as though I were a prehistoric slimy creature dragging myself across the asphalt to Doc's vehicle in an effort to evolve to a higher life form. I remember declaring, "I may never need to have sex again!" 

It was a feeling I had never enjoyed in my life; and I fear I never will feel it again. Unless I pay a Chinese girl $30 to molest me. 

Why I Broke My Promise to My Dad

Years ago, shortly after my mom died, I made a promise to my dad that I would never put him in a nursing home. He said he would rather take a bullet in the head than live in one of "those places" with the stench of urine and Lysol permeating everything. Four years ago, in an effort to keep my promise, I moved back into the house in which I grew up to care for him as his health declined. And a few days ago, I broke that promise. I placed him in a nursing home for a short-term stay.  He will be there for 14-21 days to work on physical therapy, increasing strength, stamina and balance. 

But here's WHY I broke that promise: I am not a doctor, nor do I have training as a nurse, physical therapist or dietitian. I am not qualified to provide the level of care he currently needs. I pride myself on the job I performed as his caregiver, but I realized that I may have been doing him more harm than good. I did everything for him. I prepared his meals, dressed him, bathed him, helped him with toileting, dressed his wounds...you name it. As his needs increased, I faced more and more decisions regarding his care. Back when he was healthy and fiercely independent, I felt confident in making that promise. "Sure," I thought. "I can take care of him just fine." But I can't. 

Dad regularly takes 19 medications. He's had both knees replaced. He suffers from worsening congestive heart failure, COPD, atrial fibrillation, diabetes, neuropathy in his hands and feet and, of course, depression. He is incontinent and cannot move himself at all. He requires two people to move him. His last visit to the ER revealed pneumonia, a urinary tract infection and a fractured clavicle. And suddenly, he became unable to swallow. He ate nothing; drank nothing for three days as the staff attempted to determine the cause of that little surprise. 

I learned many things from my mother, but one of the most important was to recognize when I reach my limit. I once believed I was capable of caring for my father at home until his final breath. I never dared considering turning his care over to strangers and abandoning him in a strange place. However, that's exactly what I did. And while I did break the promise - the one I should have never made -  I feel like I can honor the spirit of it. 

I am still his primary caregiver. I can take care of making his room seem a bit more homey; I clearly labeled all of his belongings; I communicated with the facility very specific needs like his bedtime, his wake up time, laundry, bath schedule, etc. I am a visible and vocal advocate for him with the nurses, technicians and administrators of the center. I am committed to ensuring that the care he receives at The Highlands is equivalent to that I would provide at home if I were properly equipped to do so. 

Yes, I admit there is some guilt about taking him there (I'll deal with that in another post), but there is also something pretty cool about it. I feel like I can enjoy his company again, rather than fuss over whether his feet are elevated, or if he needs to change pants, or if he took his meds properly, or if I need to rub some ointment, cream or potion on him. I'm not exhausted from doing everything for him, not frustrated because he peed his pants again, not pissed off about being tied to him. When The Pie and I visit, he is pleasant and when I choose to do things for him, like cutting his fingernails, it comes from a true place of love in my heart and not from a sense of obligation.  It's the only time I can really hold hands with my daddy. 

I'm human. I can't do it all. But I can manage the care that others provide him. I can be present and aware of the progress he makes and dedicate myself to being his daughter again. 

Spare Change

We know it's true. We can't avoid it. Everything changes. Change is inevitable. Four quarters becomes a dollar, the caterpillar becomes the butterfly, and the egg becomes the chicken. In my case, I became an idiot. I learned the hard way that change, just for the sake of changing, is not necessarily a good thing.

Here's what happened: Speck (also known as The Pie's Favorite Aunt) and I were on a little shopping outing and she mentioned that she was thinking of going a little more blonde the next time she colored her hair. I fully supported the idea because I have seen her with VERY blonde hair and quite liked it (although, it was 20 years ago). At my house, she decided to make the change. Quite a bit of product was left over and she practically dared me to to color my hair. I didn't think it would do much to my mousy, grey streaked hair, so I went for it. As time passed, we watched each other's hair get lighter...and lighter...and lighter. Her result was almost white blonde and mine resembled the bottom end of a baby chick.

In my attempt to tone down the blonde, I purchased a hair color at the local Walgreens with the word "golden" in the name. That should have been my first clue. At the end of that experiment, my hair made me look like the love child of Howdy Doody and Side Show Bob! My horror was such that I actually cried before returning to aforementioned Walgreens and buying a lovely shade called Truffle. I am now sporting a hair color that is found in nature and one that I like very much.

But I wonder why I felt the need to change in the first place?  Again, feeling the itch to change, I rearranged my bedroom furniture. And I hate it. It's not at all convenient and the bed is now closer to my Dad's room AND The Pie's room. So, I have to rearrange again. But do I want to go back to the same arrangement, or try for something different. I think change should show a transformation of sorts. Forgive another hair color reference, but it's like the scene in "Beaches" where Hillary spends an hour coloring her hair the EXACT same color as she already had. Why go through the effort not to show any difference? W.H. Auden wrote:

We would rather be ruined than changed;
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.

Some people fear change. They say, "We've always done it this way." I don't mind change. I like to mix things up every once in a while, but I want it to be worth it. Years ago, when Speck and I shared a house, she would leave for the Thanksgiving holiday with the furniture and dishes in one spot and arrive home to find I had changed everything in the house! It frustrated her beyond belief because she likes the familiarity of items always being in the same location. Plus, we were (are) both control freaks so we like things the way we like them. I don't know how we managed to share a house for 9 years without controlling each other to death!  

My point, and I think I do have one, is that if you are going to make a change - whether it's hair color, furniture placement, body wash, toothpaste, diet, drive to work or style of underwear - make sure it's for the right reasons.  Does it benefit you in a positive way or cause stress as a result? Does it make a difference in the quality of your life? 

All change is not growth; as all movement is not forward. (Ellen Glasgow) The good thing is that if you don't like the change you make, you can keep changing until you do. 

A Girl I Knew

There's this girl I knew...she was adorable, precocious and so smart. Today, she's a woman. An accomplished, confident - still adorable and smart - woman who turns 30.

I was in the room as she drew her first breath, when she let loose that piercing cry, entering the world with a plan to take it over. Her mother gave her my middle name, and I considered it huge honor and a responsibility to her. All I wanted to do was hold her and look deep into her coffee colored eyes and give her advice on how to navigate this tricky thing called womanhood. 

For the first nine years of her life, I dedicated myself to making things better for her. She was so tiny - as a baby, had been hospitalized for failure to thrive - I felt the need to protect her from bad things and surround her only with things that sparkled, glittered or were pink. I thought she was so delicate and fragile. But she fooled me. 

I lost that little girl because personal issues interfered with the relationship between her mother and me. It crushed my heart to think I wouldn't have her in my life, but I thought at the time it was the best thing for everyone. I missed seeing her grow up...losing teeth, first boyfriends, heartthrob crushes, first period...those were things I could only imagine her experiencing. 

When she was 16, her mother and I patched up our friendship and I reconnected with that girl. She was still little, but she was grown up. Beautiful, intelligent, confident. As I watched her give the toast at her sister's wedding, I realized that even though I missed all those other things, for her, the best was yet to come. 

She enlisted in the United States Marine Corps right out of high school. That little firecracker served out country! She has traveled to five foreign countries, made a cross country move, finished her degree and began a successful career as a funeral director. She purchased her own own home and is pretty handy with tools! I get very excited when I learn that she is coming back for a visit because she just makes me smile. 

Turns out, you never needed my advice on anything because you, my dear young woman, are kicking ass!

Happy Birthday, Kristina!

Wal-Mart: More Than I Bargained For

Just a quick run into Wal-Mart to pick up a few items was all I planned. I had the Pie and her friend, Queen Bee with me. As we meandered down the midway aisle, I heard a most disturbing voice screaming, "Stop touching her! I will beat the hell out of you!" I peeked around the school supply display to see a woman with two small children in her shopping cart; they cowered and huddled. Shoppers and employees began to gather around as the woman's voice got louder and her threats became more serious. I stopped in my tracks, stunned at her behavior.

A young woman, a shopper, politely said, "Excuse me," and the Mean Woman (as I will now refer to her) turned on her heel and began hollering, "Leave me alone!" More and more people gathered around while Mean Woman continued to lose her mind. It reminded me of someone attempting to capture a wild animal. Her eyes bulged and she was quite jumpy, easily irritated.  We all watched in horror as she just kept screaming at those babies. I think we were all shocked that she would act in such a way in public! And then, it happened.

The little boy in the cart incidentally put his feet on his little sister and Mean Woman fell loose from herself. She reached into the back of the cart and blindly swatted, connecting several times with heads and faces. The surrounding people, all women by the way, rushed her and began admonishing her to calm down; one older lady tried to pull the cart away from Mean Woman. This did not set well with Mean Woman because she roughly shoved the cart away and bowed up on the lady. It was at this point, my arm went around the Pie and Queen Bee, ushering them behind greeting card display, and I

took my post in the fray.

Employees called for managers, shoppers threatened to call police and Mean Woman called to a couple of us to "bring it on!" I called to her that those children deserved better than her as a mother and she kept repeating that they were kids and she would do whatever she wanted with them or to them; there was nothing anyone could to her, she swore. Older Lady shocked me by saying she would take those babies right out of the cart if she had to. I thought, "you go, older lady!" Mean Woman chest bumped Older Lady to keep her away from the children and I stepped in. I got in her face and calmly explained that she was embarrassing herself and if she didn't want to find herself in jail, she needed to calm down and walk away. She obscenely invited me to engage in coitus with myself (if you get what I'm trying to say, here) and that was all I needed.

Without raising my voice, (too much) I said: "Okay, I get it. You are frustrated and scared. You might be at the end of your rope - what mother hasn't been?  But those babies are not your property - they are your responsibility. Is this how you want them to remember you?" She looked at the children and back at me. I didn't know what to expect, but I knew something hateful would spew out of her mouth. Managers gathered and interrupted what I thought was a productive moment and asked the woman to leave. Mean Woman stormed out in a cloud of vulgarity and obscenity, tossing the items already in her cart to the floor, children still looking confused and scared. I retrieved the Pie and Queen Bee from their hiding place and continued my shopping trip, the girls asking questions with every step. And that's when I began to quietly worry.

What happens when she gets those kids home, all to herself? Will she beat them and blame them for embarrassing her, when really she did it to herself? Will she scream curses at them, deny them food, physically abuse or neglect them. I have to wonder that if a mother would display such cruelty to children under the age of 3 in a public place, what stops her from doing worse in the privacy of her home? I am heartbroken and sick about this incident, and terrified that I might read about those cute children in a headline soon.

My Brush with Mortality

In the movie Meet Joe Black , Death pays a visit to a man to warn him of his impending demise. Brad Pitt didn't stop by my house for coffee a couple of weeks ago, but it felt to me like he might be lurking around the corner. And not in a good way.

Mowing the yard is usually one of my favorite tasks because I get to strap on earbuds and listen to 80s dance music at dangerously high decibels and escape from someone needing me for at least 90 minutes. It gives me an opportunity to de-stress and do mind numbing manual labor. It was also, apparently, the chance for me to scare the shit out of my neighbors! One minute I was busy mowing and the next minute I was on the ground surrounded by a bunch of men. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't complain, but I didn't have any recollection of how I got in that position. Admittedly, I was unnerved.

A short time later, I was loaded into an ambulance and transported to an emergency room in the neighboring city, the paramedics being convinced I had suffered a head injury as the result of a fall. The full lights and sirens ride was kind of cool, but during the whole episode all I could think was, "What about the Pie and Dad?" What if I had to be admitted to the hospital? What if it was something serious? Who would take care of them?

Here's what I figured out: if something puts me out of commission, they are screwed! They won't have me to clean the house, wash clothes, prepare meals, wash dishes, open jars and packages, shop for groceries, apply bandages and ointments, pick up items dropped or left on the floor, or mow the yard. During the crisis, my neighbor stepped up and took the Pie to her house, but my Dad was left alone in the house with only the sketchy information he received from a paramedic. I know he worried himself into a state while I was gone. It's what he does.

The truth is, I am terrified of leaving this earth while I am still needed. The Pie is only 7 and has so much to experience and I want to share that with her. If I go before my Dad, I am certain he would follow quickly behind me, just because he refuses to go to a nursing facility. Facing my own mortality is a very uncomfortable proposition for me. I fear the possibility of agonizing pain related to dying, of dying in the water, of dying in a fire, of dying in a car crash. Well...of dying.

I was scared. Very scared. Mostly because there were so many questions I couldn't answer. Questions still exist for me...how would my death change the Pie? How would she adjust to her new home in Kansas? How would she handle holidays without me? Would she be taught all the things I still need to teach her? I trust that the people I have chosen to care for her in the event of my death would do an excellent job raising her, but would they do it as well as only I can?

What I do know is that I must cherish every moment with her, guide her into being a good citizen and hope my influence stays with her even after I'm gone.

These Are the People in Your Neighborhood

Ah, Saturday mornings...the perfect time for big breakfasts, garage sales, and obscenity spewing little old ladies.

Yesterday, I had completed one and was on my way to another when I encountered the third. 

After sharing eggs and bacon with the new man in my life, I headed back home and followed a sign for a garage sale. I noticed an elderly woman walking and thought nothing of it because it's a common sight in the neighborhood. Her lack of shoes did catch my attention and as I cruised past, I witnessed her tumble and fall head first into the sidewalk. I immediately pulled over, threw the car in gear and hopped out to assist her. 

A bleeding goose-egg perched in the middle of her forehead, so I made her just sit still for a few minutes until I could get to the collection of fast-food napkins I house in my car's glove compartment. I put some pressure on the injury and slowed the bleeding, but she was determined to get up and walk somewhere. Her name was Jewel and she insisted I knew her brother Roy and she wanted me to take her to his house. While she jibber jabbered to me, I led her to my car under the guise of taking her to Roy's. Jewel patted my hand, muttering incoherently, and said she was glad to see me. She would soon change her mind. 

I called 911 and explained that I was assisting an elderly woman with a bleeding head injury and the paramedics/fire department arrived in a flash! The tone of my quaint visit with Jewel rapidly deteriorated at light speed to a panicked, foul mouthed rage fest! The six men gathered at my vehicle looked at me like I was punking them! I tried to explain to them the events that occurred, but I was reduced to a fit of giggling about the time I heard "you stupid cock biters, leave me alone!" issue from the woman in my car. The young men spoke with her as professionally as her vulgarity would allow, but even they got frustrated as her tirade continued. When they attempted to guide Jewel to the ambulance, she suddenly gained Kung Fu Master status or something because all I saw was little arms and legs flying around and momentary glimpses of a little grey head. The image coupled with the stream of obscenities was enough to send all of the hot firemen into paroxysms of laughter, so they backed off. Little Old Jewel continued to fling curses at us, like "you son of a whore, you stupid sumbitch, don't touch me with your F**ing devil prick." Finally, one EMT advised me that they appreciated my attempt to help the woman and that they would take it from there. 

I was a little dejected that I wouldn't have an opportunity to learn more cuss words and phrases, kinda like an Adult Sesame Street. Today's lesson is brought to you by the letter F and the middle finger!!