Off to Work I Go

I’d been thinking about going back to work full-time for several weeks. Dad was in the nursing home and the majority of his monthly income needed to go toward paying for that outrageous bill. I had a job all lined up to start December 1, but after Dad passed away I didn't feel up to dealing with people in any situation the demanded I not cry copiously for no apparent reason. There was money in the bank to last me and The Pie a little while, so I forfeited that opportunity.

Right after Christmas, I stepped up my job search – sending out resumes to just about any industry that offered something close to what I wanted to do! I knew I needed income and I knew I would need it soon. I approached my search aggressively and it paid off.

In the first week of January, I had nine (9) interviews! It felt really validating that I still was considered valuable in the workplace. My skills, admittedly, have gotten a little rusty, but I can still keep up. At first, I wondered if my absence from being a member of the gainfully employed club worked as an obstacle to even being considered. However, as the calls kept coming in, I became more and more confident that I would find … something. Most of the interviews went very well, a couple were definitely not what I was looking for, so I made sure they ended quickly. As I played the waiting game, jumping every time the phone rang, I tried to decide which position I really wanted.  And then it happened.

On a Monday afternoon, I had two job offers within a few minutes of each other. I couldn't believe it! One company manufactures video gaming machines and one of the benefits is getting free lunch every day. The other company is an internationally known and respected aviation, flight and technology college and it’s closer to my home. I accepted the position as a Financial Aid Advisor with the flight school.

I've been on the job for three weeks and I really know I made the right choice. I am working in education again, helping students fund their education that will improve the rest of their lives. It is very rewarding to me to think that I can help a young man or woman follow their dreams. My co-workers are fun and knowledgeable and I feel like I fit in.

The Pie has been having some adjustment issues, though. She’s not used to me being unavailable to her. For most of her life, I have always been there for her – dropping her off at school, attending class parties, volunteering, and picking her up in the afternoons. She misses me and clings to me when we are at home. The best part of that scenario is that she hardly ever wants friends to come over!

I’m looking forward to a long career in my new position and will undoubtedly have many “interesting stories” to share. Stay tuned!

Is It Teacher Bullying?

I’m about to gain a reputation at my daughter’s school as being a difficult mom, a troublemaker, a bitch. It’s a yoke I’m happy to wear because I am standing up for my kid when she can’t. She refuses to explain herself to her teacher on this issue because she is being made to feel like she is different from her classmates. And I am quite pissed off about it.

It all began when the weather started getting colder. The Pie runs a little hot…well, let’s face it, she’s a walking heat source and probably the cause of global warming! Anyway, her teacher told her several times that she HAD to wear a coat to school. I finally caved and forced The Pie to wear a coat, just to stop the complaints. Last week, the teacher

 called me and asked if I knew what The Pie wore to school. I was perplexed. Of course, I knew…I dropped her off at school! She wore a shirt and a skirt. Looked pretty cute, too! The teacher goes on to tell me that she would like my daughter to always wear pants and tennis shoes because of the cold weather. I feigned interest, but eventually dismissed it.

 

Today, The Pie tells me that a lady in the office called her in to ask her once again if I knew what she was wearing and if I saw her before school. What the hell? She proceeded to tell my child that she MUST wear long pants and closed shoes at least until the end of February. I lost my damn mind when The Pie told me about what happened. She said she felt embarrassed and like she was in trouble. I intend to put a stop to it.

I sat down and wrote a sternly worded email to her principal about the issue. I’m sure she is completely unaware that adults are bullying her students. And that’s what I think it is…I may be overreacting, but it’s how she feels she’s being treated and I will not diminish her feelings. Here’s the letter, somewhat modified, I wrote:

My daughter, The Pie, is in Mrs. Hess' second grade class and I am angry. The Pie told me about something that happened today and I am deeply upset.  She explained that Annie in the office pulled her aside and asked her if she dressed herself and if I saw her before she left for school. The Pie also said that Annie told her that she MUST wear long pants and closed shoes to school from now on.

This is an issue I tried to ignore, but during a recent phone call, I discussed it with Mrs. Hess and explained that The Pie's wardrobe is something I leave up to her. It's simply not worth fighting about. Mrs. Hess said that her concern is that The Pie will get cold during an outside recess and possibly get sick.  My daughter has a normal body temperature that runs a little high, so she is always warm to the touch and never, ever gets cold. I gave in to Mrs. Hess' badgering about my child wearing a coat to school, so now she takes one because her teacher told her to. 

The Pie's grandfather, with whom we lived the majority of her life, passed away in November and rather than try to support my daughter through a very difficult emotional time, these women are chastising her for what she wears! My daughter is scared that she has done something wrong. Her grades have fallen, but the focus is on her clothes? That is just wrong. Her learning environment is obviously compromised as a result of this form of harassment. 

I do not appreciate the interference of these ladies regarding something so trivial as my daughter's wardrobe. She is always appropriately covered and does not violate any of the dress code rules in the student handbook. If you can show me in the handbook where it requires girls to wear long pants during cold weather, I wish you would. Until such time, I will not force my daughter to wear clothes in which she feels uncomfortable merely to mitigate the ridiculous gossip of a couple of young women. 

My child is a unique, creative and intelligent girl and I refuse to allow her spirit to be broken by people who have no knowledge or real concern for her welfare. I make no excuses for her and I am offended by the fact that I am being forced to defend her clothing. Rest assured, I will no longer tolerate the shaming she has had to endure about this issue. 

Please call me at your earliest convenience to discuss this situation or to schedule an appointment to meet. 

I’d like to know what all you parents, educators and school administrators out there think. Is there a real basis for requiring The Pie to change her wardrobe? Are the adults at her school bullying her? Or am I just a Mama Bear??  Honest feedback is welcome. 

A New Dawn, A New Day

Tomorrow's sunrise will bring with it the dawn of a new year. In the upcoming year, I will turn 50, my daughter will turn 8, I'll return to work after a workplace absence of five years, and I will deal with a host of situations new and foreign to me. And I'm OK with that. Although it will be memorable for many reasons, I'm ready to bid farewell to 2014. 

As I am wont to do, I can't help but reflect back on other years that were memorable for me. There is no effective or fair way to rate the order of the years, so it's probably best to go chronologically. 




1970 - I met a little boy who wore Jesus sandals and I fell in love with him. I was 5. I even told my mom that someday I would marry him. We were close friends for many years and I even lived with him for a short while. We managed to hurt each other over the years, but I can't let go of that kindergarten love. 

1976 - My family moved from a dangerous part of a metro city to the little suburb that's not so little anymore. It was terrifying for me to leave all my friends behind and start over in a dinky little town, but it turned out to be one of the best decisions my parents made. I now call this town home and it's where my heart truly lives.  

1980 - I began dating a guy nine years my senior. I was 16. He changed my life in many ways, but the primary lesson I learned is how a woman should be treated. It's his fault I never settled for anything less than what I expected. Unfortunately, he took his own life exactly 20 years ago tonight. 

1982 - My best friend at the time gave birth to an adorable little girl who is now 31 and a mother of 4. Knowing her as a child and as an adult is one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. 

1983 - I graduated high school and thought I was a grown up. I prepared to attend Oklahoma State University, turned 18 and could legally drink! Six months later, the law changed to raise the drinking age to 21. It was the best of times and the worst of times. I also met the first of many gay men I would love. His name was Jon and he was my mom's hairdresser. He was beautiful and artistic, sweet and funny. He colored my world in a way no one had been able to do. He died of AIDS related complications in 1990. 

1984 - My best friend had another little girl, who at 30, is all I wanted to be when I grew up. 

1990- I discovered that I had five half siblings, one who is 11 months younger than I. He contacted me and we met. I ended up meeting my biological mother and the one child she kept as well. It was a tenuous situation since they welcomed me as family, but I was reluctant. I had my mom with me every step of the way and she guided me through that difficult emotional terrain. 

1993 - I lost my compass. My mom died suddenly on a Sunday afternoon from a massive heart attack. The shock sent me into a spiral of depression, alcohol abuse and promiscuity. I was reckless and angry at the world. In the span of one week my dog died, my best friend moved far away and my mom died. I felt I had a right to act out. My mom and I were so enmeshed in each other that it was hard to tell where she ended and I began. I've been missing a piece for two decades, but I still keep going. I also met my rock, my best friend and partner in all things fun and ridiculous. She's Speck and The Pie's Favorite Aunt. She has been by my side without judgment for 22 years and she will be with me until the end. 

1996 - The year of eight jobs. In 12 months I worked at 8 different jobs. I learned many lessons that year, not the least of which was how to file taxes with more than one W2 form! 

1997 - I got the dream job of a lifetime. I was hired by a private school to be the assistant to the director of the arts department. I LOVED that job. I enjoyed being part of young people's lives and working alongside talented and intelligent instructors. That position afforded me the opportunity to travel, to participate in professional development, to meet very famous people like Dr. Jane Goodall and Bill Cosby (he did not attempt to drug and rape me, I want to make that clear) and to forge friendships that I still enjoy all these years later. 

2005 - I traveled to New York City for a journalism conference, since I had been appointed the newspaper and yearbook adviser at the school at that time. It was a very informative seminar and I learned many strategies to take back to the kids. BUT, during that trip I met my close personal friend Hugh Jackman. It's one of my favorite stories to tell about my brush with greatness. When I returned to work the following week, I was let go from that fantastic dream job. As a result of a serious budget issue, 16 positions were being eliminated and mine was one of them. Another bout of depression followed that loss and I ended up spending about a year making really bad decisions. 

2007 - The Pie is born!  

2010 - I moved in with Dad to take care of him. His health gradually declines at about the same rate The Pie is growing and developing. I became firmly entrenched in the Sandwich Generation and adjusted to not working full time. 

2013 - I met a man. He was married. That did not go well. I doubt those feelings will ever really go away, but remember, I learned early how a woman should be treated. 

I'm looking forward to creating new memories, new friendships and new experiences in 2015. Believe it or not, I'm excited about turning 50. And I'll try just about anything once...twice if I like it! 

Happy New Year! 

How Our Elf on the Shelf Saved Christmas

I lost my virginity this year. My Elf on the Shelf virginity, that is. I steadfastly opposed bringing a kinda creepy little doll into my home for the sole purpose of entertaining my child every morning with its silly antics and mess making. The idea of creating another mind-numbing chore for myself was beyond my comprehension. And then my dad died. 

I felt an cavernous emptiness that nothing could fill. I dreaded the upcoming holidays with Grinch-like fervor and wondered how I could possibly survive my sadness. The Pie begged for the last two years for an Elf for our Shelf; she asked again a couple of days before Thanksgiving and I finally relented. While she was at school, I went out and adopted a little girl Elf with mischievous blue eyes and set to making a calendar to outline all the shenanigans she might get up to. Now, I have laughed heartily at all the Internet photos of an Elf doing the nasty with Barbie, and drinking up tiny airplane bottles of vodka or pooping chocolate kisses, but those scenarios are hardly appropriate for a seven year old.  I wanted a well behaved Elf that warmed our hearts and spread Christmas cheer, not one that I might have to send to rehab!  So that is what I created. 


On the morning of December 1, The Pie awoke with no idea what awaited her on the couch. Her squeals of delight when she saw the Elf were enough to set off all the neighborhood dogs! Our Elf was dubbed "Jolly" and our countdown to Christmas began. Jolly liked to make The Pie smile and giggle, so she created little vignettes of herself making breakfast, taking a bubble bath, sneaking into the candy jar, trying to decorate the tree, and baking cookies. Sometimes Jolly even brought special gifts: one day she arrived with tickets to the local production of The Nutcracker, and another day she was discovered playing with toy trains and holding tickets to The Christmas Train. 

Every morning, The Pie woke with anticipation and utter joy at finding Jolly. She says that she wishes the Elf could stay the whole year long. She has grown fond of the Elf and loves her in her very own special 2nd grader way. Jolly filled her days with happiness, instead of sorrow at the loss of her Papa. Jolly reminded her the the holiday is about giving cheerfully to the ones we love. As the days of the month passed, I realized that The Pie would occasionally talk to Jolly when she thought I was out of ear shot. Jolly heard The Pie's wish list, a couple of holiday jokes, and the most heartbreaking one: "if you see my Papa, tell him I said hi." 

Our little Elf has provided a connection to something we can never see. Whether it's Papa or Santa or flying reindeer, Jolly is the personification of the kind of magic that I am glad my daughter believes in. She feels in her heart that Jolly is alive and flies back to the North Pole every night to report to Santa. For me, Jolly is a wonderful motivation and behavior modification tool; to The Pie, Jolly is a friend that's always there for her to make her laugh and bring her the joy she needs to make it through her first Christmas without Papa. 

Bye, Daddy

It's now December 4. Two weeks ago today, I buried my father. He died peacefully in his sleep on Monday, November 17, 2014. Valerie, his nurse at the Castle, was so kind and gracious when she called to share the news. When I hung up the phone, I sat quietly for a few minutes, knowing that the days following would be a blur of activity and decisions. I allowed myself to be still, to quietly honor his final battle with life. 

Then came the phone calls. Those are the hardest calls to make. I knew I needed my rock, so I first called The Pie's Favorite Aunt and my best friend. When she answered, I spoke two words: "he's gone." I don't even remember what she said...it seems like she just instantly appeared at my side. Awesome Neighbor was next on the list; and the next thing I knew, I was wrapped in her embrace, crying. My Crazy Aunt, Dad's baby sister, was my next call. She was such a great support during the previous several months, and she was already planning to arrive the next day for a visit. She just missed him. All the phone calls bled into one long repetitive conversation and by the time they were finished, I didn't even want to talk about it anymore. 

We went to the Castle, where a hospice nurse was finishing up giving Dad a shave. I saw his body there in the bed, but what I didn't see was pain, anger, sadness or regret. I saw peace. I held his hand and rubbed his still warm head; said good-bye. I felt in a very odd way, that I had just become an event planner - that I was delegating tasks to the appropriate people, fielding questions to which only I knew the answer. The hospice chaplain, Terry, was helpful and mindful of the journey that awaited me over the next several days. Dad wanted the same funeral service that did Mom's funeral to do his, so they were called and as I awaited their arrival, I began to gather Dad's personal belongings. 

There wasn't much, really. He hadn't allowed me to bring too much stuff there. "It's not my home," he told me once. When the all-grown-up son of someone I graduated high school with arrived from the family owned funeral service, we left so as not to witness the transfer. As we walked out the door, the director stopped me and handed me an envelope. I would discover days later that it was his final bill. Classy, right? 

My best friend stuck by me every moment. Just her presence calmed me. I could think clearer, make decisions quicker, be okay. There was one big decision to make and I really needed her there with me. How would I tell The Pie? 

When she got home from school, The Pie was her usual ebullient self; chattering on about the day's events and which boy had aggravated her the most. I asked her friend to go home and beckoned The Pie to join me in the big chair. I took a deep breath and said, "Papa went to Heaven today." She broke down in sobs and all I could do was cry with her and hold her tight. My heart broke for her. In her young life, she had already lost her Mimi and her Papa. But, as young children often do, she rallied, and we talked calmly about how much we would miss him. 

The next day was filled with meetings and conversations: the funeral director, the preacher, bank, the railroad board. The nursing home, the hospice agency and primary care doctor were also on the list. I had prepared a file for service information, so that went surprisingly smoothly and was able to maintain my composure for most of the day. I'm glad I had Crazy Aunt with me, though. I didn't want to be completely alone. One thing I was laser focused on was the music for the service. I contacted the man who was my elementary school music teacher (in the 70s) and asked him to sing at the service. Never mind that I hadn't seen him nearly 40 years, it's what I wanted, and I was damn well going to get it. 

The day of the service was sunny and only a little chilly. The Pie and I got up early to attend visitation, to see Papa one last time. That little girl is so strong and practical that it astounds me. We stood together at his open casket and as I cried, she held my hand tightly and rubbed my arm. "It's ok, Mama," she said. "He's in Heaven now." I must have done something right along the way...she's so smart! 

We went for breakfast, then came home to prepare for the funeral. She picked one of her favorite dresses and I went with the standard black. I felt appropriately respectful, but pushed the envelope with my shoes...high and pointy. We arrived at the funeral home chapel a little later than I anticipated and there already people there. It threw me off a little, but it was nice to see them there to honor my dad. Next, I went to a small room to visit with my music teacher. We both look a lot different that we did in the 70s, but I was momentarily nine years old again, looking admirably at him. Even back then, his faith was strong and obvious. I am grateful that he was willing to make the drive. 

The service was perfect - exactly how I planned it. It was a teeny bit irreverent, like my dad, but still respectful of his life and how he lived it. Mr. Music Teacher sang "My Tribute (To God be the Glory)" and "It Is Well (With My Soul)", my best friend did an uplifting reading, the preacher gave a wonderful eulogy, the song "Daddy's Hands" was played, I read a poem I wrote for Dad 10 years ago and I read something that The Pie wanted to say, but ultimately got too shy for. I held it together pretty well until the end, when the military color guard began their rite of flag folding and presentation. I hadn't seen it in person before and wasn't sure what to expect. But it moved me to my core. The young men were precise, respectful, honorable. The soldier who presented the flag to me went down on bended knee...and as he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion. 

I lost it. I couldn't hold it in any longer. My grief exploded in waves of tears, realizing that my daddy was really gone. God was taking care of him now, not me. He was finally with my mom and his brothers, up to mischief, frolicking without pain or depression. I will have a period of adjustment: getting used to having more time on my hands, not having to consider his dietary restrictions when meal planning, etc. And I will miss it. 

And I will miss him. Forever. 

Hospice-tality

Last week, I spent the majority of one day on the phone with three different representatives of a hospice organization. The nurse, the social worker and the chaplain all had a litany of questions for me regarding my father. 

Calling in hospice was another gut wrenching decision for me. It seemed to me like I was giving up, seeing Dad's situation has hopeless. But after all those conversations took place, each one more difficult than the previous one, I realized that it is the logical progression towards the end of life. 

Dad began refusing to go to the dining room for his meals, then refused to eat at all. His weight loss is now at 49 pounds and his skin hangs limply from his bones. He has developed pressure sores on his bottom and must be regularly turned in bed in order to avoid worsening, or causing more of them. His eyes, which used to spark with life, are now dull and drawn into his head. 

The nurse, LaToya, explained to me that his appearance is natural at this stage of life. She gave me very specific reasons why those things were happening, and it helped me understand a little better what was going on. Melvin, the social worker, was a delightful conversationalist and had me disclosing very personal information before I even realized I was saying it. He is quite skilled in his job, and I see why he does it. He made me feel important, helped me truly understand that my decisions, while difficult at best, were the right ones for Dad and me. He guided me through the entire process, helping me clarify when it all began and why. The chaplain, Terry, was soft spoken and kind. We discussed my father's faith and his church experiences; we talked about his childhood, his marriage to my mother, her passing and his subsequent brief marriage to the Hell Beast. We discussed the possibility of Dad having some unresolved issues. 

My dad worked most of his adult life for the Santa Fe Railroad. Over 40 years ago, he was on duty during a tragic event. A car, filled with a family, tried to beat the train and crossed the tracks before the train could even begin to stop. The car was demolished and each occupant was instantly killed. He still carries guilt regarding that event, even though he knows he was not personally at fault. It was a traumatic event for him, one that he has never forgotten. He has spoken about in the past with me, with one of his nurses, with a church friend. In talking with Terry, I encouraged him to try to get Dad to talk about it, and hopefully the chaplain can help him to find some peace. 

Going over those conversations in my head, it occurred to me that those people are not just helping my father through his transition; they are also helping me. The nurse keeps me updated on Dad's physical well being, so that I have complete understanding. The social worker provides insight for me as to how to properly honor my father and respect his final battle. The chaplain guides me through issues of faith, assuring me that Dad will rejoice when his time on earth is done. In the short time hospice has been in place, I've come to a point where I accept that I will lose the physical being of my father, but I am comforted that he will always be with me in my heart. 

Frozen

No, not the kind that springs immediately to mind. Not the one with the catchy tunes and the adorable, huge-eyed princesses. The one I'm talking about is the paralytic, immovable force field that the bank has placed on my dad's accounts. The kind that leaves me with no access to money and resulted in payments I made being returned. Embarrassing, unyielding...frozen. 

It all started when Dad was first admitted into the nursing home. We applied for MedicAid assistance to pay for his care after Medicare ran out. It's been a frustrating experience, to say the least, but I felt the hoop-jumping and red tape calisthenics would be worth it in the end. Every week, DHS wanted something else from me: copies of his birth certificate, his social security card, his driver's license,the deed to the house, his retirement annuity award, his car title, even his deed to his burial plot he purchased in 1993. Finally, they needed copies of the past 12 months of his bank statements. 

I searched all the files and could only find a few of them (Dad is a known paper hoarder and piler), so off to the bank I went with Power of Attorney in hand to request copies directly from the bank. I presented the written request from DHS, my identification and my Power of Attorney document to the teller, who then referred me to the bank manager. The manager, who I will call Wendy...because that's her name...explained to me that since I was not actually listed on the account, the corporate legal department would have to review the request and examine the POA document before any information could be released to me. I even showed them the paper that Dad signed giving me permission to access his accounts. Still no luck. Had to go through legal review. 

So, four days later, Wendy calls me and says that the legal eagle at the corporate office needs to know the date that Dad became incapacitated and unable to handle his financial affairs. Something to do with the wording in the Power of Attorney. I couldn't simply give them a date, NO, I had to have a signed statement from a physician noting the date of his admission into the nursing home. Fortunately, I have made friends with Sasha at the Castle (which is what we call the nursing home), so I explained to her what the delay was and she jumped right on it. What she learned threw me for quite a loop and left me in a VERY awkward position. 

Upon the satisfaction of the request for physician's statement, the bank intends to transfer the account to me directly, rather than have me take care of things in his stead. Until such time as the transfer occurs, however, the account is frozen.  Like I've done for a while, I paid all the utilities online at the first of the month, so I make sure all the necessities are covered. Since I was unaware of the bank status, all those payments are being returned, incurring extra fees that I can hardly afford. Now, I am forced to throw myself on the mercy of the companies and tell my story a few dozen more times, in hopes of making some kind of arrangement until all this is resolved. And who knows when THAT will be?

In the meantime, I am stuck with no access to funds. My cell phone company has no patience with returned payments, so they immediately suspended the service. Fortunately, the electric, water and gas payments aren't actually due until later in the month. I'm crossing my fingers that I can talk them into waiving the return fees. 

It's not enough that my father lies in a nursing home, so sick that he sometimes doesn't recognize me; I have to deal with this too? I'm scared to even think about what else could happen, because the moment I begin to think things can't get any worse, they do. I discovered another plumbing leak inside a closet; there are other repairs that need to be made to the house, but I can't attend to them. 

This situation makes me feel like such a second class citizen. The limited income we have lived on for years was a struggle in itself, but now with no access to anything, I just feel defeated. This feeling of hopelessness is somewhat new to me. I usually can find the fortitude to stay cautiously optimistic in the face of a challenge, forging ahead to fix whatever needs fixing. Or, as in the past, I just ignore it and hope it goes away! But that won't work in this instance. 

I feel frozen in panic. Paralyzed by fear. Bound by frustration. I wish I could...let it go.