The sky is falling! January 22, 2010

Ever since Gramma got out of the hospital, she’s been having trouble making it to the bathroom in time. I’m not sure if it’s because she had a catheter in the hospital or what; I do know that she wasn’t having too much trouble before going into the hospital, and now the floodgates, so to speak, have been opened.

She fought it, but she finally decided she probably did need some Depends “just in case”–but she wasn’t going to actually WEAR them; she was just going to keep them in case she ever felt like she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Then I guess she was going to run to the bathroom and put on a Depends before she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Remember, please, that this is the same woman who, when she can’t get the seat belt fastened will “just hold it” across her chest “in case there’s an accident.” Anyway, I buy the Depends, and she saves them for an emergency. In the meantime, she’s putting on two or three pairs of underwear with Poise pads in them “just in case.” Is this making any sense to you?  Yeah, me neither.
So she’s going through about 10 Poise pad/underwear combos a day, but the Depends are in the cabinet. Then she self-diagnoses “a problem” and decides to drink cranberry juice to solve it. This, of course, causes her to have to pee even more, but that’s beside the point.
She continues to tell us all is well, or at least “it’s getting better”; I know, however, that something is amiss because I put Poise pads in 20 pair of underwear on January 6, had to buy 18 new pair of underwear and wash another 18 and put Poise pads in them on January 10, and then fix 20 more pair on January 18. She kept trying to tell me that there wasn’t a problem–they just forgot to do her laundry. Uh…I did the laundry on January 10, remember?
She is still telling us she won’t wear the Depends and isn’t wearing the Depends because she’s getting the problem under control with the cranberry juice.
Fast forward to today, January 21:  I stop by for a quick visit to find her pacing and almost incoherent(well, more incoherent than usual), ranting about being out of Depends.  About the time I get that out of her, Jess comes running in because Gramma has called her crying about not having any underwear (which confuses Jess, who knows about the 50+pair of underwear I’ve fixed recently).

So there we are, Gramma pacing and nearly out of her mind (well, you know, more than usual).  “Have you been having problems making it to the bathroom?” one of us asks.

“No,” she says, “but I’ve been to the bathroom 4-5 times today and I always wear a Depends to bed, so I needed to have one for when I got out of the shower today.”   We don’t quite get the urgency here, pardon the pun, since it’s 4:00 and nowhere near bedtime, but we play along.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were almost out of Depends when you were almost out of Depends?  Why have you been telling us you weren’t wearing the Depends?”

“What?” she says because now we’ve apparently confused her.

“You are going to the doctor tomorrow.  We’ve been asking you if you were having problems, and you’ve been telling us it’s under control.  How can we tell the doctor what’s going on if you keep lying to us?”

“Don’t use that word,” she says.  “I’m not lying.  I don’t know what I said.”

“I don’t understand why you needed a Depends so urgently when you have more than 40 pair of underwear in your drawer all fixed for you.  I don’t understand why you are so upset about not having any Depends.”

“I have a Depends on right now,” she says.  “I had to get ready for bed.”

“It’s 4:00 in the afternoon.  Why are you getting ready for bed now?  And why did you get Jess all worried if you have a Depends on?  I’m sorry, but I”m not seeing the emergency.  Where’d you get the Depends if you’re out?”

“I borrowed one from a neighbor,” she says, “and I have to give it back.”

Lord.  “Okay, well, Jess is going to run to Walgreens and get you another package of Depends.  I can’t remember what size you need.  Do you still have the package from the ones you ran out of?”

“Package?  No.  I think I threw it away when I ran out of Depends.”

Jess then decides to look at the label of the ones she has on to see if that will shed any light.  She finds that the old bat is actually wearing underwear.  “Gramma, you don’t have a Depends on.  You’re wearing underwear.  What is the deal?”

“I have a Depends on under my pants just in case.  You know I’ve made it to the bathroom 4-5 times today.”

And here we go again.  God grant me patience, and hurry!

Christmas Songs December 16, 2009

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, ’tis the season.  I tend to love ‘em because they are, for the most part, happy and joyful and they make me feel good, so my car radio is tuned to the stations (yes, there are at least TWO) that play Christmas songs.  I guess they are Christmas songs anyway; I don’t remember them being called holiday songs, and many of them actually have the word “Christmas” in the lyrics.  That brings me to my wondering:  Why do they play Hanukkah songs?  Are there really Jews out there listening to the “Christmas” stations with the hope that they’re going to play “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel,”  Adam Sandler’s “The Chanukah Song,” or the new song by Senator Orrin Hatch (R-Utah–Mormon), “The Eight Days of Hannukah“?

Don’t get me wrong.  I don’t care if Jewish folk listen to Christmas songs.  If Christmas songs make them feel good, they should tune in.  I’ve never thought about this before; it came up yesterday at the gym while my friend and I were toiling uphill on the treadmill, and she asked if I thought Jews were listening to the Christmas stations and if not, then why were they playing Jewish songs?  Hmmm.  This isn’t a rant, nor is it a statement about political correctness; more likely, it’s just my own ignorance about Jewish people and what they listen to on the radio.

As a Christian who believes Christ was born (though not necessarily in December and certainly not with our present-day Christmas madness in mind), I don’t think I’d listen to a Jewish station if there were one.  Is there one?  I won’t be learning the lyrics to Orrin Hatch’s song, and the only lyrics I know of “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel” are those in the title.  But Christmas has become so secular that perhaps it’s not irreverent for Jews to listen to Christmas songs.  After all, lots of the songs are indeed holiday songs, and I sing along with “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” even though I learned the sad truth about the big guy decades ago.  I guess you don’t have to believe in order to sing along and enjoy, right?

Check this one out (Straight No Chaser)–these guys are good!  And this song is just fun.  (You can find a video of the actual group singing it as well as a great rendition of “The Twelve Days of Christmas” if you search YouTube.)  And, now that I think about it, I guess that is part of the spirit of Christmas….fun and joy and feeling good.  My current favorite Christmas song (best Christmas song ever) isn’t really a Christmas song anyway even though it’s sort of PC, which I’m sort of against.  How’s that for fence sitting?  That’s a topic for another day, I think; regardless of how I feel about the pendulum swinging too far one way or the other (I can’t keep right and left straight anyway), I like this song because I like the lyrics, I love the tune, and I’ve always liked Blues Traveler.  The idea of “abundance to everyone you’re with” is one I can get behind.  I like the message of tolerance, and c’mon….who hasn’t wished for a one-horse open sleigh to come and carry them away?

Gramma, a bedside commode, and an imaginary window December 11, 2009

So there we are, in the emergency room again.  The ER doc recognized us from last time, so that was a plus.  I’m not sure how far back to go with this story, so I’ll just start with the phone call from Jess at work telling me that she was at the ER with Gramma and I needed to get there as quickly as possible.  Chest pains.  I was on my lunch break, so I got the phone call, and I got my coat on, and then I remembered that I had to post grades, so I sat down to do that, and then I talked to my teaching partner about what to do in class, and then I started digging in my coat pocket when I remembered that I didn’t have a car today because Kerry had taken it in for its three-month check-up.  So there stood my teaching partner offering me his car to drive.  Good idea, but wait.  It’s a stick shift and I can’t drive a stick shift.  Now what?  Phone a friend?  No answer.  Phone another friend, who luckily is not working today and can come get me.  (Thanks, Pat!)

Cut to the emergency room, and Jess is standing outside the room with the chaplain, crying.  What would you think?  Turns out that Gramma had just not been able to make it to the bathroom, so they were changing the sheets and getting her into a Depends (don’t tell her I told you that; she would die of embarrassment if she weren’t going to live forever to see if she really can push me over the edge.  I’m sure when she goes, she’s going to haunt me.).  So they’ve ruled out a heart attack, and now they’re pretty sure it’s pneumonia.  She’s still having pain, but it’s really in her side, sort of under her breast, and by the way, her big toe hurts, too.  If you only knew how often we hear about her damn big toe and how many times we’ve had her to the doc and the ER about it, you’d be more sympathetic.  We do not want to hear about her big toe.  Ever.

They are giving her narcotics for the pain, but it’s not working, and she’s crying, and we’re trying to get more pain killers, and her oxygen is low, and they don’t want to give her too much medication because that messes with the respiratory system, and her respiratory system is screwed up enough as it is.

Then it happens.  She has to go to the bathroom.  No, no, we say, you just went.  Yes, yes, she says, I have to go.  We know what that means; she has to go RIGHT NOW.  So there’s the nurse, Gordon, and she thinks he is the greatest nurse she’s ever seen, and he asks her if she wants a catheter, and we’re saying yes, yes, we want the catheter, and she’s saying no, no, I don’t want a catheter. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t want it and I don’t need it.  It takes the three of us working together to get her out of bed and onto the bedside commode, and she’s not helping because she doesn’t like to put her feet on the floor, but you have socks on, it’s okay to put your feet on the floor, please put your feet on the floor.  Yes, we know it’s slippery, so once you are sitting, we will change your socks to some hospital socks with the pads on the bottom so it won’t be so slippery, but please put your feet on the floor so we can get you on the commode so you can pee.

Yes, you’re on the commode.  Yes, we’re certain.  Go.  Do we need to run some water?  It’s okay, go ahead.  You’re on.  And if you’re not, we’ll just cross that bridge when we come to it.  It won’t be the end of the world.  Pee.  Go.  We’re right here.  We won’t leave.  Go ahead.  Oh, the Depends aren’t all the way down.  We’ll help you.  Now, there, are they out of the way?   Good.  Go.  Go.  Pee, dammit.

No, no, don’t get up yet.  We have to get the nurse.  Quit squirming, you’re going to squirm yourself off the commode and end up on the floor.  The nurse will be here in a minute.  Quit squirming, you’re going to fall off the commode.

Then she’s managed to squirm off, and we’re propping her up and we pull up the Depends and we try to get her back in the bed, but the Depends are down again, and our four arms and our two backs and our four legs are trying to make sure she doesn’t fall, and we try to pull the Depends up again, and she’s stiff like a baby throwing a tantrum, and she won’t bend at the hips and sit on the bed and she’s yelling help, help, we’re falling out the window, and Jess and I are laughing and crying and Jess is saying Gramma, please put your feet on the floor, and I’m saying Gramma, please bend and sit on the bed, and she’s yelling help, help, we’re falling out the window, Trish, don’t let me fall out the window and we’ve almost decided, without talking about it, to lower her to the floor until the nurse can come and help us, and then suddenly there are three nurses and two paramedics and the doctor in the room, and she’s back in bed, and we’re shaking and crying and trying not to laugh because it’s not appropriate.

Are you okay?  What happened?  Do you need a drink?

Yes, I need a drink, do you have tequila in an IV?

Help, help, she says, I’m going to vomit, so I’m holding the bucket, and Jess is mopping up with a paper towel, and the nurse is putting anti-nausea meds in the IV, and now I’m going to vomit because I’m holding the bucket, but I don’t because I have to keep it together.

That was close, she says, we almost fell out the window.

We’re in the emergency room on the first floor.   There is no window.

Well, that was close.  Will I have to move all of my stuff from my old room to the new room?

No, you’re just going to a hospital room for a few days, and then you’ll go back to your room, your place.  We don’t need to move all your stuff out.

I can’t believe we almost fell out the window.

We can’t believe it, either.

Cut to room 123, and now she’s telling the nurse about the close call in the emergency room.  She has a catheter in, and we keep assuring her she can just go, go, don’t worry about the bed, don’t worry about it, just go.  See, you’re going, it’s fine, that’s what the catheter is for.  (She would absolutely kill me if she knew I was telling you this.)

We order dinner, and the nurse is asking questions.  I’m going, she says.  Do you see the light? I ask.  No, I’m going, I’m going, is it okay?  Oh, yes, it’s okay.  I promise.  That’s what the catheter is for.

The saga continues November 16, 2009

Since October 21, Gramma has been to the doctor’s office three times and spent six days in the hospital due to some sort of infection in her foot.  It still hasn’t cleared up, so she is scheduled to see an infection specialist (who knew?) this Wednesday as well as go to the podiatrist to take care of an ingrown toenail. 

The docs at the hospital decided it was and then wasn’t and then was a tissue infection, meaning it wasn’t then was then wasn’t affecting the bone in any way.  Glad that’s cleared up.  The infection, however, isn’t cleared up, so the instructions when we left the hospital were to continue with antibiotics and keep the foot elevated when she wasn’t ambulating.  Why they just can’t say “not walking” is beyond me, but whatever.

So Jessica goes over today to visit, and guess what she finds?  Gramma up and washing dishes.  With her foot on a shoe box.

 

Same song, second verse (or 200th verse) October 26, 2009

I know I’ve blogged before about passwords, but it bears repeating–I HAVE TOO MANY PASSWORDS!  Or, I guess since a blog is a place to be honest, I CAN’T REMEMBER THINGS LIKE I USED TO!

For instance, I had to request my password in order to log on and write this blog. I know I just requested a new one the last time I logged on, and I tried all of my old stand-by’s, but none of them worked. What was I thinking when I allegedly created a whole new password that is not in my repertoire of passwords, otherwise known as the 7-digit combination of words and letters that I can manage to remember? Apparently something possessed me to change it because I tried that one to no avail.  I also tried the six-letter word I often use, and then I tried the 7-letter combination of letters and symbols that I sometimes use. 

As I am blogging about this, my freshmen are blogging about their first two months of high school (yes, high school is two words.  No, it’s not capitalized unless you’re writing of a specific high school.  No, I don’t remember the password to your blog.)  In order to get to the assignment that I’ve written for them, which details how they’ll be evaluated, they have to login to another program, type their blog entry, submit it to a holistic grading program for feedback, and then copy and paste their revised blog entry into their blog.  I’ve been around the room with the logins and passwords for the writing program; I told them that I’d give them their info since I have it, but it comes at a cost to their self-esteem.  Ha.  Or “self of steam” if you’re a certain ninth grader.  They’re so funny, and you gotta love ‘em.  Right?

Speaking of “self of steam” (for some reason, I’m visualizing a little teapot, short and stout), one of my lovelies was doing an assignment in which he or she was supposed to personify our high school, and he or she wrote that our school was so smart that he would definitely (or “defiantly,” which is how they usually spell it) be the “valid Victorian.”  How cute is that?  I guess a valid Victorian is better than an invalid one any day!

So where was I going with all of this?  I mentioned earlier that my memory is NOT WHAT IT USED TO BE, and this is proof positive of  that assertion.  In my defense, in the time I’ve been typing this blog, I have also

–helped my TA grade an especially poorly written poem

–spelled two words for a student (who I then asked if I had “Dictionary” printed on my forehead today)

–helped two students get their blogs set up

–told a ninth grader that I never expected to hear the words “stop touching me” be uttered in my ninth-grade classroom

–set up My Access (the aforementioned writing program) for four students–at different times, of course, because they didn’t discover they weren’t set up at the same time so we could do one mini-lesson together

–switched classes from one set of freshmen to another

–explained why there’s an apostrophe between the B and the s when you are writing about how many B’s you got on your report card (versus Bs, which could be misconstrued)

–told one student it wasn’t “rock and roll” but “sit and think” time–so stop rolling in your chair, or you lose chair privileges

–explained to another why “gay” is not an appropriate synonym for “stupid”

–told two girls to quit sharing earphones for two reasons:  it’s gross to share earphones (eww! earwax!) and it’s against school rules to have them in your ears anyway

–checked into when basketball tryouts are for a student

And I’m sure there are many other that I just don’t remember.  I read once (of course I don’t remember where or when) that teachers make more decisions per day than any other professional.  I wonder how true that is. 

I need a new hard drive.  Or RAM.  Or less data.  Something.  I’m too young for these troubles.

Blogging for 9th graders September 28, 2009

My 9th graders are blogging!  I’m standing at the front of the room (in 2 1/2 inch heels!) writing this blog as I listen to the tap, tap, tap of their keyboards while they discuss their first month of high school (or “highschool” if you’re in 9th grade).  Some of them are complaining that school is too hard, some that it’s too easy, some that it starts too early, and some that blogging is the STUPIDEST THING EVER.  Some are writing that they’ve been challenged so far in their classes, that they like the independence high school offers, that they are enjoying learning new things, and that blogging is the COOLEST THING EVER.

It just goes to show that the old saw about not making everyone happy is so true.  It’s especially true with teenagers.  I might make one happy today, but you can bet that the same one won’t be happy about the same thing tomorrow.  That’s part of what makes what I do every day so appealing–the fact that I know where I stand with my audience.  They don’t hold back, so there’s no guesswork involved as to what they’re thinking and feeling.  The trick is not to take it too personally; this is often easier said than done!

If you’re interested, check out their blogs at http://thelastmonday.wordpress.com/

What a week–and it hasn’t even been a full seven days September 1, 2009

So.

Last Wednesday afternoon, just as I was getting ready for Parent Orientation, I called home to check my messages, and there were two, both from Crossroads (Gramma’s assisted living facility).  That’s NEVER good.  They never call to tell me she participated nicely in exercise class or made a wonderful piece of fingerpainting art or played well with others.  The first call was that she was complaining of weakness in her legs and couldn’t walk with the walker so was using the wheelchair.  The second call was that she’d fallen, but she was okay…just weak in her legs, not walking, and wanting to go to the doctor.

I managed to call the doctor before the office closed (miracle #1) and get an appointment for the following morning.  Luckily I work with some very understanding people, so I went to work and got my things together for the day, made arrangments for people to cover my classes, and went to pick her up.  I called ahead and asked the assisted living facility staff to please make sure she was ready to go by 9:00–in the wheelchair with her oxygen tank full and dressed if possible, though that part wasn’t absolutely necessary.  I know how she can be.

So I get there at 9:00.  No Gramma downstairs waiting for me.  She’s upstairs, dressed, but not planning to go anywhere in the wheelchair.  Here’s how the conversation went:

Me:  Let’s go.  We’re going to be late if we don’t leave.  I thought you were going to be ready.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?  I’m not going.  This was not my idea.  You came up with this.

Me:  Huh?

Her:  What?

Me:  Are you nuts?  You can’t walk.  Your legs are weak.  We need to go to the doctor.  Let’s get going.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?  I’m not going.  This was not my idea.  You came up with this.

Me (trying to regroup):  WE ARE GOING TO THE DOCTOR, AND WE ARE LEAVING RIGHT NOW.  LET’S PUT THE LEG RESTS ON YOUR WHEELCHAIR AND SEE IF WE CAN MAKE THE APPOINTMENT ON TIME.  DO NOT TELL ME THIS WAS MY IDEA AND DO NOT TELL ME YOU’RE NOT GOING IN THE WHEELCHAIR.

Her:  I’m not going in the wheelchair.  I’ll use the walker.

Me:  Can you walk?

Her:  No.

Me:  Ummm….then I think we have to take the wheelchair.  There’s no choice here, Gramma, you have to go in the wheelchair.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?….

Me:  JUST GO ALONG FOR THE RIDE, DAMMIT, AND DO NOT ASK ME AGAIN WHERE AND WHY WE’RE GOING, AND DON’T TELL ME THIS IS ALL MY IDEA BECAUSE I’D RATHER GO TO THE DENTIST FOR A ROOT CANAL THAN TAKE YOU TO THE DOCTOR TODAY.

I have to explain at this point that I also had a doctor’s appointment on this day and since I was having bloodwork done, I had been fasting since dinner the night before.  And patience is not and has never been my virtue, even when I’m not fasting.

I also need to explain that I was driving my convertible, and the wheelchair is about 1/2 inch too big to fit in my trunk, which means that in order to transport the wheelchair, I have to put the top down and manhandle the wheelchair into the backseat, without scratching the interior, and then hold it out of the way while the top goes back up.  Got that picture?

I get her out of her room and down to the car, and I have to pretty much lift her from the wheelchair into the car, then I have to go through the whole put the top town, load the wheelchair, put the top back up rigamarole before we can be on our way.  So I get the top back up, and she’s holding her hands over her ears and squenching her face up, which causes me to ask, “What in the hell are you doing?”  Of course…she’s trying to protect her ears from all the wind that will be blowing in them because she thinks the top is still down.  Which causes me to ask, “Have you lost your mind?”  I have to convince her that the top is up and there will be no wind in her ears, and then we are on our way to the doctor’s office.

Parking at the doctor’s office, you have to understand, is a pain in the neck.  The lot is across the street from the actual office, so there’s no handicapped parking anyway–that’s apparently someplace that I don’t know about, and I don’t have time to look for it now anyway.  Besides, I’m just going to do the whole top-down-wrestle-the-wheelchair-out-top-up thing anyway, then I’m going to push her across the street (after I’ve looked both ways to make sure a semi-truck is coming) to the doctor’s office.  Right?

The best laid plans and all that.

I get the wheelchair out and I get the top back up, and she’s still in the front seat.  Remember that I’m not in a handicapped space, so I don’t have a lot of room on either side of me, so I’m actually behind my car getting the elevated leg rests out of the trunk and onto the wheelchair.  It’s taking me longer than I expected because the things are a pain in the neck to get on and off on a good day when I’m not starving to death and highly irritated.  So I get the things on backwards and then have to start over.  Finally they’re on, but here comes a man walking up to asking if the woman in the front seat is my mother.  She’s waving and gesturing frantically, and he thinks I’ve kidnapped her or something (do I now look crazy?).  I manage to get around the wheelchair (which has been blocking my view of her) and to the door to open it to see why she’s waving frantically (let’s face it, it’s not like it took more than 2-3 minutes to mess with the wheelchair–I wasn’t out of her sight more than 5 minutes, tops), and she looks at the man and says, “I need help.  Can you help me get to the doctor?”

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10….nope, that didn’t help.  Perhaps if I count to ten again, I won’t throttle her.

I convince the man that I’ve got it under control, she’s not in any immediate danger, and we’re on our way, at last to the doctor.  He leaves, and I tell her to not even talk to me until we’re actually in the presence of the doctor and not to talk to anyone else either because she’s on thin ice.

Of course when we get into the doctor’s office, Gramma can’t remember why we’re there, so I explain the whole story.  The doctor rules out a stroke, tests the strength in Gramma’s legs, takes blood and urine (that wasn’t easy, either, but there’s another bathroom story coming up that’s funnier), and says it’s all very strange (!) and she doesn’t know what to think.  She’ll order physical therapy, and in the meantime, I should see if I can get Gramma into the pain clinic where she’s gone for shots when she has back problems.  Maybe it’s that.  Just to be sure, we should go over to the hospital and get an x-ray to make sure nothing has changed in her spine since the last x-ray.

Since the hospital is in the building next to the doctor’s office, I decide not to take her in the car but to just push the wheelchair around the building–that will be easier than lifting her into the car, top down, wrestle wheelchair, top up, right?  Well, in theory it’s easier.  I guess in reality it’s easier except for the constant, “Why are we here?  Where are you taking me?  Are you sure you know where you’re going?  I thought we were going to have an x-ray” all the way around the building.

At the hospital, it’s standing room only in registration so I get the paperwork completed and get in the queue.  We get through registration and go to get in line at radiology, and it’s also standing room only.  And I’m hungry and thirsty and irritated and she doesn’t know why we’re there and asks, “What are we waiting on…my ride?”

Me:  I’m your ride.  We came here in my car.  When you’re finished with your x-ray, I’ll take you home.

Her:  Where are we?  Why are we here?  This wasn’t my idea…..blah blah blah.

Me:  Lord, grant me patience and hurry.

Finally someone comes to get her, and she’s gone for a while and I try to regroup.  If we get out of here soon, I can still get to my appointment because God knows I don’t want to have fasted all day for nothing.

She gets finished, and I almost make it out of the hospital. Almost.  Then, right as we get to the exit door, “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

Me:  Why didn’t you go in radiology where they had people to help you?

Her:  I want you to help me.  I don’t want them to help me.

Me:  Lord, grant me patience and hurry.

There just happens to be a bathroom, and luckily it had a big stall so I can get the wheelchair in.

Now you have to know that my grandmother does not sit on public toilets.  She sort of stands/squats over the toilet, and I’m always afraid she’s going to fall over on her head.  But she’d rather fall on her head than catch a disease from a public toilet, so there you go.

Now you know she can’t stand/squat at this point because she can’t stand at all, so this is going to be interesting.  I get the wheelchair turned around, and I get her out of it and sort of leaning over one of my arms.  Then I explain to her that she’s going to have to sit but that I will put the paper down on the seat so she won’t catch any diseases.  Nope, nothin’ doin’, she is NOT going to sit.  “You are going to sit,” I say through gritted teeth, “or you’re not going to go at all.”  She actually reaches back and knocks the paper into the toilet.  “I am not playing here,” I say through gritted teeth, “you are going to sit on the paper or I’m going to drop you on the floor.”  Somehow I manage with one hand to put another paper on the seat, which she knocks off again.  Now I’ve had it, so I tell her that I’m going to put her in the wheelchair and leave her there and change my phone number and and and and if she doesn’t sit her ass on the toilet and go to the bathroom because I do not want to miss my own appointment because she won’t sit down to pee.

Another piece of paper on the toilet, then she sits, and now….nothing.  Are you kidding me?  You don’t have to go?

Her:  You scared the pee out of me.

Me:

I go out to the sink and run the water, hoping that will help, and it does and she goes.

And I get her home, and I don’t have to go to court or to jail, and I get to my doctor’s appointment, and my blood pressure is a bit high.  Really?

Friday isn’t much better except we don’t have to go to the doctor, but she still can’t walk and now she can’t think either because she is losing it completely and doesn’t know what day it is, when she saw us last, how to play cards, how to use her phone.  I’m pretty sure this is the beginning of the end, and I don’t know what to do for her. But by the afternoon, she seems to rally a bit because she’s decided that she’ll just use the wheelchair and go downstairs and do her thing as best she can in the wheelchair.

Saturday is about the same, and Sunday is the day she comes over for dinner.  So I called her and told her we’d be coming to get her and were having a good dinner and not to stuff at lunch…same old conversation we have every Sunday.  But Jason and I go to get her Sunday, and she’s down at dinner.  Then she doesn’t know it’s dinner and doesn’t know what’s going on.  Oh, boy, this is not good.

Monday night we take Mallie over to see her, and she’s happy to see us but really happy to see Mallie, and she’s just out of it.  At this point, I’m pretty sure this is it and she’s just decided not to go on.  She was just completely not with us.

Today, Tuesday, I called to see if the Physical Therapist had come yet, and I happened to catch her (the PT) in the room, and she said she’d do what she could but she just wasn’t sure what the issues were since Gramma wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.  No surprise there.

I went over after work to check on Gramma and when I got there, she was in bed.  I woke her up to see how she was doing, and she sat up and said, “I don’t know what I’ve been doing lately, but I can walk.  That wheelchair is worthless, for Pete’s sake.”

Me:  So did the physical therapist work a miracle?

Her:  No, she just did paperwork today.  After she left, I just decided that I didn’t know why I wasn’t walking and why I was in such a stupor, and I just got up and used my walker.”

Me:  Show me.

So she did.  She hopped out of bed and trotted out into the hall (have you ever seen a 93-year-old woman hop and trot?) and announced to no one in particular, “I”m back!”

And she seems pretty “with it” relatively speaking.  At least as “with it” as she’s been for the last couple of years.  I don’t know what the deal was, but thank God all is well right now.  Miracle #….whatever.  I’ve lost count.

I am so tired of EVERYTHING being blamed on race (or gender) July 23, 2009

I don’t know the whole story here, so I am probably writing out of turn, so to speak, but I am just beyond irritated with this story. The disclaimer here is that I am a white woman who has faced discrimination on very low levels.   However, I have been a victim of burglary and if a neighbor sees someone who appears to be breaking into my house, I want that person to call the police and I want the police here pronto whether that person is white, purple, black, female, or ME.  Then if whoever it is who is breaking into my house can’t or won’t produce identification to prove that he or she belongs here, I want the police to arrest that person.

I don’t understand why Gates’ first reaction to the police, when it was reported by a neighbor that a man was apparently breaking into the house, was to blame them for racial profiling.  They were DOING THEIR JOB.  I really don’t get it.  I would apologize for the fact that I left my key and was having to break into my own house and thank the police for getting to my house so quickly!  Then there would have been no incident.

I get that minorities in this country haven’t been treated well; in fact, have been treated horribly.  I do.  Blacks, Native Americans, Latinos, Asians, Hmongs, Irish, Italian, Mormons, women–you name the minority, and I’ll agree that white American society has been unjust and downright cruel.  I am not so naive that I believe that “color blindness” is here or is coming anytime soon, but “playing the race card” perpetuates the problem.

In the Gates case, if I read the first reports correctly, Gates was breaking into his home by using his shoulder to push open the door, and the police were called.  They came, they asked him for identification, and he refused to give it to them, immediately accusing them of racial profiling.  Mr. Gates, if you hadn’t appeared to be breaking into a home, the police never would have come, and none of this would have taken place.  If you had said to the police, “It’s my house; here’s my proof,” they would have gone on their way to their next order of business.  It’s your fault, Mr. Gates, that this has escalated into a race-related, racial profiling situation.  Do you think the police wouldn’t have come if it had been a white man, Latino man, teenage girl breaking into your house?  I certainly believe they would have, and then they would have arrested the person who didn’t belong there, and race would not have been a factor.  You, Mr. Gates, made race a factor in this case.

A simple epiphany July 10, 2009

Isn’t an epiphany something that you SHOULD have known, maybe DID know but just didn’t KNOW you knew?  An idea or moment of clarity caused by something simple?  I had an epiphany yesterday at an education conference I attended, and the sentence that caused it was so SIMPLE it was almost one that would cause you to say, “Well, duh!”  Are you ready for it?  Here it is:  What’s obvious to you is obvious to you.

There.  I don’t necessarily think that I didn’t KNOW this; however, I hadn’t ever thought of it in this way in relation to myself!  For example, when I see some sick and twisted person carrying a snake around, I wonder what horrible event in his or her life caused him or her to be so sick and twisted that he or she would actually carry a snake around (or have a picture of one or allow one to be anywhere in the vicinity) because it is OBVIOUS TO ME that SNAKES ARE BAD/SCARY/PANIC-INDUCING CREATURES.

And for goodness sake, isn’t it obvious to everyone on the planet that To Kill a Mockingbird is the best book ever written?  Or that when you open a cabinet or door, you should reverse your action and shut it when you’re finished doing whatever it was that caused you to open it?  Or that when you use a Kleenex, you should not leave it on the coffee table for someone else to pick up?  What about wiping down gym equipment, not cutting in front of someone in line, washing your hands after you use the bathroom, or not calling your kid on a cell phone when you know he/she’s in English class?  These things are all obvious to me, but they are apparently not obvious to others; I have seen examples of all of those behaviors, which leads me to believe that others don’t share my feelings.  What’s wrong with those people?

I think the change that this epiphany will cause is that I might think about that simple sentence before I jump to conclusions about the intelligence levels of those folks who don’t share my idea of obvious.  I can’t promise I’ll be any more patient with those ideas that are NOT obvious to me, but I do think I’ll at least consider that there are other ideas of what’s obvious.  Even if those ideas are wrong.

“Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad ones” July 7, 2009

The quote above is from the novel The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows.  I could write an MLA-approved bibliography for the quote, but there’s really no point.  If you are really into that sort of thing, the quote appears on page 53 and was “written” by Isola Pribby to Juliet Ashton in a letter.  Isola is telling Juliet about how much she loved Wuthering Heights.  If you want to know more about that, read the book.  It’s well worth it.

The point of this post is not to discuss the novel (I’ve done a bit of that on my books page) but to discuss the quote.  You see, I can’t decide if I agree with Isola and thought that writing about it might help me to make up my mind.  Writing often clears my head and leads me to some conclusions I might not reach otherwise.  So here goes.

In college, I remember a girl who was in the same teacher education program I was and whom I didn’t like very much because she was a SNOB.  She was one of those people who seemed to care more about her grade than about what she learned, and she made sure the rest of us knew that her grades were VERY GOOD indeed.  She also made sure we knew that she read things more carefully, got more out of what she read, and just generally appreciated literature (LIT-tra-ture) more than the rest of us.  I remember one day in African-American Literature class she said something to the effect of not being able to read “pulp” any more now that she’d been introduced to Toni Morrison.  I asked her just what she considered “pulp,” and she was happy to expound on her ideas about that–basically, she considered “pulp” to be anything that wasn’t considered a “classic.”  I reminded her of what Mark Twain said about classics–something to the effect that a classic is something everyone wants to say they’ve read but no one really wants to read.  (Wuthering Heights comes to mind for me!  While I’d love to say I’ve read it, I haven’t.)

I wonder if Isola meant that bad books were “pulp.”  Dictionary.com defines this type of pulp as “a magazine or book printed on rough, low-quality paper made of wood pulp or rags, and usually containing sensational and lurid stories, articles, etc.”  So I guess “trashy romance novels” would be considered pulp, as would true-crime novels, memoirs, and just about anything sensational (as in “causing a sensation” rather than “great,” I’m sure).  I like a trashy romance novel every now and again, and I have been known to pick up a true-crime story.  I’m a big fan of memoir, so I guess I enjoy “pulp” as much as the next girl to a degree.  I will say, however, that since I have started reading more “literay” works over the years, I find that I don’t read as many trashy romance novels as I used to (so long, Bertrice Small!); however, I will still pick one up every once in a while.  For example, I’m dying to re-read Forever Amber for the dozenth time if I can find it in the basement, and it’s most definitely pulp.  I also don’t classify the Harry Potter novels as literary classics, but they are enjoyable and well-written.  There’s not too much to think about as far as symbolism, style, and other literary elements go, but that’s okay with me.  Sometimes I enjoy just reading for the story rather than those elements.

So I guess I’ve come to the conclusion that while I don’t wholly disagree with Isola, I don’t wholly agree with her, either.  I still enjoy “bad” books to an extent; however, I always find myself reaching for a “good” one once I’ve sated my thirst for pulp.