Renewal

It's not a corner of the yard I go to much. From the street it's hidden by a corner of the house and behind a large amur maple. It's where the sump pump empties out into the yard, and the meters are gathered. Still, I had big plans for it once upon a time.

My favorite rose ever is the Mr. Lincoln. Big red blossoms, perfect form, and the fragrance - oh the fragrance! It's everything you think all roses should be, the very essence of rose. The Chrysler Imperial comes close, but the Mr. Lincoln has slightly better form in the hybrid tea blossoms. I planted one there, out in front  of a pair of Patriot blueberries, upright-growing rather than spreading, and producing large fruit.

The first Minnesota winter killed it.

I kinda suspected it might, and was only moderately heartbroken.

I never planted another there, and mostly forgot about that spot, except to weed it every couple of years and watch the perennials from the rest of the front garden spread around the corner and into the spot. After a couple years, I noticed a wild rose sprig poking up from the spot. Spindly and gangly, I think it managed a bud, but I managed to miss whatever bloom it produced due to inattention. I knew the Mr. Lincoln had been killed back to below the graft, and had no expectations.

A week ago, Paul called me back to look at it. There was a huge bush, long arcing branches, filled with deep red single-petal blossoms, lightly fragrant (darn). I have a red climber! It's gorgeous!

Maybe in another few years I'll produce a trellis for it.

Or maybe not.

But I will start paying attention.

Perspective

It was the worst one ever. For all the nursing homes I deliver to, that's saying quite a bit.

Usually it's the long hike that gets to me. Sure, this place had one of those, down three halls to the elevator, then up to third floor, and down another long hall to the nurse's station before you can find some person authorized to sign for meds. It wasn't even the getting-trapped-at-the-elevator-because-you-don't-know-the-secret-code trick they use to keep the wanna-be escapees from being successful. I finally figured that one out too, since they used a trick I'd run into before: push both the up and down button at the same time to call the elevator.

No, what got to me was the level of staffing compared to the level of need.

To be fair, it was just after supper, when everybody needs care at once. Everybody was in the halls in their wheelchairs, marginally mobile -meaning they could move a bit here and there, enough to clump and block access to everybody - and vocal about needing help. Presumably staff were busy in individual rooms assisting residents, because there were none in view. The one I did finally find - or thought I did - was sitting at the front desk of the nurses station in her nightie and robe. She smiled cheerily at me - likely the only smile in the whole bunch - but I quickly garnered that she wasn't my "authorized person". Finally a young man appeared and signed off so I could leave.

Now this is a church-sponsored care facility, actually build adjacent to the church sponsoring it. I won't tell you the denomination. If I thought there was any real neglect going on, the kind arising from indifference or lack of caring, it'd be a comment tossed in another direction. What I did see was likely just overwork at the worst time of the day. I'm sure they care. I'm sure they try.

Or at least I want to think so.

But what set me off was the patient who greeted my sight as I got off the elevator on the floor.

She was sitting in her wheelchair, reaching toward the chairs at the windows giving residents and visitors a nice view of outside. Eventually she managed to snag what she was after, one of those velcro-fastened support booties for a bad foot/ankle. As she was wearing one shoe and had one stocking foot, I presumed it was hers. Apparently she had propped her foot up on a chair, and in putting it down again the bootie had slid off.

Another apparent resident was standing next to her, talking to her. She was wanting help, and the other resident was scolding her, not offering her any help, and telling her to stop yelling for help and crying when none came.

Did I mention the yelling for help? She was at the end of the long hallway farthest away from the desk from whence all help came. Loud as she yelled, the bedlam on the desk end of the hallway precluded anybody from hearing here, had they even been there. When not yelling, she was deep in conversation with somebody who was not actually present. Arguing, actually.

Had I felt more sure of my own diagnosis - and immunity from lawsuits - I might have rendered assistance. In the time it took me to finally dispose of my package and return to the elevator, the friend had disappeared, the blue bootie was in her lap clasped in one hand, and she was vainly trying to move her chair towards the other end of the hall. As I watched, she made about 8" of progress.

In a curve.

Not knowing the extent of the reason for the bootie, I didn't try to place it back on her foot. Not knowing if she could keep the foot in question up off the floor, I didn't dare try to push her chair down the hall. There were no foot rests on the chair. As I returned to the elevators, she greeted me like her savior, face lit up in a huge smile and arm outstretched to me. I had to walk by.

It broke my heart.

I knew that she wouldn't be there all that long, and she didn't appear to be in any great pain or needing actual medical assistance, beyond replacing the bootie properly.  When it came time for bed checks later, the staff would of course find her and tend to her, if that's how long it took. If I couldn't leave the floor without a minute's worth of decoding the elevator, she wasn't going anywhere. But she haunted me.

The only thing I actually got out of it was a profound sense of gratitude that neither of my parents had to spend time in a facility like that, neglected, or feeling neglected. Mom went quickly, and Dad spent his last years with us.

Now I had been realizing these last several months how hard that actually was on me. I'm very capable of stuffing my feelings and just going on, taking care of business because that's what people do. That's what's necessary. But they've been popping up lately for me to finally deal with. And I have.

But I've also been feeling somewhat like the wounded party. You know, as if it had all been somehow about me. Sure, there's a bit of a place for that, and it wasn't then. Then it was all about meeting Daddy's needs. So I guess now is when and how it has to be. But it's been a bit of a struggle, coming all at once.

Finally, in that one nursing home visit, I gained the perspective I needed to pull myself out of the wallowing. I was able to see how bad the alternative could have been. It's what Mom saw with her own mother, and why she determined no medical assistance after a certain point. She had a horror of ending up like that. And I was now profoundly grateful that I/we were able to keep my Dad home, with family instead of abandoned, having his needs met as soon as possible after he made them known, having constant attention once he needed it, feeling loved.

Wow!

Hey Blogger: A Complaint!

Everything's gotta be new, different, and "improved", right?

Phooey! (I would've said something else, but this is a family blog.)

Blogger jumped on the "improve" bandwagon, and the result is completely frustrating. There is no link on the front page of the blog, nor in the page I'm using right now to create a post, that will get me to the place where I'll be able to pull up an old started-but-not-finished posting in order to complete it.

The only thing I can edit is what I've already posted!

Hey, guys, your change sucks!

Multitasking

There was a radio call-in show, and some fellow called in to make his views known about John Edwards, the verdict, mistrial, and his speech afterward. He was pretty cogent about what he thought. However, he slipped in a zinger completely off track that wasn't addressed by the host. Appropos of nothing, he stated as if it were fact that we couldn't address "those gay issues" right now because the economy needed fixing.

I started simmering. First, this guy was just looking for an excuse to delay/deny the issue; no forthcoming fix intended. Second, why can't we do two things at once, walk and chew legislative gum? It's as if I said I can't fix a broken window because my roof leaks. Or I can't fix a tire because I'm low on gas. It's not like our government can only handle one issue at a time.

It's called multitasking, at least when it's all done by a single individual. You might note the the government is comprised of more than that. Many of them are capable of dealing with issues, plural. They can go from one committee on one topic to another meeting on another topic to the floor to vote on yet another topic and keep them all straight in their heads.  Don't like how they vote? Then you get out there and vote the bums out, but don't claim they're not capable of two things at once.

At any rate, as I thought about what he said, I went from simmering to boiling. It was time for me to call in to the show myself. So I did. I even pulled off the road for a couple to do so. Pat me on the back. For a moment I wasn't, myself, multitasking while driving. I kept my comments brief: it was a guest-filled program, and I wasn't one of the guests. I had a lot more to say than time to say it in. Hence, the blog topic.

If we accept the premise that now is not the time for ____ because we need to ____ , there will never be a "right" time to do the right thing. This is simply not acceptable. Nor just. The premise is not even true.

Perhaps it's a guy-thing? Common wisdom holds that women are better at multitasking. True or not, we certainly get a lot of practice at it the minute we become moms. When raising small kids, there is not a moment that goes by that we are not multitasking. Try cooking dinner. The pan goes on the stove, and a nose needs wiping. Cut vegetables and a dirty diaper needs changing, a dozen questions need answering, a fight needs ending. Set the table and the phone rings, the dog needs in/out/in, someone needs a hug, a toy needs mending, a boo-boo needs a kiss.

These days the experts say that multitasking means you don't do any of it well. Perhaps, if what you  are talking about is six simultaneous office tasks. But home, raising kids, you just do it all, and do it all day. You muddle through. And the next day you do it all again. It's what you do when you keep getting through  your days and the kids keep growing up. Nobody tells you you can't do it all, so you just keep going. Somehow it gets done, the laundry gets washed, the trash goes out, stories get read, blocks and puzzles and balls and dolls dumped out and put back and used hard in between, amid smiles and tears and shouts and naps and those precious two minutes a day of blessed silence.

It's just called life.

So don't anybody try to tell me we can't tend to justice because the economy is struggling.

Wicked

Usually when I deliver a hospice meds package, it's signed for somebody who identifies themselves as Patient X's wife/husband/sister/caregiver/son/daughter/in-law. Today was different. I actually had the same stop yesterday, and the patient herself signed for them. She was basically a skeleton covered by skin with a shaved head. I had no idea of her age, except the new hair growing out was dark. I got a better idea tonight. Tonight the woman who answered and signed was just a bit younger than I am, by her appearance, and identified herself as Patient X's mother.

I realize that my delivering all those hospice meds makes my job sound depressing. It's usually not, even on those runs, and those are just a tiny part of the day, perhaps more memorable as they tend to be how the day ends. Today, again, is a good example of the opposite end of the spectrum.

On Tuesdays I do a route collecting from a chain of day care centers, or on alternate weeks, delivering to them as well as picking up, and taking the whole bunch to headquarters. What I see are blue canvas bags. What's in the bags? I don't know, but I can make an educated guess: payroll records, curriculum items, company-wide bulletins, miscellaneous records. One of the stops in particular is in a strip mall where most of the rooms have exterior doors, though not in use generally.  All have locks and a security alarm way up high that must be turned off when the door opens. Where I go at that stop is the room with the toddlers in it, and the last few times a particular little girl was curious enough to come to the door as the staff person does the hand-over to see who this strange creature is. Today she was wearing a cute sundress and was holding the skirt up over all of her face except her eyes. Adorable! Last week we both had to be sure her fingers were clear of the door before it started to close. Yep, still adorable.

I noticed today something very unusual: all the bags were flat and light. Usually one or two weighs about five pounds and has something bulky in it. Not today.

Have I mentioned that my imagination can occasionally be macabre? Or that I can entertain myself during an otherwise boring, routine workday by giving it free reign?

It started by the question springing into my mind of what was in such flat bags? And what popped up was "squished babies." I could even imagine a conversation with some inquisitive child asking me that question and the conversation heading off from there. I can just see eyes widening in shock, tears welling, jaws dropping and quivering - along with a month of nightmares, screams and tantrums before getting hustled off to day care each day, and years of unresolved therapy where nobody can identify the originating trauma.

"It's why they call it 'babysitting'. Haven't you ever heard some grownup talking about a naughty child and saying they have to go sit on them? You, well, it might hurt a bit. But babies get squished when we do that. So they have me come in and take the squished babies away before they start to smell.

"I'd behave if I were you!"

Late in the afternoon at the end of my route, most of the staff are in back or even outside with the kids getting fresh air. With doors being locked, this means it can take a full couple minutes before somebody answers the doorbell for the bag hand-off. Today a father answered it and then went to get a staff person to take care of me. While the staffer and I were involved in our jobs, he was finishing packing up his daughter, a four-year-old curly redhead in a pink print dress, busy watching us instead of paying attention to her Daddy. They exited just behind me, and I heard her ask her father, "What's in that bag?"

I thought about it. Really, I did, for just about half a second. The whole scenario played through
 my head. I saw again that sweet face, those welling eyes.

How adorable she was!

How wicked I'd be!

How angry Daddy would be!

And I didn't even have to imagine the part where I lost my job.

I just coughed, choking off that top thought, and replied, "It's paperwork."

A Singular Honor

If you live in or near St. Paul, even if you don't follow the minor leagues in baseball, you likely have heard of the St. Paul Saints. If you are lucky, you have gone to at least one game, because they are fun, the kind of thing the Twins tried to capture when they moved out of the Metrodome and into open-air Target Field.

Part of the fun is the Saints' mascot - or mascots. This year it's two. Pigs. A bigger part of the fun is their names. They are named after a famous couple, one of whom has local sports ties. However, they are perhaps not named as reverently as the famous couple might have wished. I'm certain they didn't have any say in the matter, in fact.

Their names? Kim Lardashian and Kris Hamphries.

The mascots are said to be very much in love, and will live together at the stadium for the entire season. It may be noted that this will be longer than their namesakes' marriage lasted.

Last Stop of the Day

I recognized the place even before I turned into the cul-de-sac and verified the house number. No, I'd never been there before. But the scene was set and I recognized all the pieces.

This was a hospice drug run. There were cars lined up double the length of the driveway, more in the street along every possible spot where they wouldn't block a neighbor's driveway. The oxygen equipment truck with its back open was double-parked off the end of the driveway, its driver inside the house.

This was new, this bad news, somebody just home from the hospital, and time was short, short enough that the whole family found it important to gather.

Neighbors were gathered in one of their driveways, talking and watching the commotion, watching me to see if I would park to block them in.

 I didn't.  There was one last spot, questionable most days, but nobody was going to show up tonight to give out parking tickets.

A group of young men, late high school or early college, gathered next to the garage, talking. Cousins, probably. They looked half excited at the commotion and half bored at being forced away from their routines and their electronics.  A forty-something father was keeping a gaggle of elementary-school-aged kids busy in the front yard with a frisbee, out of the house and away from the adults inside, taking advantage of a lovely May afternoon. The youngest started over to investigate me, this latest piece of strangeness in her life, but was called back, keeping her out of my way as well.

A grey SUV pulled in the end of the driveway, sticking halfway out into the street, right behind me as I started the walk up to the house. One woman came out, carrying a purse and a toddler, destined for the house. The rest of the kids piled out into the front yard and were directed to the game of frisbee. The gaggle had just doubled.

I could have let my feelings surround me. I'd been here, still too recently. But this wasn't about me. Not this night. I refused to let tears well up, put on my cheerful/helpful face, and walked up to the young men, asking where I might find someone authorized to sign for medications. I was being well paid for this little service. They needed the professionals to be professional. One of them left for inside, and a moment later a "real" adult appeared, signing and taking the medications. I wished her well as I left, knowing that she was not going to be having a good evening. Maybe not for a long time.

Every one of these people was a stranger to me, and will likely remain so, even should we meet again, here or somewhere else. And yet, as I walked back to me car, for this one moment I knew every single one of them.