The Concert

It started with a folded sheet of notebook paper, left in the hatch of my car after I dropped her at home, left without comment, left for me to find on my own. Or not. Perhaps it was a test.

But she did put dates, times, and the words "choir" and "Harvey" on it. Last night was the high school fall choir concert. Next week is the school play.

I arrived my usual ten minutes early, so I could find seating with some visibility, rather than staring at the back of strangers' heads. For me, the real point was seeing my granddaughter. I selected the second row up in the bleachers along the back wall, an area with lots of space. It got me high enough without asking too much of my knees. After all, they had just been required to make the hike in from the parking lot, down the hall, and across the gym.

Shortly after sitting, I spied Aunt Genese arriving with her daughter, the family Jordan is living with while she finishes her senior year in the school she's been in. (Mom moved a few towns away.) I was barely acknowledged,but she wasn't outright rude, and they sat in the row in front of me. Lots of access for the ups and downs of an active three-year-old at what had to be getting mighty close to bedtime.

Then the students filed in, and Jordan found us all in a group, stopping by on her way to her seat to let her aunt know her mom was coming with a scarf she needed to complete her ensemble, and would somebody please bring it to her where she was sitting?

Oh goodie. Her mom's coming. Last we spoke I hung up on her, with a very plain request for her family to keep their noses out of our family's business. This was after she'd called me, yelling at me because we'd sold off my dad's car to a neighbor who could afford to keep it running and would welcome its use. We hadn't given it to Jordan. Their whole family was upset. It didn't matter that Jordan has no license, can't afford gas, insurance, or repairs, and the car would have wound up rotting away down there rather than up here in our drive. At least this way it'll get some use. So I got annoyed at their attitude, told her so, and hung up. I've been yelled at by her on the phone for years. I'm getting much better at hanging up, particularly now that Jordan is 18.

This should make the concert interesting.

I didn't have long to wait. In she came with the three littlest ones in tow, sitting down right in front of me, completely ignoring my presence as if we'd never met.

Yep, interesting. And a relief. I didn't feel like dealing with her either. And as it turned out, she spent most of the concert taking one or more of the kids out into the hallway since they couldn't behave well enough long enough to let anybody around them enjoy the concert.

Whew. On both counts.

Musically, the concert was interesting, a blend of new-old and new music, a variety of voice combinations and supporting instruments to make the hour-plus worth the uncomfortable seating. My only real quarrel was with the boys choir, which sported at least one member who regularly sang loudly off-key, particularly on the high notes. I do not have perfect pitch, but even my ears cringed.

I loved watching Jordan singing. This year she took seriously her job of maintaining eye contact during the songs with the director, rather than looking over the audience - and her scattered relatives - like previous years. That she saved for breaks between songs. She is an animated singer, fun to watch even if she weren't my granddaughter.

I'd been looking forward to hearing "Gypsy Rover", a song I've loved since the Chad Mitchell Trio did it back in the 60's. I recognized the first verse, but then this arrangement took it somewhere else, both musically and lyrically. With all the ambient noise around me, I couldn't quite tell where exactly that somewhere else was, however. Many other old songs did the same thing, making some new presentation that bore a passing resemblance to what I'd known. It was both refreshing and frustrating.

Most of these concerts have really pushed my nostalgia buttons hard. Half the time I'd be sitting there remembering when it was me up there singing, and feeling how distant that all was, feeling somehow alienated by that distance rather than tied into the similarities two generations apart. Some part of me was long lost, the concert serving as a reminder. This time I skipped that, feeling instead that this could very well be the last of these I go to. There will be more concerts for this last senior year, but who knows where I'll be then or whether I can make it to the next one?

But I do know, by the end of this concert, that every time Jordan looked over, at least I was still there, applauding her, still listening, her only family member there till the end. Some day that may mean something to her.

I wonder if I passed.

Homecoming

The voice on the voicemail informed me that Daddy had been discharged, and was reminding me he needed a ride home.

Duh!

I had already told him to expect me after lunch, meaning 1:00, and that's when I showed up, with Richard in tow carrying the home portable can of O2. I brought the bag of shirts, a diaper, and his winter jacket. For some strange reason they'd sent Paul home with those items when he was admitted a week earlier, but had kept his pants, socks and shoes. I still don't get that. But anyway, here we were with what he'd need.

As we passed by the nurses' station on our way to the room, I announced we were here to spring him, and suddenly we were the center of attention. "Oh dear, oh no, we're not sure he can go home yet."

OK, he's been discharged but can't go home? Seems he started feeling less well, and the doctor wanted to see him again before he left.

Fine, let's talk to her.

Well, she's gone to lunch, but she'll be back "soon."

Define "soon."

After she eats lunch.

We file into his room, set stuff down, find chairs. He's sitting in the large stuffed chair where they can lock the wheels so he doesn't fall when it rolls away from under him as he sits or stands. That seems to be its only good point. It's too deep to sit in comfortably, so it needs a pillow between chair back and patient back. It's too wide, so his elbows fall off the arm rests, particularly when he falls asleep, like he's doing now. It wakes him up, long enough to say "Hi," and get out about a sentence before he falls right back asleep again, mid-word. We get to watch that cycle through over and over for about an hour before he really wakes up. He's so sleep-deprived from being in the hospital that he can't stay awake, going in and out of REM sleep so fast one can hardly keep up. Needless to say, when he is "awake" he's unable to sort reality from dreams and says some pretty bizarre things.

I'm hoping it won't last when he gets home. It will be a humungous challenge to care for him when he's mostly not grounded in reality. I'm hoping a "real bed" and some real sleep will induce a better grip on reality.

Meanwhile staff come and go. We hear his nurse will come in and explain what's going on to us. We hear we're waiting for the doctor. We hear she's back from lunch and they'll flag her down as soon as feasible. We hear she's not back on the floor yet. The physical therapist comes in and puts him through some exercises. A nurse removes his catheter, and another later tries to assist him in self-cathing, with little luck. These are curved catheters and not the straight ones he uses at home, so I wonder if that's making a difference. Standing doesn't do it, so they have him lie down. There's a bit of success, but he's feeling like he still needs to go. He also feels the need for a bowel movement, even through there are new fresh brown spots on his bedding and his pressure-leggings and nobody has gotten around to changing anything yet. Obviously he's already had a rather sudden movement.

We call home to let them know what we don't know, especially when we might be home. The turkey has been put in the oven, since I promised him turkey dinner this evening after he missed the big family Thanksgiving. The clock rolls around, he wakes completely, finally, and asks to be put back in his bed so he can rest. The clock keeps rolling around.

Finally, a doctor shows up, the husband of the doctor we've been waiting for to finish what must be a very long lunch. He asks Daddy a few questions about going home, and he's given all the "right" answers. Daddy is right now determined to leave. He insists that his not feeling well earlier was all in his head, being afraid of leaving his vast support system of the hospital. Now he's fine.

OK, then, he can go home.

Now it's another parade through the room. One nurse gives us a stack of papers to read, and tells us to ask any questions. Let's start with one page saying give him no aspirin, and another says continue the baby aspirin daily. He's due a last antibiotic today, 2:00 PM, which had now passed, and why can't he get that at the hospital before he leaves? After a check of his chart, it's decided that somebody got the date wrong, the pill is due tomorrow, so we still have to run over to his pharmacy, 26 miles in the other direction, and pick that up. But it won't be a wasted trip, because now he need iron supplements, and.... But, hey, tomorrow's fine.

Yeah, well, tomorrow's busy, because the dog has to go to the vet, so we'll be shuffling schedules around so somebody's there while I'm gone, and he gets lunch at the right time, and....

Then there's the IV needle that needs to get removed from his arm before he can go, and getting him dressed, and getting out the door for real, into the now icy-cold car, and home, and into the house and down in his favorite chair, all just in time to be served turkey dinner, dressing, cranberry salad, au gratins, and juice.

Whew!

He's so tired he goes to bed just after 7:00. Normal bedtime has been between 8:00 and 10:00, usually hitting 9:00. Of course, he makes up for it by getting up before 5:00, so guess who gets very little sleep, since I'm not ready to go to sleep before my usual time. And now he's very uncomfortable, since the plumbing isn't working. Add to that, he can't remember after a week away where everything is the house is. At 5:00 he's already been trying to figure out where in his O2 tubing is the button to push for the nurse. He finally yells, and the baby monitor, finally plugged in again after disconnecting for my brother's visit, wakes me up. (Yes, Steve, I did disconnect it. I don't need to know if you snore. Really!)

But his plumbing is the big worry. According to him, the first self-cath produces 4 drops. This is after asking me where they are when he's standing next to them in their usual space. The next yields 6. Two more produce a bit of very temporary relief, but not really emptying the bladder. His belly is taut, usually sign of constipation and/or gas. We wonder if he needs to go back to urgent care and get a foley and bag put back in, if that part was discontinued too soon.

But I have to take the dog to the vet. His distemper shot is due, and being a cocker spaniel, he has another ear infection. During his exam, I spy a brown mouse scurrying under the door into the next room and mention it to the vet. She freaks out, which I find a tad odd. After all, it's just a mouse. Sure, they eat food and might carry diseases, and probably aren't good for the business's PR, but it's still just a mouse.

They know there's a mouse problem. She hates those sticky traps, won't use poisons in case the clients get into them, or the mice do and stink in the walls while they decompose, and have been using a little tunnel kind of trap that electrocutes the mice as they walk through. It's an interesting diversion, but I need to get this visit over and get back to Daddy and see what can/must be done. The dog goes home with an antibiotic that gets squirted deep in his ear canals after they get cleaned, twice a day. It's mixed with something that makes it get sucked right through the skin, so whoever's treating him needs to wear gloves. Luckily, with Daddy, we have a nearly full box of them at the moment.

As I walk in the house, Daddy informs me the nurse has called, knows about his "peeing problem", and is coming right over.

Huh? What nurse? Who called her? Why is somebody sending her over? Hospitals don't do that. It's Saturday. Is this just another of those unreality post-dream confusions? I must confess to sounding a little skeptical and patronizing at the same time as I tried to make sense of what he was saying. He insisted it wasn't a dream, and, much as he needed to pee, was waiting for her to show up first. After a half hour, I insisted he go try now since he was so uncomfortable.

While he was in the bathroom, sure enough, a car pulls in the driveway and a woman gets out, toting a large multi-chambered black case up the driveway. Oh Halleluia, it's Randy!

Randy is the county health nurse, in charge of his home health aids. I had left her a message that he was to be discharged, so that the aids would know to start in again on Monday. Now here she was, checking out his health, his new meds, his capabilities and needs, and setting up Medicare to take over payments for whatever they would cover post-hospitalization so for a bit he doesn't have to pay himself. Again. Randy is the one who visits when we get anxious about his care, who has tips for getting done what needs to be accomplished, and helps me to keep thinking I can keep doing this.

In all the visit lasted well over an hour, and ended with her supervising him self-cathing to see what was really going on. Her conclusion was that he was peeing a lot more than he thought, not being able to see or hear the stream. She also added a bunch of stuff to the shopping list - since I hadn't gotten out of the house yet to do it. Mostly it was stuff to keep his bowels moving, to relieve that pressure. She also reassured him that his feeling sick after leaving the hospital was typical, since these days they release patients earlier and expect them to recover at home, decreasing health care costs to the insurance companies. He should expect a slow recovery, but he should expect recovery.

I think we both felt better after her visit. Last night and most of today he's perked up a bit, although the slow improvement in breathing has him discouraged. Tonight, after a pretty good day including watching the Vikings win against Washington, he insisted on going to bed for the night at 4:00. He could not be persuaded that he could take a nap, have supper, and then go to bed. He finally let me talk him into having his medications and some juice first. But absolutely no supper!

After all, he might not live that long!

Alllllrighty then. I just finished putting him to bed, telling him if he didn't last the night, we'd deal with it in the morning. I'm just afraid for him it means morning is going to come about 3:30 AM! That means for me too. He'll want to get up and dressed, have coffee, and sit in his chair in the living room and listen to his radio.

I get to go back to work tomorrow. I'd just like some sleep first.

Finally, Good News!

I'm beginning to think that IV antibiotics can beat the bug even when the immune system is barely functioning. Levaquin must be pretty powerful stuff. Let's just hope it doesn't get overused like all the other antibiotics so it quits working when the critters adapt to it. I've grown up with antibiotics. I like the thought of them continuing to be a presence I can count on when needed.

But enough about that. Daddy's coming home tomorrow!!!!

I got a call from his doctor Tuesday, just after my brother and his wife left to go back to Bemidji and try to cope with 12 inches of new snow they'd just gotten, with the plow driver on vacation and no backup driver for their township road, and with another anticipated 6-8" on the way starting yesterday. They traveled between storms.

His hospital doctor said he was getting well enough to come home Friday, and she was starting physical therapy for him that day, ordering more for after he got home. The Foley had already been removed, and the IV pole was not visible when I'd stopped by that morning before work. (Later in the day I saw it tucked behind the curtain, so they were still giving antibiotics.) When the nurse had been in to check lung noises, she commented she was hearing them on one side but the other side was quiet. I think that meant he was rattling only on one side now, rather than he was breathing on only one side now. Anyway, she made it sound like good news.

He's quit talking about dying, and started talking about the pleasures of coming home. Like having bacon. It's been part of his breakfast for years, but the hospital has him on a cardiac diet and won't permit it. I told him to think of it as a reason to get up and walking when he didn't really feel like it so he could get strong enough to have his bacon again. After all, at 96 and 1/2, his home diet is whatever he wants to eat. Meals on Wheels has him on low salt, but that's as restrictive as it gets. I figure he's not eating to try to live another 50 years, so he may as well enjoy what time he has. Food is one of his few remaining pleasures. He's already had his tripple bypass in the 70's and his pacemaker is good for another year before they will want to replace it. So we introduce him to foreign cuisines which Mom never did, leave cookies out to munch on, and generally try to make food interesting.

He's also talking about listening to his radio again. We discussed finding out whether the Vikings are playing this weekend, so he can sit in his chair a foot from the TV screen to make out what he can of the game until he gets so disgusted with their bad playing that he has us turn it off. Since he can't read, and hasn't the attention span/memory to listen to books on tape anymore, WCCO is what keeps him company through the day while we're at work. Or even while we're home.

Speaking of, we've arranged to have somebody in the house with him 24/7 for the next ten days, partly keeping him company, partly making sure he's walking on his own, and safely.

It's time now to bake a couple pies, clean up, give my fiancee a haircut, rearrange the car for passengers, head to the hospital for a visit, then come back and get ready for the big family Thanksgiving this afternoon/evening. I even get to pick up my granddaughter on the way for a change. Apparently her mom's extended family won't be celebrating on the day itself. Not that she's said that exactly, but it's what I take it she means when she say's she's available to join us this year. (Considering some things that get said in that family, and the fact that she's not living at home, perhaps she's just more comfortable not joining them?) I have to remember to pack my son-in-law's boots which he left at my brother's when he went up deer hunting ( at least he remembered to pack back his deer), my granddaughter's earrings she left on her last visit, pie, turkey stuffing, bread and jelly, the curried broccoli, and the catawba juice, which are our family's contributions to the pot luck feast and general merriment.

Let's see, there's got to be a post-it for a list somewhere....

Oh, and for those who've been paying attention to such things, Rich will be joining us. The judge didn't want to keep him over the holiday. He got picked up and transported all the way to the Dakota County jail for non-payment of child support on Tuesday morning, and I got to add picking him up to my to-do list for yesterday during the snowstorm. Luckily a job popped that took me to the same building, so it wasn't cutting into my work schedule. But he has to go back before the judge in a couple weeks, and that will.

No Fever

I was brought up to think that was a good thing. It meant you weren't sick. Turns out it can mean you simply aren't fighting what's making you sick. If you live long enough, your body can quit making white cells, the ones that fight infections. That is definitely not a good thing. And this is what they think is happening with my dad.

His doctor for the day called from the hospital. His pneumonia is worse. His nurse says he is getting weaker, but they're going to get him walking, provided he can suck in enough O2 to make it work. Taken together it means they haven't given up hope. Or they're going through the motions. The outlook is not good, but the doctor was unwilling to commit to pessimism. Everything I was hearing said it's time for the family to make those last visits, but she specifically wouldn't say that.

I asked.

Perhaps she's young and that's hard for her. Perhaps she knows something she's not saying. Perhaps she's scared - of death? of our reactions? of her own failure to cure every time? Who knows?

But tomorrow my brother and his wife are driving down, and staying overnight. They'll head back home before the next expected winter storm blows through on Wednesday.

They'll get to see his cool room with a couch (bed?), microwave, and 'fridge in it. It seems made for family to stay with a patient. The staff even offer free supper for family along with the patient's meal. The nurses are all very attentive, helpful, and make frequent visits to his room. I asked if he could have a radio brought in so he could listen to WCCO, since the TV is not useful. She found two. The first had no antenna and emitted only a hum. The second had an antenna but still emitted only a hum. Today there was no radio sitting by his bed even pretending to be of use. It freed up table-top space for all the other things that could be of use.

They have special coverings on his calves that alternately blow up and deflate to improve circulation, but his feet are still cold, even with all the extra blankets. There's a dry-erase board by his bed with the day, date, and names of his nurse and his other assigned assistant, whatever the jargon is that they use. Not that he can read it, but family can, so we know whom to ask questions of. Once I brought it to their attention this afternoon, the date got corrected for the first time since he was admitted. Not that he noticed, but they were consistently a day behind. How do you keep changing it and getting it wrong? Are they just so programmed to add one that they don't stop to think?

Tomorrow I'll be back at work, but unless it's icy again like this morning, I'll stop in to visit him first, and then again after work. The ice didn't melt until after two, so I delayed my visit this afternoon. Going down an icy steep hill into Taylors Falls and back up into St. Croix Falls is not my ideal way to arrive at the hospital, but likely as effective. Going home again might easily be delayed, however. They might put us in adjoining rooms, though.

For now, it's just one day at a time, seeing how things go. Planning for his return. Planning for not. And just hanging in there.

But, But, Pineapple Juice?

Randy is great, and our conversations are always fun, despite the serious reasons for them. She's the county public health nurse, supervisor to the home health aids that come in and take care of my dad. When there's a change, or a problem, we talk. Whatever needs to, gets done.

My dad's cold had long since appeared to disappear. No runny nose, very little coughing, the "I'm sick" feeling long gone. Only problem is, he got out-of-breath just in the process of sitting up in bed in the morning. Even with the help of a pulling hand. And on oxygen. So I called Randy and asked her if she could come out and help me assess his condition, see if he needed medical intervention. She has lots of little tools that can do things like measure his blood oxygen saturation, listen to his lungs. Add to that the experience to know what she's dealing with, and the willingness to make house calls, and we're set.

She checked her schedule and made room to come out the next morning, but first, she gave me a shopping list. We needed my dad to be able to cough up whatever was clogging his lungs. She figured the stuff was just sticking to the sides. Then she could diagnose from color - icky yellow or green - whether there was an infection that needed medicating. Problem was, he coughed little and usually came up dry. She had a solution for that. Three, actually.

First, Robitussin. No fancy add-ons, just plain Guaifenesin, the expectorant. Generic would be fine. And watch the dosage because they've been diluting it these days so you need to take more than you used to have to: read the label. Why? I envisioned some kid getting into it, and saying, "Gee, Daddy, I didn't kill myself on all the medicine because I got full on all the water first!"

Then Vicks Vapo-Rub. Now that's a name from the past. My last memory of that is Mom using it on my chest and me fighting with her because it tickled so. Needless to say, I had no idea what it looked like or where to find it in the store, but lucked into finding a stocking person in the department when I needed one. Randy added that I needed to not only rub it on his chest, but into the bottoms of his feet as well, especially the ball of each foot.

Huh? Really?

She explained it worked like reflexology, and the ball of the foot was connected to the lungs. Treat it, treat them.

OK, yeah, whatever. No biggie to rub it in a couple extra spots, and he seemed to enjoy it. The idea tickled me, the reality didn't literally tickle him. So we're good. Oh, and she said to also use it to cure toenail fungus. Talk about off-label medications! But hey, maybe I'll try that some day. When I've got some time.

Now there was just one last thing I needed to pick up: pineapple! Either the fruit bits or the juice. Or both. Apparently one of its actions is to loosen up the crap in the lungs so it can be coughed out. Mother Nature's own special little cure was how Randy put it. For me, this would be extreme. I am not a pineapple fan. My dad, however, likes it. So I got both. Juice for bedtime and breakfast drink, and fruit for breakfast fruit cup.

With all the cures and nostrums liberally applied, he was coughing up crap as I left for work Friday. I told him to save it so Randy could see it, cough into a handkerchief rather than a tissue. Around 10:30 I got a call from her: he definitely had a respiratory tract infection. It was a nasty green. Moreover, his blood oxygen levels, at 97% resting, bottomed out when he walked to the bathroom even though he remained connected to his O2. And by the way, who turned the concentrator machine up to 3? It was set at 2.

Nobody claimed responsibility, though it seems to have been a good idea. Maybe a lucky bump when it got moved across the room.

But anyway, he needed to be seen. Oh, and by the way, he also seemed to have a galloping UTI at the same time.

Since it was Friday, I told her to walk down the hall and knock on Paul's door, wake him up, and explain what was needed. She did, and he did.

Around 3 I got another call, this time from Paul. The hospital, site of the urgent care clinic, had decided to admit him "overnight for observation." Plus, they were administering IV antibiotics. Yes, he had a UTI. He also had pneumonia, according to the X-rays.

By the time I stopped in after work, the nurses were trying to figure out how to keep his foot warm. This is the one that has nerve damage from the first hip replacement surgery, where they let the leg stretch and severed the nerve that allows him to lift the foot. Malpractice settlement, foot brace, handicap status officially. This last year or so, it's been getting cold to his senses, during cooler weather. We've been putting on double socks at night, then tripple on that foot, and adding blankets on the bed. Occasionally a very-warm foot-bath helps. We're thinking about trying an electric blanket. The problem is, the foot often isn't really cold, but the nerve damage tells him that it is. It keeps him from sleeping well. So his nurses were piling on the blankets, and I was offering advice. Finally he asked for a heavy-duty sleeping pill at bedtime in hopes that that would keep him asleep enough to stop noticing it.

His attitude is good, his breathing seems fine - at least while he's just lying in bed with his head elevated and getting hospital O2. Same little 2-prong tube in the nose, hooked around the ears. The IV treatment was done, though the ports were still taped on the back of his hand, and he was ignoring the fruit cup on the table by his bed. The Foley keeps him from needing to get up and about, and after a minor irrigation, the abdominal pain disappeared. Apparently he was a wee bit clogged.

I'm to call in after 10 this morning and find out how he's doing, whether he's staying longer or coming home. I could have even slept in this morning, with nobody to get out of bed, dressed, dosed, and fed. Unfortunately, my body knows its wakin' up time. I'll catch a nap later.

But, hey, really: pineapple juice?

About Those Frat Brothers

I alluded to Paul's fraternity brothers having bigger egos than accomplishments in bed. Here's the rest of that story, as I know it.

I think his name was Rick. Since I've been annoyed with him for over 40 years, you'd think I could remember it better, the way I remember Tom Moorshare's name. Anyway, at the time, I knew three things about him. He was an ATO, he was engaged to a girl back east somewhere, and, as he was asking me out on an evening private swim date in the campus pool, I found out he was a lifeguard with keys. He assured me we wouldn't get into any trouble.

I loved to swim. Really loved it. And a lifeguard? Instant rescue if needed, which it never was, and I didn't have to worry about safety. And since I knew he was engaged, it should be safe enough that way too, right? Yeah, right! You guessed it: this was still my naive stage. The pool was great, but I found him swimming uncomfortably close to me wherever I moved about in the pool. I was a good enough swimmer that I always managed to maneuver away. But it really spoiled the fun. Eventually it was time to go, and I found myself almost fearful he'd follow me into the girl's locker room. Perhaps he'd taken the hint by then, since the rest of the evening ended on a nicely casual level. At least I thought it was nice.

However, he apparently had quite a collection of girls he "took swimming", and word seemed to get around that I was "one of those." How do you go back to your frat brothers and say, "Oh, that Heather, do you believe she thought the date was really just for swimming?" And they'd all have a good chuckle, right?

Ignorance is bliss, and my new reputation was kept from me. For a while, anyway. One day a girl down the hall named Geri, a year older than I was, asked me into her room for a "friendly warning". It may have been a warning, however useless, but it certainly wasn't friendly. It was smugly self-righteous, and I never wanted anything to do with her again after that. Ever. I was told flat out to stay away from two of the frat brothers. Rick was named, because he was engaged. Of course I knew that, and that's why nothing had happened. She dismissed that, having heard different.

The other was a puzzler. I was to stay away from Tom Moorshare. Sure. No Problem. Uh, who is he, exactly?

She couldn't believe I didn't know. After all, Tom was the one who thought I was pursuing him. After much discussion and resorting to a picture, I finally figured out where I'd seen him. He sat down in the front row of my astronomy class. I had noticed him, because he was quite a distraction. From where I sat up in back, he was in my direct line-of-sight to the professor, and since I was getting an "A" in that class, I had been paying quite a bit of attention to the professor. Tom sat with another guy, and they were always turning around and looking back in my direction. I had no clue why, or even that they might be looking at me specifically. There were other students around, and the exit door was back behind me a few more rows. I'm sure most times they turned around they caught me looking back at them, or so their egos assumed, since I was watching the professor and taking notes. I just wished they'd settle down so I could enjoy the class more.

So that was Tom Moorshare, eh? Well, just tell him to stay out of my life and I guess we can both be happy. I have to wonder, however, after all these years, where such an ego has taken him.

The First Wedding

Guilt can produce strange results, sometimes. I often wonder If I would have married Paul had the times not been what they were, had the mores been what they changed into several years later. But done is done. It was just done... uniquely.

It was 1967, April Fool's Day, when we met at Hamline University. I was sitting on the front steps of my dorm, Manor, across the street from ATO - actually Alpha Tau Omega, his fraternity house - enjoying a little silly toy a former boyfriend from high school had sent in the mail. Paul, living off campus because he'd dropped out (flunked) and was working, frequently stopped by for the company of his fraternity brother friends. He walked across the street and introduced himself, asking me for a date. I was informed later that he'd gotten an earful from his brothers who had bigger egos than bedroom accomplishments and wanted to see if I was anything like what they said I was. I had casually dated several of them, since this was the brainy fraternity and they mostly seemed nice, but nothing clicked. They, however, bragged that they had scored.

I wonder in retrospect how many of them were actually virgins like I was.

Paul and I chatted a while. It was a mild sunny day, not bad for April in Minnesota. Eventually I agreed to a date, and before long I was lavaliered. This meant Paul gave me a necklace with the fraternity symbol on a tiny pendant. It was a discreet way for those in the know to be informed that we were going steady. It was considered quite a status symbol for the girl in those days, and I got feedback that some thought I had dated Paul just in order to get it. I'd never heard of it before he gave it to me, so that's kinda hard to figure, unless it was a case of projection on their parts.

We both lived within a few blocks of campus, so when summer came, we continued dating. My folks met him and took in intense dislike to him. Since they never explained it, I did the typical teenaged rebellion thing and just got closer to Paul. I saw years later what they saw, but it was way too late then, of course.

Paul and I had the normal hormonal thing going, and those days that caused problems. The whole society insisted on virginity until the wedding night. The pill would shortly be developed and that would change rapidly, but for now birth control consisted of using rubbers, a diaphram which required a doctor and a prescription, and the only Catholic Church approved method, rhythm. (What do you call couples who use rhythm? Parents!) At any rate, our "petting" became rather schizophrenic, having the simultaneous goals of wanting it all and wanting to stop just in time. I, of course, was the one charged with saying, "No." He was the one who promised to stop. It worked well until it didn't. Eventually I said "yes," and he never forgave me.

That sounds weird, right? But somehow, if I never gave in to him, then his fraternity brothers were lying and I was a virgin. If I eventually gave in to him, it was because I already had to anybody else, and then what did he have that was worth anything? Even the old-fashioned "proof" of virginity didn't persuade him, since he'd tried to be so gentle the first night that there was still a little bleeding the second time. So for him, this lack of trust would always be a part of our relationship. I guess he never believed that he could be special enough that he could be somebody's first, and while he was right on the first part of that, he was wrong on the second part.

This must sound absolutely insane to anybody under, say, 35. They'd be right, of course, but it's how it was.

On my part, I was being eaten up by guilt. I wasn't supposed to have given in. It didn't matter that we'd been engaged for several weeks at the time. We weren't married! That was about to change.

That fall, I was a sophomore living on the ground floor in a tripple room with two other roommates. We had windows that opened up at ground level, and with ours facing back, it was simple enough to sneak out after hours. A "good" roommate was one who'd say the missing person was down the hall somewhere if someone came asking. That someone would be the dorm mother, at a time when in loco parentis was the rule and there was a dorm curfew and a sign-in/sign-out book at the front door.

The night of October 13th, a Friday, I left to spend the night at Paul's, so we could both leave early. We had a long drive the next morning. I had what was to become my wedding dress, in an ivory double-knit fabric, actually bonded-knit,the newest thing on the market, long sleeved, above-the knee, form fitted with flared skirt, wide mandarin-style collar, and double row of brass buttons down the front. In the morning, we got up early and drove to Watertown, SD. You didn't need a three-day waiting period there, and they had a regular industry set up in across-the-border elopements. Show up, fill out the forms, pay, get a quick VD test, pay, stand before the justice of the peace, use their witnesses, say your "I dos", pay, and the deed was done.

Best yet, the paper it was published in was never read by anybody you knew. We wanted it kept secret, especially from my parents. Even knowing how much they disliked Paul, we figured we could eventually change their minds and have them come around to throwing a "real" wedding. We just needed the sex to be legal.

The honeymoon was a night at the Thunderbird, a large hotel in Bloomington that no longer stands next to the then Met Stadium, now Mall of America because something more lucrative is taking advantage of that expensive location. We couldn't do a regular honeymoon because I had to be back at classes Monday and he had to be back at work. After the second wedding, we spend a night at a dumpy motel in St. Paul. We didn't go anywhere then because, hey, this was nothing special: we were already married for months.

Sunday afternoon I walked back into the dorm as if nothing had changed.

Our secret added spice to the relationship. It also added pressure from Paul who now wanted his wife to live with him and be accessible to him whenever he wanted, in all ways. That helped push the official wedding up to the following spring break. When my parents balked, I threatened to just move in with Paul. This was such a scandalous idea that they thought it was better to be married to him. I, of course, was perfectly complacent about it because I knew we were already married and I wasn't threatening anything remotely resembling a scandal. They were never informed of the first wedding, not to this day.

Paul's parents were, however. We went down to visit them at the farm that fall, and were put up in separate bedrooms. That lasted a few minutes. In the morning we were awakened to pots banging loudly in the kitchen. They were obviously very angry, and we overheard enough to figure out it was about our sleeping arrangements. Paul and I agreed that we should tell them the full story, and ask them to keep our secret as well. Things settled down pretty well after that, though they were miffed at not being informed right away. Now they could spend more energy wondering why my parents couldn't accept their Precious.

The engagement ring actually helped us keep our secret. It was a slim gold band with a solitaire diamond. At the base of the diamond a gold leaf curled off in each direction, to "lock" over the wedding band. Since there were two leaves, we got a 2nd wedding band, and explained to anybody curious enough to ask - like Mother - that the first band was merely a guard ring and the set wouldn't be complete without the "real" wedding band at the "real" wedding. A bit after the set was complete, it got re-sized and the three bands joined into one solid ring on the bottom. After the divorce, I had the diamond reset into a dinner ring.