Friday, July 18, 2014

Birthday candles

Source: Baking Arts, Richard Festen, via Pinterest
When I was young I spent my entire birthday month counting down the days until it was my party day. On that special day my mom would organize and run a celebration just for me. On this much anticipated occasion, I'd shimmy my newly bathed body into tights and a party dress. I would tolerate a head of plastic rollers, their insides bristling against my scalp like a wire brush to the skin. I didn't mind these sacrifices, because my birthday was a big day. I would wear my new age like a badge, with pride and shiny new excitement, often wishing there was just one more candle on the cake, one more year of growth to celebrate.

Nowadays, I look forward to birthdays because they issue a well deserved excuse to go to a fancy restaurant, sip a cosmo, and savor a piece of carrot cake. But I don't wish for extra candles on my cake. Instead, I try not to think too much about how they won't all quite fit on it.

A woman in her mid-forties, my awareness of the temporary nature of human life is acute these days. As I watch my parents age and begin to think of long term care for my dad, I've started to wonder not if I'll have to wear Depends undergarments, but when. I wonder not about if I'll lose my independence, but when. I wonder not if my mental capacities will decline, but when. And I wonder how I will get along, who will support me, and if I'll be happy.

Strangely, even though we all age, and we all struggle as we age, most of us have no patience or time for the elderly. For many, older people are a nuisance. They slow us down. Rather than aiding them, we focus on how to get around them. They shuffle along the sidewalks in our neighborhoods mostly unnoticed. They sit at our tables and in our armchairs and often fade into the background.

Today I feel a responsibility to minister to the aged. It's hard to make the effort to slow down for others, but the elderly we encounter at the library and the grocery store are moms, dads, grandmas, grandpas, uncles, aunts. They've lived full lives, they've accomplished much. Many have made life a little better for us because of their hard work and commitment to schools, towns, governments, medicine, law, technology. 

And one day we will walk in their shoes. They ought not to be too uncomfortable.

Friday, July 11, 2014

The Purger and the photo album

Below is, in part, a brief excerpt from my book

Photos are to precious to purge
Few things can evoke as many memories and feelings as a photo

I used to think there was no object that could pull at my heart strings, causing me to box it up and shove it in my basement. When faced with the task of downsizing more than once, I learned that memories were made and kept in the heart and mind, not in pillows, vases, and old dressers.  

But unpacking in my latest home has revealed a weakness: photo albums. Photos are a window into the past, a picture of a point in time, a reminder of who we and are relatives are. The more tattered the album, the more sullied the pictures, the more significance the pictures seem to take on.


So, I cherish my photos, even the drunken college shots no one ought to see.  


Several days ago, in a fit of nostalgia, I thumbed through my mom's photo books, where I peeked into life before I was born. I found a wedding photo of my parents, sitting side by side in their get away car. They were in a red 1963 Chevy Corvair decorated like a float, white streamers hanging from windows, mirrors, and door handles.  Even at the young age of 28 Dad was bald, as I’ve always known him.  He sat beside mom, a gentle hand on her arm as she waved and laughed loudly, dominating the space they shared.  Now and for the rest of their life together, she played the role of the extravert, the social networker, the noticed, he the role of the introvert, the quiet yet strong and steady support. Dad wore a gray suit decorated with a white carnation and a carefully folded pocket square.  His brown eyes and quiet smile exuded happiness.  He was comfortable and in control, a different man than he is today. 


Today dad is alive yet absent.  He walks the halls and rooms of his house without saying a word.  Thirteen years ago Alzheimer’s quietly slinked into his brain, slowly choking the life, the memory, the energy from his now frail and tentative body.  Unable to converse with others easily, Dad retreats into himself, making it increasingly difficult for people to know and understand him.  My heart aches as I watch him, once the CEO of a company.  What I always admired most about him was his intellect.  What I wanted for myself most was to have Dad’s brain, his critical thinking skills, his theoretical reasoning skills, his razor sharp business acumen.  What does his brain look like now?  I imagine a tangled mess of plaque twisted and gnarled like an old knot of wood, making words, ideas and thoughts prisoners within him.  It is a cluttered, confused, and dark place.  


I carefully take the photo out of the album and search for Dad. "Hey Dad," I say loudly. "Look what I found!" I stretch my hand out, giving him the photo.



Dad looks at me, then tentatively reaches his hand toward me, to receive the photo. "Ah…yes." He says as a slow smile spreads across his face.

Yes. Photos are precious.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Chaos, creation, and the home

My living room is slowly coming together
(with lots of help from friends, because I'm a lousy designer)

Chaos leads to creation. I read that somewhere, and when I look around my house, littered with boxes of books, pictures, lamps, CDs, china, and stemware  I don't know where to place, I sure hope it's true.

*      *       *

It's been 3 weeks, and I've finally folded up the last box and passed it on to another intrepid woman in the midst of packing up her home. I've shelved the books, stacked the shoes, and retired the toys to the toy box.

Don't misunderstand. Chaos still reigns, but now that the boxes are gone, I can finally see potential. Now the furniture can be arranged, the rugs laid down, the pictures hung. Now the creative process of transforming a house to a home can begin.

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Health foods

I entered a flash fiction contest several months ago, and those silly judges didn't see the genius in my writing. I thought about what to do with my piece, and I decided I'd like to share it with you, my readers. So many of you have reached out to me with your own, heart breaking stories about aging and Alzheimer's. Thank you for sharing. My thoughts are with you.

Source: Pinterest

Elsa pads into the kitchen, her gray hair flying wildly around her head, evidence of a long night’s sleep wedged between several of her favorite pillows.

She busies herself at the coffee maker, then puts a saucepan on the stovetop and begins to cook her favorite breakfast, steel cut oatmeal. As she stirs the oats, Elsa gazes at her husband Marty, who is slumped at the table, his back toward her.

“Eat your blueberries, Marty,” she advises. “It will help your brain.” Elsa’s been reading about nutrition and brain health, and she urges Marty to eat well. Today, after a breakfast of oatmeal and berries, she’ll give him walnuts with his lunch and fish high in Omega 3’s for dinner. She’ll limit his consumption of red meat and alcohol.

But Elsa’s efforts are in vain. Marty’s brain is a twisted knot of cords with mismatched and fading signals: berries, walnuts, and salmon cannot coax it out of its haze. Each month the mailbox becomes pregnant with prescriptions for Marty, who now walks through life in an Alzheimer’s induced fog. These powerful drugs do little to persuade him to reenter this world. He shuffles around the house aimlessly. His blank face registers little. He cannot string words together: communicating with him is a game of charades, guessing at the meaning trapped deep in his frail hands, which he waves madly in the air.

Marty looks at the bowl of freshly washed blueberries next to him. He reaches into it and grabs a handful, which he clumsily raises to his mouth. Two renegade blueberries fall to the floor, and Bart, Marty’s beagle, wags his tail and runs to retrieve them.

Elsa fills a bowl with oatmeal and sets it before Marty. He picks up the butter knife and begins to scoop up the sticky cereal with it. The oatmeal slides off the knife and falls in clumps onto the table.

“Marty!” Elsa shouts, “Your spoon is here.” She picks it up and shows it to him. Marty reaches for it and finds himself double fisted. He looks from one hand to the next.

Elsa grabs Marty’s hand, releases the butter knife from his grip, and carries it to the sink. After inspecting the spoon remaining in his left hand, Marty begins to eat.

Elsa returns from the sink and slips into the seat next to Marty. Since Marty can’t talk much, she begins to ramble about her day. She is planning to meet her friend at the salon for a manicure. “You know, Marty. Gill’s wife. I’m going to meet Gill’s wife. Remember when you used to do business with Gill?” Marty nods his head, a faint glimmer of memory in his eyes.

“Y-y-y-e-e-s-s.” He manages to utter. Marty looks at his wife searchingly, and she wonders if he truly remembers. She drifts into silence.

The quiet noise of movement fills the kitchen. Marty’s spoon clinks on the porcelain bowl. The dog licks his jowls. Marty chews his food hungrily, then pauses from time to time to wipe his mouth or retrieve a morsel of food that falls into his lap.

Elsa looks at Marty, longing to see the man she fell in love with 47 years ago. This man who conquered the financial industry and ran his own company was now unrecognizable. His sharp mind, his witty thoughts, his deep love for her are hidden somewhere deep within him, inaccessible. If only she could see the man she cherished. If only he’d stayed with her to enjoy old age.

Elsa sighs a deep, lonely sigh as Death spreads out, blanketing its heavy arms around her. She pulls her fluffy robe around her waist and tightens the belt. “Marty? Marty?” Marty turns to look at his wife. “I’m going to take a shower, Marty. I put your clothes out on the bed. Don’t wear that dirty sweater from yesterday. It looks terrible."

Marty takes his last spoonful of oatmeal and puts the bowl on the floor for Bart, who hungrily laps up its remains. He stands up and slowly climbs the stairs to his office, Bart now at his heels. They plunk down into his soft, leather office chair for another day of television.

Thursday, June 12, 2014

Tiptoeing back to New Jersey

The people around us make overcoming challenge a bit easier
Linda taught me how to create beautiful vignettes
throughout my home
I hate New Jersey. It's tainted by insomnia, financial insecurity, strained family relations, legal battles, cancer scares, pediatric health issues, and surgery.

Living there wasn't fun, and I've made a deliberate choice not to revisit those years because, really, what's the point of remembering such a bleak time?

But last week I reached back into my soiled and messy past, and to my surprise it wasn't painful. Because, for the first time, I remembered the good. I remembered the people who befriended and supported me while living there, and I realized I missed those people.

As I unpacked my moving boxes last week memories of Linda, my interior designer, eased into consciousness. Linda was impeccably beautiful, both inside and out.  A petite woman with perpetually, bright red lips and a closet any New Yorker would love to raid, Linda had a modern, edgy design aesthetic that somehow made perfect sense when applied to a pre-World War II home. 

I'd sought Linda's help in a panic, as my furniture, which looked fabulous in my Georgian Colonial, looked miserably misplaced in my new, 1920's Tudor. 

Linda heeded my call, and within hours she transformed my living room from mismatched to bold and eclectic. While insisting that my screaming children were not a bother at all, she taught me how to create a sort of amuse-bouche in my rooms, an unexpected and delicious detail that draws people into the space. She shared design tricks and ideas. She dropped off samples, ordered paints, and refrained from laughing at my countless design mistakes, like ordering chandeliers that were 10 times too big for my space. 

Several years later, when we were forced to quickly sell the same home, Linda transformed it again, creating a space that told a story of perfect family living, without the actual mess of children, stinky diapers, food stained walls, and toys with no place to live. (You really have to be good to do that!)

These memories filled me with gratitude, for having the opportunity to both meet and work with Linda. I picked up the phone and called her, to tell her how much I loved her, how much I appreciated her, how much I missed her, how often I still think of her.

Linda called me back several hours later. "You made my day," she gushed across the line. "I'm so glad you think of me when you look at the pieces I helped you select. I hope all of my clients do."

I don't think the pre-recession version of me would have made that call. She certainly would have thought about it, but she probably wouldn't have actually followed through. 

But today I am softer and more aware. I'm more deliberate in celebrating the mundane and sharing my gratitude with others. Because I've learned there are no guarantees. Life will throw hurdles. What makes overcoming those challenges a little bit easier is the people around us and the way we choose to interact with them. This fills me with a need to reach out. To let people know how they've touched me.

Thursday, May 15, 2014

Come on, Summer



Everybody agrees: we had a horrible winter. Mother Nature pummeled us with arctic winds, loads of snow, and countless dreary, raw days. We cursed her nearly every day.

Believe it or not, those frigid days are a distant memory now. As I write this post, it is 88F, and everyone's complaining about the humidity.

But I don't dare utter a word of dissatisfaction.

Despite the sweat beads trickling down my back, I am delighted to feel the sun's warmth. I am happy to see its glow reflect off windows, cars, and sunglasses. I'm embracing the stuffy, sticky air, grateful to be wearing a tissue thin tee-shirt rather than a collection of long sleeve shirts, sweaters, and scarves. I'm wiggling my newly painted toes, just recently freed from the constraints of socks and boots. I'm holding a glass of ice water, enjoying the drip of water traveling down my arms. It's a welcome change from hovering over a mug of tea, trying to gain warmth from its steam.

Come on, Summer. We have a few months to play. Let's go!

Wednesday, May 7, 2014

Searching for the skinny shoe collection

Things can distract us from what's meaningful in life


There's no other time that you become acutely aware of how many things you own than when you pack up a home.

When you move, every drawer must be emptied and every single thing in the house must be either donated, trashed or packed.

This is when you come across the jar of Worcestershire sauce you bought for a recipe 4 years ago and haven't used since. You find the shampoo samples sent in a shipment from Drugstore.com that you never got around to trying. You unearth the hair ties you bought for your daughter, which she refuses to wear. You come across that book again, the one you swore you'd read the last time you packed it up, 2 years ago.

I've moved 4 times in the last 8 years, and my love for simplicity is never greater than it is pre-move. As hours of sorting creep by, I start to hate the fact that I own things, and I begin to see how quickly things accumulate and how easily their presence distracts me from what's meaningful in life. (Spending several beautiful summer weeks packing and unpacking every couple years is not my idea of seizing life and enjoying its offerings).

Our things are not inherently bad, and every gal is entitled to her own shoe collection. But the skinny collection, featuring one fabulous shoe per season, suits me just fine.

Link Within

Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...