Category: Asheville Living

A Very Good Day

April 13, 2020

Asheville Living, family

I went to Mom’s to refill her pill boxes (her caretaker, Gloria, isn’t allowed to dispense medicine, only remind Mom to take it). Gloria brings all the medicine and pillboxes down to my car (which I’ve Cloroxed repeatedly) in a plastic bag, I refill the boxes, Clorox everything I’ve touched, and she takes them back up to Mom’s. Today I asked Gloria to have Mom come to her balcony.

Mom initially looked out into the distance, and I, three floors down shouted, “Here! Mom! I’m here!” She eventually saw me, we waved at each other, and we tried to talk, but Mom couldn’t hear me because she won’t wear her hearing aids. I yelled louder, then realized it was futile, so we blew kisses instead. And she smiled. And I attempted to take a selfie of us, because I realize we have so few pictures together, and got a portion of my forehead, and her smiling. And it was a good day.

7 comments on A Very Good Day
A Flood of Fears

April 12, 2020

Asheville Living, family, grief

I’ve reflected a lot on why yesterday’s conversation with Mom upset me so much. The most obvious; Mom was disappointed and I was the cause of that disappointment. That never feels great as a child, and that’s my Achilles Heel. It didn’t matter that I actually can’t do what she was expecting. In her Alzheimer’s mind, it was Saturday, and that’s the day that we go out (which has been the case for almost a year). I don’t know why she remembered this yesterday, and not any of the other Saturdays this month I haven’t been able to see her, and I’m grateful she’s only remembered once.

Yesterday was one year to the day of me getting ready to leave for Charleston, and Mom came and sat on my bed and quietly said, “I think Dad is hurting.” (Mom and Dad called each other that when speaking to any of the children). I rushed into their bedroom. It was the one-year anniversary of my only time ever calling 911. And silently begging the paramedics to hurry. And asking the ER doctors if the infection they discovered could be fatal. And breathing a sigh of relief when they said, “No, it’s a routine infection in dialysis patients; we just need to get him on the right antibiotics.” (They were incorrect; it was fatal.)

For the past 363 days, the words of someone (I’m not sure who – a social worker? the ICU nurse? An assisted living facility director? Her doctor?) have constantly sat at the back of my mind. “Statistically speaking, your Mom will likely die within the next year. When someone spends that long with a partner (60 years in their case), it’s common for them to die of heartbreak.”

I’ve been rooting for Mom to hang in there. We’re almost at the year mark. I realize it’s a silly wish; people die when they die. Her making it to Tuesday will not buy her any more time beyond that.

And when she asked me how long it would be like this, my own fears were suddenly exposed. I don’t know how long it will be like this and up until that point I had done pretty well of staying in the moment and focusing on what was true right now. With her question, all those questions I hadn’t allowed myself to ask came flooding over me: Will I ever see her again? Will she suddenly pass away and I won’t be there like I was with Dad? Will she die alone? Will she know that she is loved, even though she’s alone? Will she ever understand that I would be there if I could be, but I can’t?

And, that’s why I couldn’t stop crying.

1 comment on A Flood of Fears
A Very Bad Day

April 11, 2020

Asheville Living, family

Her voice choked and I could tell she was crying. “I really thought you were going to come visit me today. I was waiting for you to come.”

My heart dropped. That was what I wanted, too. And I know how emotions spread, so I tried to remain calm as I explained, “Mom, I’m not allowed to come there anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because of the virus. They’re trying to keep everyone safe. Visitors aren’t allowed; they don’t want anyone bringing in germs.”

“Well, I’ll just leave.”

“You can’t do that, either, Mom. Everyone has to stay at home. I miss you so much, Mom.”

“Well, how long will it be this way?”

And this is where I had to swallow the sobs that were rolling from my gut, through my chest, and stuck in my throat.

My voice trembled as I said, “I don’t know, Mom. It’s already been several weeks, it might be several more. It just depends on how long the virus lasts. They’re trying to keep everyone safe.”

“This is a very bad day.”

6 comments on A Very Bad Day
Flowers in the time of Self-Isolation

April 2, 2020

Asheville Living

Flowers from a friend. A well of gratitude and appreciation.

2 comments on Flowers in the time of Self-Isolation
A Year Later

March 30, 2020

Asheville Living, family, grief

Now isn’t so different from this time last year.

We had masks by the front door, which visitors had to wear if they wanted to come in, and Dad had to wear on the rare occasions he went out. I had gloves that I donned whenever I helped Dad with his dialysis. I washed my hands every day until they were chapped. The smell of antimicrobial liquid soap still makes me gag. Dad was going through chemotherapy and we were doing everything we could to protect him.

And now is so completely different from this time last year.

Now we’re not protecting one person; we’re protecting all people.

And I still grieve for Dad. Last year, I told myself that I was making decisions so that I wouldn’t have any regrets. I moved in with Mom and Dad. We talked. We did NY Times Minis together. We played Scrabble together. We solved jigsaws together. We planned renal diet friendly menus together. We talked some more.

Is it regrets I have? Or is it simply longing? Wishing I could have one more conversation with him. Wishing we could have one more hug before bedtime. Wishing we could reminisce about each of our childhoods.

It sounds so strange to say, but one of my favorite memories from last year is when we were waiting in the Emergency Department for his treatment. It was just the two of us. We talked about him trying out for the AAA baseball league. He had been a successful high school pitcher and was invited to tryouts. He confidently approached the day and said he left barely being able to move. We talked about his career as a sports writer. And how he built the cabin in the mountains. And the afterlife. And Cherie Berry (NC elevator queen) announcing that she wouldn’t run for re-election. I asked him why he changed his mind about letting my try out for Little League (in the first year girls were allowed to play, 1974). He said that when we approached the sign up table, he saw there were no other girls, and how the organizers sneered at me. He didn’t want to subject me to that at six years old. We talked as we waited for almost eight hours.

It was a small room. With fluorescent lights and the smell of disinfectant and a flimsy curtain masquerading as a wall. I pulled a chair close to his hospital bed and held his hand as we talked, and talked, and talked. I was sad when they shared he would be transferred to ICU. I didn’t want the night to end. They said I couldn’t see him until they got him settled. So I waited in the ICU waiting room, across from the Pepsi vending machine, wondering how there could be so many flavors of Mountain Dew.

I’m hoping now I’m living so that I won’t have regrets.

6 comments on A Year Later
A New Home

March 29, 2020

Asheville Living

I just couldn’t throw away the Christmas wreaths. I knew I needed to, and each time I walked out my front door, I inhaled the lovely evergreen scent and told myself I’d do it tomorrow. Throwing them away wasn’t a simple act of just throwing them away (although I suppose it could have been). I planned to put the boughs in the yard recycling bins, but that meant clipping them from the wire framing they were attached to. So week by week passed as I breathed in the deliciousness of fresh pine and Fraser Fir as I left my house.

There were two wreaths. One, brought from my Mom’s apartment on Dec 26 (“Christmas is over; I don’t want to see any of this anymore.”) and laid on a table on the porch, and the other, mine, hanging on the wall beside my front door.

As I sat on the porch this weekend, in 90 degree weather, I noticed that even though they still smelled yummy, the wreaths weren’t looking so great. They had lost their ever-green, and were more ever-brown. As much as I hated doing so, I pulled out my garden shears and started clipping the boughs and tossing them into the yard recycling bin. First, I worked on Mom’s. Clip, toss. Clip, toss. After about 20 minutes, all that was left was a bag of clipped boughs and a metal frame.

I went to the wall to pull down my wreath. Something was strange. Why was there mulch in the wreath? I absentmindedly thought that maybe a recent storm had blown debris onto the porch. And then I noticed it!

A bird had built its nest in the hole in the wreath! That was it; I couldn’t disrupt a bird’s nest. Happily, I sat back in the swing, read my book, and hoped that one day I would see the inhabitant of the nest.

5 comments on A New Home
A Bit of Sunshine

March 25, 2020

Asheville Living

Yellow.

Alive.

Bright.

Sunshine.

Happy.

Hopeful.

Grateful.

Today I am thankful for the daffodils.

9 comments on A Bit of Sunshine
For the Love of Peeps

March 19, 2020

Asheville Living, Automattic, Food
My team at work is simultaneously enamored and repulsed by my love of Peeps. There’s something about them – the soft marshmallow, the neon colored sugar, the two-bite size – they’re really the perfect food.

I wasn’t feeling great last week. Super tired, coughy, achy, run-down, and simply no energy at all. To lift my spirits, my team sent a Peeps-a-licious! cookbook (who knew there was such a thing!) as well as four packages of Peeps – traditional yellow, pink, purple, and blue. I was delighted and amazed. The next day, I got another box. I opened it, and inside were six individual packages of Peeps:
- Birthday Cake
- Root Beer
- Fruit Punch
- Sour Watermelon
- Cotton Candy
- Pancakes & Syrup
(I know! I was astounded, too, that there were so many flavors I never knew about!)

The way I’ve listed them above is the order I prepared to eat them, from the flavor I thought I’d love the most to the flavor I thought I’d love the least. Because even a not-my-favorite flavor of Peep is still a Peep and I knew I’d enjoy it. And here’s what I discovered. I’m now on Fruit Punch and I love each new flavor of Peeps even more than the previous!!!

There’s probably a life lesson in there somewhere. I’m just not quite sure what it is. Be open to new possibilities? Past performance is not indicative of future results? You only think you know what you want? Eat more Peeps?

Whatever it is, I’m grateful for my team, and I’m grateful for a stockpile of Peeps. And I’m definitely feeling better.
8 comments on For the Love of Peeps
Me and RBG

January 21, 2020

Asheville Living, family

“I have something for you.”

Mom often has things for me. Receipts from the dollar store. Magazine renewal notices. Donation requests. Generally, things I recycle as soon as I get home.

We walked into her bedroom. “I got this for you.”

It was an objectively ugly representation of Ruth Bader Ginsburg on a keychain. Part of the “string doll gang” – her face was made of string wrapped around and around and around a ball. She had a tag attached that said, “Women belong in all the places where decisions are being made.”

Then I noticed two other keychains. One a “Dharma Queen” and one a fluffy white puppy. “Who are these for, Mom?”

“Oh. The dog is for Ashley and the other one is for Anne.”

I stood there, dumbfounded.

Somehow she had picked the exact correct keychain for each of us. My sister, a dog lover, and Anne, a hippie at heart.

“Mom, did you pick these out on your own?”

“Yes.”

“I love it. Thank you.”

And with this gift, I realized she still knows the essence of each of us. I could barely keep from crying. Weekly, I’ll sit on her couch with her and she’ll turn to me and say, “Do I have any children?” I nod my head and say, “You do.” “How many children do I have?” “You have three. You have a son, Greg, who lives in Winston-Salem, a daughter, Lori, who lives here in Asheville, and a daughter, Ashley, who lives outside of Atlanta.” “Are they big children or little children?” “They’re pretty big.” She’ll nod her head and stare into space. And a little part of me dies inside.

And today, I realized that she might not remember I’m her daughter, but she knows who I am.

10 comments on Me and RBG
Breakfast at Tiffany’s

January 4, 2020

Asheville Living, family

I called Mom this morning and asked if she’d like to go to breakfast together. “Hm. Have I had breakfast yet?”
“I don’t know. Did you eat anything this morning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Would you like to eat something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes and we’ll go to breakfast.”
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s?”
I laughed, “Sure.”

I picked her up ten minutes later.
“Why are you here?”
“I thought we’d go to breakfast.”
“Okay.” Pause. “What day is today?”
“Saturday.”
“Do I go to that place today?”
“The YMCA?”
“Yes.”
“Not usually. We can go if you’d like to.”
“No. I only go M, T, W, Th. What day is today?”
“Saturday.”
“Do I go to the Y today?”
“No. Want to go to breakfast?”
“Sure.”

We were handed menus.
“I can’t read this.”
“Do you have your glasses with you?”
“No.”
“Would you like me to read it to you?”
“Yes.”
I read the things I thought she might like. No, no, no, no. I asked her what she’d like.
“A piece of toast and some fruit.”
“Would you rather have toast or a biscuit?”
She looked at me plaintively.
“Toast is a piece of flat square bread. A biscuit is round, and a little fluffier.”
“Oh. A biscuit sounds good.”

The food arrived and we ate. I asked her how she liked her breakfast.
“Well, it’s not Tiffany’s. But it will do.”
And she laughed.

I was dumbfounded. Humor is hard. It’s one of the hardest things to master when learning another language. And yet, even though she can’t master time, or remember what we said a few minutes prior, and is losing the ability to pair the abstract word with the concrete thing, she can still make jokes.

And I laughed, too.

2 comments on Breakfast at Tiffany’s