Month: October 2018

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Now We Can Spill The Beans

I swore bandaged, broken hearts Tie o’ the Day to secrecy, but now we can tell you. Our little trip to St. George this week has been a secret mission. We didn’t want to say anything until the process was completed, but we hereby announce that we’ve packed up Mom and taken her back to Delta, where she will live out her next century in the Care Center. (It’s official name is different, but everybody refers to it as either the Care Center or Extended Care.)

Our family has seen it coming. We’ve worked hard to take good care of Mom for as long as we could. We wanted to keep this day from coming. Although we know it’s finally time for this, it’s still a hard transition for us and for Mom to make. It’s the beginning of Mom’s last chapter.

After she broke her hip last year, the best place for Mom to recover was with my brother, Ron and Marie, in St. George. Marie is the Queen Bee o’ All Nurses, and Mom’s doctors are in Dixie. Mom’s been pleased to live with Ron, and she was able to spend more time with her grandkids there. Ron and Marie have been more than generous to have her in their home. Ron says it has been a privilege to have Mom with them. We appreciate Ron and Marie more than words can hold. But now it is time for Mom to make her final move to a new residence.

About three years ago, Mom decided it was time to quit driving. She handed over her car keys without being asked for them. Of course, we had all been ever so subliminally hinting to her for quite a while that it would be a good idea to let the driving part of her life be done, for the safety of everyone involved. And then one day, out of the blue, she came up with the idea to give up her car keys. It was HER idea. Wink. wink.

That’s what’s been happening with this move. We’ve all hinted and hinted to her for a few months that it’s time for this change, and then VOILA! Suddenly, Mom had this brilliant idea that she should move into the care center. It was completely HER idea.

She’s been a good sport through her last couple of years of health adventures, although things have been bumpy at times– as is to be expected. She has missed her house. She has missed her Delta friends and family, and she is eager to reacquaint herself with her Delta people now. (But she will always be a bit lost in Delta without Dad, and without her best friend, Peggy Crane.) I know most of you are part of the herd o’ folks she has missed.

Give Mom some time to get adjusted in her new digs, and then feel free to give her a visit for a few minutes every now and again, if you so desire. You know how she loves to chat with her friends. You’ll most likely need to introduce yourself to her at first, but she’ll know who you are after that. She turned 88 last week, so she has 88 years worth of friends and family to recall, and that’s a lot of names and faces to keep straight.

She’s still spunky and irreverent in her playful way. And what makes our family happy is that she still enjoys her life. She exudes gratitude for her blessings– which, of course, she thinks of as all of us. Isn’t that a nice thought? My mom, Helen A. Wright, thinks of you as one of her life’s blessings.

And now, Suzanne’s going to drive us home to Centerville while I cry and wonder if we did the right thing for Mom. Which we did. But still…

Hardest. Day. Ever.

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Mom Has A Dozen Pairs O’ Half-broken Reading Glasses

Bow Tie o’ the Day has been kickin’ it around the couch with Mom today, although we lost Mom for a few minutes.

This is our first Mom-sitting visit at Ron’s and Marie’s new abode, and I didn’t know if Mom had changed up her routine since their recent move. While they’re away, Ron gave me two jobs: don’t break Mom, and don’t lose Mom. (These are the same two jobs I give him when he’s got her.) This afternoon, when Mom told me she was going outside for a walk to loosen up her hip, I just assumed it was part of her new routine in her new place. Mom has never had a wandering-off problem, so out the door I let her go ahead of me while I went into the kitchen to find the mailbox key. With mailbox key in hand, Skitter and I went out the front door to join Mom on her walk, and to pick up the mail while we were at it.

Lo, and behold!

Where’s Mom? We looked left. We looked right. We looked hither and yon. We looked around this corner, and that corner. We looked under cars and in bushes and in swimming pools. No Mom. No Mom’s walker. She left no bread crumbs for us to follow. She left no half-empty Pepsi cans for us to follow. She didn’t peel off her clothes and leave us a wardrobe trail. I put Skitter onto her scent, but Skitter smelled nary a sign of Mom. I was truly afeared.

I retrieved my phone from the house and headed back outside and up the sidewalk. I was just about to do a bit of 911 dialing, and Mom and her walker showed up on the horizon. She was, in fact, fine. She was, in fact, going through her new usual routine. Apparently, there’s a bench a ways up the street where she sits to rest her walker and her behind during her daily strolls. Unfortunately, the bench is not visible from the sidewalk. Now I know.

Anyhoo… All is well. Mom is safe. I am not inept. Skitter had a St. George walk. And to top it off,  it was CHRONICLE-PROGRESS day! That mailbox key made Mom’s day. She loves her CHRONICLE.

Listen to me when I tell you that Mom doesn’t share her CHRONICLE with anyone on Wednesday’s after it arrives. If she dozes on the couch and you try to sneak her CHRONICLE off her lap, she snaps awake and clutches that newspaper like you’re trying to steal a grandchild. If you try to touch Mom’s CHRONICLE the day it shows up in Mom’s mailbox, you will not lose just a couple of fingers. You will not lose just a hand. You will lose at least an arm and a shoulder and your spleen. And while you’re writhing in pain and spurting blood on the floor, Mom will simply open up her CHRONICLE and read the obituaries to see if she’s in them yet.

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You Can’t Get Away From Her. JOANN, I Mean.

Remember that early-1970’s Public Service Announcement right before the 10 o’ clock news began that said, “It’s 10 o’ clock. Do you know where your children are?”

Well, orange and black Ascot o’ the Day and I are often in a similar situation with Suzanne. When we can’t find her, we say, “It’s whatever o’ clock. Do we know where our Suzanne is?”  The answer is always the same: JOANN’s. Yes, here we are in St. George at 8:50 AM, and Suzanne is off to be at JOANN’s at the very minute it opens.

Come on! Is the St. George JOANN’s really any different from the one in Centerville? “Of course,” Suzanne will say, “There certainly is a bigly difference. The JOANN’s here will have at least two bolts of fabric different from what the Centerville store has.” I don’t actually ask her what’s so different about each JOANN’s store, because I already know her answer will be something that makes me think : “yada yada yada.”

Really, I don’t care that Suzanne spends what’s supposed to be our retirement fund at fabric and craft stores. It keeps her jolly, and it keeps her out of my hair for a few hours every now and again. I’m not stoopid. I know it really has more to do with her needing to escape my constant weird games and ever-present snappy attire.

So I’ll just sit here on the couch with Mom until Suzanne gets back and makes me and Mom and Skitter look at all the new treasures she bought. I’ll “ooh” and “ah” out loud at everything she shows us. And then I’ll promptly forget every bigly and teeny thing she pillaged on her JOANN’s dash.

Suzanne did mention something about how she’s finally ready to make me a cape, and so she’s looking for a cape pattern and cape fabric this morning. I care about that. Any mention of a cape for me will make me pay closer attention during the fabric show she’ll put on for us when she gets back from her spree.

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Guess Who’s In St. George Again?

Black-and-white Bow Tie o’ the Day paired up with my black-and-white Hawaiian shirt to go for an hours-long drive on these black-and-white seat covers in Suzanne’s car. We headed out to St. George to hang with Mom for a few days. She’s babysitting us and Skitter. Every now and then, Suzanne and Skitter and I need Mom to get us back in line.

When we arrived, Mom had us laughing within two minutes, and we haven’t stopped yet– even while Mom was eating her KFC chicken. It’s her Tuesday lunch. And I mean EVERY Tuesday she eats KFC chicken. Don’t forget the cole slaw, or she’ll send you back to get some. And get the largest size they sell. Mom’s got a thing for cole slaw.

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People Ask How It’s Looking

Spooky Tie o’ the Day and I give you an up-close peek at my scar’s current state of being. People who know I had my mid-summer surgery often ask to see my resulting scar– and not just family or super-close friends. I’m fine with showing anybody how it’s doing. But I find it so interesting that they want to see the thing, and that they dare ask to gaze upon it.

And it’s not like folks want to see it just once. They ask to see it all the time, which is exactly why I’ve posted photos of it occasionally. Apparently, people want to inspect it in all of its various stages of healing. They have no hesitation about asking to see a part of my body I would never otherwise show to the masses. I’ve thought about maybe cutting a hole in each of my shirts where the scar would be visible, so people could look at it without having to ask if they can see it. They wouldn’t have to talk to me at all in order to be able to behold it. They might even prefer seeing it without having to converse with me.

Sometimes people ask if they can touch my scar. Go for it, I tell ’em. It all reminds me of how people dare ask to feel the belly of a visibly pregnant woman they know. There are very few situations in our culture in which it is acceptable to ask to see or touch people’s body parts. And, of course, that’s generally a good thing.

As I said, I’m happy to show my scar to those who are curious to see it. And if they want to touch it, more power to ’em. I’d like to say that I won’t pull up my shirt to anyone while I’m in a church, but I did do that a number of times in the Oak City church at my Aunt Arlene’s funeral. I probably wouldn’t do it in Sacrament Meeting though– unless someone incredibly important to me asked to see and/or touch it. What can I say? I aim to please.

BTW   I’m making a list o’ possible names for my scar. Feel free to offer suggestions. TIE O’ THE DAY hasn’t had a contest for months, so if I end up choosing one of the names you suggest, you will be the winner of a Christmas-themed bow tie. (Max J. Tucker, you are disqualified from entering this contest, and you know exactly why.)

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Not Just Another Day

Today is THE day in my recovery from surgery that Bow Tie o’ the Day and I have most anticipated. This is the day I will once again lift and carry my ever-present Mini Keg. It can hold 100 ounces of whatever liquid I wish to be guzzling all day long. I’m definitely a Diet Coke gal, so Diet Coke will fill it to the brim. When full, Mini Keg weighs a whopping 5.4 pounds. I consider carrying it around to be my daily exercise. I guess I lift free weights. Okay, I lift one free weight– sloshy rep after rep after rep.

I know I have to be careful. I’m not going to push it. If I have to set down Mini Keg occasionally throughout my waking hours, I will give in and do that. I won’t want to, but I will do it– for the greater good o’ my health and welfare.

When I say Mini Keg is ever-present in my life, I mean it. It is my faithful companion. When I’m in bed, Mini Keg is on my nightstand. It rides with me when I drive. It grocery shops with me, while it sits in the top rack of the shopping cart. We are very close. I can tell Mini Keg anything, and I know my secrets won’t go anywhere else. Mini Keg is my sippy cup.

Why must I have Mini Keg with me at all times? For one thing, it’s a kind of bodyguard. If somebody tried to mug me, I’d simply hurl Mini Keg at them. That’ll knock ’em out! Or I could beat the hell out of the thug with my heavy drinking buddy. Mini Keg is my concealed-in-plain-sight weapon. No carry permit required.

Another reason I insist on carrying my liquids with me 24/7 is that my crazy-head meds make my mouth oh-so dry. I kid you not: If I can’t drink between sentences, I don’t speak in recognizable sounds. I might as well be having a conversation with you with a pint of peanut butter in my mouth. It’s not pretty. And my words are indecipherable, even to me. I must drink to be understood.

I’m sure I have a thousand other reasons, or justifications for carrying my drink baby. But the main reason I feel like a part of me has been amputated when I don’t have Mini Keg is that Diet Coke is my Mistress o’ Caffeine. Plus, it is tasty. I must know I have enough with me at all times, whether I drink the entire 100 ounces per day or not. To feel secure– and that I’ll be able to speak clearly– I must know it’s there.

BTW   Orange and black Bow Tie o’ the Day is here to signal it’s October, and therefore time for Halloween ties and colors. 👻