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Annette J. Wick
(and Mom)
These Writing Shoes
Putting on my writing shoes, exploring the writing life.
I was raised in the shoe family of Januzzi's Shoes. The ditty on the radio in the 80's went something like this: "All over the street, to happy feet. Get your shoozies at Januzzi's."For some, they put on their writer's hat. For me, I wear my writer's shoes.
Monday, October 05, 2015
Monday, July 27, 2015
The Measure of a Mother's Time
The Measure of a
Mother’s Time
I pause outside of "Ruth's" door. The sun is cutting through her window shades, engraving lines of
lights across her already stern face.
"Ruth" sits in a
wheelchair now. When I first met "Ruth" she had been walking, though with a
wobble. Then, she transitioned to a
walker. And now, a wheelchair, and not the comfortable kind.
The condition of the
residents here is how I measure my mother’s time.
The ones that have
left. Rosemary, who passed way. Peyton with her dog, whose family
transitioned her elsewhere.
Those still here
whom I wish the universe would offer a little more grace and take swiftly.
Families that come
and go. The families that never come at all. The loved ones that hardly ever
leave.
This is how I count
days with my mother at her care come, over these past three years.
My time slows once inside her residence, as I easily adapt to a different stride. Between the gaps in activity, I observe how my mother’s hairline closely resembles mine. We share cowlicks and thinness. I count the ways in which we are similar, ways in which I never would have admitted to, as a young woman in my twenties. But my mother’s old age, and mine, has given me this gift to declare.
I grasp at her
hands and note her slender her fingers, long nails she used to shape and polish
before her night out on Saturdays with my father. Her extremities are unlike
mine. I add up the ways in which we differ, and there were so many I used to bragged
about in our past.
There have been days
of endless wondering about my mother’s condition and countless taunts from her
about my hair or shoes. There have been multitudes of moments we celebrated
(fresh peace juice dripping down her chin). There have been a sequence of small
stuff that I sweated, waiting, for her, or me, to change.
I have whispered incalculable
confessions: Mom, you were right. Wearing
a V-neck shirt makes you appear thinner and taller. Still water runs deep. The best way to pick a husband is to watch
how he treats his mother. And battled with her on a few other fronts. Mom, spit that out, its chicken grease.Mom, running track was not going to make my
thighs thicker, they were going to be thicker anyhow. See photos of your own mother for proof.
I have heard my
mother tell another resident, who had been cursed with an endless blank stare,
“Now don't you start that with me,” and have had to scurry Mom away in a
another direction before the woman could pull at Mom’s finger. I have smiled at Mom’s simple acts of beauty,
as she caresses the face of another resident with gray, tired eyes.
I have survived
tornado and fire drills amidst 12 women plus caregivers, with obstacles such as
wheelchairs and walkers squeezed in the laundry or shower rooms, explaining
over and again why so many of us were crammed into a tiny space. “When you were
younger in school, your school always had fire drills. This is like that.” “Oh,” they sigh, with slight reminiscence.
Then they ask, “why are we here,” once more.
I count the
caregivers that have come and stayed. They have been the dedicated
majority. Each one adores Mom's smile. She
will casually smooth her hand across their brown or tanned arms and repeat back
whatever phrase they have uttered to her.
“Jean, the Bean,” they say.
“Jean, the Bean,” she says back. It’s a melodic call and response.
I tally up how
babies can make her day, either prodigy of visitors or residents, but
especially Prince George and Princess Charlotte, who grace the cover of every
other People magazine I carry in for Mom to read. I tally up too, the other People magazine covers,
as a way to measure time, Pope Francis, Leslie Gore, B.B. King, Omar Sharif.
I rely on the fact Mom
still mentions the silver vent hood atop the roof, and stops to admire the pink
and green beech tree. She is want to
point out each garden stone with pebbled glass missing, assigning the stone a
number, then counts ones that are not present.
We have moved on
from listening to strictly Sinatra. With so many music apps on my iPhone, I can
mix up the playlist to include Nina Simone or Dean Martin, Bette littler or
Louie Prima, and keep track of the names that cause her to respond.
Mom wants to be
held more. She grabs on to me longer when we hug. I count her hugs, and the number
of seconds in which they last – all day if I let them. She nestles her face
into the crook of my neck, appreciating the sense of closeness. A feeling that
is three years gone for her. Sometimes,
she still pats me on the back or backside, like she did when I was five.
Recently, the nurse
noted Mom needed an annual check-up with a doctor. I decided to switch to the in-house doctor at
that point, to reduce the challenge of moving Mom from point A to point B when
seeing her original doctor, Dr. Graff.
The in-house doctor
phoned one day to jot down Mom’s medical history. “About how long ago did she develop
dementia,” he inquired.
Her timeline eludes
me. I used to recite actual dates and times for when I noticed the occurrences.
When did I know? When she balked at changing clothes, taking a bath or
listening.
I gave him a
generic answer. “About five years ago.”
But I have relinquished any formal answer to Mom’s calendar, the one where she dutifully kept religions holidays, birthdays and anniversaries of loved ones living and deceased, hair and dental appointments for five kids. She didn’t need Google Calendar, then or now. Her life is no longer measured in time slots or a stretch of days, but in human interactions.
I have spent more
time with her these past three years, than in some entire decades of my younger
years. And yet, it’s hard to imagine, I still have days where I depart from
Mom’s care home in tears, usually because our day together was near-magical, or
that she wanted to hold tight and not let go. She has been a near-perfect muse, and I have
only gratitude for the immeasurable amount of words it has taken to capture her
essence.
A week ago, I
received a call from Mom’s care home. “Your mom had another seizure.”
“I’ll be right in.”
So, throughout the
week, along with nurses and staff, I waited and counted and forced her to
drink water or Gatorade or anything. She was also diagnosed with a UTI, and in the
midst of X-rays due to complaints about her back, the radiologist discovered
some arthritis in her back.
We managed to keep
her out of the hospital, and she responded slowly, her gait unsteadied and
present mind still obscured.
But her recent
situation challenged me back into the space of unknowing. If death had slipped
from the subtle grasp of life Mom held on to, I would have sent her off with my
blessing. She was already filled with peace, nothing left to add.
Until today, when an
arrow traveled through my heart as she pushed a strand of hair behind my ear
while I hugged her. Count one more day
I wanted her back.
Labels:
alzheimer's,
arden courts,
dementia,
mom
Friday, June 19, 2015
“Don’t let them put Mom in skilled care!”
Transitioning Loved Ones Experiencing Dementia
Emails downloaded
while my legs wobbled. I had just climbed a mountain - and descended one. A 14,000 ft. mountain, Mt. Kinabalu, in Kota
Kinabalu. We returned to our hotel, and a
spate of emails and texts dinged during our first brush back with the Internets
and reality.
The first email I
read was from my sister, Beth. I had tasked her with overseeing Mom’s care. She
was also the executor of my estate, should anything happen to me, in
particular, while I would have been, say, climbing a mountain.
Before leaving, I
had snapped a photo of my office closet, where I kept family files, and sent
the pictures to her. “Here is where Mom’s files are,” I wrote in one text caption. “These are my personal files.” I wrote for
another.
She laughed at
the time. I did too, recalling how she had toted my purple folder with all my
father’s medical information, the last time I traveled overseas to Ireland. My
father had never recovered from a nasty winter tumble, and spent his June and
July in and out of the hospital and rehab. Thus, when I had left for Ireland,
he was out. While I was in Cliffs of Mohr, he had gone back in.
The irony of me
leaving again had not been lost on either of us.
May 23, 11:07 p.m.
Cincinnati time, May 24 11 a.m. Malaysia time was the date stamp. It was now
six hours later than when Beth’s email was sent.
“Hi all. Hope you’re having a good weekend.
Just wanted to take a moment to update you on a few things.”
“Mom had a seizure and is at ER. This
JUST happened so details are sketchy. I am on my way to XX Hospital and
can provide more of an update once I know more.”
I panicked and
desperately wrote back, not knowing how far behind the time (or ahead of it) I
was.
“Oh wow. Just
now reading this. As we were on a mountain climb for a few days.”
“Is Mom OK? I can't believe
this happened while I was gone.”
I
thought back to the mountain climb earlier that morning. I had been awake since
2 a.m., trudging up sheared rocks by 3 a.m., near to the peak at five a.m. I was whispering to the wind at that time,
while also cussing at my daughter, Shannon, for getting us into this, and at my
husband, who moved nimbly ahead of me, then would sit to wait. Move, then wait,
instead of climbing lockstep with his beloved side by side. I quickly learned
who was my parnter in the race to the sunrise.
Beneath
my scant breath had been a prayer to return to Mom. Sure, she was 87. But that didn’t mean I
wouldn’t have wanted to spend any last days with her. It is a constant fear I
have now. That I’ll miss her passing away from me, two travelers on opposite
bound trains.
Emails
and replies went back and forth throughout the week, until I received this one.
“Mom is fine, just fighting a fever now.”
I had
been battling against wanting to flee back to the states, when I learned my
sister was fighting another battle.
“Mom
is fine, almost ready to go, but the hospital wants her to go to rehab.”
What? No. They can’t. They
can’t do that. Don’t let them. I was spewing
words before even typing them. Didn’t they know, someone with dementia cannot
just be moved around like pieces on a chessboard?
No,
they didn’t.
“Who
is they?”
“The
doctors and social worker.”
I was
baffled and aggravated by doctors and social workers who, employed by a hospital directly across
the street from two long term care homes specializing in memory care, didn’t understand the consequences of moving Mom to rehab before returning her
to her care home if it was unnecessary. The hospital was always
willing to take in elderly patients, most likely to pay for their new wing, but
not willing to expend the time, energy and money to train staff properly, on
the challenges of transitioning someone with dementia.
While
sometimes, the decision to transition a patient to skilled nursing/rehab is
logical, in particular when a physical disability, such a broken bone is in
play, there is no excuse for social workers and doctors who deny the rights and
wishes of not only the patient and family, but in this case, the staff from
Mom’s care home. How brazen, how arrogant,
how utterly ridiculous, to protect the hospital’s readmission rate, they simply
shuffled patients like a deck of cards, and moved them to the next pile. A
magical disappearing act.
We
should be way ahead of this curve by now, with all we know about dementia.
Hospitals treating the elderly should have passed this curve years ago, and if
not, then they shouldn’t be receiving reimbursements for Medicare.
Families
should take heed to fight like hell, enlist the help of the care home staff, to
keep a loved one in their most recent environment after a hospital stay. My
mom, I was told, was crabby at times, fending off PT. She had strangers telling her what to eat and
when, peeking under her dressing gown. I
would have been crabby too.
Eventually,
the hospital relented, but only after constant intervention by the staff at Mom’s care
home. I was so grateful Beth had the strength to battle in the same vein I
would have, with mettle and might. And I was grateful Arden Courts had lobbied
on Mom’s behalf, for her to return where she was known and loved.
I returned
to the states safely. Mom returned to Arden Courts safely. Both of us on the same day, technically,
depending on time zones.
I
committed to visiting Mom every day for a week, to gauge her recovery, to
remind myself of what I had almost missed. Mom returned home on a Tuesday, and
I found her Wednesday morning, sleepy, but smiling. I sat, and played a few Sinatra songs for
her, her eyes opening and closing whenever the beat was too loud or when she
knew the refrain.
The
resident supervisor came into the room and together we sat on Mom’s bed, got
her to drink a little Gatorade and discussed Mom’s condition, and her new
meds.
“I went
over there after I got off work, and told them, they should return your Mom to
Arden.”
Even
the activities director later confessed, “I was insistent your mom come back to
her home.”
The
compassionate, wise staff of Mom’s care home were all in, why wasn’t the
hospital?
For
each day onwards, caregivers continued to track me down, telling me how delighted
they were to have Mom back, how relieved that she hadn’t been placed in skilled
nursing care.
And
each day, she moved and wobbled and ate, until finally, she was initiating movement
into the courtyard to soak up the sun. At
day’s end, I would share with my husband, “Mom is so good. Either she is
getting some great meds, or she is just happy to be home.”
I did
research the new medication Mom had been prescribed, and discovered in some instances,
the drug actually slowed down dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.
But
her recovery had come so quickly, more so in being surrounded by familiar faces
and objects, recognizable words posted on signs, “Pull door until alarm
sounds.” and “Mechanical” and “Arden Courts News Center.”
One
day, Mom and I performed our standard routine, when helping her out of a chair.
“Mom, let’s get up, ready? Uno, due, tre.”
We
repeated together, “Uno, due, tre.”
She rose
up, unsteady, then gradually fell into my arms.
I held her for so long, this little woman of so much strength and
resilience. She buried her face in my neck and patted my back, as if, as if we
had been young again, both of us.
When
I finally pulled back, tears pooled in my eyes. “I thought I was going to lose
you, Mom.”
She
looked at me strange, ran her hand along my cheek, swiped my tears onto her
black, polyester pants, and said, “I love you, too.”
Mom
heard only what she wanted to hear. She was back.
Labels:
arden courts,
dementia,
rehab,
seizure,
skilled care,
UTI
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Revenge at the Hair Salon
Where is revenge best served, when it involves your mother,
and she has dementia?
At the hair salon.
At the hair salon.
For years, my mother visited the beauty salon in Amherst to
“get her hair done.” Occasionally, she even
toted five kids when tired of giving the home perm or snip of the bangs.
Mom, like every woman, had always been concerned about her
hair. She hadn’t inherited the long, flowing black locks of many Italian
beauties. Her hair was brown, I think. Her
strands were thin and straight, I think.
She pursued salon treatments and home solutions so often, I don’t have
an exact recollection of her official hair color and style.
Many times, she descended to the bathroom in the basement,
where wafts of coloring dye and perm solution rose up from the steps. She appeared hours later, her hair sporting a
color different or shape from when she had descended.
If Mom arrived home from the salon, and one of us gave her a
compliment, she was quick to note, “Oh, the curls are too tight.” Or, “Its too
dark a shade of brown.” If the weather
was rainy, Mom covered her head in a black or red or gray nylon scarf and asked
my father to drop her at the door. Dad
complained, but always obliged.
When I hear, “Oh, my hair,” I can still conjure up Mom’s
voice in my head.
Hair was a consistent topic of conversation in our household,
in particular when there were four girls fighting over the bathroom
mirror. In our second family home, the
kid’s bath was strategically designed for two mirrors, hence cutting in half
the time the bathroom would be occupied by a girl. The intent was solid. The
strategy failed. However, my mother did succeed
in keeping us out of her bathroom and away from her mirror.
Mom’s hair gradually turned towards lighter shades of gray,
interspersed with threads of white. When
dementia finally took charge of her mind, she no longer took charge of her
hair. Days went by before she washed her hair. Or, her hair remained matted in
place with Adorn hairspray, which I thought had no longer been manufactured,
but perhaps my father had found a stash on the back shelves of Drug Mart.
Mom, in her dementia, still makes comments about hair. Only now,
they are directed at my coif and me. Mom’s statements are usually derisive, but
she is only returning the favor of oh so long ago, when one of her children
taunted about her changing hair color and style to match the times and her
moods.
In Mom’s care home, a wonderful woman named Carol arrives
twice weekly, to wash, cut, color, curl the thinning, fading hair of the
residents, mostly women. However,
Carol’s challenge is somewhat different than her former days as a stylist. Her
clients now abhor the water. When once, women
might have tilted their hair and sighed at the rush of warm water running through
their scalps, now these residents fear water, as a baby might, forgetful, or
unknowing of its power to cleanse and heal.
Once a month, I ask caregivers to ensure Mom “gets her hair
done.” I usually call in my request on a
Monday or Tuesday, after visiting with Mom on a Sunday and noting her needs. Last Sunday, I was out of town. So, I visited
with Mom on Tuesday, and asked for the favor. The caregiver on duty said Carol would fit Mom in that day.
Mom and I decided to stroll the corridors and check out what
was happening in the community room. We came upon Carol waiting outside of her
salon with her list of appointments. She
suggested taking Mom then. Heavy sigh. I had hoped to skip that portion of my visit
with full knowledge of Mom’s distaste for the exercise she once considered a
luxury.
I directed Mom into the salon chair with assistance from another
staff member. When we attempted to release
the chair back, Mom’s shrieking began.
“No, don’t do that to me!”
“Its Ok, Mom, just hold my hand.” But she yanked her hand away from mine.
“Now, just wait a minute,” she kept screaming.
At once, caregivers from down the hall came running to the
salon. “I knew it was our Jeanie Beanie,” a few of them noted,
using one of her many nicknames given to her lovingly.
I sat back as caregiver after staff member encouraged Mom to
lean back in the chair.
Mom repeatedly shifted from happy to frustrated state, calling
out, “No. You’re not going to the do that to me.” And pointed her finger, her
mighty, mighty index finger at – me. Yes, this was once again my fault.
Mom yelled like a little child with water dripping down her
eyes, as if Johnson’s Baby Shampoo had never invented the slogan, No more tears.
Carol stood in the background. “I’m sure happy you’re here
today, she usually gets mad at me.”
And I was thinking, This
is the last place I want to be.
Carol and I eventually gave up on the notion of running
water through Mom’s hair. Carol would have to perform her duties the
old-fashioned way, by hand. We raised the chair back up and Mom appeared
content.
I reached out to hold her hand. “Well, Mom, this is revenge
for when you scrubbed our scalp and held our heads over the stationary sink, you
know, pouring hot water from the measuring cup.”
Plus, I always thought Mom had over-applied Tame conditioner to
my hair, but I left the past in the past.
Mom began to laugh, a high-pitched laugh and the remaining
staff and caregivers moved on. Soon, H., another resident came along. H. loved
Etta James. Carol and I both encouraged H. to sing At Last, which in turn,
motivated Mom to sing.
We all began listening to a little Frank Sinatra, Carol
amazed by how his voice, the words calmed Mom.
Mom sat patient, while the stylist and I had frank discussions
around music and how more of it should be brought into the lives of the
residents. She listened along, adding her two cents. “That’s right.” Or “How
bout that?”
Mom belted out a few phrases, always completing the last lines of the song. I glanced away from Carol and back to Mom, imagining her as a
thirty-year-old Italian beauty, dancing in Cedar Point’s Grand Ballroom,
waiting to meet a man while Tommy Dorsey’s band played.
Carol put the finishing touches on Mom’s hair using a little
aerosol hairspray - for old times sake.
Mom squealed again and grabbed a towel to hold over her eyes, smashing
the front portion of her styled locks.
The activities director offered to take a photo but Mom was restless as my dog when it came to pictures. She never liked having her photo taken.
“Oh, what are you doing with that damn thing,” she stated,
grabbing at my smartphone.
“Remembering how beautiful you are,” I said, smiling.
She pushed me aside and walked on.
Ah, Mom could still exact revenge over me, any day.
Ah, Mom could still exact revenge over me, any day.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Are You Weary of the Query?
Questions and Lessons from the Land of the Query
There comes a
time in your writing life when its time to publish, to put your novel’s package
on paper. Think branding. Like Tide.
It was never
enough to write a book to sell. Now you have to sell the book you wrote. You
declined work, abstained from lunch, recommitted to caffeine. You discarded thoughts
of becoming the next Cheryl Sandberg or Strayed.
You wrote the shitty first draft, and shitty seconds and thirds, because your concept morphed over time. Think Frankenstein.
Or Play dough.
You chased
family from the house by steeping lapsang
souchong tea, which they claimed smelled like a tire fire. You closed the
door instead. You made practice runs five, six, seven times, to show and not tell.
Now, you’re tired,
and the biggest hurdle lies ahead.
You ask friends
in the writing world and they advise to query an agent. Publishers are busy. You’re
competing with bloggers who want a book in PRINT and celebrities who have celebrity
platforms. You connect instead through an agent. And with DSL speed, you can disseminate
queries with ease.
You learn it’s
not enough to write a well-developed query, a succinct synopsis, a comprehensive
outline, a long biography, and a short one. But your biography should include
your author platform, which should include your Facebook, Twitter, and social
media presence, which should include blogs you write and follow, and websites that
relate to your platform. The circular logic makes you want to give in.
In your platform,
you document how you have sold your soul, and how much is left for sale. The platform
proves a) you are qualified to write this book because you already did, b) you will
present well and not lapse into Pig Latin while giving a talk and c) you have
people, other than your mother and mothers-in-law, who will buy your book and
recommend it. Think influential, powerful, media. You’ve drunk bourbon with an
early morning reporter. She counts.
You evaluate Facebook
friends, email contacts and Twitter followers as potential promoters for your
book. But as you analyze the list, you find five names out of 327 that might
have influence and wonder why you are friends with the other 322. You think of
time saved no longer communicating with less influential types.
When you have
categorized life events into short
biography, or long, you follow
Twitter, Facebook and other social media for agent announcements and query contests.
You follow agents who post using #MSWL (Manuscript Wish List), so you read up
on hashtags. The second, you submit your 140-character pitch accepted only
during 9 – 5 Central Time, at 7 a.m., EST. You decline to bid for an agent with
proceeds going to a non-profit. You would like money dedicated to your interests,
which feeds your platform, which surely the agent should understand.
Everything you
say and do, including distinguishing yourself as a daily flosser, becomes your
platform.
But it’s not
enough to keep up with revisions, work in your field, teach writing, write
about writing or generate blog posts which feed the monster of the platform.
Now, you follow agents on Twitter, to learn what you already know. Make it shine. Make the first sentence
intriguing. Work harder, faster, better. You should be at work, not on
Twitter.
You begin
querying. You discover agents ask for queries in different formats, in
particular for online submissions. Place
title + genre in subject line. Wait, what is your genre? Romance + Women’s +
Book Club Fiction? Place title + word
count in subject line. Place last name of your grandmother’s first boyfriend in
subject line.
You research what
to submit. Query letter only. Query letter and synopsis. Query letter and three
chapters and short bio in body of email. Query letter plus synopsis plus first
twenty pages, but send as attachment, or send as attachment and double space
first fifty pages.
You note response
times. Four weeks. Only if it’s positive. Four to six weeks, but if you don’t
hear back, send a reminder. When Northeasterners have dug themselves out from
underneath the last winter storm. Opening Day. Whichever comes first.
The online process
is so different from printing and mailing a letter, where you review your package
one final time because your eyes are old.
You hit the send button THEN spot an error. Or you have
written, in a conclusion to one agent, what you said about another. Or the
agent asked for the first thirty pages and you sent the first twenty. You accept
the process is about attention to detail. But you used up your attention to
detail in the novel. You have no reserves. Ask the dog, whom you forgot to feed
in the morning.
But you admit, the
process has made your book stronger. Your novel is told in alternating
timelines and perspectives. You started with one POV, but after writing your
query, you saw the logic of beginning with the second POV, and switched the
order of the ENTIRE novel.
You worked on
the query and discovered what the heck the book is really about. Then you asked,
do I like the theme? If not, which do I change, the novel or the query? And, do
I have enough lapsang souchong?
Likewise, once
you created a synopsis, you noted some events stood out. You revised the novel
to reflect this. Or vice versa. You asked, how strong are the characters, how
would they respond to the query process?
You miss waiting
by the mailbox for rejection letters to line your office. Instead, you receive a brief reply easily
discarded by Gmail. Canned replies don’t offer the same incentive – you can’t
burn them later.
You used to have
brown-blonde hair, but you gave up on highlights. You hair is turning gray, in
time for your photograph, though no one asked for a photo in your author
platform.
Labels:
agent,
author platform,
query,
writing
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