Sunday, May 27, 2012

Mom’s back to the rehab facility and hopefully will be home in a few weeks.  Her skin graft took extremely well and her leg looks amazing.  I am in awe and bow to modern medicine when it comes to her kind of treatment.  We gifted the Burn Unit Doc and team with a candy machine full of Skittles. 

The PT gals at mom’s facility diagnosed and are treating mom’s right hand and it is nearly 80%!!  Why I couldn’t get any doc interested in that hand is a mystery.  It is the #1 block to mom’s full recovery.  I see Skittles in another’s  future.

With mom starting to use her right hand and her legs becoming stronger, we are getting excited to have her home.  Of course, now, we’ve begun thinking about her life going forward. 

Things will not change I am afraid.  She has no desire to make any lifestyle change.  Therefore we will be going through all of this again relatively speaking, and next time she may actually break a bone or something that will land her permanently in some sort of facility.  This is infuriating to me because I rabidly cling to higher expectations for her……but….

I watched a TED talk the other day about optimism. (www.TED.com). And in a nutshell the presentation proved that as humans we are wired to be overly optimistic about ourselves – not for others, only for ourselves.  So, the, “it won’t happen to me” syndrome is not just the invincibility of youth.  And my mom is somewhat justified in her thinking as she is human and wired that way.  And I am still pissed.

I have perched myself on the periphery of dad’s life at home, watching how he gets along.  I am not cooking for him.  I am doing his laundry, cleaning once a week or so and will daily clear and sanitize a swath through the kitchen.  He appears to be getting on just fine.  Here’s a typical day:

Dad gets up between 9 and 10 am, gives the dogs a treat, makes coffee, dons his blue work/jump suit (the same one he has worn all week) and sits at the kitchen table reading the newspaper with his illuminated magnifier.  He may eat a bowl of cereal.  Then he disappears.  He may be in one of four of his workshops/garages here at the house or he may go somewhere. 

He leaves the back door wide open so the dogs can let themselves in and out. (Enter leaves, bugs, sticks, hot air, live birds and once, when the dogs were sleeping in the back bedrooms where it manages to stay cool, a curious squirrel.)  He leaves the downstairs stereo blaring an oldies station or his new favorite Mariachi CD my sister gave him for Xmas (which I can recite by memory.) 

Sometime after dark he reappears, dirty faced, head bandana’ed with the mail in hand.  This time he has a Manhattan in hand  when he sits at the kitchen table to read the mail. Dad keeps the booze on the cabinet in the dining room.  He concocts his sugary libation there and spills it through the room to the kitchen table.  Oh, I forgot to mention the ANT problem.

He turns on his living room TV set that he can view from the kitchen.  He says he doesn’t have a hearing problem.  I beg to differ.  And this is where he spends most of his evening.  Reading materials galore, sports blaring, many, many moths joining the party (the door is still open) and eating his dinner.  This particular night dinner consisted of a half bag of sun chips, trail mix, canned tamales and ice cream.

He eventually ends up on the couch or in front of his computer for his evening nap.  I can’t tell you when he actually goes to bed.  I can tell you he doesn’t tidy up a thing beforehand.

Friday, May 18, 2012

Few people know this; my dad was the inspiration for the “Pig Pen” character in Charles Schulz’s Peanuts comic. I know this because through the smoky haze I see the driveway, front porch and every kitchen surface is perfectly set for the taping of the next episode of “Hoarders, Buried Alive.” Dad has arrived home safely. 

Evidently the trip home with my brother was a success because instead of disappearing immediately, my brother installed the FL purchased big screen TV as dad’s new computer monitor…to alleviate some of his Macular Degeneration sight impediments.  He also inadvertently unplugged the main phone jack as was discovered the next day.

“JESUS CHRIST LORI WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THE PHONE?”

“Beats me, dad, it rang off the hook while you guys were gone.”

“DID WE FORGET TO PAY THE GOD DAMNED BILL?”

“I don’t know, dad, I don’t pay your bills.”

“WHERE’S THE GOD DAMNED PHONE BOOK?  CALL THE GOD DAMNED PHONE COMPANY!”

Me, being plugged in just looked up “QWEST GOD DAMN IT” on line and dialed their customer service number.

Five dials to five different Quest numbers (I’m sorry to inform you, ma’am, your parents left us for Cox last year) and three dials to Cox later, the nice IT guy on the phone leads me to our main house connection where the cord is unplugged and laying on the floor.

I can understand why dad was a bit stressed because “THESE GOD DAMNED CELL PHONE COMPANIES AND CELL PHONES ARE USELESS!”

Seems dad cell phone was dead and the phone charge connector was damaged...unable to properly connect for charging.

“Dad, take the phone to Verizon and get it checked.”

“I ALREADY DID GOD DAMN IT– THEY SAY I NEED A NEW PHONE AND WANT TOO MUCH GOD DAMNED MONEY!”  I feel like I’m George Costanza on Seinfeld in a conversation with his dad.

“GO ON LINE TO EBAY AND SEE WHAT THEY WANT FOR A NEW VERIZON COMPATIBLE PHONE!”

“How will I know if it is a Verizon compatible phone, dad?  How much do you want to pay?  Do you want a plan-less phone or one that comes with minutes?  They don’t state of they come with batteries or not – do you think that brand-new-in-the-box means they come with a battery?”  I must have lost my mind there for a minute…

“JESUS CHRIST, GOD DAMN IT, HOW THE HELL SHOULD I KNOW?!”

I knew this. *sigh*

Dad stormed out to Wal-Mart and they set him up nicely. (Thank you Wal-Mart!!) In retrospect I should have accompanied him to check my blood pressure.

Mom and dad have two miniature schnauzers, Duke and Daisy, who last summer were infested with fleas from the backyard.  To save money, the folks applied OTC flea remedies that did nothing and consequently the poor things suffered until the first freeze.  That the house did not get infested is beyond me.  Dad returned them to Omaha re-infested, way overdue for a haircut and with poop stuck to their butts.  I might have missed the poop part except that Duke laid down an impressive three-foot long skid mark on the light blue carpet in the family room.  If it were not for that, I would have SMELLED him.

Thursday, May 03, 2012

LESSON #9 mom’s can sometimes say the weirdest things….just keep moving along….

When I left the hospital yesterday, mom suggested I buy a copy of, “Fifty Shades of Gray,” and read it to her.  I turned fifty shades of red and thought to myself, “this woman didn’t even give me the sex talk and she wants us to read this book together???”  Oh, HEEEEEELLLLLLLL no, I told her.

This request was an indication she is well medicated and I am so very thankful for that.  Mom has been through some crap these last few days.

One of my sister’s BFs who is a nurse (sort of a half sister to me) came to visit mom in rehab over the weekend and told us to RUN, do not walk, to the nearest burn/wound doc to get some attention for mom’s burn.  She also vehemently demanded we get an MRI performed on mom’s painful and useless right hand/wrist.   First thing Monday I made a call to the Burn Unit at UNMC Clarkson and got an appt for that day.  The doc took one look at mom’s leg and said, “I want to admit her a few days.”  Gulp.

The wound hadn’t really been well cared for – the PA and nurses scraped mom’s leg and got piles and piles of dead skin, dried medicine and gooey burn guts off of it – when they were done it was all bright pink like a good sunburn.  I couldn’t bring myself to look at the craters.  Mom felt nothing and that sacred me cuz that likely meant much of her leg is dead.  They started immediately with Bariatric Chamber treatment.

Seems we are at the right place and Clarkson UNMC is the only place in Nebraska with one of these 30,000 leagues under the sea machines.  It simulates the pressure of something like 3,500 feet under sea level and is proven to promote tissue rejuvenation by way of encouraging capillary growth and increasing tissue oxygen levels.  Mom was a bit wary. 

“Mom,” I explained, “Michael Jackson used one of these machines.” 

“And you know what happened to him,” she retorted.

Whatever, I am very curious to know what it is like in the chamber and mom can’t tell me because she falls asleep in it.

Yesterday the doc took mom into surgery to do some serious wound debridement and consider a skin graft.  Serious wound debridement means make the wound much larger and deeper than it is to get to viable tissue – they want the bloody, oxygenated hamburger meat because this is the material that knits together and heals quickest and best.  The doc wasn’t able to do the skin graft.  The damage is too severe.  She elected to toss in some cadaver skin to see what happens over the next few days.  If the cadaver skin takes, she will take mom back in to surgery and perform a graft with mom’s own skin.  So, for now, it is more scuba diving for mom.  Oh, and we will begin diagnosing her hand/wrist.

LESSON #10 – it is imperative to take full responsibility and control of one’s healthcare.  I don’t know if it is generational, that they were out of their element, or what, but my folk’s behavior was impotent…to the point of negligence… with mom’s healthcare in Florida.

Dad and Mike should be home tomorrow I think.  Yesterday they had breakfast in Memphis and I haven’t heard from them since.  Maybe they’re touring Graceland.

I have begun health insurance reconnaissance.  Seems Humana has no record of mom being transferred from Cape Coral Hospital to the rehab facility.  According to Josh the Admissions guy at the rehab place, he called for a pre-auth – numerous times – was told no, mom was out of network.  He kept calling, even had his corporate gal call and no one called them back.  He is writing his report for me and I am sending it and my GREIVANCE LETTER TO Humana.  Here we go……

I am caring for my brother’s two mini Dachshunds while he is away.  They are hilarious and I adore them.   Dewey is old and deaf.  Molly is old, very fat and blind. We are all sleeping together and Molly serves as our 7:00 alarm clock. I call them the Frisky Friskerson’s because they have spurts of happy dance between all their sleeping and laying around – it is so unexpected it makes me laugh.  My little silver linings……

Sunday, April 29, 2012

I have been emotionally battered and I am sore all over.  Mom is now in rehab in Omaha and brother dearest is flying to dad today to help him drive home.

LESSON #6 when a family is stressed, every form of dysfunction comes out to play.  DETACH.

Dad, mom’s physical therapist and I decided that when mom was able to be a “one-person” assist, I would fly down and bring her home to rehab in Omaha.  Next thing I get a call from the Social Services gal who informs me that “they” want to call in an outside wound specialist for mom’s burn and since her insurance will not cover her in FL it might be best for me to bring her home now.

I fly to Fort Myer’s on Tuesday.  Dad pulls up in mom’s red Miata, wearing his Santa Claus beard and a Hawaiian shirt.  SO daddy.   I monitor his driving to determine if his macular is impeding his abilities or if he has just been drinking.  Neither.  (My brother tells me daddy has always stopped inches from the car ahead of him.  Correction – INCH.)

LESSON #7 you are never prepared to see a parent in a hospital or rehab facility. 

Mom is wrapped like a mummy – not because of her burn but because she is freezing in bed at the rehab facility.  The TV is blaring (where are your hearing aids?)  She has a grayish pallor, her hair is horrendous, and she appears quite pathetic.  OMG.  My mother has aged 100 years since I last saw her.  My mother is an old lady.

With emotions in my throat, I take charge and investigate mom’s body, taking pictures and ping them to my sister.  Mom’s tongue looks like she has been sucking on black licorice.  This is the THRUSH from the antibiotics.  Mom’s right wrist is wider than her forearm and her fingers are curled up with paralysis.  WE ARE TOLD THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH IT. And what I could never be prepared for…her leg burn.  I nearly threw up.  Serious.  Think large fish scales, really bad road rash, hamburger meat, and a five inch, crater-like, divot above her inner ankle.  Reds, purples, greens and yellows.  Seepage.  No blood.  Gooey yellow pus-like paste fills the crater - the wound doc slowly scrapes it out.  Mom doesn’t feel it because she has likely burned her nerves.  Me being me, I ask the doc if MAGGOTS would do a better job?   Yep, he says.  If that wound would have smelled like a garbage dump I would have passed out.  The doc assured me it is MUCH better than it was.  I cannot even imagine.

I make arrangements for the next day to work with the physical therapist and mom to learn how to best help mom maneuver for the flight home.  Dad and I go out for lunch.

Dad.  Where to start?  I really don’t know him well.  Growing up he was busy growing his company.  He was my softball coach for a few summers before I discovered boys and quit. Next thing seems like I was married and moving to Kansas City.  Dad is a man of very few words.  Ask him a question and it seems an eternity before he verbalizes a reply.  Talking on the phone with him can be agonizing.  You wonder if he’s on the other end of the line or fell asleep.

When dad wants to make a point and/or be heard, he raises his voice.  It sort of feels like he is yelling at you.  My brother and I learned this from him and it has periodically caused us problems in our own relationships.  Being with dad again is a good reminder for me to watch my tone.  His puts me on edge, on the defense and my “listening” ability is tainted. 

Loudly and with emphasis dad proceeds to tell me that my mother has no relationship with effort and never has.  He said he first noticed it when they were in college and mom made no effort to study.  He proclaimed her entire life with him to be self centered with minimal effort toward anything or anyone else.  I realize I am in the middle of my dad’s STORY.  I just listen.

He goes on to blast the rehab facility for bilking them of money since they are private pay.  Insisting that they are not helping mom, merely placating her lack of effort and enabling her addiction to ease.  I didn’t totally disagree and we both consented that it was time for them to get home.

We hop into the Miata after lunch and dad takes me to the rental house where they have been living since January.  Once again, I wasn’t prepared.  In my own house I live a certain way – and when I live somewhere that isn’t mine I live a different way – usually on my best behavior.  Not so for dad.  I try to tell myself his poor eyesight is the culprit yet what I witness is….wait for it……lack of effort (or care).

The tile floors were covered with grass, twigs, wrappers, dirt, dead bugs and what not.  Seems he kept all doors open so the dogs could let themselves out.  Every flat counter surface was piled with mail, packaged food, wrappers, papers, books and stuff.  The counters, floors and rugs where decorated with all sorts of dried spills and stains.  The kitchen appeared to have been sprayed with….I’m not sure…but it was sticky and covered the dishwasher, fridge and stove fronts.  A soup pot on the stove contained rice that wiggled.  There was dried diarrhea on the front of the leather couch, on the floor and rug.  The toilets were caked with shit spray.  I was stunned into silence and while dad busied himself trimming the dogs I started to clean.  When I felt it was clean “enough” I went to bed.   Still incredulous.

Next day, Wednesday, we are back at the rehab facility and mom and I are working with the PT.  Not so bad considering mom can’t use her right hand and has no conditioned muscle in her legs.  There are a few momentum moves where mom and I work together to get her standing.  Once she equalizes, I support her, she shuffles herself around and we lower her onto a seat.  A few rounds of this and we have it down.  No worries.  Flying home should not be a problem.

Mom.  Where to start?  I don’t really know her well.  Growing up she was busy watching TV.  She was my Camp Fire Leader a couple of years before I decided it was uncool.  Mom is a woman of independence.  Ask her a question and she tells you to figure it out for yourself.  Talking with her can be very lonely.  You wonder if she’s practicing tough love or just doesn’t want to be bothered.

Our flights from Florida to Nebraska were, for the most part, easy.  First class does have its perks.  Airline wheelchair people are worthless….or I am as stubbornly independent as my mom and we can do it better ourselves, thank you very much.   My mom is embarrassed to be so dependent.  My embarrassment of her inability to care for herself is slowly turning to compassion.  She is safe in rehab in Omaha.  She is now physically available for support and encouragement from friends and loved ones.  Monday she and I meet with all the “Heads” at rehab and together we will plan her recovery.

Today I dropped my brother at the airport.  He is flying to FL to help dad drive back home.  When dad is back here at the house with me, we are going to meet.  Together we will make a list of all he and mom’s business, money, house, health, etc . affairs so I can now better help them with this transition. 

I have finally accepted the fact: My parents are old.  They need help.  And I need to stop railing at reality and step it up.  My internal mêlée with these people is turning to a palliative conversation.   The battle against the dark side of aging (and my war with myself) is waning.  The acceptance of the inevitable course of life is no doubt going to illuminate some magnificent transformation.  I can’t wait.  Really.

LESSON #8 get out of your own way.

April 5, 2012

So……..the inevitable has arrived.  All this minor frustration and poking fun at mom and dad has paled in comparison to our current situation.  Mom, while on “vacation” in Florida, is in the process of being transferred from the hospital to a rehab facility.

Saturday a couple of weeks ago I called to see how things were going and mom tells me she just got out of the hospital.

“WHAT?!?! “ I shriek!

“I fell a couple of times so they wanted to check me for strokes,” mom casually explains.  “I’m ok, just black and blue, swollen and I hurt all over.”

Under my breath I am screaming that if one of us kids was in the hospital and we didn’t call to tell her we would have hell to pay.

“So,” mom continues, “I’m taking pain meds and hope the pain goes away soon.”  Typical mom – nothing in her vocabulary about healing…just wanting pain to go away.  We kids are amazed she gave birth to us.  Her pain threshold is measured with a minus sign. 

I told her to take good care of herself and hung up the phone to immediately call my sister and brother with the news.  It should have been a three-way call as we all said and thought out loud the same things – it would have served as a cathartic family therapy session.

A week later I get a call from Dad.  “She’s in the hospital again.”   This is where the blur begins.  Dad didn’t have answers to all my questions (or even his questions).  I called my nurse practitioner sister to step in and run interference. 

LESSON #1 – Have a trained medical professional as a family member.  While avenues of communication are still difficult, they can at least translate medical-ese, ask the right questions and basically manage the situation. (Entrepreneurs – big business idea here.)

Here is my interpretation of the blur:

Mom is in hospital with acute renal failure due to too many pain pills (Motrin) and not enough hydration. (Quite possibly meaning her self medication put her in la-la land and she didn’t think to eat or drink.)

While in hospital, a burn is discovered on her leg. WT??  Seems she fell asleep (passed out) on top of a heating pad and over time the heat was trapped and slowly cooked her leg.

LESSON #2 – heating pads are to be placed on top of, not underneath body parts – also not to be used while incoherent, drugged or tired.  Heating pad manufacturers – perhaps inserting something bumpy into the pad would create a level of discomfort to then deter an underneath placement.  Just thinking out loud here.

First we were told third degree, possible skin grafts.  Then we were told 2^nd degree, just needed to heal.  We STILL don’t know the real story.

Next we were told that her right hand and thumb were broken.  Then we were told they were not.  Mom refuses to move, bend or flex her right hand and arm.  WT??

An exam of some sort showed spots on one of mom’s kidneys.  They performed an MRI.  We never got the results.  Sister reports “Renal” signed off and no news is good news.  We’re going with that.

During all of this my sister was wondering why no one was getting mom out of bed and moving around.  She decided to call the hospital’s Social Services department and got them involved.

LESSON #3 – when feeling under informed, lost, overlooked in a hospital environment, contact Social Services and they will act as your healthcare advocate.

Now all of this happened over six days.  Mom went into the hospital on a Friday.  Evidently all hospital business operations shut down over the weekend so we had to wait until Monday to begin to learn anything.  And yes, one of us kids should have flown down there to manage all of this but we are all experiencing a divine intervention of some sort and are unable to.  Maybe this is to be an experience of a certain meaning for our dad??

On Wednesday it was determined that mom no longer needed hospitalization yet she would require rehab.  She is referred to as a two-person assist which means it takes two people to get her up out of bed.  Further she refuses to walk; her knees are wobbly and she is afraid she will fall again.  Further she refuses to use her right hand; it hurts.  Further, we are all frustrated and want to hurt her more.

This is an emotional area I really want to unpack.  Why do we believe our mother is being such a baby about this?  Why are we getting frustrated instead of enacting compassion?  Intellectually we realize how unfair we are thinking yet we cannot for longer than 30 seconds muster any kind of empathy for her.  And then we feel bad about it on top of it all.  This in turns makes us mad again.  Insight, anyone??

In a mad dash to find an Omaha rehab facility with an open room, it was recommended by the hospital Social Worker to place mom locally because it would be very difficult to move her a long distance at this time.  She needs to get stronger.  Whew.  We all agree a good idea.

LESSONS #4 – make sure your health insurance will cover you out of state/on vacation.

LESSON #5 – make sure your parents, your spouse, your kids,  complete all consent forms for other family members to intervene in their healthcare, health insurance, financial, etc. affairs.

Mom is going to have to pay $3,500 a week for rehab in Florida, her hospital stay may not be covered, her health insurance company will only speak with those at the hospital, and her personal Dr. here in Omaha won’t even take our calls for medical records. 

Dad has a bit more authority yet he is not one to take direction well. He has many questions that we cannot answer and does not quite understand that he is the one that has to ask on mom’s behalf as her husband.  He’s sort of stuck in WHY?  And then slides to forgetfulness or overwhelm, i.e. minor shut down.

I repeat LESSON #5 with emphasis on a family member far enough removed to remain coherent, lucid, actionable and able to make a decision.

This is another emotional area I really want to unpack.  Why do we believe our father is behaving ineffective in all this?  Why are we getting frustrated instead of enacting compassion?  Intellectually we realize how unfair we are thinking yet we cannot for longer than 30 seconds muster any kind of empathy for him.  And then we feel bad about it on top of it all.  This in turns makes us mad again.  Insight, anyone??

March 10, 2012

Wow, March already.   I have been here a year now.

Mom and dad’s time away has given me a time of solace to center myself.  All the changes over the past year and a half have deeply affected me – more so than I had let myself believe.  Divorce, death, job loss, moving to a different town, losing my identity, accepting public assistance, living with my parents, loss of the familiar, job hunt rejection.  I was fine with all that, but then I added going to the dentist and it nearly killed me!  (Just kidding – I would rather go to the dentist and give a public speech than ensure my current state much longer.)

It is times like these that bring a person closer to their God.  My greater powers and I have become tight.  I am starting to hear an inner voice that I have ignored for so long. (And NOT the one that says, “Now would be a great time for a cocktail!”)  Being the over achiever that I am, I was challenged to take a day of silence and I did.

No computer, phone, TV, books, talking - I decided to participate in a “moving meditation” so asked permission to clean out and organize some of mom’s dining room, built-in cupboards.  You may recall that when mom and dad left, I was instructed to NOT throw anything away.  And I have not. 

Now, however, I have the green light.  On the phone mom recalled how good she felt when she opened up a cupboard or drawer and it was neatly organized.  (I would do this to one cupboard per visit when I was actually a visitor.)  Go for it, she said.

One of my friends described mom and dad’s home as Mid-century Modern.    I thought that a lovely way of saying functional yet somewhat outdated. They got rid of the avocado appliances years ago yet, when you invest in good furniture, even if it is in the 70’s, you tend to keep it.  Same with “stuff”.  Now all of that era’s stuff is seen as retro and it is popular again.  And that’s a good thing because much of what I am taking to the Good Will is retro heaven – sure to be a hot seller!!

Donations of note include a Super Shooter cookie press, a Pyrex Bake-a-Round bread pan (in original packaging!), a micro steamer and the original hand-propelled Smart Chopper!    And boy, those church circles, ladies clubs and schools sure did publish a ton of cookbooks in those days!  I halved mom’s collection and am keeping two for myself.  The New Joys of Jell-O 1974 edition and the 1957 Storz Brewing Company Deluxe Cookbook are sure to be collector’s items and they are MINE!  Along with an early ‘80s Peanuts metal lunch box, which is technically my sister’s, and a mosaic ashtray.  All in all, more was kept than donated and organization reigns once again.

Oh, so, the day of silence.  Was a no thang.  Uneventful.  Quite easy actually.  Evidently I have come to terms with my new reality and the day of silence simply enabled me to organize it a bit more.  My Mid-century Modern self is new again, I am retro – sure to be a hot seller!

Monday, February 06, 2012

I have a ball gown to return today so I will again attempt to attend a yoga class.  This weekend was the Groundhog Prom, an irreverent response to Omaha’s high social pageantry known as the Knights of Aksarben Foundation Coronation Ball.  I wore my gown from last week and added bunny ears.

I was told the Groundhog Prom came about as a party “for the other folks,” the ones not included in the Coronation Ball festivities.  Class warfare in Omaha I guess. 

My mom was an Aksarben princess in the late 50’s because grandpa was an Executive at First National Bank of Omaha.  Daughters of prominent Omaha men are selected for princesses, one of whom ascends to the role of Queen.  One prominent man in Omaha is selected as King.  I’ve heard comments that the age range between in the King and Queen is nearly statutory.  The Princesses attend the festivities with escorts, there is some sort of coronation pageant featuring a royal court made up of other men, women, boys and girls related to someone prominent and then Coronation Ball.  I don’t know who gets invited to that, certainly not me.  Anyway, for the high brow and civically minded this is quite the deal in Omaha.

In a previous blog I posted my encounter with mom’s Aksarben princess gown as I was making room in the downstairs closet for my clothes.  Never mind it had wicked up basement flood waters over time, it still had its vibrant yellow color.  And true to the fact that all trends aren’t really new, this gown was totally blinged out and strapless – ideal for today.  I must suggest to my vintage loving girlfriend to whom we gifted the dress, to wear it to next year’s Groundhog Prom.  Seems fitting somehow.

My girlfriend Carole from Delaware was in town this weekend to check in on her mom who lives in Lincoln.  We spent Super Bowl Sunday together on the couch, by the fire, with junk food and some red wine.  Thirty years ago the scene would have been a bit different – beer bongs, cheese dip, loud bar or party.  Age is humbling, isn’t it?

Carole is one of the few I am comfortable having over to mom’n dad’s house.  She doesn’t even lift an eyebrow because she witnesses the same at her 85-year-old mom’s house.  She knows to inspect glasses, plates, forks, etc. for dried on crud missed by old eyes.  And when we pulled out the couch to take better advantage of the fireplace, she uttered no squeal seeing the dust bunnies, cob webs, old piece of toast and the mummified squirrel.  We just look at each other with that knowing smile.

Madonna performed for the half time show and I just couldn’t behave myself.  What is it about me that wants her to be done with performing??  She lacks the on-stage energy and, while in fabulous shape, I could tell the cameras used filters to soften her features.  Madge, honey, at our age we counsel, guide and mentor the up and comer’s – we don’t perform with them.  And now I hate myself.  I like to hang with younger set myself.  Age is a state of mind and Madonna and I are similarly youthful.  *sigh*

I want to get comfortable and be accepted with my feet on both sides - young, not-so-young - Aksarben, Groundhog.  I shall meditate upon this at yoga class.