Time moves so fast. And your memory fades over time. The details of your life, over time, become less and less easy to recall. One of my friends became an author. She has kept a journal her entire life, which was very helpful to her when she wrote her first book. I just wish I had kept a record of all of our family experiences when our children were young. It would be fun to share those memories with our adult daughters and our grandchildren now. Also, it would be good to have something in writing to solve disputes when my husband and I are discussing past experiences from our separate perspectives and aging memories. Yep. Keep a journal! đ
It’s Life
What are you doing this evening?
Watching the presidential debate between former President Trump and Vice President Kamala Harris. Nothing earth-shattering to report. In my opinion, if an Independent was watching, I doubt they were swayed one way or the other.
I’m also thinking of my dad. Today would have been his 85th birthday. He passed away this last January. It would have been interesting to hear his take on the debate. He was a Trump supporter who liked the economy when Trump was in office.
It was a rough day. One thing I did not anticipate upon my dad’s death was my brother moving in with my mom and how that would change the dynamics of my relationship with my mom. He is divorced, and in his 50’s, so he is not responsible for anyone else. He and I have not really ever been on the same “sense of responsibility” scale.
My worry is that he will take advantage of our mom financially. But, I believe we are only taken advantage of as far as we allow it… unless there is a mind altering substance involved. In this situation, there is none of that. So, I just have to trust he has her best interest at heart. Maybe now that I know my mom feels good about relying on my brother, my husband and I can move to an area in a warmer climate.
I’m feeling a little lost. Our children are grown and raising families of their own. My mom doesn’t need us like I thought she would. My sister is happily married, working, and nearing retirement. Maybe I should quit my job, sell the house, and, as I mentioned, take my retired husband and move to a warmer part of the country. All of my family lives here in my hometown. There are a lot of memories here. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Maybe a new start in a new place with people our own age (haha) would not be so bad.
The question is, where? Nevada, where there are no taxes? California, where the governor scares me? Arizona? New Mexico? Southern Utah, where the dirt is red? Let the dreaming begin! (Or figuring out I am just feeling emotional and trying to run away from it all!)
My husband and his unconditional love amazes me! So grateful he is willing to ride this rollercoaster of a life with me!
Morning!
What’s your favorite time of day?
Easy. Anyone who knows me very well knows I love mornings! The air is cool and crisp…well, not so crisp in the dog days of summer, but still cooler than midday in mid summer. đÂ
Mornings are when everything good happens, like the start of a trip, a morning walk before breakfast, or….picture this….
A stay at the cabin on the 8th Crow Wing Lake in Northern Minnesota. It is early in the morning. You wake your family, grab your lunch and fishing gear gathered the night before, and head from the cabin down to the lake.
The light is barely peaking through the cloudy sky. The steam is lifting from the lake, creating a misty appearance all around. The water is still and glass-like, the air so quiet that you can not avoid hearing the creeking sound of the wooden planks beneath the tip toes of your feet. The rocking as you step down inside the boat breaks the glassy appearance, forming the first mini waves across the water, and the quiet talking and laughter is an indication of a family fun day ahead.
Starting the motor cuts through the silence, deafening the tinkling of the lures dangling at the end of each fishing poles that are clanking while being secured for the chilly morning boat ride toward the perfect fishing spot near the lilly pads on the other side of the lake. (Because the lilly pads on this side of the lake are not good enough for fishing. One must always boat to the other side!) đ
Crossing the misty lake, zipping my jacket all the way up, stretching the sleeves over to warm my hands, creating fresh wake behind the boat, I can’t help but smile a sleepy smile looking forward to a day of fishing with my family, each of us hoping to catch the first fish!
Yes! Morning is: awaking to a fresh start, a new day, the beginning, the start of something great. It represents hope for good things to come. And if you are lucky, it starts with a beautiful sunrise!
My Back Yard
What do you love about where you live?
What I love about where I live is that it is my home town. All three of our children, their spouses, and our six grandchildren live in the same town. For as much as we get together because everyone’s lives are so busy, we might a well live in Timbuktu! Our little (growing) conservative town/city is a great place to raise a family.
We are only 3 hours away from a University hospital where my husband can have surgery on his leg, then lie in a hospital room to heal for a few days and enjoy bird’s eye views, as captured in the image above, taken through the window from his 6th-floor room.
From our home, within a couple of hours’ drive on a Saturday afternoon, we can be on a bench in Yellowstone National Park with other tourists watching in awe as Old Faithful reliably spews it’s steamy water up to 180 feet into the air. We can pick up a souvenir from the nearby shops and eat our packed lunch either in the car or at a picnic table in the area. Then enjoy a drive though the park on our way home, hoping to see buffalo, elk, deer, and maybe even a bear or two in their habitat.
In about the same amount of time, we can drive a different direction and sit at the still glasslike water’s edge of Jenny Lake which is tucked away at the base of the Teton Mountain Range. This is one of the area’s most beautiful and most visited sites. We are fortunate to have Yellowstone and the Tetons in our back yard, so to speak.
Taking a long day’s drive we can be at the Oregon Coast enjoying a cool walk along the beach listening to the waves crash along the shoreline. In the same amount of time, heading in a different direction, our drive could take us to San Diego where we can enjoy the warmth of sunshine and see the beautiful sunsets fade below the horizon of the ocean as it meets the sky in the distance.
I absolutely love the outdoors and I love to travel! Living near the Rockies to the East and not far from the Pacific Ocean to the West we can enjoy a variety of God’s most beautiful creations. These are some of the things I love about where we live.
Making the best of it
Monday. Sitting here with my husband at the North Clinic Check-in, waiting for his appointment with the orthopedic surgeon to look at his left knee. Again. The appointment, which was scheduled in August, can now be canceled.
Three days ago, my husband stood up from the bed with the aid of his walker and nearly collapsed to the floor. The pain in his left knee was excruciating. Fear filled the room like fog filling the room from a fog machine at a rock concert. Not another infection! You see, once you have MRSA in your system, it lies dormant and can rear its ugly head at any time.
The medical assistant in black scrubs with a long french-braided ponytail cascading down the middle if her back checked my husband in. She happily asked, “Where’s the pain? When did it start? What meds are you on?” He answered each question. She stumbled over a couple of words, which she blamed on the fact she had just returned home last night after spending a month in France for “study abroad” so she was a little tired. That was not something I would have guessed about her. She seemed awake, happy, and her word stumbles were not noticeable. I wanted to talk about her experience in France, but she was quick at doing her job and the next thing I knew, she was headed out the door to let the doctor know his next patient was ready to be seen.
The doctor is easy to talk to and very personable, a bit unusual for most surgeons. Long story short, another surgery is in my husband’s future. In three weeks, he will have his 9th knee removal and/or replacement surgery.
Here we go again. Good thing he is full of determination. Sigh….
Tuesday. Our conversation on the ride home last evening after Joe’s appointment was mostly about what he was feeling about another surgery and we started planning for an upcoming week-long stay that our 7-year-old grandson has with us prior to the surgery.
Our daughter said our grandson is very excited to spend the week with us rather than his other grandparents because he “gets too bored” when he stays with them. And, I thought they were the fun/interesting ones! Now, I am questioning our planned trip to the museum. Guess we better throw in an ice cream cone. đ
Life goes on…. Make the best of it!
Hospice or Not?
   My dad had his first stroke on December 14th, 2023. After a series of watershed strokes, several rides to the hospital in the back of an ambulance, time in and out of the emergency room, a couple of weeks in a rehabilitation center, and three more trips back and forth to the ER, he was sent home on hospice with “comfort care.”
He was driven to his home via non-emergent transport from the hospital. Home is where he wanted to be for however many days he had remaining. It was a Sunday. Monday and Tuesday were fairly good days. Wednesday, he started seeing children playing around his bed. Dad was full of smiles. His demeanor was relaxed and peaceful as he watched the children play. Even when he could not quite catch the pork that was floating at the end of his bed, he seemed unbothered. Thursday, there was less talking and more sleeping. By Friday, late afternoon, he had slipped into unconsciousness.
We were not fully prepared for what came next. The “death rattle” type of breathing began at 6pm Friday night. For twelve and a half hours, we surrounded our dad, husband, and grandpa, administering medication to him via syringe between his cheek and tongue, as we listened to that rattle. At first, it was administered every 2 hours, then one hour, then every 30 minutes at the direction of the hospice nurse via telephone on call that night. We were up all night. No nurse came. No matter how many times we called to explain that our dad seemed to be in distress, unable to swallow (for the last 12+ hours) the medication inevitably draining down the back of his throat. No suctioning was offered. Nothing.
We were together as a family but alone in this process. We were exhausted to the point of tears, each of us lost in our own loneliness and confusion. Torn between the desparate need to hang on to this man, who is THE central part of each of our lives, and letting go, knowing his body gave him 84 years, but would not be able to give him one more day. It was his time to go home to his family, who were waiting to greet him on the other side of death. He took his last breath at 6:30 a.m. on Saturday morning.
My sister’s grief poured out of her body in inconsolable sobbing and wailing exhales of emotion that her heart could no longer hold. Her daughter, my daughter, our mom, and I all wrapped her in arms of love, understanding exactly how she felt.
I don’t remember who made the call to the hospice nurse. I do remember watching the men from the funeral home load my dad into the back of their van and pull out of the driveway. I don’t remember anything else, except feeling the need to sleep.
A few weeks after the funeral, my mom, my sister, and I met with the director of the home health and hospice company to share our experience. We do not want another family to experience the trauma our family experienced with “comfort care.”
We explained that expectations and options were not made clear. The nurse never offered to come lay eyes on our dad to make sure we didn’t need to change what we were doing. He did not appear comfortable. My understanding was that hospice meant comfort care. Our experience of comfort care was anything but comfort.
Home health and hospice listened intently to our concerns. We hope they make the changes they said they will, so anyone using their hospice service in the future has a positive experience of their loved one’s passing.
The good memories of our dad help to soften the pains of our loss. For that, we feel immense gratitude.
The Empty Chairs
Friday night was the third Friday we played pinochle without my dad sitting across the table from me. Someone was sitting in his chair, but it did not matter who occupied his seat. The emptiness permiated the entire house, as did the smell of all of the flowers from his funeral. My sister and I celebrated our January birthdays together in February with our traditional family meal and cake for dessert. It was noticeably quiet. Our dad was not there to celebrate with us. Somehow, the food did not taste as good this year….
As time moves on, yes, it moves on, though it feels like it should stand still, as I look across the livingroom at the reclining chair where my dad previously sat and laughed, cried, relaxed, and freely offered advice to his family, I realize that instead of feeling sad and longing for my dad to come around the corner with his walker and fill that empty chair with his body, smile, and magnetic personality, I can look at that empty chair, as well as the one at the table, and see in my minds eye the memories of his life. Of the good times, laughter, sadness, and discussions of lessons learned. That empty chair contains all the memories my mind will produce for me to enjoy.
I am grateful for the memories of Dad and I playing Cribbage at the table. Of times as a small child, him patting my back as I cried because of a tummy ache or other sickness. Of the time helped me set up my first checking account at age 16. Of the time he cried over his Mom’s death at age 70. Of the time I laughed at him as a preteen looking over and seeing him close his eyes while taking that initial bite of a hotdogs. Of his shaking hand as he tries to fill his fork with food from his dinner plate and move it to his mouth before the shaking causes the food to fall back onto the plate before reaching his mouth. Of all of the hugs and I love yous from him as he sat in either of those chairs.
Every time I look at those empty chairs, the good memories bring a smile to my face and help heal my broken heart.
Dad passed away toward the end of January. We miss him, but we believe he is in a better place and are happy that he is no longer suffering.
A tender mercy
My thoughts are all over the place. Not sure where they will land.
My parents have lived in the same house for 56 years. It is the same house where my sister, brother, and I were raised. Lying here alone, waiting for sleep to overtake my overactive thoughts, in the same room where I was raised, is a little like being in a time machine.
My young self could not imagine my much older self lying here tonight with my mom, who is sleeping alone, snoring the night away in her bedroom next to mine, while my dad is spending the night sleeping alone in a room at the rehabilitation center across town, where he has been recovering from the stroke he had on the 14th of last month. This is the longest my parents have slept without each other in their 61 years of marriage. The good news is that my dad has worked hard with the PT and OT to improve his strength enough to come back home to my mom this upcoming Sunday.
It will be a relief for them to be together again. I will get to return home to my husband, who has been holding down the fort while I have been staying with my mom. Our daughter, her husband, and our young grandson have stayed at our house since before Christmas. After this weekend, everyone will be back in their own homes with their loved ones, and life will return to a somewhat normal state…with the unsettling knowledge lingering in the back of our minds, however, that our dad still has a blocked artery in his neck.
We don’t know what the future holds for our dad, but what we do know is that we are not going to take him for granted and we are forever grateful to God for the tender mercy of this extended time our parents get to spend together in this beautiful little house where they created a loving home filled with unforgettable memories.
Operation Santa!
After three years, of writing his annual Christmas letter to Santa, it finally happened….
On a cold winter afternoon, three days ago, there came a knock at our daughter and son-in-law’s front door. Our daughter opened the door, her eyes widening with wonder and a feeling of disbelief at the tall moving-box-sized box she saw sitting on the porch as the USPS driver backed out of their driveway and headed down the road. She walked around the box, straining to view the postal stamp at the top of the box to see who it was from. She noted the shipping price on the box and, again, her eyes widened. One hundred seventy-three dollars! Just for shipping! Then she noticed who it was from…OPERATION SANTA!
She and my son-in-law drug the box over the threshold through the front door and into the living room. Not knowing what to expect, she opened the box to see what was inside and if she needed to wrap anything. She could hardly believe her eyes when she saw how many wrapped gifts were inside. About that time, her son came running out of his room to see what all the sound of rustling paper was about.
Kneeling down to be closer to him, his mommy wrapped her arm around his waist and pulled him close to her. “Remember when you sent that letter to Operation Santa a few weeks ago and I told you that your letter might not be one of the letters to get adopted?” He answered in the affirmative. She explained that someone in New York adopted his letter this year and purchased several gifts for him that he had asked for in his letter.
His could barely contain his excitement. Turning toward the box that was now lying on its side with wrapped gifts spilling out onto the floor, he raced over and picked up one of the gifts asking if he could open it. His Mommy let him open one gift. Then another one. And another one. Until all of the gifts were opened, except one. There were Mario and Paw Patrol toys that he had asked for, as well as a remote control boat. The last unopened gift was substantially larger than all of the other presents. Curiosity got the best of him and his mommy. She let him open that one last gift. As he tore more and more paper off of the box, it became clear. There it was! The first thing on his Christmas list to Santa!â“The Big Dig Sandbox Digger Excavator Crane with 360 Degree Rotation with Base Great for Sand, Dirt and Snow, Steel Outdoor Play Toy in Yellow”
The tears streaming down my daughter’s face, as her sweet thankful son hugged her, were not for the fact he received all kinds of new toys for Christmas. Rather, they were heartfelt tears that reflected her feelings of gratitude for the generosity of a complete stranger in a state several thousand miles away, a stranger who chose to adopt the letter from a kind-hearted boy who hoped for toys that were not clothing or shoes or things like that. My daughter’s six-year-old son who still believes in Santa Claus experienced the joy this year of being on the receiving end of someone’s else’s sacrifice of time and money to bring a child (and his family) joy at Christmas time.
This will be part of my grandson’s Christmas memories that will be shared for the remainder of his life. What a beautiful memory to share!
My daughter, for the last three years (including this year) has adopted letters and sent gifts to children who have written to Operation Santa. She has felt the good feelings of being on the giving end of this great program for those three years. And, this year had the opportunity to see her son’s excitement of being on the receiving end of Operation Santa.
My husband and I also felt the effects of being on the receiving end of this this program. As our grandson shared his excitement with us about gifts he received from someone in New York, my heart swelled with gratitude for those people who so lovingly and willingly brought joy to the face of my grandson and his parents.
I want to be a part of Operation Santa! We are too late to adopt a name this year, but next year and every year after that, we will choose a letter from a child to adopt and send gifts of joy and happiness. I can’t wait!âIf you want to join us by adopting your own letter for a child, click here and mark your calendar for next year to participate in OPERATION SANTA!!
A New Phase of Life
The phone call came before 7:30 a.m. last Wednesday. My mom was sobbing as she told me she thought my dad was having a stroke. He would not let her call 911 because he “would rather die than go to that hospital.” I said I would be right there. I kissed my husband goodbye and rushed out the door.
That five mile drive across town felt like an eternity. As I opened the door to my childhood home, a door I had opened thousands of times, there was a fearful feeling I cannot describe. Anticipation of the unknown… it was bad.
My mom, her eyes red and still moist with tears, met me at the door. She said she could not wake my dad. I looked his direction. It shook me to the core.
He was sitting in a chair next to the table. The left side of his face was drooping. His left arm and hand was resting next to his body. His right arm was resting on the table, and his fingers were scratching back and forth across an indentation in the table, which was something that had become a habit over the last few years, the scratching on the table.
The look of helplessness on my mom’s face as she walked over and gently shook his arm while repeating his name was unsettling, as was my dad’s effort to lift his eyebrows as high as he could, to open his eyes, yet his eyelids remained closed.
“This is serious,” I whispered desperately to my mother. “I’m calling 911!”
Those few minutes between the time I reached dispatch to the time I saw the flashing lights of the ambulance pull up in front of the house felt like an eternity.Â
Two EMTs entered the house. It was surreal watching one of them ask my dad questions and see my dad sit in that one position without moving or opening his eyes, except to scratch back and forth across the table. He looked like my dad. But, as the EMT lifted my dad’s eyelids, the eyes he exposed were not the same caring eyes I was used to seeing. They were blank. Void of warmth or emotion.
His eyes remained closed while more EMTs entered the house and helped move him from the chair to the stretcher, then out the front door and into the ambulance.
When my mom and I arrived at the ER room, my sister was already there. My dad was alert and talking with the doctor, who happens to be my first cousin.
Life is funny. One minute you are babysitting your cousin so your aunt and uncle can have a date night, and the next minute, that little cousin is all grown up and helping care for your ailing father.
My dad survived the stroke with very few deficits. He is in a rehabilitation center where he can receive PT to strengthen his muscles so he can come home soon. My mom is staying home without my dad for the first time ever for such an extended period of time. I am staying with my mom to help ease her concerns. My husband is home waiting for time to pass so we can be together again in this new phase of our lives as supportive caregivers to my parents for as long as they need us.
This is not my favorite new phase of life. However, I am so grateful for the extra time with my dad. â¤ď¸
Saturday, A Busy Day
Doing the mundane Saturday morning chores: get gas, buy groceries, and pick up prescriptions.
Today is going to be cleaning day while the homemade dough for hamburger buns does its rising thing. Have you ever made homemade buns? It is super easy and delicious, plus no preservatives. Try this recipe on Pintrest here.
We stopped at my parents’ house to pick up my laptop that I left there last night after playing pinochle with them. What is it about walking through the front door of the home of your parents that feels so good? No matter how many times the walls have been painted or the furniture has been rearranged or the fireplace was added or removed, it feels to me like a place of comfort and safety. A place where I could just stay forever.
My parents are in their eighties, which means their time on this earth is getting short. Feelings of guilt already creep in for the time I don’t spend with them. It is a challenge to find the balance between working full time, spending time with my husband, parents, adult children, and grandchildren, plus creative time, and working on personal growth. Not to mention cleaning and cooking.
Sigh….To be that twenty-something with the whole world ahead of me. đ
Well, I better get my 50-something-self moving. It’s time to get the Christmas tree and decorations up!
What are you doing this weekend?
Surgery and Reservations
There are so many thoughts rolling around in my brain that I wanted to write about this week, but did not have time to write. These are the topics for tonight: My Husbandâs Surgery and Hotel Reservations. The next blog post will be Eclipse and Road Trippinâ
My Husbandâs Surgery
Do you know that It is highly unusual that a person would have a total knee replacement and then get an infection in that knee? Do you know it is even more unusual that a person would get an infection not only in one knee, but in BOTH knees after the infection turned septic? Do you know what the treatment is for that? Besides the obvious loads of antibiotics, both knee replacements must be surgically removed. âSpacersâ need to be inserted into the knee joint. The spacers are impregnated with two or three different kinds of antibiotics that are left in the knees for several months. Once the tests for infection in the knees come back clear of infection, the spacers are then removed, and the new knees are replaced. That is a total of 6 surgeries my husband had last year and the year before.
His walking has been going downhill (no pun intended) ever since the last surgery in June of 2022. Especially in his right knee. He cannot straighten his knees. He walks with a walker. The walker barely keeps him somewhat upright. Falls are quite common for him lately when not using the walker. He wears striped shirts, so I can tell whether he is walking or rolling! đ Just kidding!
After a several tests and X-rays in the last month or so, it was determined last week that the patella in the right knee has Avascular Necrosis, which has caused the patella (kneecap) to basically disintegrate into pieces causing the three screws which were placed during the last surgery to hold the patella in place, are now âfloatingâ around loose in the knee joint. My husbandâs surgeon said with a sense of urgency that those screws need to be removed before doing damage to the knee replacement parts. I quietly thought to myself with a smile on my face, âYa think???
Surgery is scheduled for this Tuesday at the University of Utah in Salt Lake City.
Hotel Reservations
Thursday night, I did a Google search online for a number to call to make reservations at the hotel near the U of U. I called what I thought was a direct connection to the hotel. I made the reservations, gave my credit card information and everything to this person who gave us an amazing price for our hotel stay. He stated he would email the reservation number to me, so I gave my email address to him. I thanked him and we hung up. Guess what! No hotel reservation confirmation number arrived in my inbox.
The next day (yesterday), I called the front desk at the actual hotel and asked them to confirm if the reservation had indeed been made. It had not. They said it can take a while for the reservation made through a third part to reach their system. I gave it 5 hours and called again. They suggested I call the reservation number back that I had called the night before. I called and followed the automated system to the point where it told me no reservation could be found with my phone number.
Tonight, I called the front desk at the hotel. They still could not find a reservation for me under my name. So, I said letâs just make a new reservation. The night manager at the hotel said he would be happy to help me make a reservation. Unfortunately, they cannot make the reservations from the hotel. He would need to transfer me to the âreservationsâ number. I was thinking, âOh no! Here we go again!â But, the call was transferred and the reservations are made. And, this time, I have a confirmation number AND an email with all of the reservation confirmation information. (Say that three times, fast!)
ChatterLei 