We Got This!

There are many things I’m frustrated/sad/ grumpy about right now with the COVID-19 pandemic – but there are many things I’m happy/grateful/ tickled about, too.

First off, I’m grateful that I’m not sick. Nor is anyone I care about - to my knowledge, anyway. Like the meme that states, that moment when you’re worried about the elderly and then you realize you are the elderly. Haha – right?

Not so much. Egad. How and when did I join the “elderly” category?

Suddenly, social distancing becomes way more important, doesn’t it? I really don’t want to come out the loser in the “who gets the ventilator” coin toss because of my age. So listening to the experts is critical. (And something I would have done even if I didn’t have to take my advanced years into consideration.)

I’m annoyed about things, too. Like, for instance, it annoys me that I’m still worried about flippin’ toilet paper, for cryin’ out loud. (Clearly, since my last blog was also about the scarcity of the ol’ bath tissue!)

But every time we use up another roll, I get a little jittery. Over the past two weeks, we’ve gone to the store maybe three times and there hasn’t been any toilet paper on the shelves even once.

I can’t think of any other staple in our household that causes me such consternation, but I truly think it’s my “Girl Scout” mentality that comes into play here of always being prepared.

If our supplies get too low, we may have to resort to looking at Youtube videos for DIY bidet installations.

I kid. Sorta. It depends on the Charmin’ situation in the next several weeks.

On a serious note, I am truly sad that I can’t visit my mom at her memory care unit right now. She is pretty far advanced in her Alzheimer’s and probably wouldn’t know if I have or have not visited her, so I suspect that any visits would benefit me more than her.

But I am incredibly grateful for the staff at The Glen because they have called so we can say “I love you” to mom. They have shared photos on FB or via texts so we can see her. And they are taking such good care of our loved ones that I am not sure how I can possibly ever say “thank you” enough.

They are most certainly tired. They have to go through a health check process just to walk in the door to get to work. And the uncertainty they face about potentially contracting the virus from some unsuspecting coworker who doesn’t show symptoms has to weigh heavily on their minds and hearts. Because they could then unknowingly bring the virus home to their shelter-in-place families.

It is the same for all front-line healthcare workers and first responders. I cannot imagine having the strength to do what they do. But I’m awfully grateful that they do it to benefit me and all my fellow citizens. (I was going to say “My Fellow

Americans” – but that still sounds a little too Nixon-ish for my taste.)

So while I miss going out to dinner and seeing a movie or heading to the gym for some much needed cardio, or running to the store to pick up, well, anything besides paper products and hand sanitizer – I think this time is a good “reset” for us to realize what is important in life. And that, although there will be some heartache or tough economic times for many of us ahead, we will weather the storm as we demonstrate the resilient nature we have.

And if we don’t have a resilient nature, we’re darn sure going to have to dig up some resiliency. After all, our forbearers made it through war and famine and all sorts of epidemics that we, with all our modern medicine and technology, can’t even imagine.

They even made do without the Charmin’ mega-rolls – or bidets.

So we got this!

Oh, For the Love of T.P.

So it’s an interesting time here on Planet Earth these days with the Coronavirus – or COVID-19, if you don’t want to confuse the latest scourge with a beer frequently served with a lime wedge.

How people can confuse the two is a mystery to me.

But whatever.

Schools and events are being cancelled left and right. We look on in horror every time we witness someone cough or sneeze. And staples are flying off the shelves at every grocery, discount and warehouse store around.

But the worst thing is store shelves are bereft of toilet paper. And it’s getting to me.

No, not because I want to mimic the masses and hoard it like everyone else seems to be doing.

It’s, well, it’s because “toilet paper” was on my shopping list.

And now I can’t cross it off my list.

Whenever we open the last pack of t.p. and distribute it amongst our bathrooms here at home, I add it to my list for our next Costco shopping trip.

This is a system that has worked well for many years and I am happy to report we have never had any sort of dire toilet paper emergency.

There are only two of us here, so it’s not like we’re using case quantities of the stuff. I may only purchase the humongous Costco package two or three times a year.

So it’s an interesting phenomenon that I am not sure I’ve witnessed before.

I mean, I don’t live in an area where hurricanes or earthquakes necessitate the panicked purchases of bottled water, batteries and potato chips.

And I think the last time I scurried to the grocery store in anticipation of a major snowstorm was in 2008 when I was single and had no food at the house. So picking up enough supplies to get me through the few days I was snowed in was warranted.

Oh, and who am I kidding? I’m sure at the top of my “Emergency List” was wine.

So walking through Costco the other day and not being able to purchase one humongous package of toilet paper was disappointing.

And then later seeing the empty stretch of shelving in the paper products aisle at Kroger was almost alarming.

When I got home, I accessed the CDC website to review the symptoms of COVID-19. I mean, did I miss the part about the virus causing intestinal, er, disturbances requiring an extra supply of toilet paper?

No, no I did not miss that part.

So what is the deal, people?

         

Stop it. Stop with the panic. Stop with the hoarding. Be sensible. Wash your hands. Cover your face when you cough or sneeze.

As for me, well, I will be counting down the days ‘til things are back to normal and I can cross toilet paper off my shopping list without causing panic and mayhem.

It just better be before we’re down to the last roll.

You Want Me to do What? Hike? Surely you Jest!

I was busy working on the computer today and got completely sidetracked. Evidently, sometime last fall, I sent a ton of pictures from our Alaskan cruise to my email so I could create a book to commemorate our once-in-a-lifetime trip. I had planned to give it to Vince as a Christmas gift.

Yeah, like that happened.

Things were pretty hectic this past fall and I barely had time to order Christmas gifts from Amazon on Cyber Monday, let alone spend countless hours creating a photo book.

You see, my mother-in-law (or, technically, my step-mother-in-law) passed away unexpectedly the morning after we returned from that once-in-a-lifetime excursion. And I’ve barely had a moment to give thought to that experience ever since.

So today I came across all those photos and I took a little trip down memory lane.

We had some amazing moments. We spent a day and a half sightseeing in Seattle before the cruise and then spent a couple days afterwards exploring Vancouver, BC.

So please indulge me and let me tell you today about one of our experiences. (Oh, and hey, if I write more about the trip, the stories will not be sequential. And they will be in no particular order of importance. Just whatever my 60-year-old mind can recall!)

This particular memory came after the cruise once we landed in Vancouver. This is a city none of us had ever visited and the four of us were pretty much flying by the seat of our pants, although we did take some sightseeing advice from our lovely host and hostess at Crystal's View B&B.

One day we decided to see what the Capilano Suspension Bridge was all about. So we took a bus…and then another bus…and maybe even a third bus – I lost count – but we ended up at the Capilano suspension bridge where we paid good money to walk (or stumble) across a 450 foot long bridge suspended 230 feet over the Capilano river.

It was incredibly beautiful…there was much flora and fauna. Green everywhere. And there were lots of tourists in plastic rain ponchos thoughtfully provided by the park since we were pelted by rain pretty much the entire length of the bridge.

But let me warn you to cross this particular attraction off your bucket list if you have any qualms whatsoever about (a) heights, (b) crowds or (c) tottering across swaying wooden planks that is akin to walking on a tightrope without the stabilizing pole tightrope walkers carry. 

I had a death grip on the railing, which was fortunately made out of metal. Had it been wood, I fear I would have left claw marks behind.

Once we had our fill of the park (and managed to totter back from whence we came), we headed to the bus stop for our next destination – the Capilano Salmon Hatchery.

Susan – the only one of the four of us who did any sort of research on the area (and who should, therefore, get a gold star for her efforts) thought this would be a fine addition to our tour that day.

I should tell you that people in Vancouver are an awfully friendly lot and those riding the bus were no different. They were more than happy to tell us which stop we needed to disembark the bus to get to the hatchery.

Now, admittedly, I am the last person anyone would turn to for directional advice, but when we got off the bus we seemed to be in a residential neighborhood. I couldn’t fathom how a salmon hatchery could be plunked down in the middle of a cul-de-sac.

But we gamely walked on in search of the little fishies. We spotted some locals walking their dog and they told us to keep on going. And sure enough, within a few moments we found ourselves in a dark forest with winding trails and steep hills.

See? BFFs despite my attitude.

Let me just confess that I am not the hiking sort. I have a bad right knee and a bad left ankle. If I am forced to hike, I do so with an attitude. And even less appealing to me than hiking – is hiking in the rain.

So there I was – hiking in the rain. With an attitude.

My BFF, Susan, scampered on ahead – far ahead – lest she come within striking distance of my scowl.

Had there been any sort of bench along the trail, I would have sat down upon it and refused to budge. But, alas, there was no place to rest my aching left ankle and right knee. And, by the way, I once went to a fish hatchery – and I would have been quite content with that one and done experience.

Nevertheless, I gamely marched on. Frankly, I didn’t have much of a choice.

Looking less than thrilled (or maybe just in pain!)

Eventually, we reached the salmon hatchery where we watched the leaping little buggers. This was enthralling for, oh, about two minutes. And then I spied a bench whereupon I plunked my weary bones in the futile hope that I would be magically transported back to our B&B.

While that didn’t happen, our friend Jeff announced that he was NOT traipsing back the trail to the bus stop – that he was calling a taxi.

You cannot imagine the joy I felt. I grinned like a fool. And I was never so happy to see a cabbie in all my life!

Reward at the end

I was even more delighted when he dropped us off in front of a pub where we ordered the biggest mugs of beer to toast our return to civilization.

Only after we had drained the first round was Jeff brave enough to poke fun at our day. He chortled that Sue had inadvertently tried to kill her best friend with the hike from hell.

But, hey, I was just glad to be inside and out of the elements. And drinking a beer, no less. And I certainly didn’t blame Sue. She was just trying to figure out something fun for us to do in a place that we’re not likely to be visiting again anytime soon.

Probably she deserved more than a gold star. Probably I owe her a big mug of beer. At least.

You Are My Sunshine

One of the saddest days I’ve experienced in recent years with my mom dealing with Alzheimer’s was last summer when she broke her hip and was not doing well at the rehabilitation facility.

I had made the decision to cut her rehab short and move her back to the memory care unit. Hospice could once again be involved in her daily care and she wouldn’t be subjected to the difficult rehab that wasn’t working for her. She was in pain and couldn’t walk, had lost so much weight in a very short period of time and we thought we were losing her.

So plans were quickly finalized and I told the hospice nurse that I would be in mom’s room when they got her ready to move. The aide and the driver from Parkside Village would arrive and take mom and her bags in the van and I would follow behind in my car.

On my way there I received a call from hospice telling me the driver and aide had gotten mom and were on their way back to the memory care unit.

That was a surprise as they weren’t scheduled to pick her up for another hour or so. But since I was nearly at the rehab facility, I said I’d just pop in and make sure they had gotten everything. I also wanted to thank the nursing staff for the care they had given us.

When I got to her room I discovered that nothing had been packed. It was an unexpected oversight, but I assumed our signals had somehow gotten crossed and perhaps they thought I was planning to do the packing.

So I went to work. When I finished, I went out to thank the nursing staff. The aide I especially liked – her name was Avis – gave me a big hug and wished us both well. As I tried to hold off more tears (I’m becoming such a big baby in my old age), I told her what a blessing she was to us and how much we appreciated her efforts.

When I turned to leave she said, “Wouldn’t you like to see your sweet mama?”

I am sure the look I gave her was of utter disbelief. “Hasn't mom left to go back to Parkside Village?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “Your mom is in the TV room!”

So we walked to the TV room and a woman I didn’t even recognize was dozing in her wheelchair. Her bangs had grown out since she hadn’t had her hair cut since before her fall and she had two tiny little cornrow braids on either side of her head.

I smiled because I thought they were cute, but I laughed because I knew that mom would’ve hated her hair in braids.

My whole life I cannot remember mom doing anything to her hair other than the obligatory perm when she cared about that sort of thing. She never colored it. Her hair was always short, so she never wore it in a ponytail or a braid. And she never affixed a hair clip in her hair.

Mom's hair was not this big!

The only thing I can remember that was different about mom’s hair was a short period in the late 60s when she wore a wiglet. I don’t know why…maybe she wanted a little more of the bouffant hairstyle that was so popular back then and she didn’t have enough hair to achieve the look.

All I really remember was that it was gray (or “silver” as mom insisted we call the color of her hair). And to me that wiglet looked sort of like a dead squirrel in the little box she kept it in.

So I was a bit nonplussed by the cornrows, but I let it go. I figured someone was spending time with and caring about my mom.

We wheeled her back to her room just as the Joy, the aide and Johnny, the driver, came in to pick up mom.

Avis asked if she could sing her one final song before she left. Mom nodded – so Avis started crooning, “You Are My Sunshine.”

Johnny chimed in – and then mom tried to sing along, too.

I couldn’t have joined in if I tried.

I was standing behind mom’s chair, which turned out to be fortunate. Witnessing this moment of compassion between these caregivers just about broke me. I had tears streaming down my face – much as I do right now.

It was an incredibly poignant moment. Later, I wished I’d been able to capture it on video, though I don’t think I would have been capable of holding the camera at that moment.

But the memory will stay with me.

I know there are good caregivers and there are not so good caregivers out there.

That day I witnessed the very best.

So I’d just like to say thank you to all the people who care for someone else’s loved one. I, for one, am extraordinarily grateful.

And I thank you.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine

You make me happy when skies are gray

You’ll never know dear, how much I love you

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

                (Jimmie Davis and Charles Mitchell, 1939)

Whatta Day!

Today is Sunday, 02/02/2020, apparently a palindrome date not having been seen for about a bajillion (or 900) years. According to Facebook-land, anyway.

On the other hand, if you scroll a little further, someone else will repudiate those claims when they suggest the dates 01/02/2010 or 11/02/2011. Those were certainly not a bajillion (or 900) years ago, though to some of us, they may seem like an eternity ago.

And, yeah, yeah, if you do a search, there IS something about today’s date being a palindrome whether you use the month and then the day or the day and then the month format. But whatever. I just know it’s 02/02/2020.

It’s also Super Bowl Sunday to you sports fans out there. Me? Not so much. I’m on a healthy eating plan right now, so I can’t indulge in beer, pizza, sliders or cheese dip today anyway. 

And I can read the hype on the best commercials tomorrow and watch them in their entirety without having to endure the whole football game to do it.

Apparently, I’m not a big fan of either the Kansas City Chiefs or the San Francisco 49ers.

Are you impressed that I at least knew the teams playing in Super Bowl 2020? I am. I only fact-checked after I wrote that sentence so as not to make me look like a football ignoramus.

I’m further impressed with myself that I knew it was Super Bowl LIV…but then because I didn’t know how many years “LIV” represents, I had to retract my arm and stop patting myself on the back. (It is, by the way, 54, if you’re like me and didn’t know.)

But then that begs the question…why are we still using Roman numerals to count Super Bowl games?

So I once again hit up Google. I’d impart that information, but it wasn’t exactly scintillating. In my opinion, of course.

All I do know is that I get a little fuzzy after XXV in Roman numerals, so Google and I are BFFs today.

Oh, and yeah, today is also Groundhog Day, where we’re still relying on a rodent to tell us whether or not we will have six more weeks of harsh winter. 

For a change, Punxsutawney Phil didn’t see his shadow, thus predicting an early spring.

But I choose to believe the groundhog when he predicted spring was on its way. And I didn’t have to wear a top hat or handle a furry rodent to do it.

All I had to do was take Miss Maggie Minx out for a walk this afternoon. Imagine my surprise and delight to find full-on sunshine and blue skies. And it’s currently a downright balmy 61°F.

That’s pretty spring-like for the first Sunday in February in Ohio.

Not that I’ve really been enjoying the day. Mostly I’ve been sleeping. Or trying to. I was only rudely awakened by Maggie yipping in my ear that it was time for a potty break.

Do you sense that undercurrent of grumpiness in my tone? It’s true. I am grumpy. And I do apologize. It’s most likely due to the raging cold I’m currently experiencing.

It has been a while since I’ve had one and I’m not at all happy to be forced to take the sniffling, sneezing, aching, coughing, stuffy-head, fever so you can rest medicine.

Well, actually, I think it’s just a cold. No fever. But the rest of the jingle? Check, check, check, check aaannnd check.

Bleh.

Last night I was so congested, I was surprised that my sinuses hadn’t blown up my face into a gigantic balloon of snot.

Ooh, sorry. That might’ve just been a little too graphic. Let’s just say I couldn’t breathe. At all. And I was really grumpy.

On the other hand, I’m not dealing with the coronavirus. Otherwise, instead of writing a grumpy blog, the CDC could be whisking me off to quarantine and badgering me with questions about recent travel to China.

So there’s a silver lining.

And I AM happy to see the sun today.

And, really, it’s kind of fun to gather around the big screen to watch a football game with friends and family and indulge in oh-so-good pizza and sliders and cheese dip.

So whichever team you’re rooting for – I hope they win.

I’ll just do everyone a favor and stay home and keep my germs (and my grumpiness) to myself. And if Vince wants to turn on the TV to watch the game, I’m okay with that. Think of how much time I’ll save tomorrow not having to search for the best commercials.

As for the rodent? Well, he’d better be right. He’s no match for a grumpy old lady with a raging head cold.

The Long Lost Voice of Jane’s Domain

If I finish this blog, I will be as surprised as you must be to read one from me. It has been a long, long time since I’ve written.

Why?

Well, I think I lost my voice for a while there. I was just so damn sad last year. Every time I started to write a blog, it wouldn’t be one of those light, semi-amusing Jane’s Domain kinda blogs. No, it would be all gloomy and doomy.

And then I’d stop writing.

One of the biggest reasons was that my 95-year-old mom who has had dementia for the past ten years fell and broke her hip this past summer. Watching her go through a second hip replacement surgery and struggling through rehabilitation was heartbreaking and I truly thought we were going to lose her.

She has rallied some, but is a much different person than she was before the fall. She struggles to find simple words to communicate. She sleeps most of the day and is now completely incontinent. She has to be fed each meal. And, sadly, she is no longer able to walk.

So it’s nearly impossible to face each day in a lighthearted manner, although I do cherish those moments when something funny happens and I can let loose with a belly laugh. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.

Like the time I thought I was using lip balm to moisturize my chapped lips and discovered I had used a lip plumper instead (where did that tube come from?) so that I walked around for an entire day with duck lips.

Let’s just say it was not a good look on me.

Or when I thought I was spraying dry shampoo in my hair and when I flipped my head back and looked in the mirror, my hair was standing straight up in the air like I time hopped myself  back to the 80s. Only then did I look at the container in my hand and read the fine print. Hair spray, I read. Lasting hold.

Oh joy.

Vince has been encouraging me to write again. And he’s boosted my readership by inviting more people to like Jane’s Domain. I appreciate his efforts and I apologize to anyone who maybe, I don’t know, expected to read something current.

Ah well. Hopefully, those new people have been able to read some of my older blogs. I used to be very chatty.

But I have to do things in my own time.

Now that it’s a whole new year and a whole new decade, I think I’m ready. Getting back into the writing game is one of my goals for the year. Perhaps I can find my voice again.

I can’t promise they’ll all be lighthearted and fun. But hopefully they won’t be all gloomy and doomy.

Wish me luck, okay?

The Other Side of the Door

Imagine – for just a moment – you are sitting in a room. The rocking chair, ottoman and the blanket that covers you all seem somewhat familiar, but you don’t recognize the room itself. 

You are alone in the room and there is a door straight ahead, but you don’t know what’s on the other side of it.

So you stand up and walk slowly toward the door. You peek out. There are people outside in the hallway, but you don’t recognize anyone.

A woman with a nametag pinned to her tunic calls you “Anne,” so she clearly knows who you are, but you have no idea who she is.

She looks off down the hall and then turns back to you and says brightly, “You have a visitor!”

A moment later, a woman walks up to the doorway and with a big smile on her face says, “Hi mom!” so you greet her and call her by name. At least you recognize your daughter and remember her. When she hugs you, you hold on a little tighter because you’re so very confused.

She walks you into the room and settles you into a rocking chair that seems sort of familiar, but you’re not really sure where you are and how your daughter happens to be there.

Things are so muddled and you have many questions, but you’re her mother - the woman who has always been in charge – so you don’t want to admit that you don’t know what is happening or where you are.

Once you’re situated and she covers your knees with the blanket, she asks if you’d like a glass of wine. Oh! Something else familiar – and you know how to respond. So you teasingly reply, “need you ask?!” and give her a wry smile because no one in our family ever says no to happy hour.

When she hands you the glass of wine, you say, “merci beaucoup!” because somehow you recall a little bit of the French you learned in high school. Or maybe it was in college. Things are so confusing.  

After your daughter talks to you for a few minutes, she sees that you’re struggling with something. “What’s the matter, mom,” she asks.

You feel like something horrible must have happened to you because you can’t remember anything.

Something is very wrong. But how to begin?

So you say, “I don’t know, I’m feeling very confused. What am I doing?”

And then you look around the unfamiliar room and ask, “Where am I?”

She explains that you’re in a place called Parkside Village. That she and her husband Vince live only a few miles down the street. And that you’ve been here a little over 2-1/2 years.

You are astonished by this and are distressed that you have no recollection of the past 2-1/2 years. But then you ask your daughter the most important question on your mind.

“Where is dad?”

A despondent look crosses your daughter’s face and she tells you that dad passed away.  He fell and hit his head and later died of his injuries.  

You have no memory of your husband of many years – you really have no idea how many - passing away, but you feel like you can give a rational explanation by saying, “I must have repressed those memories.”

Only you can’t really recall the word “repressed” so you struggle for a moment. When your daughter helps you with the word, you nod gratefully.

Carrying on a conversation is very tiring.

And you’re very confused.

So you ask your daughter, “What do I do here?”

She teasingly says, “Well, mom, pretty soon you’re going to have to get into the kitchen and cook dinner for everyone!”

You know that’s not true so you say, “Oh, I don’t think so!” And she smiles and says, “You’re right. You’ve done enough cooking – it’s time someone else does it for you.”

And then she tells you that someone will come in to get you and take you to the dining room for dinner. And then they’ll help you get ready for bed.

You look over at the one bed in the room and ask her, “And where do you sleep?”

She explains where she lives, but you can’t retain the information.

She tells you that your other children will be visiting next month, so you look over at the clock that gives the day, date and time to orient yourself about when “next month” is.

She picks up a photo and shows you the last time your children visited, but you don’t remember it. You don’t say anything, though, because you don’t want your daughter to know you can’t remember anything.

As you finish the last of the wine and hand the glass to your daughter, you ask, “Where’s dad?”

You’re very confused. You don’t know where you are or why you’re there. Nothing is familiar. You recognize your daughter – thank God – but nothing else makes sense.

And then you turn to her and ask, “What’s on the other side of that door?”