I've Created a Monster

I have for years been after Walt to get on Facebook.  I mainly wanted him to join Facebook because he always has questions and suppositions about how it works, since I'm on it so often, and I figured the best way for him to understand a lot of the questions he had was for him to actually do it himself.

He's been telling me for years that he is going to do it when he has time.  Walt is an engineer and he must study everything from every angle to make sure he's making the right decision, unlike me, who barrels through things like a bull in a china shop and worries about the consequences later.  For example, since I was on the internet toward the very beginning, when nobody else was on the Internet (that I knew anyway), it never even entered my head to protect my privacy.  To be cautious about letting my address or my phone number or even the city where I lived to known.

By the time that everybody was on the Internet and all anybody could talk about was internet privacy and protecting all of your information, heck, I was splashed all over everywhere, so what was the point in trying to be private now?

The difference between me and Walt on the Internet is like the difference in time between before and after Watergate.  Life changed after Watergate but for those who behaved in a certain way before Watergate, it was too late.  Not that there is necessarily anything wrong with that, of course.

ANYWAY, I was very sleepy last night and went to bed at 10 a.m., about 2 hours earlier than usual.  The way my sleep goes, I usually sleep about 4 hours on the couch and then move to the recliner and sleep until time to wake up.  So when I staggered off the couch and moved into the family room, I assumed it ws around 4 a.m.  But it wasn't.  I had slept my usual 4 hours--and it was only 2 a.m.

My recliner is by a bookcase on which rests my iPad and since I wasn't immediately ready to go back to sleep, I checked e-mail and Facebook.  When I opened Facebook, imagine my surprise when I had a friend request from Walt.   Apparently about an hour after I went to sleep he finally decided to join Facebook.

Well, that took care of sleep for the next two hours. I had to get up, come to my desktop, check out his page, see that he had only two friends -- me and a former co-worker, so I spent the next hour or so going through all 1,037 people on my friend list and check which ones he knew and might like to have as his friend.

When he checked his mail in the morning he had over 80 friend requests!  I kept checking his page to see if he added anybody, but each time I checked, he had not. He said he was afraid to log into Facebook because he didn't know what was going to happen.

I went off to lunch #3 for the week and figured he would surely do something while I was gone, but when I checked after I got home, he now had 3 friends.   He had added Jeri, but the other 80+ requests just sat there.

I took the iPad down to Logos with me today, now that I can use the downtown wifi to get on the internet, and though it must have been one of the busiest days we've had in a long time, I still found time to check Walt's Facebook page every now and then.  By the time I left the office, there were no new friends.  I told him that we would have Facebook 101 class after dinner.

So after dinner, he brought his computer downstairs and we started going through it, with me explaining everything.  

He finally started confirming all the friend requests.  About 75 of them.  He's still nervous about all this, but he now has about 75 friends, and after awhile he began to understand how the whole "friend" thing worked and we moved on to other things.  I realized that I've been on Facebook so long that I can't even remember how I did such-and-such any more.  When I joined Facebook nobody I knew was on it and I actually joined a group called "am I the older person on Facebook?" and I was the oldest person in that group.  In the intervening years, of course, it's all changed and everybody is on Facebook (especially now that Walt is!) and I am that much older and that much less able to explain things clearly, so I'm hoping that the engineer in Walt is going to help him figure out the things he wants to learn about it.

I knew that things were going better when he asked me something and then wailed, "I'm trying to stop!"

Ah yes, those gremlins have started penetrating his soul.  He will never be as addicted to it as I am because he is the sensible one and someone in this family has to be, but I can see that he will soon "understand" and will begin to build his own world.  He's already initiated a chat (I never use chat any more) with someone that he knows better than I do.

I feel like I've just helped him take the training wheels off.

Being in the Moment

A cousin of sorts (I can't keep straight 2nd cousins and once removed cousins and any other qualifier that goes with family relationships....and even if I could I can't remember just how this young woman is related to me, whether the daughter or granddaughter of a cousin, or what. I just know she's family) today sent me a link to a video called something like "12 minutes with Alzheimers," in which two people, a newswoman and a caretaker for a wife with Alzheimers, were fitted with various assists to help them understand what it's like to live with Alzheimers, as they attempted to complete a handful of simple tasks, like finding a tie and putting it on, setting the table, finding a white sweater, etc.

They had something on their eyes to mimic visual impairments like macular degeneration or cataracts, their hands were wrapped in rubber gloves fitted with things that would mimic arthritis, they had things put in their shoes to give them the feel of someone with arthritis or other problems of the feet, and they wore earphones to keep a low-level noise in their heads at all times.  It was amazing how quickly they mimicked the previously videotaped movements of persons with Alzheimers, experienced extreme frustration, and began to understand what it was like living in that world.

There were other videos on YouTube that I watched, identifying the signs of dementia and Alzheimers and tips for coping with it. One of them talked about the importance of being in the moment when dealing with someone with dementia.  The videos were wonderful in helping me understand why, for example, making any decision is not only difficult but seemingly impossible for my mother. They helped me understand why so often what someone says to her doesn't seem to penetrate at all. They made me realize that the time for helping her to understand anything of great importance to me has passed and is never going to come back, and I have to let that go.

In truth, I think caregivers of loved ones with dementia are truly heroes.  It's a 24/7 job, with no vacations, coffee breaks, or time outs to be alone, without making arrangements ahead of time to be sure that your loved one will not be unsupervised.  I am so fortunate to have found Atria, a place that she really seems to like and where I feel she is as safe as she can be, while still living independently, yet only 5 minutes from my house where I can (and do) see her several times a week.

I am also so fortunate that my mother hasn't retreated completely into the world from which there is no return.  She can have a reasonable conversation (many times!), she can handle her own activities of daily living, she still recognizes people.  It's just that the memory loss is worsening.  She is afraid of becoming like her mother (who also had dementia, though she died in her 80s, I think) or her sister (who was in the Alzheimers world when she died at age 81). She is enough aware of her memory problems that she is embarrassed that anybody should know how bad it is -- though she herself doesn't have a clue how bad it really is.

I don't know what is ahead for her, but at this time of the year, as I have done every year for the past few years, I realize that this may be her last Christmas.  She may have a dozen more in her, but at 94, looking at the possibility of this being her last Christmas is not unreasonable.

I need to concentrate on being in her moment and making this time of her life as rich as I can, letting her enjoy camaraderie on her level, having that "do you think I'm going to make a hunnert?" conversation a dozen times in an afternoon, if that is important to her.  I need to stop worrying about how quickly her dementia is progressing and start concentrating on what she has left and how to be with her in the most meaningful way now.  

As I keep saying, every time I go to Atria, I feel like I'm going to Fantasyland and some days it's easier than others, but I think the best gift I can give her this Christmas, and for the rest of her life is to fully participate in whatever is her level of interaction on the particular day. To make every day meaningful on a level she can appreciate. To find funny stories that make her laugh, or fragrant flowers that always delight her. To continue to make books for her that prod her memory without her realizing that her memory is being prodded.

If I can fully do that, we will have a wonderful relationship for however long she is going to be with us, and neither of us will have anything to regret when she finally does go home to her husband and her siblings.

Holly in My Heart

We definitely live in an era of instant gratification and I have such wonderful friends.

The time between Thanksgiving and the anniversary of David's death, a period which takes in 2 holidays, four birthdays and two death dates is always kind of an emotional roller coaster for me.  It has been 17 years since our son David died (14 since his brother Paul died) and, not surprisingly, it's so much better than it was in 1996, but as I have learned, you never "get over" a death, it just becomes part of the new person you now are. The pain is significntly less, but it's like a scar that you may not look at every day, but are aware of when you happen to think of it.

In fact, I've really pretty much stopped thinking of this as an emotional period, but invariably there will come a day or two or three when I'm just blindsided, gobsmacked, and hit upside the head for no particular reason at all.   Just all of a sudden, I realize that I have taken a plunge into the emotional depths.  I've been at this long enough now to know that the plunge won't last long and that probably before anybody notices, I'll be fine again.

I had one of those plunges this morning.  I was sitting here getting postcards ready to send out for a SwapBot postcard swap, cleaning off my desk a bit, writing in the "Who Am I?" journal that needs to be sent to my Swap Bot partner next week and all of a sudden that familiar rocks-in-the-stomach feeling hit me again.  

It's the kind of feeling where you have to get up and walk around, do whatever you do to treat it (something bad to eat, if you have it--I didn't, so it was worse).

My plan for the day had been to go have lunch with my mother and before I left, I put a message on Facebook.

Down in the doldrums.  Don't know why.  Just the usual holiday funk, I guess.  Must go find some holly for my heart.  (Don't think I'm going to find it at Atria)

"Holly in my heart" has been my watchword for the Christmas spirit ever since I heard Cary Grant say it to Deborah Kerr in Affair to Remember, as he explains why he gave one of his paintings to a crippled girl.  It's the sentence that starts what turns out to be the sappy, happy, tear-jerking ending.

In truth, the last thing I really wanted to do was to go to Atria to have lunch with my mother.  Just what I didn't need on "doldrums day" was a visit to Assisted Living, and a reminder that my mother can't remember her great grandchildren's names and that she has lost her zest for life and only wants to sit in her apartment.  I was not looking forward to the daily "I'm old, Bev.  Do you think I'm going to live to a 'hunnert'..." discussion today, but I had told her I would have lunch with her and, even knowing she wouldn't remember that at all, I felt the need to stick with the schedule.

God must have had some holly for my heart in mind today because it was the first day that there was no parking.  None.  Zilch.  Nada.   None in the Atria lot, and none on the street for two blocks in either direction.   I finally pulled out my cell phone, called her, and told her I'd come for lunch tomorrow.

With my lunch hour now free, I decided to drive downtown to run a quick errand and I plugged in my iPhone to continue listening to my book.  I had tried doing that yesterday, but the battery was dead.  Now it had a full battery and I listened to the book, got my errand done quickly (thank you, Gilbert [my parking angel] for giving me a spot in front of the door to the book store) and then decided to have lunch somewhere.  

Nothing in town appealed to me and if I drove to the far end of town, and across the freeway, I would have lots of book listening time.  So I headed off to McDonald's for my usual $3 lunch (plain cheeseburger small fries and, today, a diet Coke because we had run out of bottles of water in the car).  

I parked in the McDonald's lot and listened to the book while I ate, then headed home.  I could feel that the brief doldrums slide was already lifting.

As I pulled into the carport, there was a big box sitting outside the front door.

In it were several stalks of beautiful English holly, covered with plump bright red berries.

I didn't need to come to Facebook and find the message to know that it could only have been left by one person, Evelyn, who has been so amazingly kind and thoughtful to me over the years.

I came into the house and put the holly in a big vase and stuck it on the window sill of the kitchen, where I can look at it while I'm working.

The doldrums are gone and, for today at least, there really is "holly in my heart" as well as holly in my kitchen.

Thank you so much, Evelyn.

Blue Christmases

There is a problem with doing an entry a day for nearly 13 years.   Especially when it comes to Holidailies.  Holidailies is great and provides themes for holiday-related entries to make this all very Christmassy or Hanukkah-y or whatever your holiday of choice may be.

Problem is that over 13 years, I have really pretty much done all the biggies, in some cases more than once.  I've written about holiday traditions, and favorite Christmas movies, and traditional foods, and my favorite holidays songs, the best gifts I ever received, my annual Christmas letter, and a whole bunch of esoteric stuff.  I've printed pictures of our famous "train picture" through the years...

...posted video of the Egg Nog Gala...

and took a photo safari through town to take pictures of nice holiday light displays, as well as documenting my then-boss's amazingly decorated house.

I kept thinking there must be some facet of the holidays that I can write a "holiday entry" about when the shuffle of music on my iPod came to "Blue Christmas" and it set me to thinking about the dark side of Christmas and how we have come through those dark days and into the light, thanks to two little angels in Santa Barbara.

I want to preface this by saying that my father was a mailman. Christmas is not a mailman's favorite holiday--at least not his. This was proven by the number of times he grumbled "I hate Christmas" from Thanksgiving to New Year's Day. You couldn't let your excitement about the approaching holiday show because you never knew when your excitement and happiness about Christmas would cause a rage and then would come the Dreaded Silence. 

He even went so far as to schedule a nervous breakdown over Christmas when I was about 13. I know it wasn't his fault, but I do remember that Christmas and how uneasy we all were, knowing how fragile his mental state was.

(Maybe the only time he smiled this Christmas, in 1959)

When the holiday finally came and the family gathered together for Christmas, he hated his mother so much that invariably he would get upset with her. In truth, none of us liked to spend much time with her, and sooner or later during the evening, all four of us--my mother, father, sister and I would be hiding out in the kitchen, pretending to be working on the dinner, while my grandparents, godfather, and whatever guests had come to share the evening with us, would be sitting in the living room, until we realized that someone had to go back and be with the guests.

I vowed that when we had kids, we would not have Christmases like that. I think that we pretty much gave the kids merry Christmases, and good memories to remember. At least I hope so.

When they got out of the little kid/Santa stage, the magic came with huge Christmas dinners. We were hosting foreign students in those years, and whoever ended up without a home got invited to dinner. I think our biggest year was 24 people gathered around the dinner table. You'd think we have a huge dining room, but we don't. This is a 22x12 room. We had to borrow chairs and tables from the local community center (where the kids worked, and could borrow them). There was absolutely no room to move. Once you sat down, that was it. No getting up because there was no place to go. I had the only seat that was "mobile" because I was serving food. We might have five different countries represented around the table, in addition to the family.   I loved those years.

The foreign students finally faded away and we were left with just family. In truth, by then we were all ready for smaller dinners. The thing that marked all of our dinners was laughter. I loved the laughter. The kids would put on terrible shows--but as they got older, the shows got better. Some of the traditional dumb skits rolled over from year to year, but they got better at playing musical instruments, and the shows turned into concerts. David, who never learned a musical instrument, did his one-finger rendition of "Deck the Halls," which year after year sent Uncle Norm into spasms of laughter.

I was sometimes sad in those years because by then my mother had re-married and her husband's family always...always... came first. I think there was only one year when she and Fred spent Christmas with us.  We were always set aside for "some other day" that was convenient for her, not the holiday itself, which hurt because I grew up learning the importance of the whole family being together to celebrate and I hated having to take a back seat every year to my mother's other family.

The kids grew up, moved out, and Ned married, but everyone was always able to come home for Christmas, so we still had the big family Christmas, with the special breakfast, where our foster-son Vince squoze the fresh oranges for juice, someone else would do the bacon, and someone the eggs, and I would bake some sort of special holiday bread...and then the day-long "mom's Christmas crisis," trying to get the house ready for the rest of the family, with everybody helping.

And then May 18, 1996 happened.  David was killed.   Our baby was gone. No more would we hear him playing "Deck the Halls" or see his big smile and hear his hearty laugh.  I tried to find an angel in a black leather jacket for the top of the tree that year.  I thought surely I could find one in San Francisco's Castro District, but no luck.  But someone found a keychain of a black leather jacket with "bitch" written in pink on the back and sent it to me.   It became our "David ornament," to join the tennis ball that was our "Seymour" (dog) ornament.  But Christmas was hard that year.  

I'll have a blue Christmas without you
I'll be so blue thinking about you...

Instead of going to midnight Mass, we all assembled (with lots of friends and the dog) in the cemetery at midnight, stood around David's grave, put a little Christmas tree there, passed around a bottle of Jim Beam and poured it over his grave.  We sang Christmas carols, cried, and hugged each other.   Then we went home to have Christmas, a bit subdued that year.

We continued the cemetery ritual in 1997 and 1998 and in 1999 the unthinkable happened--Paul died too.  Our middle child.   I didn't even want to put up a tree that year, but Walt did, so we bought one and then, on the day we were going to decorate it, a bunch of wonderful, wonderful guys from the band Ned, Marta, Jeri and Paul were in for 10 years showed up to help us decorate and drink egg nog and make a bittersweet activity much sweeter.

After 1999, I often felt I was going through the motions of Christmas.  Without David and Paul there was a big hole in our celebration, but everyone else tried so hard to make it happy, so I joined in and that made it easier.

Things began to change again in 2008, when Brianna was born and new traditions began to be formed.  As in the years when things moved from my parents' house to our house, because we were the one with little kids, now Christmas is spent at Tom and Laurel's house, so the girls can be home to wait for Santa, and  that has made Christmas new again.

Christmas 2011

We don't have any firmly established Christmas traditions yet.  We're still working that out.  Whoever can make it, comes.  Sometimes Ned and Marta can join us, sometimes Jeri can be here.  Sometimes Walt's brother and his wife come.  My mother never comes, but says "no, no...you go to Santa Barbara.  You should be with your grandchildren." 

With Christmas in a different location, the big hole that was the absence of Paul and David is much smaller.  I am sad that they are missing watching their neices grow up, but the pain is gone.  Thanks to those beautiful little girls, my Blue Christmases have disappeared and the magic is back again, seen through the eyes of a new generation.