It's Not "Just" Football

You've never really watched football until you've watched a 49er game with Tom.  It's more than a football game, it is a religion. He might have been baptised a Catholic, but his devotion is definitely for the 49ers!

The 9ers were behind when we arrived at his house and things were tense.  But it was early in the game.

This was to be the last game at Candlestick park.  I remember before there was a Candlestick park.  I remember going to Giants game in the new stadium that, no matter how warm the temps were in the city, funneled cold air from somewhere and no matter where you sat, by the end of any game you were chilled to the bone. But the 9ers are moving to a new stadium, a bit south of San Francisco, in Santa Clara, where presumably it will be warmer.

Soon after we arrived, the 9ers made a field goal that tied the game.  Tom started to relax, in his 49er Santa hat eating some pizza he ordered for the gang gathered to watch the game.

Then the niners got a touchdown.  There was much yelling, screaming, and high-fiving.  Bri, in the kitchen eating her dinner, came running in, glanced at the TV, and ran back to report the score to her mother (I was impressed that she knew where to find the score and what it meant!  I don't know why I was surprised; she's been a 49er fan literally from birth.  Lacie doesn't know half what Bri knew at her age [2] and seems disinterested in the game. Perhaps she will grow into it.)

Back at the game, things were starting to look tense, and Tom brought out the big guns--his Joe Montana shirt, autographed by Montana himself (his prize possession). The 9ers got another touch down.

The game went on and toward the end it got tense again, but after a fumble by the Falcons and 89 yard return by Navorro Bowman, when it was pretty clear the 9ers now couldn't lose the game, Tom relaxed and enjoyed the rest of it.

There were high fives all around when the game ended.  It was clear that it was a very lucky thing the team won or else it might have been a bleak Christmas, but there is lots of joy in Mudville today.  I love watching Tom enjoy a 49er game!

Sunday Stealing

1. The Christmas song I can listen to even in June is...
Oh probably "Little Drummer Boy."  There is enough drama in that song that it works for me no matter when I hear it.

2. Hot Chocolate, Egg Nog or Mulled wine?
Yes.  :)  For tree-trimming, I like egg nog.  For adult parties, I'll have a spot of mulled wine, and for a cold winter evening, nothing beats a nice mug of hot chocolate.

3. When do you put your decorations up?
Lately, never.  Since we are gone over Christmas, don't entertain, and don't get invited out...and almost never spend any time in the living room (except for sleeping), there doesn't seem to be any point to it.  If the grandkids were coming to visit, or if we were going to be home and I could find a place for "all this crap" in the living room, I might consider a tree again.

4. What are you having for Christmas dinner?
Don't know yet.  I'm not cooking.  I assume turkey.  Last year Tom cooked it two ways, in the oven and deep fried.  Both were delicious.

5. What is your favorite Christmas tradition?
It has changed over the years.  For so many years, it was the "egg nog gala" that our kids put on, a variety show with lots of variety.  But that is no more (and I miss it).  I loved waking up and waiting for the kids to come downstairs to see what Santa (or his representatives, as they got older) brought, but that is no more either.  I guess now my favorite tradition is what we did the other night--driving around town and looking at the lights on all the houses, while Christmas music plays in the background.  As the grandchildren get older, I'm sure there will develop new beloved Christmas traditions.

6. Have you ever gone Carol singing?
Yes.  I've sung with groups at convalescent homes, wandering the neighborhood (sometimes playing kazoos), and even caroled with The Lamplighters on the cable car in San Francisco, going from one end of the line to the other end, where the Buena Vista (the club that invented Irish coffee is) for an Irish coffee. Caroling with a group of professional singers is the best ever.

7. When did you learn the truth about Santa?
One Easter, as a matter of fact.  And I'm still traumatized by it.   I was noticing that my parents were pointing out places we had missed in looking for Easter eggs and, feeling very smart for figuring it out, I went to them and whispered "thank you" so that my younger sister couldn't hear me.  My father said "Well, now that you know about the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus, don't spoil it for Karen."  Santa Claus TOO????

8. How do you decorate your Christmas tree?
We don't any more, but when we did, almost all of the ornaments were either home made or specially bought for a certain occasion...like the gold trumpet we gave Paul the year he played Winthrop in The Music Man or the matching 49ers that we gave Tom and David, avid football fans.  There was also the ballerina we gave Jeri when she was studying ballet, and I think we gave Ned a car ornament when he learned to drive.   There are lots of ornaments like that, plus my favorites, which are the ones that the kids made.  We also have what I call the "necropsy ornaments," which consist of a ball that was the favorite of our dog Seymour, a black leather jacket with "bitch" on it (because it was the only thing in black leather I could find) which we got the year David died, and the smiley face necklace that Paul gave me one year, which became a Christmas ornament the year Paul died.

9. What's the best thing about Christmas?
Being with family.  This year it will be being with family twice, since we will have a celebration with the grandkids on Christmas day and two days later a late Christmas with my mother and Ned & Marta.  Jeri will be here for both celebrations, which is great.

10. All I want for Christmas is...
World peace and a clean house.  I've been asking for this for more than 20 years now.  Sooner or later, someone is going to listen!

The Magic of Bing

It was not one of her better nights. 

I had called her in the mid afternoon to ask if she would be interested in driving around town to see some of the decorated houses.  She said it sounded like fun.  I remember that was one of the pleasant Christmas things we did when I was growing up.  We would go out into "the avenues" in San Francisco and look at the houses, decorated in Christmas lights.  I was looking forward to doing it with her again. I told her Walt and I would come and have dinner at Atria with her and then we would go out after dinner.  She said that was fine.

I thought we could go a bit before dinner and have a cocktail hour, since she loves her vodka tonics and it would be a bit like old times to be sitting there and chatting over drinks.

But when we got there, she was not in her apartment.  I always worry when she doesn't answer the door because I'm afraid I'll go in and find her on the floor, dead, but she wasn't.  The apartment was empty, so we headed up to the dining room.

Yes, she was there, surprised to see us.  She didn't remember we were coming. 

The people she had been eating with were just finishing their dinner, so they offered us their seats and they left.  She asked what we had been doing, and I told her about the funeral.  Then she asked us what we had been doing.   Several times.  Each time we told her about the funeral.

The waitress delivered her dinner and she was surprised to find it on the table, not having remembered the waitress had just been there.  She asked what it was and said she didn't order it, but since it was there she might as well eat it.   Then she asked what we had been doing all day and what we were going to do after dinner.  I reminded her we were going out to look at lights and she seemed surprised that we were going to take her too.

I noticed she was more quiet than she usually is.  Kind of sunk into herself, arising periodically to ask us what we had been doing.

When a man walked by with green mint chip ice cream and Walt expressed surprise that they had green mint chip ice cream, my mother said that of course that was what they had.  It's what she always orders, she says, and immediately told the waitress she wanted a vanilla cone (which is what she really always orders).   When the cone came, she was shocked that they had given her 3 scoops, though they always give her 3 scoops.  She said she couldn't possibly eat that much and would take the leftovers to her apartment, but then ate it all anyway.

It was a fairly normal visit, though I did wonder if she was showing signs of a bit of Sundowners Syndrome, where older people with dementia are worse after dark than before dark (though if you never leave the building, I don't know if that is a factor anyway).

We went back to the apartment so she could get a coat so we could go look at the Christmas lights.  She did and we went out to the car.

I was tickled because I had brought my iPod with me, with a playlist of Christmas music and I was going to put it on, but something happened and the music never started.  I didn't realize how much I had looked forward to playing Christmas music on our travels until I couldn't play Christmas music, because Christmas music was always a big part of the season when I was growing up, and I wanted to bring back that memory for her. After trying several things, I could get an audio book to play, but still not the music on my Christmas playlist.

I decided to give it the "kick it" fix, turning off the iPod and then turning it on again.  When it came on, I chose the Bing Crosby record that we always played while trimming the Christmas tree, both when I was growing up, and then when our kids were growing up. I crossed my fingers and pressed "play."

Miraculously, it started.

So there we were, driving around all these beautifully lit homes in Davis and in the back, my mother is singing along to Bing Crosby.  I got all choked up and teary-eyed.  It was a perfect Christmas present.  It was a moment of "normal." I read recently that music is wonderful therapy for dementia patients and that even when they can't communicate in other ways, often they can still sing familiar songs.

My mother may not remember that we went to a funeral this afternoon, but by golly she sang every single one of those Bing Crosby tunes without a stumble.

Ultimately, it was a very good night.

The Club is Bigger Now

We went today to the memorial service for the son of one of Walt's long-time co-workers.  He died earlier this month.  As we sat in the church, we looked across at another of his co-workers...we went to the memorial service for his son a couple of years ago.  The mother of the man we were memorializing today hugged me as if she couldn't let go and kept saying "Now we know what you have been going through" over and over.

It was an emotional service for me, if only because I kept thinking of this "club" that none of us want to belong to, but that we do belong anyway. And I couldn't help but thinking of David and Paul as well.  It wasn't that long ago that we were at another service in that same church and I wrote about Paul's comments regarding the expensive remodel they did 20 or so years ago.

I decided I don't want to write a journal entry today.  I want to copy the poem that came from the mortuary instead. Usually I don't react to stuff like this, but this one just hit me, for some reason.

When I'm Gone

When I come to the end of my journey
and I travel my last weary mile,
just forget, if you can,
that I ever frowned and remember only the smile.

David Sykes, 1972 - 1996

Forget unkind words I have spoken
Remember some good I have done.
Forget that I ever had a heartache
and remember I've had loads of fun.

Paul Sykes, 1969-1999

Forget that I have stumbled and blundered
and sometimes fell by the way
Remember I have fought some hard battles
and won, ere the close of the day,

Nick, 1972-2013

 

but in summer, just gather some flowers
and remember the place where I lie
and come in the evening
when the sun paints the sky in the west
stand for a moment beside me
and remember only the best

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.

Turns Out it Wasn't So Bad

The morning started with my second visit to the dementia support group.  I didn't have anything traumatic to talk about this time, but just sharing information with others in the group about frustrations, practical suggestions, and reading material was very helpful.

The two facilitators make certain that everyone has a chance to be heard and keep the discussion going as long as necessary.  It also helps that one of the two is someone I have known for more than 20 years and had no idea was involved with this group.

Listening to others' stories is always so helpful, realizing that I have it pretty easy.  Others are dealing with advanced alzheimers, one is dealing with a patient who is terminal and may die at any moment.  One is taking care of a parent with dementia and a sibling with mental deficits.  One moved to a facility like Atria because of the activities offered, which seemed to be terrific for the spouse with dementia, but the spouse wants to do nothing but sit in the apartment 24/7.  Won't even go to the dining room for meals.  That's slightly worse than my mother.

Of all of these people, I think I'm the only one who does not have my loved one in house with me.  I can get away and take time for myself, which has been stressed over and over again is the most important part of things when you are in this situation.

I got a lot of support for how I'm dealing with my mother right now and it was stressed the importance of getting her evaluated, which I know I should do, but it's going to be a battle.  One interesting part of this was the discussion of various medical providers, some of whom I know and one of whom in particular I was warned against as someone who should no longer work with patients like this.  Horror stories were shared.  This is someone I have known, with all of my work within the local medical community.  But the stories did not come as a surprise.

Following the meeting, I headed across town to meet a friend for lunch.  This was someone I have not seen in several years, though we live in the same town.  We just both have busy schedules and our paths don't cross.  But I met her in the parking lot of the supermarket last week and we decided we should get caught up.

A few months back, I had another meeting scheduled with someone I had not seen in years.  I was looking forward to getting caught up with her and hearing about her life now.  An hour after we sat down, she said she had to leave to go to another appointment.  In that hour, she did not ask one question about me, but told me about her, her kids (whom I don't know), her grandkids (whom I don't know), her siblings, her job, and her neighbors.  As I walked her to the car, she said "next time you'll have to tell me about you."  Given that we seem to see each other every 5 years, I'm not going to hold my breath.

About half an hour into my lunch today, I was having visions of a replay of the previous lunch.  It was 30 minutes solid without a single "and how are you doing these days?" 

The problem with these long-term friendships ... and I'm sure I'm guilty of it too ... is that your memory of the friend you have not seen in many years is that they know your entire family.  If you have a large family, and the interrelationships are complex, the listener very quickly gets lost in all the minutae.  I couldn't remember today whether this person was a sister, a daughter, or a granddaughter.  I couldn't remember who had done what to whom.  The young children who had been in grammar school the last time we saw each other are now setting up famlies with spouses or significant others and birthin' babies.  By the end of the first half hour, my head was swimming and I was sorry that I hadn't ordered wine with my meal!

After about 45 minutes there was a lull in the conversation and I was asked "how about you?  how are all your kids?"  It was MY turn.   Fortunately, I had just had the experience of domination a conversation about people that my dining companion didn't know, so I kept it short (in fact, we never even got to Ned, let alone Tom!), but we did get into my mother and her situation.  As it turns out, we shared experiences of dementia and were both familiar with Atria, and suddenly the conversation became a real conversation.  We sat there for another hour chatting like we used to chat in years past and it was really fun.  We didn't talk about family so much as just things that we remembered together.  Turns out that we had both taken Viking trips and it was fun comparing notes, the good and the bad.  I loved that.

Living mostly like a hermit, which I do most days (other than going to Atria all the time), I may have lost the art of conversation.  Maybe I found a piece of it today.

Actually, yesterday I had lunch with another friend, one who likes to talk about show biz things and we had a really good conversation.

Tomorrow is lunch #3 with a friend, but we always get along well, so I'm not concerned about that one--this is the friend I lunch with once a month at Olive Garden, though now that she has retired, after about 15 years of Olive Garden lunches, we are doing Davis lunches for awhile.

Friday I'll lunch at Atria, rounding out a perfect lunch week!

Bwing, Bwing, Bwing

I'm thinking about my sister almost every day this month.  It's because of a commercial that runs a few times a day.  Probably only California people see it.  There is an old man, looking lonely and downcast, walking through the streets at night.  He enters an apartment building and slowly trudges up to his apartment.  When he gets there, he finds an envelope with a big red ribbon attached to his door.  Turns out it's a few "scratchers" from the lottery, given to him by his neighbor across the hall (who is watching through the peephole in her door). He gives a smile and walks inside his apartment, standing a little straighter, and with a little smile on his face.  

The commercial is accompanied by a recording of Debussy's "Clair de Lune."  My grandmother loved that piece.  I didn't find out until just a few years ago that she had been a pianist and quit cold turkey one day when she realized she was always the piano player at all of the parties she attended and never got a chance to "party."  She never touched the piano again and once offered to pay me $100 if I ever learned to play "Clair de Lune" so I could play it whenever she wanted to hear it. But, alas, it was way above my skill level (for one thing, my child's hands didn't stretch that far!!).

My father learned to play it (I don't think he got $100 for doing so), though he was a jazz pianist and this was the only classical piece he ever played.  I don't know how often he played it, but enough that I know the piece very well.  

In the commercial I watched, the background music goes up to the part where there are three trills.

Every time my father played "Clair de Lune," Karen would stand by the piano (she must have been fairly young at the time) and say "bwing! bwing! bwing!" on each of the trills.  I have never ever been able to hear that piece played without thinking of her when they get to the bwing-bwing-bwing part.   Interestingly, my mother, who has forgotten so much of her life, also remembers Karen doing that.  She giggled about it with me when I told her about the commercial.   We talked about what Karen would be like today, if she hadn't been murdered in 1971.

I stopped murdering the piano after two years of lessons, two years of dreading my weekly hour with Sister Mary Victor, of the famous ruler, which would land on your wrist or fingers if you didn't hold them right.  My father never forgave me for not living out his dream and to his dying day he talked about the money he "wasted" on my piano lessons. 

He somehow never remembered that he, too, had quit formal piano lessons and had taught himself to play "by ear." 

I never got over the guilt of having disappointed him.  And I never got over feeling sad that in all of the years that we were on this earth together, I don't remember anything that I ever did that made him proud.
But I remember how much he loved to hear Karen say "bwing, bwing, bwing."