tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85804135791802687072024-03-12T19:58:41.784-07:00"If this is the 'sandwich' generation, does that make me a meatball?"To share my experiences living with my elderly parents before I go insane.Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-60586075491871313022016-01-27T12:21:00.000-08:002016-01-27T12:27:21.076-08:00LifelineBoth of my parents are from the "Greatest Generation That Ever Lived" as described by Tom Brokaw in his book of the same name. They lived through the Depression, World War II and the raising of four children between 1948-1976. They saw lots of changes in their lifetimes.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-akIIccAZiTU/Vqjy2bydKhI/AAAAAAAAAfI/hIufBsVlheQ/s1600/IMG_1281.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-akIIccAZiTU/Vqjy2bydKhI/AAAAAAAAAfI/hIufBsVlheQ/s200/IMG_1281.jpg" width="150" /></a>New inventions routinely made appearances within the household over the years. Electric washer replaced the wringer, electric dryer replaced the outdoor clothesline, a dishwasher took the place of washing by hand (which was great in a house with four kids), a side by side replaced the traditional refrigerator, push button telephones replaced rotary style only to be replaced by cordless later on. Black & white TVs were replaced by color TVs and got thinner and used remotes as opposed to turning a dial manually. When made available, microwave ovens were purchased, as well as, a personal computer. Now my father, Bill, was familiar with computers from working at North American/Rockwell, although they were nothing like today's PC.<br />
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My mother, Mary Beth, never learned how computers operate. She never used a cell phone. And I doubt she ever understood texting, Facebook, Twitter or Instagram. New technology flummoxed Mary Beth whether it's computers or something else. Sometimes I envy her lack of technical knowledge because she still believed in phone calls, personal letters on personalized stationary and direct contact when dealing with the outside world. I never saw the importance of that beyond it being quaint. Now, I am not so sure.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lXjlpcaRePY/UxyBIP6B_OI/AAAAAAAAAa0/el56MTuSAJ4/s1600/img001b+LR+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-lXjlpcaRePY/UxyBIP6B_OI/AAAAAAAAAa0/el56MTuSAJ4/s1600/img001b+LR+(1).jpg" width="200" /></a>When I was growing up in Bexley, Ohio in the 60's and 70's, our phone rang all the time. One would assume it was due to having 4 kids in the house, but it was more likely because of my mother. To describe Mary Beth as a "social butterfly" would be accurate. She knew a <u>lot</u> of people. Her best childhood friend from the 30's. The wife of my father's co-worker from the 50's. A neighbor from the 60's. The ladies she met at the Bexley Pool and in tennis classes in the 70's. Several ladies from church in the 80's and 90's. Plus, lots of ladies who were acquaintances. I find that pretty impressive. It's hard to find one kindred spirit in life, let alone 6! Since she preferred life when it was pleasant, Mary Beth didn't morn the dead. She had seen her share of death. She announced decades ago that she was through with attending funerals. They cramped her style. It was her intention to avoid her own funeral by making it known before she died that there would be NO service of any kind. My mother simply avoided bad news, by waving off the messenger and pronouncing that "it" was too complicated or unpleasant to hear about. If my father printed out emails for her to read, she would refuse to read them if he confirmed that it contained any bad news. This coping mechanism worked well for her.<br />
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She did care about the living, though. Sending handwritten notes to check on her friends or grandchildren even if they didn't respond back was a priority. She would send magazines, recipes, and birthday cards on a regular basis. When she did receive a response it made her day. When she didn't get mail she announced that nobody loved her. Her self-worth was directly connected to the attention she received from others.<br />
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The calls and notes dwindled over the years. Many of her dear friends died leaving a void in her life. Writing long-hand became more difficult for my mother and I know it frustrated her. Her childhood friend is in a nursing home in California with dementia. She is also blind now, so even if she understood who my mother was to her she wouldn't be able to read the letters. The thought crossed my mind recently about the possibility that my mother lost the will to live because her friends were gone. I wanted to talk to my mom about her friends, but I know how that conversation would have gone since she considered past memories to be unpleasant. I almost find it to be a bittersweet thought. I've had quite a few of those this past year. <br />
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-34506565876931417882016-01-26T09:21:00.000-08:002016-01-26T09:21:03.562-08:00A Squirrel's Tale<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x27-zh1b7Sc/Vqend5PdQjI/AAAAAAAAAe0/qZORuVtZIe4/s1600/chips.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-x27-zh1b7Sc/Vqend5PdQjI/AAAAAAAAAe0/qZORuVtZIe4/s200/chips.png" width="150" /></a>When my parents first moved here they were both relatively active. Neither one used a walker, cane or wheelchair and they could manage stairs with little effort. They were able to do for themselves in most situations, such as making light meals or simple housekeeping. Over the last 5 years, though, I've watched both of my parents gradually deteriorate. My father uses a walker now and my mother is in a hospital bed. Before she was bed-bound she hadn't attempted a flight of stairs in years. Many things have happened that made me realize that having two octogenarians in the house requires close monitoring 24/7and as a result, I spend the majority of every day at home. So one drawback to taking care of my parents is my lack of socialization. It has a way of isolating me from the outside world which I would not have expected in this age of social networking. Most days I talk only to those who live here. My husband, my children and my parents. I don't think talking to myself counts. Which I don't do.....yet. <br />
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I love animals, particularly wildlife. I am still awed by the sight of deer in my front yard, opossum & box turtles on my back deck, chipmunks raising across sidewalks and squirrels digging through my flower pots looking for buried peanuts. Competitive hummingbirds vie for the feeder like dog-fighting between Rickenbacker and The Red Baron. I never tire of watching them, so I guess it was only a matter of time before I turned to the animals for socialization.<br />
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It started in the summer of 2013. I had always given scraps to the animals. I would throw them toast crusts, broken chips, leftover popcorn, trail mix, peanuts & granola. I noticed the food was gone almost as soon as I put it out. I continued this habit and started noticing one particular squirrel coming to partake of the assorted goodies. I recognized her (yes, I know the difference between male and female squirrels!) because her tail had a "V" split in the tip and her side had an orange spot on it. After she'd finish off the last tidbit she would look toward the door. I was curious to see her reaction so I opened it. She ran off into the closest tree. I was intrigued and wondered if she would ever become less shy. So I continued to watch for her often whenever I put out scraps. After about 6 weeks, Harriet (that's right, I named her!) didn't run off at the sound of the door opening. In fact, she would move closer each time to see if I was going to feed her.<br />
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Several weeks after I began feeding her, my little squirrel got bold and started coming to the door, stood up and peered inside with her little paws clutching together. I found great joy in that simple act. I then began to create items specifically for Harriet. I had noticed that peanut butter sandwich crusts were always gobbled up quickly, so I started making her peanut butter crackers. I was further intrigued by the way she would grab the cracker sandwiches, scamper to the railing ledge on the deck and proceed to lick the peanut butter off the crackers once she had pulled them apart! Sometimes she would eat the crackers, too, once the peanut butter was gone, but she would also bury the naked crackers in my flower pots for safe keeping!! To simplify the process further, I made peanut butter balls by mixing powdered sugar into some peanut butter until I could roll them into dime-sized treats. She loved them so much she told her friends who began coming to the deck to stare at the kitchen door. One thing about squirrels, though, they don't like to share! If I gave out treats, they would chase each other. Sometimes, the squirrel with the food did the chasing which was quite a sight! Imagine a squirrel with a mouthful of food running around a tree in pursuit of a jealous rival!!<br />
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Since I began this post in June of 2014, both of my parents have died. First, my mother in October 2014, then my father in December 2015. During one of my conversations with my brother this past month, I learned that Nanny, my maternal grandmother, had an affinity for feeding wildlife, in particular, squirrels. Apparently she would hold peanuts in her hand and wait for the squirrels to come to her to take them from her. I never knew this! I can certainly believe it, though, seeing how I am the same way. My grandmother died when I was only 3 years old so I never knew her like my older siblings did. I've been told I look just like her, but knowing that she was also a "squirrel whisperer" makes me smile.<br />
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-53365725748224108202013-09-16T06:37:00.001-07:002013-09-16T06:37:37.104-07:00Arrested Development<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o0acoLQhcOM/UefnA6jK1AI/AAAAAAAAAXg/3URFtmQADYk/s1600/161927.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I turned 55 on July 9th this year. They say you are as young as you feel, right? Well, in my case then, I am about 14. You wanna know what I did on my birthday? I went to see a children's movie, "Despicable Me 2". My daughter went with me, she is 26. I liked the movie so much I saw it again that weekend with my husband. Before we went to the theater, Steve and I stopped at McDonald's for 2 Happy Meals. That's right. Happy Meals. They came with toys. From the movie. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We now have 6 Minion Happy Meal toys. I didn't tell my parents, though. They would never understand why a grown woman with adult children would care to have toys. Thankfully, they haven't seen my bedroom. I have quite a few knick-knacks that would leave them shaking their heads. I have a Hello Kitty clock </span><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nS0I_aWMU-s/UhOcmylg4JI/AAAAAAAAAaI/IUdSJ7HWbDE/s1600/182557.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nS0I_aWMU-s/UhOcmylg4JI/AAAAAAAAAaI/IUdSJ7HWbDE/s200/182557.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">radio and plush, a Madeline doll (from the books), teddy bears, a life-size opossum, beanie baby bears & giraffe, the aforementioned Minions and a 17-inch Beaker Muppet. One of my most prized possessions recently acquired is a miniature replica of my favorite movie character, Wall-E. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband gave it to me as a birthday present. It has to be my favorite birthday present...ever! (Even more than the ukulele I got last year!) I have seen Wall-E at least 20 times and if you count partial views, it's closer to 40. Fry's Electronics store showed Wall-E in their DVD department continuously for over a year. I never went there without checking to see if it was playing. I have probably seen that movie more than any other. Neither of my parents have seen it once. My mother doesn't like animation. I love cartoons and animated movies. She thinks it's silly. I guess that means I'm silly. I can't argue with that. It's how I resist getting old. Oh, I'm sure I LOOK old to the youth of today. My dark brown hair is long, but it has streaks of gray. I am not 118 lbs. anymore and I have to wear glasses to read. I still dress like a teenager, though. T-shirts and blue jeans, every day. I think I have worn a dress once since my parents moved here 4 years ago. I dress this way because I take care of my parents and it would be ridiculous to wear nice clothes. I spend most days in the kitchen, doing laundry, cleaning or going to doctors, running errands to the bank, the post office, the drugstore or getting groceries. (I spend a LOT of time getting groceries!) </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm not sure why my generation acts the way we do, but we are most definitely NOT our parents' generation. Our parents have looked and acted like adults since their teens! Baby Boomers approach aging as a challenge or a dare. Baby Boomer women don't dress like old ladies and they don't cut off their long hair simply because of their age. My generation doesn't care if we have gray strands and telling our age does not require a security clearance! We go to </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">children's movies and Disney World without small children. We attend conventions such as ComicCon or DragonCon dressed as a favorite character. We ride bikes, rollerblade and skateboard. Instead of getting rid of our toys we add to them. Collectors of vintage and newer toys have created a billion dollar industry although some collections don't always do well, i.e. Beanie Babies. The point here being, we don't shun the things that made us happy as children, we embrace them. My parents have never talked about things from their childhoods. No mention of favorite toys or activities or even pets. I don't understand that. It's as if denying the existence of such things makes them more grown up. As if appearing that way brought them more respect from society. I grew up believing that my parents were old even though they were younger than I am now! I could not imagine them as children. Don't get me wrong, growing up <u>is</u> a necessity, but doing so shouldn't mean never enjoying child-like interests or hobbies. Taking care of elderly parents is extremely stressful and there are times when I am at loose ends. Being able to relax and regroup is imperative not just for my health, but for my relationship with my parents. Cartoons and movies provide a much needed outlet. Nothing is as joyful or cathartic as laughing at something silly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am an adult who does responsible things, but I believe one must embrace whimsy & whimsical things to stay young at heart. Dr Seuss said once, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">“Adults are just obsolete children and the hell with them.” I agree. It's important to mature, but one should be able to have fun no matter what their age. </span></div>
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Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-14351729622460232782013-04-04T12:42:00.000-07:002013-09-28T07:52:57.159-07:00Parental Guidance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was driving down the street alone this morning when a Taylor Swift song came on the radio. I love Taylor Swift. I love the music of a lot of young singers today. They are fun, peppy and usually uplifting. Lady Gaga, Katy Perry, Beyonce, Rihanna, Shakira, Kelly Clarkson, Carrie Underwood......and Taylor Swift. So as I usually do, I sang along. I did so because, well, that's what I do. Always have. As long as I can remember since learning to drive, I have sung in the car. When my children were young, I sang in the car and it wasn't a problem.......until they were about 8 years old. Then things changed. If I sang to the songs of the 60's, 70's or 80's, that was okay on occasion. But if I dared to sing along with anyone else, the eyes would start to roll and a whiny "Mawwwwww-um!!" would be uttered and I would shut-up. This morning I sang and no one rolled their eyes. And it got me to thinking about the unwritten rules for parental behavior.<br />
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Children are naturally embarrassed by their parents. Especially when peers are present. Babies and toddlers love being with Mom or Dad, but when a child reaches elementary school they gradually learn from their peers that parents just aren't cool. Conversely, kids aren't cool if they like being with their parents. So around age 8, the shunning and eye rolling begins. However, the rules for parental behavior are not set in stone. If your child is a rule-breaker, a trend-setter or popular, he/she can decide what is verboten and what is not. This type of child doesn't care if peers find parental behavior objectionable. <u>Their</u> parents are allowed to be room mothers, den mothers, car pool drivers, field trip chaperones or PTA President without incurring the wrath of their children. These parents also possess an abundance of photographs of their kids taking part in school plays, recitals, concerts or sports. It's one of the perks of admittance to their world.<br />
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So over the years I have mentally stored knowledge for the rules of unacceptable behavior and followed them because, to be honest, I was scared of my kids. I gotta say it can be truly heartbreaking when you <span style="text-align: right;">realize that your little peanut doesn't want you around anymore. And telling an insecure child to ignore peer pressure is tantamount to asking them to wear a sign that says, "I'm a momma's boy (or girl)!!". They would rather cut off a limb before appearing in public with their parents. And you never know when something seemingly innocuous is suddenly added to the list. What was acceptable yesterday can be on the list today without a memo or warning. Parents are expected to know the rules and if they forget, there are penalties. Usually in the form of verbal condemnation. It's not pleasant. Believe me.</span><br />
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In solidarity with parents everywhere, I give you The List. You are welcome.<br />
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<u>Rules for Parents (according to their kids):</u></div>
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1) Don't wear sexy clothes, especially nightgowns. And NO cleavage, ever!!</div>
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2) Don't sing along to songs done by a younger generation.</div>
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3) Don't do "raise the roof" gestures or "high 5-ing" me or my friends.</div>
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.4) Don't yell out "You go, Girl!" at public functions.</div>
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5) Don't wipe my face, straighten my clothes or comb my hair in public.</div>
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6) Don't attempt to imitate characters from movies or TV.</div>
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7) Don't ask to be Facebook friends.</div>
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8) Don't get too chatty when my friends visit. Say hello & LEAVE!</div>
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9) Don't try to sound cool by using the latest vernacular of my generation like the word "dude".</div>
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10) Don't hug or kiss me in public after age 5.</div>
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11) Don't call my name & wave at school functions or in public. One exception: graduation.</div>
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12) Don't make noise during sex or smacky kissing sounds with spouses. </div>
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13) Ew, on second thought, just don't have sex. EVER!!!</div>
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14) And for god-sake, don't dance!!!</div>
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15) Don't be offended by my rules. I love you, but I am awkward, full of angst and I just want to fit in.</div>
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16) Don't ever stop loving me or being there. This is just a phase. </div>
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If I knew then, what I know now. .......</div>
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-15366105638837035602012-08-19T03:15:00.002-07:002016-01-27T12:29:16.657-08:00Testify to JustifyOne of the things that my mom will do is to ask us to make something for her. She can never seem to just ask and leave it at that, though. She always has to give a reason for asking. It's gotten to the point that after 3 years of telling her she doesn't have to have a reason, we've given up. She continues to justify her requests. She will do the same thing when giving reasons for changing her mind or her plans. Some of them have bordered on the ridiculous.<br />
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My mom practically lives in nightgowns. If she gets dressed, it's usually in light weight clothing like a khaki skirt and a 3/4 sleeve top. Not the best choices for someone who gets cold all year round! This past winter I actually got her into sweats and it helped, but not all the time. When she gets cold she usually wants a hot beverage or hot food. She will ask me to make her some hot chocolate or hot coffee "because I'm so cold". If I ask what she wants for dinner sometimes she'll ask for Ramen noodles. "I want Ramen because I'm cold" or "I want Ramen to warm me up". She also uses being cold to have Cream of Wheat or soup. It goes the other way, too. "Could I have a milkshake?, my throat is parched" or "Do you have any Sprite?, my throat is hot". She wants ice cream with Craisins because she heard cranberries were good for you. I asked her if she just wanted a handful of Craisins. Silly me, she was justifying the ice cream! I told her once that she need not give reasons to explain her requests. That if she wants or needs something, then just ask. Period. She continues to justify.<br />
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She's canceled doctors' appointments weeks ahead because someone is expected to visit. Now the visit wouldn't coincide with the appointment. In fact, the visit is either planned for days before or days after. I actually canceled an appointment for her once because we were having company the following month! It's as if she can't multi-task even if it's weeks apart. The other day after I washed her hair she mentioned that she would've had me do it the day before except it was Alex's birthday. Alex would've been asleep then as he was when I did do her hair! She also gives explanations for not getting up, not taking a shower, not walking with her walker, but being pushed in the wheelchair. She said once that she had removed her hearing aid at 6 because she'd be going to bed.........at 8! She then proceeded to be yelled at by everyone for 2 hours since she couldn't hear! Then she complained that we were yelling at her. Oy vey!<br />
<br />
I figure that these moments will be talked about in my family long after my mother is gone. It may frustrate us now, but it is an endearment and we know it. When we remember how she did these things, we will smile.<br />
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-42564669040772213282012-08-03T07:39:00.000-07:002012-08-05T06:00:57.066-07:00Pants on FireIt's bad enough when you deal with children when their main objective is to avoid their parents' disapproval over things they've done. You expect and anticipate dishonesty, half-truths and little white lies from children because they <u>are</u> children. At some point in the child-rearing process, parents get past that stage and are rewarded with a more <span style="background-color: white;">open</span><span style="background-color: white;"> and </span><span style="background-color: white;">honest</span><span style="background-color: white;"> relationship with young adults. That's where Steve and I are with Alex and Taylor. We nurtured them in such a way as to foster communication and that led to their ability to trust us enough to be honest in most situations. They were raised to believe they could talk to us about <u>anything</u> no matter the subject or serious nature. At times we had to control our emotions for fear of spooking them when they told us about concerns. As young adults they have talked to us about things I couldn't ever have imagined before they were born. So when my parents moved in with us it was hard to adjust given the level of dishonesty I had to deal with. </span><span style="background-color: white;">My parents fib often. Sometimes it is really frustrating.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
<br />
At first I thought that the lying was a result of being here. That they were being willful about having to follow certain guidelines that we have for doing things here. <span style="background-color: white;">Recently my brother told me about </span><span style="background-color: white;">his experiences with it before they left Ohio. H</span><span style="background-color: white;">e said, </span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">"It had become painfully apparent for their last two years in Bexley the viability of remaining there was totally untenable and I was becoming very scared. This was exacerbated by discovering numerous 'cover-ups' and deceptions by them (you can just imagine - yes?) which they engaged in because 'We didn't want to worry you!' More of that 'keeping up appearances' horseshit! On occasion, I would find out a day or two later one of them had been rushed to the hospital. Or, they would call and ask me to come get them home after they had been rushed to the hospital the night before! Those requests often came around 6am on a workday for me. I, fortunately, have "sick leave" which includes caring for family members." </span></blockquote>
Apparently, Bill & Sue knew much of what Steve & I had just learned soon after my parents moved here. Knowing that it had been going on in Ohio is actually a relief. It tells me that it's a sign of aging not necessarily obstinacy. However, we have had our share of having to deal with untruthfulness.<br />
<br />
One Sunday I was in the shower when Steve heard my Dad call out my name. He went to see what they needed or wanted. My mom just waved him off by saying she didn't need anything. He asked them if they were ready for lunch, but got no response from either one. He was determined to get an answer about calling out to me, but neither one volunteered any comment. Steve then looked at my dad and said, "Well I'm perplexed!". My dad said, "Okay" without a hint of emotion. Once I came upstairs, he told me of the exchange so I went to my parents' room to inquire about them calling out to me. My mother looked right at me and said they didn't call for me. When I reminded her about Steve, she then said that they just wanted to know if I was in the living room so they could come watch TV. What??? She did not! When I asked her why they didn't respond to his inquiry about their lunch, she looked right at me and said, "We did! We said we weren't ready for it yet". At that point all I could do was roll my eyes because any further discussion would just frustrate me. So I dropped it like I usually do. <br />
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Just like I did with the pee pitcher. That's right, I said pee pitcher! As explained in an earlier post, my mother has decided that walking a few feet to the bathroom is just too much trouble. Even though she is able-bodied. She started doing it in Ohio. When I mentioned about her doing here she waved me off saying that she wasn't going to do it anymore. Really?? No, not really. Soon after they moved in we found a ceramic pitcher in a desk drawer with trace amounts of urine in it. I know one thing, that pitcher will NEVER be used as a pitcher again!! She actually thought that laying her bed jacket on top of it would keep me from finding out. Steve confronted her about it and she just stared at him and said nothing. Then she started talking about something else completely unrelated to the pee pitcher. Steve rolled his eyes and gave up. We have a lot of eye-rolling moments around here.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N4SutclF7zc/UBvdih07N6I/AAAAAAAAAUI/NOQ4l0w9h7s/s1600/handwashing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-N4SutclF7zc/UBvdih07N6I/AAAAAAAAAUI/NOQ4l0w9h7s/s200/handwashing.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">Another issue that elicits dishonesty around here is the subject of hand washing. Soon after my parents moved in we noticed that they would exit the powder room in the upstairs hallway as soon as we heard the toilet flush which could only mean one thing. They weren't washing their hands.</span><span style="background-color: white;">We also noticed that they would sometimes turn the water on in the sink, but it would run for literally 3-4 seconds. Not nearly long enough to kill or clean anything! </span><span style="background-color: white;"> We were reluctant to say anything to them because they might resent it and feel like we were spying on them. After several instances of the quick exits, though, I decided that I had no choice. I reminded them of the dangers of germ-y hands. Both said that they were washing their hands. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> I knew that changing their behavior was </span><span style="background-color: white;">a losing proposition so I decided to be proactive and assume their hands remained germ-y. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I placed sanitizer dispensers in all the bathrooms. We also started wiping down the entire house with Lysol wipes. Anything they touched was wiped with anti-bacterial solution. It seems to be working. None of us has been sick since they moved here, including them.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i0w3oAIBJho/UBvkH4vLsHI/AAAAAAAAAUo/4BAdKP05xWI/s1600/eyerolling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="176" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-i0w3oAIBJho/UBvkH4vLsHI/AAAAAAAAAUo/4BAdKP05xWI/s200/eyerolling.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">Another hygiene issue for my parents was/is bathing. My mother would look straight at me and swear she took showers often, just not everyday. I knew this was not true. When she did get in the shower the water would literally run for less than 3 minutes! I knew this because I'd time it. When she emerged from her bathroom I asked her how she could get clean that quickly. I never got a definitive answer. So you know what I did? Yep, I rolled my eyes and dropped the subject. When we had bathing assistants here for a few weeks earlier this year I voiced my concern about the showers. Both nurses showed my mom (and dad) the proper way to shower. My dad showers about once a week. I was thrilled if mom showered once a month! Lately I've been helping her, so I hope to get her bathed more often. Good hygiene trumps any discomfort I may have about bathing her.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">I could give more examples of these types of situations, but it never ends. Reminds me of a song that Sherry Lewis had on her show <i>Lamb Chop's Play-Along</i> called "The song that never ends".</span><br />
<dl><blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6KmV1i-kQek/UBvfGehe30I/AAAAAAAAAUQ/6pjerwKKd7I/s1600/lambchop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="165" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6KmV1i-kQek/UBvfGehe30I/AAAAAAAAAUQ/6pjerwKKd7I/s200/lambchop.jpg" width="200" /></a>This is the song that never ends.<br />
Yes, it goes on and on my friends.<br />
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was,<br />
And they'll continue singing it forever just because...<br />
This is the song that never ends.<br />
Yes, it goes on and on my friends.<br />
Some people started singing it not knowing what it was,<br />
And they'll continue singing it forever just because, Etc.</blockquote>
<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">On and on it goes. But just as with a lot of conflicts, you sometimes have to choose your battles. It doesn't help to win the battle and lose the war. As long as my parents are comfortable, pain-free and safe I can deal with the attempts to deceive. I cannot imagine living that long just to have someone almost half your age controlling every decision or condition in your life. Someday, if I am lucky, I may understand more fully their reasons for the behavior.</span>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-84032520562013178022012-07-21T18:47:00.000-07:002012-07-23T14:00:59.144-07:00May I have this dance?<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
I recently began exchanging emails with my big brother about our childhoods. Apparently, we had different parents growing up. Bill's parents were Bill & Mary Beth and my parents were Bill & Mary Beth. I know what you're thinking. Same people! They may have been in the same bodies, but they <u>were</u> different people! There were 4 children in my family. Kristie, William III, Franklin and Heidi. Kris & Billy were born in the late 40's and Frankie & I were born in the late 50's. Which means that their parents were 10 years younger than our parents and 10 years can make a BIG difference! </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">Our emails led to his recollection of a time back in the 50's when he and my sister would go to Athens from Columbus to visit my mother's parents, Pop & Nanny. In his words he said,</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2HcC_PNi0d0/UAtbEqyL4YI/AAAAAAAAATo/PFLkT67Ju4M/s1600/kris-bill+1950LR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2HcC_PNi0d0/UAtbEqyL4YI/AAAAAAAAATo/PFLkT67Ju4M/s320/kris-bill+1950LR.jpg" width="224" /></a><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">"When we would visit Pop and Nanny's Pleasant Hill (Pleasanton) farm, Dad would often accelerate over the many hills until we were momentarily airborne! I know - doesn't sound like mundane Bill, does it? Of course - responsibly -Mom would offer up some obligatory complaint, but I bet she was having as much fun as we." </span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">Now I can <u>guarantee</u> that Frank & I never saw our father ever do anything like that! My father, at the time, also held a pilot's license and flew Kris & Billy to many places. He quit flying because my mother didn't like it since she always got airsick, so Frankie & I didn't even know he had the license until we were grown. My parents often left Kris & Billy with Pop & Nanny while they worked in Dayton. This led to a very close relationship between the kids and grandparents. Neither Frankie nor I were ever left in Athens while my parents worked. In fact, after we were born my mother became a stay-at-home mom. Frankie & I didn't know our grandparents especially since my grandmother died in 1961 when I was 3 and Frankie was 5. However, Kristie was so close to Nanny she had an identity crisis when Nanny died. She saw Nanny as more of a "Mother" figure than she did with our mom. It took a decade for that rift to heal. Bill remained close to my grandfather until Pop died in 1987. In fact, Bill was an ordained minister at the time so he.officiated Pop's funeral.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">Another memory Bill related to me was about his love of music. </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E8KQTtWY_EI/UAs47STQfCI/AAAAAAAAATU/-_iiuk-Je-8/s1600/elvis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-E8KQTtWY_EI/UAs47STQfCI/AAAAAAAAATU/-_iiuk-Je-8/s200/elvis.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">"I think a strong reason for my interest in rock n roll goes back to the music they started exposing us to in the early fifties when we lived at Ruhl Avenue in the Colonial Williamsburg Apartments. I vividly recall Dad bringing home a 45rpm record with Elvis's "HoundDog" on one side and "Don't Be Cruel" on the other. What punctuated that memory was then seeing Mom and Dad "Jitterbug" to it! Mom usually initiated their dancing, but Dad jumped right in - definitely felt like someone was in love!"</span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">NEVER in my entire life did I ever see my parents dance!! They were in their 20's when the first 2 kids were born. They had more energy and time to devote to playing with Kris & Bill. In hindsight I also see how the affection between my parents had cooled somewhat. I knew they loved each other, but outward displays of it were not demonstrated in public. To this day I've never seen my parents hold hands, let alone dance! </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
My dad has always had a fascination with all planes regardless of whether they were big, little, commercial or military. The mere sound of an engine overhead got my dad's attention quicker than just about anything. Ruhl Avenue is in the flight path to Port Columbus, as well as, North American Aviation(now Rockwell). My father worked at North American as an Aeronautical/<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">Aerospace Engineer. His captivation was ingrained to his core. He and my mom</span><span style="background-color: white;"> were also smokers in the early days. I find that near impossible to imagine. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Bill told me during a recent visit about an incident that occurred that combined planes and cigarettes when he was a little boy.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">"Dad was looking out the window in the kitchen door. He loved (as you can imagine) to catch a glimpse of any jet flying over. This was for two reasons: we were quite close to the airport, so they were usually low overhead; also, they were usually one of the planes he actually worked on (F-86, F-100-I am sure he was very proud of that!) </span><span style="background-color: white;">In addition, in those days they were allowed to go supersonic, which afforded us with the most delicious "sonic booms" when breaking the sound barrier (another reason I came to love Rock Music!) </span><span style="background-color: white;">But I digress....So, Dad is perusing yonder aircraft whilst puffing on his cigarette. The ashtray is behind him on our little dinette table. He absentmindedly, without taking his eyes off the skies, reaches back to crush said faggot out in the tray, unaware little hands had decided said receptacle was for closer examination. As he pressed the beast hard against the ashtray, he was reasonably unconscious of my wrist being betwixt cigarette and tray!!!</span><span style="background-color: white;">What happened next is blurry, I recall great pain, screaming, startlement from him, hugs, tears, more hugs, probably ice (I'm not sure.)</span><span style="background-color: white;">Well, I survived, my "tatooing." For many years I thought it resembled a 3-leaf clover. Now it is barely visible."</span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
He showed me the scar when he was here. This memory is as clear to him as if it happened yesterday. This single incident traumatized my parents so much, they both quit smoking if not that day, soon after. Cold turkey. Neither Frank nor I even knew they smoked.<span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">Some years ago I saw a picture from the 50's that was taken at a nightclub or event my parents attended. They were seated at a table with other people and everyone had a drink and a cigarette. I remember staring at that picture and being mesmerized by the image. My parents smoked? And drank liquor? It was unfathomable!</span></blockquote>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qttcqAeb_is/UAs6O6man0I/AAAAAAAAATc/if8iUu7YsMU/s1600/superman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qttcqAeb_is/UAs6O6man0I/AAAAAAAAATc/if8iUu7YsMU/s320/superman.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">After Frank was born they moved to Bexley, an affluent suburb of Columbus. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I had prim and proper parents who didn't smoke, drink or dance. I'm sure it was for appearance's sake. Most things done in Bexley are and it changes people. I'm sure it changed my parents greatly. It's hard work keeping up with the Jones'! I've often wondered how different it would have been had we lived somewhere other than Bexley. Maybe I would have seen different parents who were easy-going, less concerned about what other people thought, spent more time enjoying their kids and............danced. </span></blockquote>
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</div>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-31679651074643596832012-07-16T03:15:00.000-07:002012-08-05T08:00:39.301-07:00My Melancholy BabyLiving with my parents have brought many new insights into their habits, personalities and beliefs. Some discoveries were total surprises. Some were mere confirmations of past suspicions. For me to live with my parents meant facing a demon that has followed me for decades and in facing it I received the power to overcome it. <br />
<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zmoNDAld4RQ/UAO1-cN4QyI/AAAAAAAAASs/Li-JAv1WB7A/s1600/cardinals.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="121" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zmoNDAld4RQ/UAO1-cN4QyI/AAAAAAAAASs/Li-JAv1WB7A/s200/cardinals.JPG" width="200" /></a>My father has a very low opinion of himself. This has been clear since he spent time in the hospital in 2004. I do not remember him being like this when I was growing up. However in the hospital he was highly medicated and I guess less inhibited about hiding his emotions. I would go to sit with him all day to keep him company. I would cross-stitch "cardinals in snow" while we watched TV and talked. We talked a LOT. This may not seem unusual to most people, but until January 2004 I had never had a conversation with my father that lasted longer than 10 minutes. I do not exaggerate. Growing up I was painfully aware of my father's shyness. He was a good father. I saw him as a giant when I was little. He could fix anything and was always there for me when I was scared or injured. One particular memory I have occurred when I was 8. He ran down a hill to scoop me up as I lay bleeding profusely from my bare foot after stepping on a large piece of glass. I remember seeing the blood on his good pants and feeling bad about it. He didn't care. His greatest concern was about getting me to the hospital for stitches. I always felt safe in my father's arms. <span style="background-color: white;"> He had a quiet strength that came through despite his lack of conversation. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
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</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JwvdT8TBsfE/UB6HRF0v2VI/AAAAAAAAAVA/BS8YpsDeRO8/s1600/2001-1020B+f005+LR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="131" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JwvdT8TBsfE/UB6HRF0v2VI/AAAAAAAAAVA/BS8YpsDeRO8/s200/2001-1020B+f005+LR.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At Kristie's 25th Jubilee-2001</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="background-color: white;">So as I sat with him in the hospital I was quite surprised when he announced that he had not been a very good father. I was flabbergasted. All I could do was look dumbfounded. Finally, I said, "Are you kidding me? Daddy, I drove 600 miles to be here, Bill goes out of his way to come see you, Frank is flying in from San Diego to be here and Kristie has received permission to leave her cloistered monastery to come here for the first time in 28 years! Why in the world would they do that if you had not been a good father?" In that moment the stilted relationship with my father disappeared and we began to talk about everything and anything. It was the turning point I had wished for my entire life. During that year I drove to Ohio alone 6 times. My father and I spent countless hours together during his numerous hospital stays and rehab. I knew it was probably due to the medications, so I accepted the gift knowing it could end. I have fond memories from my time in Ohio.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-InrLBPOijs8/UAO5btDLKQI/AAAAAAAAATA/dqGaEi5j19Y/s1600/rabbithole.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-InrLBPOijs8/UAO5btDLKQI/AAAAAAAAATA/dqGaEi5j19Y/s200/rabbithole.jpg" width="142" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">The morning after my parents arrived in Atlanta in 2009 I found my father in the kitchen crying. I think waking up here was a bit disorienting. He started talking about being worthless and wishing he was dead. I stood there not knowing what to do. I was 50 and I had never seen my father cry before! I hugged him and told him it was going to be okay, that <u>he</u> was going to be okay. I realized through the next 2 years that that scene had nothing to do with being disoriented. My father would constantly put himself down, call himself stupid and a waste. It was extremely difficult to hear because his words were the same words I heard in my own head about myself. My father seemed angry and depressed about his loss of usefulness, but it was more than that. He was melancholy. In 2011 I realized that being melancholy was probably genetic and therefore the reason I felt the way I did. After 2 years of caring for my parents it was difficult to fight the dark moods. Everything felt so hopeless and I felt like a trapped animal. I was disappointed in my life and the choices I had made. </span><span style="background-color: white;">It was like getting sucked into a vortex or falling down the rabbit hole as in "Alice in Wonderland". </span><span style="background-color: white;">I felt overwhelmed taking care of my parents. It was much harder than I thought it would be. As a result, I had alienated most of the people in my life. Looking back on it I can't blame them for abandoning me. No one wants to be around a gloomy person. Being melancholy is hard work and I had had enough. So I decided to fight it. I forced myself to smile, laugh, act happy and pretend to enjoy things I did and people I met. Pretty soon I realized I wasn't pretending anymore that I was truly happy, smiling because I meant it and getting joy from life itself. Someone I recently met remarked I had a delightful joie de vivre. I had to smile because just one year ago I wished I was dead. People seem to like me now. They respond positively to me anyway. My brother Bill remarked the other day when he came to visit how surprised he was to find me being so happy and gregarious. He expected to find me dour and down about taking care of our parents. I think he might have dreaded the visit because of it. He says that he, too, suffers from occasional melancholy. Genes, gotta love 'em!</span><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W44DyqZFFZI/UAO6OUm-qJI/AAAAAAAAATI/F7rPKvvtzV4/s1600/rainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-W44DyqZFFZI/UAO6OUm-qJI/AAAAAAAAATI/F7rPKvvtzV4/s1600/rainbow.jpg" /></a><span style="background-color: white;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">Don't misunderstand. I still get melancholy once in a while, but I am able to hide it from most people.. I have also noticed a change in my father, as well. I'm thinking that our moods fed on each other, but once I changed <u>my</u> behavior his moodiness seemed less frequent. I haven't heard him disparage himself in awhile so I hope that means he believes it less. I do regret not knowing I had the power within me to control the melancholy, but I have the rest of my life to make up for it. </span>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-15707510093127938542012-07-14T14:53:00.001-07:002012-07-23T14:36:46.396-07:00Getting PsychedTrying to understand the psyche of an elderly person is nearly impossible in my experience. Their ability to reason has taken a detour from it's normal route. My parents have been here for a little over 3 years and we have had to weather all sorts of situations. In a sense, we had to find a "rhythm" for being here all together. Once we got into a groove, so to speak, we had less outbursts and more harmony. Getting to that point was at times quite a struggle. <span style="background-color: white;">One of the struggles was over the issue of their safety.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6qmr08CT1pg/UAOkxXzTwiI/AAAAAAAAASI/5whTixETsk8/s1600/walker1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6qmr08CT1pg/UAOkxXzTwiI/AAAAAAAAASI/5whTixETsk8/s200/walker1.jpg" width="151" /></a>Bill & Mary Beth still lived in my childhood home in Bexley, Ohio in 2008. I felt it was dangerous for them to remain there because it had 4 floors which meant 3 sets of stairs. Their bedroom was on the 2nd floor, kitchen on the 1st floor and the washer & dryer was in the basement. They would have to maneuver stairs at least once or twice a day and that was unacceptable to me. Both of them have had balance issues starting 9 years ago when my father suddenly fell ill in the Winter 2003. I drove to Ohio to help my mom while he was hospitalized in January 2004. (I ended up traveling to Ohio 6 times that year!) While he was in the hospital he became less and less mobile to the point that he could not walk at all. The hospital staff was flummoxed. No one could figure out what had caused it. As a result, he was discharged to a rehab facility so that he could receive physical & occupational therapy several times a day. It was during the rehab stay when he first started using a walker. It was also the beginning of his change in gait. He resisted using the walker once he was able to stand without falling, but relented in using a cane after he fell several times. Watching him go across a room was similar to watching a toddler learning to walk. Very unsure, wobbly and unpredictable. He would habitually leave the cane behind and attempt to cross the room by grabbing hold of anything within reach. Unsecured bookshelves, floor lamps, end tables and china cabinets were some of the things he'd grab if he felt unsteady. All the grabbing of air, stumbling through rooms and falling never seemed to be enough to convince my father to heed the doctors' orders about using walking aids, though.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9hyvh4Qls7o/UAOkh8QZM4I/AAAAAAAAASA/AKQH7lgLkJA/s1600/walker.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9hyvh4Qls7o/UAOkh8QZM4I/AAAAAAAAASA/AKQH7lgLkJA/s200/walker.jpg" width="195" /></a></div>
My mother has had problems with balance as a result of her feet becoming more gnarled over the years. I find this incredible because she had foot surgery in the 70's. I think her condition now is directly linked to the high heels she always wore after the surgeries. When she walks she shuffles and as a result she can't move quickly. In February 2012 she broke her shoulder outside her doctor's office. I guess if you re going to fall the best place to do it is at the doctor's office! She had received a walker in January, but she didn't want to use it outside the house. She said it was because the doctor's office was cramped, but we knew she just didn't want people to see her using it. So there she was with my dad walking out to the car. My dad was using a cane. It was like the blind leading the blind. I had gone to get the car to pick them up at the curb, first mistake. I did not get out of the car when I pulled up, second mistake. I didn't insist on them walking to the ramp, third mistake. She came over toward the car and stepped off the curb and kept going down, down against the open door and landed between the car and the door. I watched in horror when she fell. I swear it was in slow-motion. My dad said without any affect, "oh, dear". I'm not kidding. His wife is lying on the asphalt and he says, "oh, dear" as an after thought, just in case I missed that my mother had taken a dive and lay on the ground! The nurses and her doctor were there immediately. I was actually quite calm. I knew she was in good hands. Plus, falling is pretty routine with my parents. One or the other falls in any given month. I learned while raising children that you temper your reactions to minimize the child's fear when something happens to them. When you jump up and run to a fallen child it scares them more than if you wait to see if they are injured first, then go to them. I follow the same guideline with my parents because they don't need some drama queen fussing about nothing. She was loaded onto a gurney and as she was being rolled to the ambulance she looked unfazed still wearing her ever present sunglasses. I remember thinking how even now she holds appearance as a priority! <br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RGitZxV9DB4/UAOv2k1glkI/AAAAAAAAASg/Q-wM5mlxk74/s1600/bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RGitZxV9DB4/UAOv2k1glkI/AAAAAAAAASg/Q-wM5mlxk74/s200/bed.jpg" width="172" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cj8-XsuqT90/UAOsBHv9bHI/AAAAAAAAASU/XBMwEYyNrzU/s1600/wheelchair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cj8-XsuqT90/UAOsBHv9bHI/AAAAAAAAASU/XBMwEYyNrzU/s1600/wheelchair.jpg" /></a>As a result of falling my mother received a wheelchair that my father now pushes. It serves two purposes. One good, one bad. On the one hand my dad is forced to walk with assistance when pushing her around, but on the other hand she has become even less mobile than before she fell. She already spent 80% of her time lying in bed because, as she puts it, "that's where I do all my stuff". Just as we tried to get my father to use his cane or walker, we try without success to get through to my mother about spending so much time in the bed. On occasion she will come out to the living room to watch TV. She will always bring attention to us that she is doing so. Just to prove we are wrong about her always being in the bed! Sometimes she has him bring her in the wheelchair which isn't really the same as her walking. They will both use walkers if my father is feeling particularly shaky. They come into a room hunched over their walkers as if in some sort of old people parade. And just in case you didn't notice the sound and sight of it, one of them announces, "here comes the train!" I don't dare say anything. I WANT them to use the walkers!! My dad <u>finally</u> understands his need to walk with assistance. Now if I could just figure out a way to get Mary Beth out of that bed...<br />
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-53523194741394150092012-07-07T02:47:00.001-07:002012-07-23T14:40:09.281-07:00Time to make the donuts!!!<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fx-HWmQR67I/T_SHaMCNvHI/AAAAAAAAARg/giSMI4a-A5U/s1600/fred.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fx-HWmQR67I/T_SHaMCNvHI/AAAAAAAAARg/giSMI4a-A5U/s200/fred.jpg" width="156" /></a>Do you remember the Dunkin' Donuts commercials in the 1980's that had Fred the Baker portrayed by actor Michael Vale. In the opening shot he was enthusiastic and had a cheery "Time to make the donuts!" but then with the passage of time he became increasingly weary. By the last shot, he was practically dragging himself out the door without changing out of his pajamas as he absentmindedly grabbed a coat saying. "time to make the donuts" in an almost inaudible tone that reflected an unenthusiastic attitude and weariness. This phrase has permeated my life with gusto. <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HQuNp63pMEg/T_SJqAgIFdI/AAAAAAAAARo/IOBEv3dG1t8/s1600/eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HQuNp63pMEg/T_SJqAgIFdI/AAAAAAAAARo/IOBEv3dG1t8/s200/eggs.jpg" width="200" /></a>When my parents arrived here in 2009, I told them I would make their breakfast for them until they became acclimated to being here and accustomed to the layout of the kitchen. They arrived on a Saturday, so I knew I would be rising early on Sunday morning. I just didn't know HOW early! As an earlier blog post mentioned, we chose this house because of the arrangements of the bedrooms. Master on the main, in particular was important because I wanted them to have a large room with their own bath. My bedroom is directly beneath theirs in the daylight basement. As long as I can remember my parents rise at a very early time. Dark-thirty to be exact. In real time on that first Sunday? It was around 5:15am!! Because they are above me I knew when they were awake. Actually, as it turned out, just my dad. I literally bolted up and RAN upstairs! Yep, ran! The last time I moved that fast out of a dead sleep there was a squalling baby involved. My youngest is 25. I think I pulled something as I sprinted up the stairs to the kitchen. I cooked his breakfast for several weeks and then he took over. He cooked his own breakfast for about 4 months. One day my Mom approached me to say that she noticed that he was practically on his knees in front of the stove trying to cook breakfast. I think he was relieved that I was taking over.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oBfgrW56LHc/T_TnUpXu9lI/AAAAAAAAAR0/TfPHXx2mP-0/s1600/dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="138" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-oBfgrW56LHc/T_TnUpXu9lI/AAAAAAAAAR0/TfPHXx2mP-0/s200/dawn.jpg" width="200" /></a>So the next day I got up at the usual ungodly hour to fix his breakfast. I was happy to do it, but man, was it hard to be up that early! (That's another thing. I have NEVER used an alarm clock. This is unbelievable seeing how I used to sleep until after 9am before they arrived!) Steve & I would get up, stumble up the stairs and start breakfast without saying a word. Getting up up like that gets old REALLY fast. Each day became blurred into the next one to the point that I actually had to look at the kitchen calendar to see what day it was on some mornings. It became so monotonous. I don't when, but one morning I woke up and as I reached for my glasses I heard my husband say unenthusiastically somewhere in the darkness, "time to make the donuts!" It didn't help, but it did bring a wry smile to my face. We have continued to make breakfast together, but it's so routine we don't feel the fatigue and the early hour quite as much as before. Every once in awhile after a particularly short night I will rise feeling extremely tired and in the darkness I hear in a sing-song lilt, "time to make the donuts!" And everything is okay.Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-37767592884657935662012-07-01T19:41:00.000-07:002012-07-23T14:52:12.457-07:00I'm Not Pig-Pen....Yet.One issue that is paramount in caregiving is the physical and mental health of the caregivers. Even before my parents moved here three years ago, people I met would tell me to be sure and take care of myself. As far as the emotional stress from being a care-giver goes, I'm good. I have a great husband who helps out when he can and a daughter who routinely keeps up with dishes, recycling and keeping surfaces germ-free with Lysol wipes. An absolute must in this house! None of us have been sick during this three year period. Knock on wood. I also started a blog after keeping journals for three years. This has helped tremendously! Quite cathartic! I take several breaks during the year to visit friends when I can get away. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FsaetoSsGno/T-25GWq6Q6I/AAAAAAAAAQQ/wrSqUg5Rwtg/s1600/bedhead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-FsaetoSsGno/T-25GWq6Q6I/AAAAAAAAAQQ/wrSqUg5Rwtg/s320/bedhead.jpg" width="228" /></a>The physical aspect of taking care of myself is a different story. <span style="background-color: white;">Easier said than done. I have neglected myself to the point of distraction.</span><span style="background-color: white;"> I walk around in yesterday's clothes, unwashed hair and old make-up. </span><span style="background-color: white;">I also tend to stay in pajama bottoms most of the time and</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">I've become a bit of a slob </span><span style="background-color: white;"> My daughter has found cheese and peanut butter in my hair. I found a Cheeto in my bra once and I've had popcorn fall from several shirts when changing clothes. I guess I'm part chipmunk. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> I've looked in the mirror many times to see mascara smudged under my eyes or streaked over my temples. Once when driving my parents to a doctor appointment I realized I was still wearing slippers! I had to drop them off and drive 10 miles back to the house to get shoes. </span><br />
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I have also found all sorts of food stuffs under my nails. I quit having mani-pedis when we moved here. <span style="background-color: white;">That may have been a mistake. I tend to treat my nails as though they are screwdrivers, pan scrapers or food testers. </span><span style="background-color: white;">When I had pretty nails they were pampered. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> I stopped cutting my hair. This wasn't my plan. I just needed to find a place to go to in the new area. I still haven't figured that out. No time. My hair has grown out in it's natural color and with gray streaks since I also stopped coloring it. I pull it back constantly, but because I can never remember to carry scrunchies, I frequently have pens, pencils or shish kabob skewers stuck in ersatz buns.</span><br />
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As expected my mind has begun failing. I walk out of a room to retrieve something from another room, but by the time I get to the second room I've already forgotten what I was going there for. I forget entire thoughts when talking to someone and rarely ever remember what they were. I even searched for almost 15 minutes once for my glasses...I was WEARING them!!! I have left tasks half finished when I forget I was doing them in the first place, sort of like having selective ADD. I'll go back into a room to find a deserted vacuum, iron, half folded laundry, abandoned projects or tools. I have not only forgotten to take showers, but I am notorious for putting off running to the bathroom. I do, however, brush and floss my teeth daily and go to the dentist twice a year. So I might look deranged, but I have a nice smile.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vkWS1a5PUhQ/T-24oNhB2PI/AAAAAAAAAQI/Ozug21FjvkA/s1600/lambies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vkWS1a5PUhQ/T-24oNhB2PI/AAAAAAAAAQI/Ozug21FjvkA/s200/lambies.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ewe's not fat, Ewe's fluffy!</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;">I have lousy eating habits. </span>I fix meals at least three to five times a day, yet I can get to the end of the day and realize I myself have had nothing but coffee and ice tea all day. I often eat cereal or popcorn for dinner, just to get it out of the way. In 2010, I went on Weight Watchers and lost 42 pounds. <span style="background-color: white;"> I describe myself as fluffy. Oh, I know I am at least 30 pounds overweight, but I like the term "fluffy" better. It means I'm cuddly. </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">I have been lucky that the weight and eating habits have not led to health issues, however last month I started having loss of appetite which led to unexpected weight loss. I have an endoscopic procedure in July to determine if it's related to stomach issues. Since the appointment was made, though, I seem to have found my appetite and the weight loss has stopped. Go figure.</span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8KSxJqmZALU/T-5V1pGJUSI/AAAAAAAAAQo/lbXVLARzlLU/s1600/pigpen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8KSxJqmZALU/T-5V1pGJUSI/AAAAAAAAAQo/lbXVLARzlLU/s200/pigpen.jpg" width="185" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">There are so many things to do for my parents. There's a lot to do all the time. The list never gets finished. Laundry, housekeeping, cooking, grocery shopping, prescriptions, doctor's appointments and trips to the Dairy Queen keep me very busy. </span><span style="background-color: white;">The reminders to care for myself did not fall on deaf ears, but I have my own errands, appointments, cooking, cleaning, etc. to do for myself and my family. I need to pay attention to myself. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Like I am going to remember to do that! But even if I'm not dressed well or have my wits about me, I think I'm hanging in there with the </span><span style="background-color: white;">care-giving</span><span style="background-color: white;"> gig. I can always take a shower tomorrow!</span>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com2Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-77353661260208230782012-06-24T04:34:00.000-07:002012-07-23T15:14:49.358-07:00Hobbits<div sb_id="ms__id978">
Hobbits are a fictional diminutive race who inhabit the lands of Middle-earth in J. R. R. Tolkien's novel,</div>
<div sb_id="ms__id978">
<span style="background-color: white;"><i>The Hobbit</i>. The novel <i>The Lord of the Rings</i> includes more hobbits as major characters.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white;">So, as most people probably know, hobbits have odd eating habits, eating six normal sized meals a day. Here's a list of the meals they eat:</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">1. Breakfast</span><br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YRYK273g0CU/T9_almP1A3I/AAAAAAAAAOw/udLU8vFDutU/s1600/hobbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YRYK273g0CU/T9_almP1A3I/AAAAAAAAAOw/udLU8vFDutU/s320/hobbit.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="background-color: white;">2. Second Breakfast</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">3. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Elevenses</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">4. Lunch</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">5. Afternoon Tea</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">6. Dinner</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">7. Supper</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">My parents are becoming hobbits. No, really. They are. I know this because over the last three years I have observed their eating habits and they have changed dramatically. </span><span style="background-color: white;">When Bill & Mary Beth first moved here in 2009, they took care of most of their own meals, in particular breakfasts & lunches. Once they were comfortable in the kitchen, familiar with where everything was kept, they were able to take care of themselves. I thought this was good because the more involved they were in such matters the quicker they would feel like they were home and not guests in their daughter's house. </span></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JmHCK6WMnhc/T9_dRcrxioI/AAAAAAAAAPI/R6nOFE7X5gg/s1600/eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JmHCK6WMnhc/T9_dRcrxioI/AAAAAAAAAPI/R6nOFE7X5gg/s200/eggs.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white;">First breakfast is served around 7AM. </span>For over 60 years, Bill has had 2 scrambled eggs for breakfast with bacon or sausage, toast, OJ and coffee with cream & sugar. No deviations, except on occasion I think he'd have over easy eggs - you know, for a change of pace. He made his own breakfast. There wasn't a day during my entire childhood that I didn't see him whipping up eggs in a bowl using a fork. My mother didn't eat eggs but maybe once a week. Mary Beth preferred cold cereal with toast in the morning, usually plain cereals like Corn Flakes or Cheerios. Sometimes she'd go for plain shredded wheat - the kind that looks like the baled haystacks you see in fields when passing farms. These breakfasts were the same even after moving here until about a year later. Mary Beth informed me that Bill was having a hard time making breakfast due to physical limitations. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Actually what she said was that he was so slumped over the stove she thought he'd catch on fire! Now THERE is an image for a caregiver to contemplate! I went to him and suggested that I do breakfast. Because of his diminished appetite, my dad only eats 1 egg now with OJ and coffee. No toast or bacon. Mary Beth still eats cold cereal everyday, however after she discovered Froot Loops in our kitchen, she never ate healthy cereal again. .</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">So that takes care of breakfast. For about 30 minutes. </span><span style="background-color: white;">Second breakfast is served around 8AM. </span><span style="background-color: white;">After returning to her bedroom, Mary Beth will call out for more coffee and usually something to go with it. Sometimes a pastry, cookie or an onion bagel with peanut butter. Don't ask. Bill carries chocolates in his pockets, as well as, cookies. If there is pie or cake from the night before, they will ask for that. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Elevenses time can vary anywhere from 9-10AM. It usually consists of cereal or waffle topped with ice cream. That's right. Ice cream. The waffle will also have fruit on it. Strawberries, peaches or bananas. No syrup because that would make it too sweet, you know.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Lunch is served anytime between 10-noon. That usually consists of a half sandwich with coffee or soft drink for Mary Beth. Bill used to eat that, too, but now wants Froot Loops with ice cream. He will sometimes have Cream of Wheat, but with honey & butter. No ice cream.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1trEHT9Dqlc/T9_bl67H4eI/AAAAAAAAAO4/dEmQj13ApRg/s1600/milkshake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1trEHT9Dqlc/T9_bl67H4eI/AAAAAAAAAO4/dEmQj13ApRg/s200/milkshake.jpg" width="133" /></a>They usually take a nap after lunch, wouldn't you? When they wake they will have a snack with something to drink. I guess that's Afternoon Tea. It takes place between 2 & 4PM. Many times they will come into the living room to watch TV and they have their Afternoon Tea in there. Cheez-its and coke for Bill. Flavored Wheat Thins and Sprite for Mary Beth. They love to have milkshakes, too, so if I make a milkshake, they will share it.<br />
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Around 4PM they are looking for dinner. They have had it as late as 6PM, though, depending on the household schedule. They have become finicky in their golden years. If I fix a roast with potatoes and root veggies, they may eat some. Many times I have fixed a meal like that only to have them ask for Cream of Wheat, soup, Ramen or canned tamales. This used to aggravate me, but I came to realize that if they are eating, <u>that</u> is the more important issue. After dinner, they both want dessert. It can be ice cream(again!), pie, cake, cookies or sometimes another milkshake.<br />
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Between 6 & 8PM is supper. That's usually cereal or sometimes a handful of cookies or chocolates. Then it's off to bed between 8 & 9PM.<br />
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See what I mean? Hobbits! <br />
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-26785527721931977392012-06-17T05:54:00.001-07:002012-07-24T04:53:23.887-07:00Meatball sub, anyone?<br />
A sandwich is a food item, typically consisting of two or more slices of bread with one or more fillings between them. The sandwich generation is defined as the people who care for aging parents, as well as their own children-a phenomena that has become more commonplace in recent years in this country. For my family, our stint in the sandwich generation began in 2009 with both of my parents on one side and my daughter on the other side. One year later my son would boomerang back to become part of the sandwich. A three generational home is the norm in most countries except in the United States. Many cultures do not understand the need to push children out of the nest. Nor do they expect their aging parents to live in retirement homes. Family taking care of family. It's been traditional family life in other countries, but because it is a new concept for most people in this country new challenges arrive on a daily basis.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v92djOvA63E/T9vOigpx7bI/AAAAAAAAAOY/HKfdbATq7Qk/s1600/DSC3512+house+-+front+s-gb.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v92djOvA63E/T9vOigpx7bI/AAAAAAAAAOY/HKfdbATq7Qk/s200/DSC3512+house+-+front+s-gb.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
One consideration for my parents, Bill & Mary Beth moving here to live with us was where they would sleep in the house. We chose the house based on their needs more than ours. A bedroom on the main floor was the first requirement of a prospective house because we knew at some point they wouldn't navigate stairs well. What we found were many houses with guest rooms on the first floor and although that would be fine for a temporary guest, it was not a viable solution for permanent elderly residents. This house was perfect and we knew it the minute we walked into the front door. We have them in the Master bedroom on the main floor. Our downstairs bedroom is directly below them and allows us to hear my parents if they call out during the night. Selected pieces from my parents' home went into the dining room and parlor on the main floor. This allows them to continue to enjoy it and to feel a little more at home while here. They lived in their last home for almost 50 years, so I never wanted them to regret being here. One thing we didn't plan for was the maneuverability of a wheelchair within the house. Thankfully, the open floor plan on the main floor has worked well for the wheelchair my mom now uses since breaking her shoulder in February. So the layout has worked for them quite well. That's the first side of my sub sandwich.<br />
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The second side of the sandwich is my children. The house has a loft area that consists of a mini-living room with two bedrooms, a linen closet and bathroom. They are both in college, but living at home. It's like they are suite mates. The only thing it lacks at this point, according to Alex and Taylor, is a mini fridge and microwave. I told them not to push it. Let's face it, we want them to leave eventually! The loft is a bit of an oasis away from the hustle and bustle of elder care-giving. (There will be plenty of opportunity for that when I move in with them in 30 years!!) If I need help, I ask. <br />
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The loft overlooks the living room, so even if they are upstairs we are never really out of range. Amazingly, as much room as we have here we still tend to gravitate toward each other. One unforeseen aspect of this arrangement is that the family has become closer-knit. I worried that we would have problems with six adults under one roof, but that has not happened. Don't get me wrong. We do have disagreements, but we seem to work them out without too much trouble. Something occurred to me recently, too. I actually <u>like</u> the people I live with and not just because they are relatives! Each member of this house provides something positive as a result of being here. <br />
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You can't have a sandwich without the insides. The inside of our three generational sandwich is the caregivers, Steve & me. I am a meatball because meatballs are complex. They are soft, yet solid and have substance. Steve is the sauce and the cheese because they temper the meatball, smooth out its roughness, gives it flavor and provides stability. Without the sauce and cheese the sandwich would fall apart. Steve has not once complained about bringing Bill & Mary Beth here. In fact, I think he had less reservations about it than I did! Steve was lucky when it came to in-laws, though. My family accepted him with open arms and my siblings have always treated him like a brother. Actually, my mother chose my husband for me. Not in the traditional sense, mind you. I had a tendency to date "mutts" and I knew this, but couldn't seem to attract a decent fellow. When I met Steve the first thing I learned was that he was already a college graduate and was in graduate school. He was spiritual, conservative and he thought I was cute. We were friends for a year before dating. After dating for two months he met my parents. I knew that if my mom didn't like him, he was history. I have talked about her penchant for judging based on looks, so I held my breath as they were introduced. They loved him right away because he was respectful, gentlemanly, and talkative. He talked to them as if he always knew them and it impressed them both. She later remarked that she couldn't help but like him since it was obvious he was crazy about me. Can't ask for more than that.<br />
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So it was Steve's turn to welcome my parents into <u>our</u> home with open arms. All six of us work very well together and the sandwich is now complete. A meatball sub sandwich. It can get messy, but oh so good. Welcome to the sandwich generation!Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-23491097898733313092012-06-15T05:30:00.001-07:002012-07-24T04:52:29.721-07:00MemoriesWatching active people lose vitality & memory is so heartbreaking. My parents, Bill & Mary Beth have become mere shells of who they used to be. They have forgotten so much of what they did, where they went and who they knew. It is difficult to balance what they are like now with the people I knew growing up. The aging process is nothing if not cruel and it is definitely an unforgiving nemesis to one's cherished memories. Recently I started talking to them about their life experiences to stimulate their memories.. They also have created new memories while they live the remainder of their lives with us.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2xzFgx3ilos/T9nvZIc53GI/AAAAAAAAANw/6I3Jsvvvb4I/s1600/umbrella.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2xzFgx3ilos/T9nvZIc53GI/AAAAAAAAANw/6I3Jsvvvb4I/s200/umbrella.jpg" width="200" /></a>I was born in 1958, so my age of awareness is somewhere around 2-3 years old. I think being at my maternal grandparents' house in Athens when my grandmother died is possibly my earliest memory. I remember standing in the living room a midst dozens of people and I asked my sister where Nanny was and Kristie, being her forthright self said, "She's dead!" I would have been 3 years & 4 months old. Another memory from earlier that year is getting an umbrella stuck in my mouth.. I'm not kidding. Remember the J-shaped umbrella handles? I got this bright idea to stick in my mouth and it got lodged in the area directly behind my bottom teeth! Having no background in geometry, biology, physics or common sense, I was flummoxed as to how to free myself. There I was standing on our screened-in porch with this contraption stuck in my mouth, arms flailing and crying! At some point I got outside to where my mother stood talking to a neighbor. She turned to see me walking toward her with this umbrella handle stuck in my mouth and the opposite end trailing between my legs because it was longer than I was tall. My flailing arms stretched out and crying I looked at her unable to speak. She said, "Oh, good lord!" and reached down to extricate the handle from my now very sore mouth. That was 51 years ago and I remember it like it was yesterday. I remember the pain I felt when the hard plastic dug into my skin inside my mouth.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zNX5MchApo0/T9nvrO6Wg_I/AAAAAAAAAN4/FAvmiSR_QgI/s1600/memory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-zNX5MchApo0/T9nvrO6Wg_I/AAAAAAAAAN4/FAvmiSR_QgI/s200/memory.jpg" width="166" /></a>Most memories are not that clear or detailed. With the passage of time they become blurred and forgotten. It is worse with dementia. Thankfully neither one of my parents have signs of any dementia. I don't know if they appreciate that, but I do. I am able to talk to them about different aspects of their lives and lately I have written them down for posterity. My mother doesn't understand why. I try to explain that everyone has a story, but no one thinks their own stories are interesting because they know the story inside and out. When someone else hears those stories its with fresh ears and it <u>is</u> interesting. My parents have 88 and 87 years worth of memories. When I was growing up they were always on the go. They attended church activities during the week, symphonies, concerts, plays, movies, cocktail parties and fund-raisers. During the 60's my father scuba dived with my brother Bill and had a strong interest in HAM radio, as well as Toastmasters. In the 70's my mother learned how to play tennis and played on a team. In the 80's my father bought his first pair of walking shoes and they both started walking for exercise. They also traveled extensively in the 80's and 90's. Both of my parents were larger than life to me growing up. My dad could fix anything and my mom was always doing for others. They started slowing down only in the past 8 years, but even after spending the majority of the year in the hospital in 2004, my dad climbed up onto the roof of the garage in Ohio to clean the gutters! Even though he knew his fixer-upper days were over he still wanted to contribute. The purpose of me talking about the things they did is so they feel a sense of accomplishment with their lives. Feeling like one mattered in this world can make the difference in how one views the experience. <br />
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The lack of mobility taints my parents' view of their lives, too. The first year here in 2009, they went with us to the Dunwoody 4th of July parade. No walkers or wheelchairs, just a cane for my dad. Mary Beth resisted using any assistance until this last year. She was told to use a walker. She didn't use it much and chose to leave it at home when she had a doctor's appointment this past February. As she left the office she attempted to step down off the curb and fell breaking her shoulder. Ironically, for 6 weeks she had to be transported by wheelchair. She continued to be pushed by my dad months later. Only after being accused of getting lazy did she finally agree to use the walker, but only on occasion. When he isn't pushing the wheelchair my dad uses a walker upstairs and a cane downstairs. He has become much too shaky & unstable to move about without some type of assistance. He gets easily frustrated when he cannot do the simplest of tasks. That is one reason he started sleeping in his clothes, less work than wearing pajamas. I had considered putting his computer in their bedroom, but then I realized that going downstairs to his office is one thing he can still do. As long as it is not dangerous, he should keep doing it. My mother stopped doing stairs last year. She does continue doing artwork to a lesser extent than she used to. It has become difficult, though and as a result frustrating. <br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WlVTE6yN_D4/T9nwQtKrYVI/AAAAAAAAAOA/1dD8K_j66HA/s1600/DSC_6885+billandbuffy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-WlVTE6yN_D4/T9nwQtKrYVI/AAAAAAAAAOA/1dD8K_j66HA/s320/DSC_6885+billandbuffy.jpg" width="211" /></a>Bill & Mary Beth were both only children, so when they married they wanted a large family. They had 4 children and subsequently, 8 grandchildren. Two of them are mine and they live here in the same house. The ability to see their first 2 grandchildren become young adults is an experience that I know my parents enjoy. Something they do here that they couldn't do in Ohio is to sit on a deck and watch hummingbirds. We also have a plethora of wild animals in our yard. Chipmunks, possums, hawks, owls and lizards have been seen in our backyard. Our front yard has seen a fair share of deer coming and going, a site never experienced in Ohio. We also have crepe myrtle trees, gardenias, azaleas, magnolias and irises that delight my mother to no end every spring and summer. My parents also enjoy our cat, Buffy. Buffy has taken to my dad quite a bit. I have witnessed her coming into a room, survey the occupants and go directly to her grandpa. She sits on him with a look of pure love on her face. I know he loves her because he will sit still for hours while she sleeps in his arms or on his lap. Another experience new to my parents being here is going to Dairy Queen every Sunday afternoon. It started pretty soon after they moved here after they found out there was a DQ near-by. The day I knew my mom was getting better from her broken shoulder was when she said she wanted DQ. Getting into the garage and into the car was taxing, but she persevered and I knew she was going to be okay.<br />
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Having Bill & Mary Beth here has been an experience that I will not likely ever forget. It is harder and more rewarding than I ever imagined. I get told by people who hear what I'm doing that I have earned the entrance to Heaven, but I don't care if I have or not. I'm doing this because of who they've been to me. It is my goal that their last years are memorable. After all, don't they deserve that much?Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-10644617965005461892012-06-08T05:58:00.001-07:002012-07-25T15:21:45.120-07:00Bill & Mary: The Love Story<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hr3ksvY7Iv4/T9U9w-043zI/AAAAAAAAANk/9TUBz4emsxo/s1600/Mary.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hr3ksvY7Iv4/T9U9w-043zI/AAAAAAAAANk/9TUBz4emsxo/s320/Mary.jpg" width="232" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mary Pierce Engagement Picture-1946</td></tr>
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Most love stories begin the same. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love. Boy marries girl. My parents were no exception except that it went more like this- Boy sees girl then takes entire summer to ask her out and finally has first date the night before she's scheduled to leave town. But fate is a funny thing. That first night both of my parents knew they'd not be apart for long.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b11gip1viYc/T9HlFtjy5ZI/AAAAAAAAAMk/Z3EqQq9CLA0/s1600/Bill+Johnston+-+Dayton+1946+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-b11gip1viYc/T9HlFtjy5ZI/AAAAAAAAAMk/Z3EqQq9CLA0/s200/Bill+Johnston+-+Dayton+1946+crop.jpg" width="158" /></a>In the Summer of 1944 my father, Bill, was working at Curtis-Wright (now Rockwell) as part of his Engineering Co-op work study through the University of Cincinnati . My mother, Mary, was also working at Curtis-Wright as a temporary secretary during her summer break from Ohio University. The first time Bill Johnston saw Mary Pierce he was on a city bus on the way to work. He looked out when the bus stopped and saw a beautiful, young, slender woman with long dark wavy hair running to catch it. After boarding the bus she found herself face to face with a tall, lanky gentleman dressed in a typical suit and tie. Mary looked up at him and smiled and said hi. She says he was drop dead gorgeous. According to Bill, he was already in love at that point. He would see her on the bus daily, but didn't feel confident he could get a date. He wondered about it for 3 months and near the end of the summer someone told him that Mary would be leaving the next day because her summer break was over. Bill finally found his nerve. They went on their first date that night at the VFW for dinner and dancing. When he walked her home he was not sure of what to say so he told her to travel safely the next day and turned to leave. She watched him walking away and knew that she was in love and at that moment called out to him softly saying his name, "Bill?" He turned and ran back to her open arms taking her in his and kissing her for the first time and cementing the bond between them that has lasted 68 years.<br />
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Mary returned to school in Athens, Ohio and Bill returned to the University of Cincinnati. At some point in the semester he sent her a letter suggesting that she come visit him in Cincinnati. He had even arranged for her to stay in the Alpha Gamma House on the UC campus, but my grandmother said it would be improper for my mom to do that. According to my mother, my grandmother never put her foot down about very many things, but when she objected to my mother going to UC, my mom listened to her. The following semester at the beginning of 1945, Mary left school to work for the war effort. She wanted to go to either the Pentagon or to go work in Tampa, Florida at a Discharge Post. She had never been to Florida so off to Tampa she went. They had no openings so she went to work at a newspaper in the area. It was in that office that she found out about the death of President Roosevelt when it come over the teletype machine in the newsroom.</div>
Mary continued to work at the newspaper until a friend from OU came to Florida wanting to work in Sarasota and asked my mom to go with her.. Marcie and Mary arrived in Sarasota to get jobs at drug stores right after the movie "The Greatest Show on Earth" was filmed there. Being a hub for the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus my mom made friends with many of the circus performers and even stood bridesmaid when a friend married one. Marcie soon got bored with Sarasota and returned to OU. My mom finally got a spot with the Discharge Post and went back to Tampa. When the Discharge Post closed she went to work for the VA in St. Petersburg.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1JFIZqaME_w/T9HmnawMm4I/AAAAAAAAAMs/bTSSebPcDrM/s1600/Bill-Mary+-+Dayton+ca+1946b+pse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1JFIZqaME_w/T9HmnawMm4I/AAAAAAAAAMs/bTSSebPcDrM/s320/Bill-Mary+-+Dayton+ca+1946b+pse.jpg" width="304" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1946</td></tr>
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Bill was Honorably Discharged from the Army Air Corps for having a bad chest x-ray, but he kept the uniform. After Mary went to work in Florida,she didn't see him since travel was limited because of rationing. During his summer break in 1946, Bill hitchhiked in his uniform from Cincinnati to St. Pete. Mary says that she was on lunch break at work on the beach in St. Pete and when she returned to the office she saw this good-looking man in uniform walking toward her with a huge grin on his face. She said she was so shocked to see him, but extremely happy. She was crazy about him and he obviously felt the same way! After he went back to school, Bill sent her a letter proposing marriage and she returned a letter accepting it. In the Fall of 1946, he got a ride with other UC students going to the UC/OU football game in Athens, Ohio. While in Athens he met Harold and Flora Pierce, my grandparents. It was during this visit that he asked her father for her hand in marriage. They both immediately gave them their blessing. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kXbDCQn22mk/T9HmyHSD_2I/AAAAAAAAAM0/IubQoVomkn8/s1600/Bill-Mary+xmas+1948.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kXbDCQn22mk/T9HmyHSD_2I/AAAAAAAAAM0/IubQoVomkn8/s320/Bill-Mary+xmas+1948.jpg" width="214" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1948</td></tr>
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After becoming engaged, Mary returned to Athens but did not return to school. Bill was doing his Co-op in Dayton at Wright Field and wrote to tell her that the R & D (Research & Development) Department badly needed secretaries and that she could get a job there. Harold and Flora drove her to Dayton where she lived in a Girls' Residence and worked at Wright Field. They decided not have a long engagement so in November Bill Johnston & Mary Pierce took a city bus to the county courthouse and were married by a Justice of the Peace. It was November 16, 1946 and so began a union that produced 4 children(Kristie, Bill III, Frank & Heidi) and led to 8 grandchildren (Alex, Taylor, Sean, Fiona, Maggie, Liam, Colin & Brendan). This year they celebrate 66 years of marital bliss. And they are still crazy in love. Is it any wonder why this writer is such a hopeless romantic?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ToYhWgPiIZs/T90n1-6LhMI/AAAAAAAAAOk/XGkPWhlOwXU/s1600/heidi4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ToYhWgPiIZs/T90n1-6LhMI/AAAAAAAAAOk/XGkPWhlOwXU/s320/heidi4.jpg" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">July 9, 1962</td></tr>
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</div>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com2Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-81585959678564765952012-06-02T05:34:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:50:24.584-07:00Junior Birdman<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GYxq9e60lz8/T8i2ULmGrVI/AAAAAAAAAL0/v69B7jlSFOw/s1600/Bill+Johnston+-+flies+a+vintage+Stearman+biplane+-+-+128922147131310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GYxq9e60lz8/T8i2ULmGrVI/AAAAAAAAAL0/v69B7jlSFOw/s200/Bill+Johnston+-+flies+a+vintage+Stearman+biplane+-+-+128922147131310.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My daddy 2010 </td></tr>
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Up in the air junior birdman<br />
Up in the air upside down<br />
Up in the air junior birdman<br />
Keep your noses off the ground<br />
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My father, William Otis Johnston, Jr., worked as an Aeronautical & Aerospace Engineer when I was growing up. He has always loved everything about planes. He learned how to fly after he got out of the Army in 1942 when he was 18. After he married my mother he flew her to the Indianapolis 500 twice. She threw up. He also flew with my 2 oldest siblings, Bill & Kristie when they were small. My mother threw up again. My brother, Frank & I, never had the thrill of riding with my dad, something I now regret. He quit flying in 1953 because my mom never got acclimated to the cabin pressure and he didn't want to do it without her. He loved her so much he gave up the one thing he wanted to be with her. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Most of the gifts my dad received through the years were airplane related. Pins, models, pictures, calendars even ties and tie-clips. He would look up each time a plane would fly overheard and identify it within seconds. He was amazing. I was in awe of him growing up. He could do anything. A real giant to me. Well, until I became a teenager, then he became my personal ATM. As I have aged and especially after my parents moved here, I have begun to look back with different eyes. I see the man that he was not only as I see him now. A man who knew what it meant to sacrifice his own needs for the greater good of the family. I have to remind myself that that <u>is</u> the real man not the one who drives me nuts today.<br />
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Bill started his career at Curtis-Wright in Dayton, Ohio while he was a student at the University of Cincinnati. He began school at the University of Tennessee, but transferred to UC to take advantage of their engineering program that allowed for Co-op, a work study program. Every other semester he would work in his field balanced with school in between. In his last year of school, he received an offer to work at Curtis-Wright full time and he decided to drop out of school to work. One of his many regrets in life, dropping out with 1 semester left before graduation. (Several years ago I sent an e-mail to the Dean of the Engineering school to inquire about my father obtaining his degree using his work experience for his last credits. I've never received an answer.)<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R0kphvq--1Y/T8j_LB3QvLI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/q9GlEZM9K9E/s1600/stearman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-R0kphvq--1Y/T8j_LB3QvLI/AAAAAAAAAMQ/q9GlEZM9K9E/s200/stearman.jpg" width="200" /></a>From Curtis-Wright he went to North American (now Rockwell) in Columbus. Through the next several decades he worked in Georgia, Maryland and Connecticut. And although he never flew after 1953, his love of planes and anything aeronautical never waned. So it was not too surprising when he arranged to go on an airplane ride in the Spring of 2010. Not just any airplane ride, though, it was a ride on a vintage Stearman bi-plane, you know the kind you see in old movies with the open cockpits? I haven't seen my father that excited before about anything, or since. He was downright giddy and folks, my dad doesn't do giddy! Steve took him up to Canton and my son, Alex, went with them.<br />
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They arrived on a clear Saturday morning in May. Perfect flying conditions. The hangar had Big Band music playng and the pilot handed my dad a headset so that they could communicate during the flight. Because he is so unsteady he needed help getting into the Stearman, but once he was in he was in his element and ready to go. Back at the house, my daughter, Taylor and I took my mother outside to the front driveway to sit. The pilot flew the plane overhead and wagged the wings. It was so thrilling! When his hour flight was over and my dad was back on terra firma, he turned to my son and said, "You're next!" Alex bounded over to the plane and took the ride of his life. Steve followed. When my dad came home he had a spring in his step that wasn't there earlier. He was still floating in the clouds a month later when he arranged for Taylor and I to go up together on Father's Day. We flew over Downtown Atlanta, Stone Mountain and Doraville. It was great. <br />
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My dad has since been diagnosed with a strain of leukemia and continues to be quite shaky. His days of flying are most definitely over, but for that one brief shining moment 2 years ago, he flew high and felt no pain. What I take from this story is that we need to see people as they were in their prime. <u>That</u> is who they were. <u>That</u> is who they still are. Just hidden beneath years of disappointment, sacrifice and the preconceived notions of others. No matter where you've been or how little you think you are, <u>everyone</u> has a story to tell. I never believed that until I started writing.</div>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-82856348350544286312012-06-01T16:13:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:48:53.968-07:00....huh? What?As long as I can remember, my mother has had trouble hearing. Her hearing loss was a result of a childhood bout of Scarlet Fever. We managed to deal with the issue without much trouble, but in the last few years, the hearing loss has become more of a bone of contention between the family and my mother. She refused from first mention to get tested for a hearing aid. Always stating that she didn't like things in her ears. She was quite adamant about it, too. She did have a hearing test some years ago, but that's as far as it went. Once my parents moved here, though, the issue became quite urgent and we almost felt as if an intervention was necessary to fix this problem.<br />
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When I was growing up, we yelled a lot at my house. There were 4 kids in the family, so yelling was normal for us. With 6 people in the house, sometimes it took yelling to be noticed or heard over the din created by 6 people. Someone took something, someone got in someone's way, someone ate the last of something or drank the last bottle of something or someone breathed wrong. Yeah, 4 kids within a 10 year period? There was <u>definitely</u> a lot of yelling, especially when the kids became rebellious teenagers. <br />
In contrast, Steve, my husband, grew up with 1 sibling who was much younger and didn't pose much conflict. As a result, Steve doesn't like yelling. When we were first married, I yelled at any given moment, I even laughed loud. It really was obnoxious. Looking back I wonder how we managed to stay together this long. So imagine his chagrin upon learning that yelling was the solution chosen to deal with my mother's increasing hearing loss. After they arrived here in 2009, it became quite evident that the hearing was worse and our only option was even more yelling. I cringed every time someone had to yell to respond to my mom because I knew Steve hated it. It seemed as if it got worse by leaps and bounds and I knew that something would have to be done about it.<br />
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Hearing loss is never funny, but situations created by hearing loss can be hilarious. Especially when the words spoken are not the words heard.<br />
"Mom, I'll do that in a while." "Whose crocodile?" <br />
"Mom, do you want a Klondike Bar?" "No, I don't want a corndog!" <br />
"Mom, do you want some water?" "Salt?, why do I need salt?" <br />
"Mom, Frank said he took the kids somewhere." "Aren't they going out?" <br />
"Mom, Fiona is with Sean" "What's the matter now? Sibling rivalry?"<br />
"Merry Christmas!" "How's business?" <br />
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And on and on. It became a comedy of errors around here. For 2 1/2 years we went through this charade of yelling in order to be heard and her misunderstanding what we were saying. At one point, she actually complained that we were always yelling at her!! I said, "We are yelling because you won't get a hearing aid!" I told her that enough was enough and that I was arranging a hearing test for her. In addition to her objection with having something in her ear, she also cited that they cost too much and that she didn't think it was necessary and she didn't want to travel to do it. I ignored her. I called Beltone and set up a consultation to take place in our home the following week. She definitely has a significant hearing loss in her right ear and not as much in the left ear. The rep from Beltone suggested getting an aid for just the left ear since it would be covered completely by insurance. The aid itself was transparent as well as small, so her objections were invalidated. She does wear it and I think she was relieved to get it. The house is much quieter. She complains on occasion that the TV is too loud, music to my ears! She still hasn't mastered putting it on by herself, but I can live with that.Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-80902238307439735112012-05-30T11:57:00.001-07:002012-07-24T04:47:59.041-07:00Plumbers On Speed-DialOne of the things that we had to learn early when my parents first came to live with us was that it was best that we never left them unattended. We didn't realize it, though, until AFTER thousands of dollars were spent fixing all the "accidents" that occurred when they were alone. Two specific incidents come to mind.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8poLaFk1FsI/T8ZtOc0NfpI/AAAAAAAAALU/E3Id8Lfy9OA/s1600/water.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8poLaFk1FsI/T8ZtOc0NfpI/AAAAAAAAALU/E3Id8Lfy9OA/s200/water.jpg" width="200" /></a>When we moved to this house 4 years ago, Taylor and I discovered the joy of walking and would go out on a regular basis several times a week. We continued to do so until one fateful day about two years after my parents arrived. Upon returning to the house after our morning walk, Taylor headed to the shower in the loft and I went downstairs to the den to cool off before I, too, took a shower. As I sat on the couch, I began to hear a sound that was not unfamiliar, exactly, I just couldn't pin point what it was. I stood up and began to walk toward the sound and felt something hit my head as I stood near the bathroom door. I looked up to see drops of water cascading through the ceiling tiles and at the same time heard the powder room toilet flushing. Realizing that an overflowing toilet was the source of the flooding, I hightailed it upstairs and found a lake on the powder room floor. It was at that moment my father came stumbling out of the Master bedroom with a small towel. I said, "We'll need more than that!" and ran to the linen closet upstairs in the loft. After getting the water soaked up, I asked my dad how many times he had flushed and he indicated that he flushed several times. I asked why he would continue to flush if it didn't go down the first time and he said,"I don't know. Stupid, I guess!" Now, if you heard that once as an explanation for something someone did by accident, you wouldn't think much about it, but this is the retort we all receive from my father in regard to anything he does. At that point, though, all I could do was clean up the floor and then take care of the downstairs bathroom. I got the toilet fixed and told my dad that I had placed several towels in the powder room cabinet just in case it happened again, The whole episode spooked me enough that Taylor and I decided we couldn't walk while they were awake for fear of another toilet overflow.<br />
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So some time passed before we got cabin fever and decided to venture out leaving Bill & Mary alone again. <u>That </u>decision ended up haunting me for days. When we returned from wherever we went to, I entered my parents' bedroom and my father looked at me sheepishly and said, "Forgive me, dear daughter, I know not of what I did." Now I don't know about you, but when I hear words like that, especially now, blood drains from my being and I start hyperventilating. I took a very deep breath and asked him what happened. He said that the toilet in the Master bathroom was clogged and that he tried to plunge it. I looked toward the bathroom and it looked as though every towel in the room was on the floor soaking up water, never a good sign. I took two steps and promptly felt and heard the familiar SQUISH of wet carpet. My heart sank through the floor and beyond, for several reasons. One, I knew they definitely cannot EVER be left alone again. Two, the cost of repair was going to be astronomical. And three, I was about to have a meltdown. <br />
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I turned to my father and asked him what happened. He claimed that he kept flushing it after it flushed slowly the first time. "Why would you keep flushing?" "I don't know, stupid, I guess!" I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think straight, I needed air and someone to tell me my next step. I called Steve and lost it. After he calmed me down, he said he'd call and get someone out to the house as soon as possible. I stood in the<br />
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As I was leaving the bedroom after my tirade, I heard my father turn to my mom and as deadpan as possible and without a trace of emotion say to her, "Well, I guess we've overstayed our welcome."<br />
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They are still here and I have learned that having meltdowns are bad for everyone's health. Hence, the purpose for this blog!<br />
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-68782286722427717352012-05-20T05:38:00.003-07:002012-07-24T04:46:59.006-07:00Candyland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZsA5MHVapc/T7g_XdqGtpI/AAAAAAAAAJU/Try24UpDYJI/s1600/donuts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZsA5MHVapc/T7g_XdqGtpI/AAAAAAAAAJU/Try24UpDYJI/s1600/donuts.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Remember your childhood when all you wanted to eat was cookies, cakes, donuts, candy and pop? Well, as it turns out when you are elderly, you CAN!!! Mary Beth & Bill have a sweet tooth that rivals that of a 5 year old. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Almost every morning, my mother will request a donut or piece of chocolate to go with her 2nd cup of coffee right after eating Froot Loops for breakfast! My dad will ask for ice cream sometimes after eating his Froot Loops for lunch. In between, they will steal chocolates from the candy jar that sits in the kitchen. I have seen them eat something sweet after a meal of waffles or pancakes! I feel dizzy and diabetic watching them down all that sugar with Coke. Dessert is expected after every dinner. Usually ice cream, sometimes with chocolate syrup and <u>always</u> accompanied by a cookie or two-naturally! My dad hoards Peppermint Lifesavers, cookies and chocolates in his pockets! He even goes to bed with them!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My mom will request cake for every real and imaginary occasion during the year. S</span><span style="font-size: large;">he thinks we need more than one type for any occasion </span><span style="font-size: large;"> like Christmas, Easter, July 4th, birthdays and wedding anniversaries. Her rationale is "so no one in the house has to do without because they don't like what we got." She claimed not to like the carrot cake I got for Alex's birthday, so I bought a coconut cake, too. Later in the day we found what was left of the carrot cake, a pile of rubble where Mary Beth had notched into it using a large spoon like a backhoe. Without a trace of irony, she said, "I <u>like</u> carrot cake!" </span><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pCA5Ugb4gmw/T7hID8gdKeI/AAAAAAAAAJw/8Xvo66axxGA/s1600/morrison.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-pCA5Ugb4gmw/T7hID8gdKeI/AAAAAAAAAJw/8Xvo66axxGA/s1600/morrison.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">We have also purchased cake for non-holiday occasions like first day or last day of school, getting stitches out, getting a new toilet, Steve returning from a business trip, Heidi coming back from vacation, Alex and Taylor's grades, anniversary of their move here or someone arriving for a visit. It reminds me of an</span><span style="font-size: large;"> old Andy Griffith episode where the Morrison </span><span style="font-size: large;">sisters </span><span style="font-size: large;">were</span><span style="font-size: large;"> s</span><span style="font-size: large;">elling Moonshine for "celebratory </span><span style="font-size: large;">purposes only, not just for </span><span style="font-size: large;">nipping". The locals knew </span><span style="font-size: large;">this and therefore would purchase the alcohol under the guise of being for legitimate reasons, like Sir Walter Raleigh Day. I really wouldn't be TOO surprised if WE got a cake for National Potato Week! I mean at this point, isn't the allure of the cakes close to that of Moonshine?</span>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-30992800289502731102012-05-18T06:29:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:46:07.962-07:00Parental ToddlersWhen you become a parent, the term to describe the journey is "raising children". I have searched and have not found a comparable term to describe taking care of parents. Sometimes it feels like I am raising them, as well, except that this time around they talk back, have opinions about things I do, and eat anything they want. My father uses a walker, but in the first two and a half years they were here, he refused to use a cane or a walker. When a child is learning to walk, he is cute when he's wobbly. If he falls down, he usually lands on a diaper that cushions his fall. When a 5'10" man is wobbly it is definitely not cute because if he falls something is going to break. Not to mention all the items he is grabbing as he stumbles through the house trying to keep his balance! When toddlers are being potty-trained, anything goes in terms of how to motivate and reward behavior. How do you tell an adult that they need to wash their hands after using the toilet without coming across as pushy or dictatorial? Offer them a cookie? I also gave up trying to get them to eat properly. Telling them they have to eat veggies doesn't work when they can go get ice cream, cookies or candy without my help! Everyday for breakfast my parents eat the exact same thing. Daddy eats one egg, scrambled with coffee. The coffee has cream and sugar in it. EXACTLY one spoonful of each. He measures the cream into his spoon, then he picks up the creamer and empties a single drop into my mother's cereal. It doesn't matter that I only put a spoonful of cream in the creamer in the first place! What he does with the cream goes along with his shaking the sugar shaker before measuring it, as if it has developed lumps since he shook it yesterday! My mother eats fruit loops, every day.<br />
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Me: Mom what kind of cereal do you want to eat? Mom: What was that
multi-colored cereal I had yesterday that looked like Cheerios? Me: Froot
Loops? Mom: I like Froot Loops!! I want those from now on! That was 3
years ago and she hasn't missed a day.....until this morning. Oh, the humanity!!
LIFE JUST DOESN'T HOLD THE SAME WITHOUT FROOT LOOPS!!! I guess we all
know where Heidi will be this morning! Mom is fine. She had some "Frosty Flakes"
instead. I'll be in trouble if she starts wanting the toys enclosed! Lunch is the same everyday, as well. This time Daddy has Froot Loops and Mom has half of a sandwich usually with coffee. So no neurons are needed when I fix breakfast or lunch. Dinner is a whole new issue. When it comes to serving dinner I have to be a magician. I can cook an entire meal and they will not want it. Usually, I end up making three different meals because they are rarely in the mood the same thing.<br />
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When Daddy was growing up in Memphis in the 1930's one of his favorite things to do was getting tamales at Leonard's restaurant. He has talked fondly over the years about how his Gram would give him a nickel to go down on Sunday night to get a tamale. Since then he has tried to find a tamale as good as Leonard's, to no avail. After they moved here I began the quest for the better tamale and eventually came across canned tamales in the Hispanic section at the grocery store. I think he was surprised to like them as well as he does. So when he doesn't like my prepared dinner he asks for tamales. This happens about 3-4 times a week! Well, at least he's eating! My mother's go to meal when she doesn't want what I made is Ramen noodles or Cream of Wheat. I used to get frustrated trying to come up with numerous meals for them to choose from and then realized they are children with limited palates. After all, it's more important that the child eats something!<br />
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<br />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-35492514333779782012-05-17T18:10:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:44:50.453-07:00Let's hear it for the underdog!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kqArlfgUcnw/T7Wc9p4muRI/AAAAAAAAAIk/7FK8m2UUwuY/s1600/heidisrpic+lr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kqArlfgUcnw/T7Wc9p4muRI/AAAAAAAAAIk/7FK8m2UUwuY/s200/heidisrpic+lr.jpg" width="121" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HfxBOZeyZeg/T7WcOZ426PI/AAAAAAAAAIU/sp6gHu0bLF0/s1600/Kris+-+15a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-HfxBOZeyZeg/T7WcOZ426PI/AAAAAAAAAIU/sp6gHu0bLF0/s200/Kris+-+15a.jpg" width="195" /></a>Growing up in Bexley, Ohio,(yes, THAT Bexley, the one Bob Greene writes about), was quite difficult at times because of the cliques and snobbery that comes with upper middle class living. As a result, children learn early to be very discriminating about who they are friends with, which party invitations to accept, whose Bar Mitzvah or First Communion to attend or who to talk to in school. Snobbery is actually an art form. An art form that I never mastered and therefore fell to the bottom of the social totem pole early. One reason for such descent is my mother's insistence that I am friendly to <u>all</u> children, no matter their level of popularity. I remember when I was in the 2nd grade being invited to a less popular girl's birthday party. I voiced concern about whether to accept the invitation and my mother said that I would because "you should never turn down friendship since they are hard to come by". So I went to every party and every religious ceremony I was ever invited to. Even to the Bar Mitzvah of a boogery 7th grader. I would talk to anyone and everyone in school. I had a lot of friends, but by the time we entered high school, the labels had been made. The geeks, the brains, the jocks, the stoners and the loners. If you didn't fit in with the first four groups, you were relegated to be a loner because your list of friends included people who didn't socialize with each other. So as a result, I rarely knew about parties and certainly never received invites to them. Looking back I am glad I couldn't be pigeon-holed into a category. The pain of being excluded was worth having a diverse number of friends and learning to appreciate the differences Which brings me to Mary Beth.<br />
For the last 25 years, I have witnessed a habit of my mother's that seems to intensify with each passing year. I don't remember when it started, but it was subtle at first. A comment here, a comment there. Insults that were masked as mere observations. I found it difficult to witness because this was my mother, the woman who shaped me into the all-accepting person I am! One of the first times I can remember this behavior was in the 1980's. I was telling her about a new friend I had met in the neighborhood. When I mentioned that the woman's husband was a doctor, my mother's immediate response was, "What doe HE look like?" I remember feeling as if I had been punched in the stomach. I could feel my face turning beet red from embarrassment that she could say such a thing.. I could feel my heart racing and my breathing became difficult. I was struck dumb-founded and extremely tongue-tied. I remember stuttering out a response saying, "What difference does it make? He's a doctor. He does good things!" As the years progressed I began to notice the pattern of behavior. She always wanted to know what someone looked like and along the way, she started commenting on people we would come across in public. I remember feeling like I wanted to sink into the ground after her comment about how some poor waitress or attendant somewhere was funny-looking or had some weird anomaly about them. Sometimes, she wasn't very discrete and would say it within earshot of the poor soul. When my dad was recovering in a rehab in 2004 , we were walking down the hall to leave and as we walked past the nurses' station, she said the nurse looked like a demented rabbit. All I could think was, "Oh, God, kill me now!" In an earlier blog, I wrote about Dr. Baby Teeth. That's a perfect example of this habit. Attaching a person's worth to their physical appeal. I guess it makes her feel good about herself. <br />
So imagine my surprise when at 53 years, 10 months and 8 days old, I finally pushed back. Yep, that's right. Heidi found her backbone today and stood up for the little guy! I had to take Mary Beth to get her stitches out of her face from her melanoma removal last week. We got into the car and before I had exited the parking deck, it happened. She was remarking that the dermatologist's nurse removed her stitches. She didn't comment on the fact that she did her job or that she was really careful, no, she said, "She sure was funny-looking!" And then 25+ years of repression came spilling out. I lost it. Before I knew what was happening I turned to her and said, "Why do you do that?" "Because I'm observant" "That's not being observant, Mom, that's being judgmental and you do it all the time and I can't stand it because all I can think about is what you say about me! How would you feel if someone said that about you?" "They probably do!" "Well, you would feel awful if you knew about it!" "Well, then I won't do it anymore............around you." Ah, Mary Beth. Gotta love her!Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-51832967313840497542012-04-27T15:28:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:41:49.771-07:00Empty nest? Not this year!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the downsides to moving away from Conyers was leaving behind our son, Alex. He had moved out of our home and into a house his friend owned. He was very happy to be out on his own, working full-time and going to school part-time. A year after my parents moved in, he lost his job. With no means of support to pay for his rent Alex was faced with having to move out.and he was very unhappy. They say you can only be as happy as your unhappiest child which meant my emotions were toast! I do not know how I knew what to do, but I went into some sort of survival mode for the sake of my child. I called him and calmly told him that if he came home and transferred to Ga. State he could go to school full-time and obtain a Bachelor Degree in two years. We did expect him to apply for financial aid, though, especially if he didn't work. He was so torn up over losing his independence, but he knew he had little choice. Of course it didn't help matters that his roommate always told him that moving back to his parents' place was a sign of weakness and failure. Little did the roommate know but that this is such a huge trend these days that there is a term for it. Boomerang kids. Generation X. Whether due to delayed maturity or economic stress, children of Generation X are failing to launch as early as the generations before them. They also have returned after launching, coming home after hitting tough times with school, work or drug use. Thankfully, we never had to face any type of drug use with either child. <br />
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So, back home he reluctantly came, along with a huge chip on his shoulder. I understood that chip. Once I left home for college, I would have been devastated to live with my parents again. But Conyers was becoming a total hell-hole. Crime seemed much more rampant than when we moved there in 1989. I have likened the change in Conyers with a scene in the movie, "It's a wonderful life", where the character, George Bailey wishes he had never been born. Clarence, his guardian angel, grants his wish and George runs away and ends up back to town. Everything is different. Bedford Falls was now Pottersville and the contrast was stark. Bedford Falls was a sweet, little, sleepy town that could be the model for a picture by Currier & Ives or Thomas Kinkade. Everyone smiling, conversing with one another as they walked down the street or shopped People being helpful and caring about each other, living the Golden Rule, so to speak. In contrast, Pottersville was brash with neon lights everywhere, loud music, drunken men and slutty women in bars that lined the main street. Unfriendly, angry people were snapping at each other like wolves fighting over a kill. Total unrest in the streets, shops and homes. People merely surviving life, not living it. That's Conyers today. Something like survival after the apocalypse like in Mad Max. Okay, maybe not quite <u>that</u> bad, but close enough. And I wanted my child out of there! <br />
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We had room for him once we cleaned out the ersatz guest room. We got some new things like bookshelves and new bed clothes to help soften the pain. Our daughter, Taylor was here because she has felt too immature to leave home just yet. Having both kids here with both parents made me realize that Steve and I would not be empty-nesters quite yet. THAT was a hard pill to swallow and I had a chip on MY shoulder for awhile. But I got a new perspective at some point about that. My children were young adults and I was no longer going to be a Helicopter Parent (you know, hovering?). They would be expected to contribute as members of the household, but their decisions had to be theirs and theirs alone. Steve and I would be here to give advice if asked, but ultimately, we wanted to let them succeed or fail on their own terms. I read something yesterday that took my breath away. A quote from a father to his son, "If you haven't had failures in life, it's because you weren't trying hard enough." Over the last few years Alex has realized that being here is not so bad, but most importantly, it's not forever. He will graduate soon and so will Taylor. Having them here is a blessing because I am finally able to be the parent to them I always wanted to be. As a result of having 6 adults in the house I have become more patient, calmer and less screechy, according to the kids. There are cultures that do not understand the concept of children leaving the nest. Multi-generational homes are more the norm. The prospect of that used to really scare and upset me to think of being a part of. Now it's hard to imagine it not being this way.Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-76017654023606611272012-04-25T03:01:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:40:11.744-07:00Miss Mary Beth<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Soon after my parents moved to Atlanta, we began the task of finding doctors and setting up appointments for them to become acquainted. We had a lot of good luck when it came to selecting a cardiologist, foot doctor, dermatologist and orthopedist. Selecting an internist took a little more effort.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FiG7w1nAh70/T5nrbkoSegI/AAAAAAAAAG8/MyJLOSNeOu8/s1600/pretty+boy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FiG7w1nAh70/T5nrbkoSegI/AAAAAAAAAG8/MyJLOSNeOu8/s200/pretty+boy.jpg" width="124" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As long as I've been alive I have been aware of the importance my mother puts on peoples' looks. I was raised to believe that if I am not pretty, I am not worthy to walk the earth. (I'm sure this explains a lot about me, but I digress.) Her opinion about anyone she has met or merely heard about, is put through the litmus test of "What do they <u>look</u> like?" or "They sure are funny-looking!" As I have gotten older, grayer and fatter, this attitude unhinges me at the least provocation. I would hate to be judged based on those things only! Years ago, I was telling her about the husband of a friend who had just returned from a medical missions trip to a third world country and what a great thing he had done. This man, a doctor, had left the comfort of home to do something for free to help the less fortunate and all she wants to know is if he is good looking. So when she asked me to find doctors for her and my dad, she chose them based on their online pictures, because if they are handsome, they must be really good doctors! Everybody else passed the test in person until her first appointment with...Dr. Baby Teeth. The man was quite handsome in his picture for the hospital staff. Thick white hair, tall, a slight tan, nice skin and yes, good looking. He swept into the examining room with an air of authority. Put out his hand to take my mother's hand...and smiled. I swear to God, he had the tiniest teeth I've ever seen on an adult. I knew instantly what my mom was thinking and purposely avoided eye contact with her. At the same time, I was thinking how ironic the situation had become since he had won the beauty contest for Miss Photogenic. Needless to say, she did not want to use him. We weren't out the door before she started talking about it. Dr. Baby Teeth. She still calls him that, three years later! Thankfully, I got the name of another internist and his teeth are normal.</span><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GISPF8LOrwY/T5ns1IHvACI/AAAAAAAAAHE/HANitT1oAho/s1600/etiquette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GISPF8LOrwY/T5ns1IHvACI/AAAAAAAAAHE/HANitT1oAho/s200/etiquette.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Another eccentricity of my mom's is her ability to pick and choose where and when to abide by the laws of etiquette. Growing up my mom was a stickler for them. We did not live in the richest part of town in Bexley, Ohio, but we were expected to have a certain amount of decorum, especially at the dinner table. No original bottle or container was allowed. Ketchup was poured into a separate dish and served with a spoon. So was mustard, mayonnaise, crudites, butter and salad dressing. No bottles or cans of pop. No one was allowed to leave the table without asking permission. Talking was allowed, but food was to be swallowed first. And certainly no food allowed in the living room or bedroom unless one is sick. The family ate together in the dining room at the same time and absolutely no eating in front of the television! My mother called it "gracious living", so imagine my horror years later in seeing my mother, Miss Manners, take a half full cup of coffee and sling the contents under the table in a booth at a Bob Evans restaurant. Droplets slapped against my bare leg before I knew what she was doing. I looked down in time to see a dark stain on the carpet beneath my feet and quickly realized what she was doing. "Mom, I can't believe you just did that!" Now, this is the clincher. She looked at me like <u>I</u> was the crazy one and said with a full mouth of food, "What? I want a refill, it was cold." All I could do was sit there like a fish caught on a hook with its mouth agape as tiny food particles rained down on me like confetti from her full mouth. Until I finally got my breath and said out loud, "Well, so much for gracious living!" She just looked at me and said, "Oh! Phbbbt!" I was glad she had at least <u>swallowed</u> by that point!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Since moving here I don't think my parents have eaten more than 20 meals at the dining room table. They eat dinner at 4 PM not with us. They eat watching television... in the bedroom... in the bed. They eat crackers, chocolate, hot dogs with ketchup, spaghetti, tamales, you name it. There are permanent stains on their sheets and comforter that look like a food massacre took place in the bedroom. My father also likes to go to bed with pockets of candy and cookies, just in case he gets hungry while asleep. They get smashed and rubbed onto the sheets, as well. I have cleaned their bedroom carpet so many times with my "Little Green Machine" that the people who make the bottles of cleaner I use now live in mansions on Waikiki! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-27201556134357448422012-04-22T10:42:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:39:00.523-07:00Cleanliness is next to godliness.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Having your parents living with you and your family can be very frustrating at times in ways that may surprise you. For instance, both of my parents were always quite fastidious and tidy people when I was growing up. Which was not unusual for that generation. Even pictures of lower income families in the 30s, 40s and 50s showed people in their Sunday best at a ballgame or going to the movies. That was the way it was. I never saw my father wear anything but business suits or business casual clothing. He was well-groomed and slept in pajamas and always wore a robe over them. It would be unthinkable for him to lounge around the house in boxer shorts or to go out in public without a shirt, even on the hottest day of the summer. Have you ever seen Mr.Cleaver in "Leave it to Beaver" when he mowed the lawn wearing long pants and a tie? My dad did that!!! Or he would wear khaki pants with a pull-over shirt tucked in neatly. I never saw my father in a pair of shorts or athletic shoes until the late '70's. And I have <u>never</u> seen him in a pair of blue jeans. I grew up believing this man could walk on water, well, at least until I was a rebellious teenager! <br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KvkMHW9jO0E/T5QUwGG6oCI/AAAAAAAAAG0/H6yeob2wGO4/s1600/june.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KvkMHW9jO0E/T5QUwGG6oCI/AAAAAAAAAG0/H6yeob2wGO4/s200/june.jpg" width="187" /></a>My mother was also quite concerned about her appearance, except in her case it was because she cared about what other people thought and therefore would never be seen leaving the house imperfectly coiffed or sans make-up or (gasp) wearing pants! My mother wore a skirt or dress every day. With heals. And usually pearls. You know...June Cleaver? (See, the thing about those old shows was that they weren't the exception, they were the <u>rule</u>. But we laugh watching them thinking "what were the writers thinking?" When, in fact, they were probably writing about themselves!) I got my mom to put on some painters' pants once when we were in St. Augustine on vacation one year when I was a teenager. She actually wore them outside! I was thrilled on several levels.<br />
One, she was in pants. <br />
Two, she was in public. <br />
Three, we were the same size! (I mean, that was pretty cool! I was a typical thin person in 1974 which meant she was, too and she had just turned 49 that year!) <br />
And four, she was downright cute in those painters' pants and it was like passing a milestone. I had visions of the two of us dressing alike and having people wondering who was the daughter and who was the mother? And then... reality hit. The next day she was back in her skirt for the remainder of the trip. She remembers that day in pants as the day she lost her mind, or something like it. She would say that pants were too confining and never considered wearing them again. <br />
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So after my parents moved in three years ago, we realized there was a new reality.of existence for them that we weren't aware of in terms of their habits. When you go to visit someone or they come to visit you, time is usually short and therefore you don't notice little things that people do. Once you marry or move in together or become roommates, little habits become more prominent and then frustrating and then, downright annoying. It quickly became apparent that sometime between my leaving home at 18 and moving my parents here 3 years ago, my parents have become, well, gross. They rarely shower when it used to be every day. My mother brushes her teeth with water because according to her dentist in Ohio, it's the brushing that matters not the toothpaste! Gross. She also began the habit of using a bucket next to her bed for nighttime urinary eliminations. Now, you might think, "oh, she had trouble walking to the bathroom". No. In the old house the bathroom was right next to her bedroom and the use of the bucket, I believe, began out of laziness sometime in the last 6 years. When she moved here I admonished her about the "pee-bucket" habit and she scoffed and waved me off saying she wasn't doing that anymore. I have come to realize in the last 3 years just how naive and gullible I can be. I believed my mother when she said that the pee-bucket was gone. And then I found it. I was in their bedroom vacuuming and I kept getting a whiff of something really unpleasant. I thought it spelled like urine, but that didn't make sense because I was no where near the master bathroom I opened a drawer in my mother's childhood antique desk and there was my mother's ceramic ice tea pitcher! "Well, that makes no sense", I was thinking to myself as I picked it up just in time to see the yellow droplets inside and realizing that that was indeed where the smell was coming from! To make matters worse, she had taken her brand-new bed jacket I had given to her and was using it as a decoy! As if laying it on top of the pitcher would keep anyone from finding out her secret. Gross and ewww!. Another lovely habit of theirs was to use washcloths like sani-wipes instead of bathing and then lay them out on the towel rack to dry. I walked into their bathroom one day and discovered the brown tinged rags all over the bathroom as well as, used underwear. The smell just about made me pass out. Double gross and double ewww! So I had to come up with a system to accommodate their need to clean without creating a health hazard. I set a bucket in the garden tub with bleach water and told them to put the cloths in it. That way I could keep the bathroom from stinking and sanitize the cloths before washing. The system has worked quite well with only one adjustment. I had to place a plastic flower planter in the bucket so that when I need to empty it I won't have to touch the wet cloths or wear a hazmat suit just to retrieve them. I just lift the planter out and allow it to drain then transfer the cloths to another bucket in order to wash them.<br />
Another surprising habit was their practice of using tainted tissues or handkerchiefs as a way to wipe up spills! We also became aware of their lack of hand washing after using the toilet. We realized that it meant we had no choice but to wipe down every surface they touch with Lysol wipes. Tables, chairs, counter tops, cabinets, knobs, door handles, door knobs and banisters! There are executives at Lysol who go on expensive vacations thanks to us! We literally buy wipes by the case! My daughter even uses them to wipe down the car if they had been in it! Luckily, none of us have been hospitalized with Ebola, e coli, or hepatitis! There are days that I wonder who are these people? And what have they done with the people who raised me to be conscientious about cleanliness?<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fOfdc7qd3W0/T5QSnypsjLI/AAAAAAAAAGk/lZeZEP8aTIY/s1600/catlick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fOfdc7qd3W0/T5QSnypsjLI/AAAAAAAAAGk/lZeZEP8aTIY/s200/catlick.jpg" width="200" /></a>But the answer to all this, I have come to learn, is that yes, these are the same people, but they forget things even things as simple as hand washing. It isn't on purpose anymore than when a child forgets. They aren't children, but unfortunately they behave that way. For their own safety, caregivers must remind them, with love, to wash their hands. You become the parent to elderly children and it is embarrassing, but to ignore these and other bad habits puts them and your family at risk.<br />
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The other side of this is how they let themselves "go" in terms of dressing. My father puts on an outfit and stays in it until the next shower, which is usually 2-3 times a month. He sleeps in an outfit, too. Even his jacket or tweed coat. The only other way he changes sooner is when he has bowel accidents, but that's another story! My mother lives in her nightgown most days, but when she does dress in street clothes, she'll put on a short sleeve top with her khaki skirt, any time of the year!. She complains about being cold all the time. I'd tell her to put on something warmer like leg warmers and sweaters, but she would refuse. She won't wear pants because she says they are too restrictive, but earlier this year I actually got her into a pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt! They are baggy which I think is why she acquiesced to putting them on. Of course it took a lot of cajoling to get her in them, but once she got them on and felt warm, she was sold. Being warm is a paramount issue to someone their age. So being warm always trumps fashion!Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8580413579180268707.post-89603227187898670872012-04-19T22:00:00.000-07:002012-07-24T04:37:35.268-07:00My new life begins with Bill & Mary<br />
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The morning after my parents' arrival to Atlanta began with turmoil. My father awoke and was disoriented by his new surroundings. Since our bedroom is directly below my parents' bedroom, I heard the footfalls around 5:15 AM and immediately ran upstairs to the kitchen. My dad was standing in the foyer crying like a child about not wanting to be here and saying he was worthless. This was devastating to me for several reasons. My father was the type of man who remained calm through most situations during his life. He could get riled about politics on occasion, but he was raised to be a gentleman in Memphis, Tennessee during the 20's and 30's and his Southern approach to life, I suspect, was sometimes interpreted as shyness or meekness. But he had a quiet strength that was strangely reassuring to his children as they grew. He was also raised to be a typical man, not showing emotion when upset or hurt. So when I discovered my 85 year old father weeping in my house that morning, I was crushed to think I had done something wrong to hurt this gentle man. That bringing him here to live was not what he wanted. What I realized was that the man standing before me was NOT the man who raised me. I would soon learn that the aging process changes more than one's appearance. Eccentricities aside, I would find myself in a battle of wills that I never expected. I have compared it to being in a house with grown toddlers who constantly test their boundaries and push the limits of gravity and physics on a daily basis.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eKyezdQQjuQ/T8Iy-zfdljI/AAAAAAAAAK4/xrPg50nPAbc/s1600/Bill+Johnston+-+flies+a+vintage+Stearman+biplane+-+-+128922147131310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eKyezdQQjuQ/T8Iy-zfdljI/AAAAAAAAAK4/xrPg50nPAbc/s200/Bill+Johnston+-+flies+a+vintage+Stearman+biplane+-+-+128922147131310.jpg" width="200" /></a> My father was my hero when I was growing up and as he stood before me in pain I didn't know what to do, so I hugged him and told him it would be alright. That <u>he</u> would be okay. And at that moment I became the mother to the weeping child and my first thought was , "What the hell have I done?" I had no idea how much that phrase would permeate my life in the next 3 years.<br />
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My father's disoriented state only happened twice the week they arrived, but thankfully not again. Many changes because of the move were actually welcome and helped ease the transition. One was the computer my husband set up for my dad. He was used to a dial up connection and felt constantly frustrated by it's limitations. Years before we had switched to DSL which is much faster, as well as, having the ability to use the telephone while using the computer. My father was in computer heaven. Another change was the presence of Buffy, our orange cat. My father always loved having cats when I was growing up and missed them. Buffy warmed up to my parents slowly, but once she did, it was in a big way! Rarely a day goes by that she isn't laying across my dad's lap or stretched out down the length of my mom's legs while she lounged in bed. A third welcome change was the deck outside our kitchen. My father has literally spent hours sitting out there in the sunshine watching chipmunks, squirrels, lizards and hummingbirds. A fourth plus for him to be here was male companionship on a daily basis. My dad only socialized with husbands of my mother's friends when I grew up. He didn't play or follow sports, golf or play bridge. Any male conversation was limited to co-workers or church goers. So having Steve to talk to was a big deal to him, I think, since it has been years since he had been to work or church. He has never said how he felt about moving and I have never asked him if it was against his will. I am afraid of what the answer would be.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3Ur-3dyHjig/T7gMpxGJFWI/AAAAAAAAAJI/NYx8l1_pg5M/s1600/Heidi+s+mom+-+Mary+Beth+Johnston.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3Ur-3dyHjig/T7gMpxGJFWI/AAAAAAAAAJI/NYx8l1_pg5M/s200/Heidi+s+mom+-+Mary+Beth+Johnston.jpg" width="172" /></a>My mother never had any trouble adjusting to life in the South, but that doesn't surprise me. Mary Beth thrives on being resilient...like Scarlett. My mother lives to be perfect and to live in a perfect world. She will flee any situation that she deems unpleasant and will stop any conversation that even hints at being unpleasant. She simply does not want to be reminded of the world outside of the one she lives in. Many times she will be reminded of a continuing news story from the day before that is tragic or gruesome and her response is one of, " Why are they still talking about that, it's unpleasant!" You know, like Scarlett said, "I will think about that tomorrow!" Her preferred view of the world is Polly-Anna-ish, to say the least and the family is well aware of her ability to re-write history to accommodate her Polly-Anna world. For instance, when someone gets sick her usual approach is to ask them the next day if they were feeling better and then before getting a response, following up the question with a statement that "You feel all better now, don't you?" She simply can't handle bad news. At any given moment I almost expect her to say, "Gee whiz, let's put on a show!" I'm used to that, though, she's always been one to thrive in the spotlight. I can remember growing up and hearing her sigh and say, "Wouldn't you just love to be famous?" And then she'd launch into some dialogue from somewhere. Years later when I saw Gloria Swanson in "Sunset Boulevard" I understood the character completely. Hell, I grew up with her! The one positive from that all that optimism is that as a child I always felt I had a personal cheerleader in my corner and it was re-assuring to know that what ever happened to me, I would find solace at home. So goes life with Bill & Mary.<br />
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<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Heidi Baleshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05114879629949553184noreply@blogger.com0Peachtree Corners, GA 30092, USA33.97 -84.2216733.956832999999996 -84.241411 33.983167 -84.201929