Every time I hear Lee Brice's song I Don't Dance, I think of Coach. On our recent vacation to Florida, which is 30 hours roundtrip in the car and alot of music, we heard that song innumerable times.
Sometimes in life, it's the seemingly tiny little things one person does for another that make all the difference. For Coach and me, it was four dance lessons that spoke volumes.
On my first date with my now husband at a local pizza place, there was a football game on. Trying to act like I knew the game, I mentioned the 60-yard line. Without even looking shocked, Coach turned to me and said, "So, let me get this straight, you sat in the front row in school?" he asked.
"Yes, and you were the boy who called me for the homework, right?"
It was true love in bloom. We were night and day; yin and yang. But somehow it seemed to work.
A high school coach during the time we dated, his baseball team got great joy out the fact that Coach, for the first time anyone could remember, had a girlfriend. When he took the team to Florida, the pilot of their flight got on the intercom and said to the entire plane, "We have a high school team on board today and the players tell me they are going to win the championship this year. On behalf of US Airways, we hope that happens because the team has told me their Coach is going to get married if they do."
5 years later, we were getting ready for the big day. For all of his coaching experience, my sweet husband could not dance. I wasn't much better; my father was an excellent dancer and a great lead so I really never paid all that much attention. And those square dance sessions in elementary school PE class weren't going to help us. Coach agreed to dance lessons at Arthur Murray. We arrived at the studio, CD in hand with our wedding song - Marcus Hummon's Bless the Broken Road, the original, before others recorded it as their own. Coach handed the CD to the instructor and said, "How many lessons do we need to dance to this song?"
She listened to the song, nodded her head and said, "Well, it's not a regular waltz-type song. Can you pick another one? I have lots of wedding songs you can choose from."
"No," he said, "This is the song. If you can't teach me to dance to it, I'll go somewhere else. The song doesn't change."
"I can do it in four," she answered, as if we were contestants on Name That Tune.
With every session, the instructor emphasized that a dancers leads with his body movement, not his words. It was hard for Coach to grasp that one instruction. He had to fight hard not to yell "time out" or blow a whistle. He always wanted to call the plays, to let me know exactly what the moves were. Coach would nod his head and clap, until finally I said, "We're not in a huddle, will you stop that?"
Our wedding video captures the culmination of our four beloved Arthur Murray dance classes. Coach started out gingerly, counting in time with the music, the entire guest list in a circle around us, his fellow coaches counting off "1-2-3, 1-2-3." About one minute into the song, Coach said, "Okay, I'm ready. I'm gonna spin you." The crowd erupted in cheers at that spin and a fellow coach ran out onto the dance floor and wiped his brow.
Every year on our wedding anniversary, I put on my wedding dress first thing in the morning and we dance to "Bless the Broken Road," usually in the kitchen with our three sons watching and giggling. And every year on our anniversary, I always wait for the inevitable, "I'm gonna spin you."
He does dance.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
Rest Stop
With five in our family, and Jimmy, traveling by automobile is the ticket we purchase for our summertime getaways. And we will drive just about anywhere there's a road. Coach is the driver and I am the assigned navigator, which basically means "all other duties as assigned." These duties include but are not limited to:
- Packing
- Finding the Suitcases
- Maps & Guidebooks from AAA
- Cooler cleaning and stocking
- Snacks
- DVD Player
- Arrangements for Dog Care
- Arrangements for Jimmy Care (just kidding, he does fine on his own)
- DVD/Audiobook/DJ Duties
- The Pee Cup (I'll get to that)
We make this trip in one drive. One glorious, loving, peaceful, family-filled 15 hour drive of bonding and sharing. It is truly memorable.
We play the license plate game, with our checklist of all 50 states. We've come close but never hit all of them. For some reason, we think Dakotans must love their states because we've yet to see either North nor South Dakota traversing the Eastern side of these United States. Or maybe they are smart and stay away. We've seen Alaska and Hawaii which has raised some questions from the boys. "No, there's no bridge to Hawaii."
Last year, on our drive home from Florida, we were making good time as we crossed into South Carolina. Fifteen hours in the car with five people could be multiple pit stops. However, Coach tries to only stop when the car needs gas or Mom really has to use the bathroom. The boys? Well, they are subjected to the "pee cup." Last year I chose my father in law's very old, very faded Notre Dame travel mug as the pee cup. Probably an affront to the Fighting Irish but it was perfect, had a lid, was too old and beaten up to be used as a coffee cup anymore and won the title "Pee Cup."
Middle son was disgusted by the concept of the pee cup but Coach wasn't going to stop just yet. So, I pulled out the cup, handed it to him and said, "It's a moving Rest Stop. Pee." At first he thought I was kidding but quickly realized I wasn't.
"I can't do that," he exclaimed, "How am I supposed to pee in a moving car?"
"Pretend it's a new circus act."
He peed directly in the cup, giggling with glee the whole time. He brothers grinning from ear to ear with pride over this huge accomplishment.
"Now hand it to me VERY carefully and I'll put the lid on," I said nervously.
And he handed it off smoothly.
But, in my overconfidence as the mother of three boys and the best prepared navigator ever, I bumped my arm just a tad and the contents of the Fighting Irish mug dispersed.......directly into Coach's lap.
"What the $@%*@(%#!!!!!" he shouted, as the car swerved.
Laughter erupted in the car. "Mom spilled the pee cup on Dad! Mom spilled the pee cup on Dad!" Hoots and howls. Howls and hoots. This was better than the time youngest son pooped in the bathtub with his brothers in it with him.
"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!" I said, most sincerely, "I am so sorry! I don't know how that happened."
"Enough!" Coach exclaimed and the car fell silent.
Completely silent. Utterly silent. More silent than any library or church I've ever been in. For 10 minutes, 30 minutes, 1 hour. All I could hear in my head was the narrator from Spongebob Squarepants - 3 hours later...
...we approached the state line. "North Carolina Welcomes You," it read. I looked warily at my dear husband, soaked in urine, and gave a tiny smile.
"Well, I think I'm going stop for some gas here," he said, "and get out of these clothes."
"That sounds like a good idea.....Um, do you want me to pull out some fresh clothes while your getting the gas?"
"That would be nice. Thank you. And can you get rid of the disgusting mug?"
"Of course, your dad is gonna be upset that I used his alma mater as a urinal, but do you think you could run in and buy another cheap cup....you know, just in case?"
"Certainly. I'd be happy to. It's worked out so well."
Mom smiles lovingly at Dad. Dad gets out of the car to get the gas and I turn to the three boys and say, "This is fun, isn't it?"
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
You did What?
"The TV volume is on 98, Dad."
"What? Oh, is it? I didn't even notice."
"Do you think it might be time to have your hearing checked?" I offered.
"What?!" he shouted.
I took that as an affirmative answer and a few days later, made the call to Costco's hearing aid clinic. I knew Jimmy would be upset but I figured that this Driving Miss Daisy thing we have going needed a bit of an intervention and I was up to the task. But, of course, I didn't actually tell him I made the appointment.....until the morning it was scheduled.
"What?" he shouted, "What are you doing to me? I'm perfectly capable of making my own medical appointments. I've been to Costco already and checked that out," he snapped.
"Really? Like you checked out Tai Chi and came home with Chinese food instead?"
"You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?"
"So, what did they say the time you went to the hearing aid clinic?"
"Well, you have to have an appointment and I didn't have one, so I left."
"I see. Well, I've skipped that step for you. Get in the car."
Jimmy reluctantly got in the car but he was a pleasant patient at the appointment. He never reveals to anyone that he is retired surgeon, I think so he can judge their medical knowledge and decide it they are a quack or not.
The clinician told him that he has hearing loss at the higher decibels.
"You mean when I speak to you?" I asked, "I thought you were ignoring me."
Jimmy replied with a smile, "You'll never know."
I then left to shop while Jimmy picked out his new hearing aids.
About 30 minutes later, Jimmy comes around a corner in the crowded store and the clinician comes up to me and says, "Sort of whisper something to him that's not a 'yes or no' question." Oh, I got to make this good, I thought.
"Hey Dad, do you want to buy this piano, a new set of tires or would you rather get a volume pack of Kotex?"
"What?! Oh, stop that!.....I heard you! They work!"
Well, Jimmy's testing them out now at home, a few hours here and there, just to get used to them. So, sometimes the television is on 98 and some times it's down to 30. And sometimes I ask him questions by just moving my mouth and not actually saying the words. But, he hears me muttering about him. I'm not sure how I feel about this new change.
"What?!" he shouts, "I heard that! You just shut up."
There's a 90 day return policy...believe me, I'm keeping track...
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Tail of a Pooper Scooper
In the course of the average day I deal with alot of crap. Literally.
Who pooped, when, how'd it look, did you flush - or, in the case of our two dogs, where and did you pick it up? (The usual answer to that one is "No.")
I'm always amazed by those companies that will come to your home and clean up your dog's poop out of the yard. I wish I had thought of that. Really? You're so busy that you can't clean up after your own dog in your own yard?
Well, I am the pooper scooper at my house and, I'm good. I can conduct extensive grid searches and clear the yard in no time. I'm a daily scooper because one time we had some work done on our plumbing lines outside (see a trend here?) and the poor guy knelt down right in a pile. He had to go home and change. I felt horrible, although I would I have thought he'd have a change of clothes in his truck, because, well....he was plumber and there's a definite potental for plumbing "accidents."
The other day I said to my middle son, "You need to pick those Legos up off the family room floor!"
"Okay!" he replied, "I'll do it when I'm finished building.
"No, you need to do it now so the puppy doesn't eat them."
"Munson won't eat the Legos! They don't taste good," he retorted.
"Yes, he will eat them. Puppies eat anything and he will poop out Legos."
Hysterical laughter. Puppies pooping Legos! Oh, mom, how silly. They were mocking me.
"Yes, he will and he already did!" I exclaimed, "There was a yellow brick in his poop yesterday and the day before he pooped a minifigure leg!"
All play ceased in the family room and three sets of eyes stared at me in horror.
"How do you know that?" eldest son exclaimed.
"I found them in his POOP!" I said.
"Mom, you are disgusting! You look through the dog's poop?!" he yelled.
"Well of course, I look through the dogs' poop when I'm picking it up. That's what a mother does! It's part of the rules. We have to look at poop. I've been looking at your poop since the day were you born."
"That's just wrong," replied middle son.
"Do you know that they wouldn't let me out of the hospital with you until you pooped during the first 24 hours of your life? And do you know that I waited 23 hours and 58 mintues before you pooped?!"
"Did you put that story in his baby book? Because that's really embarrassing," eldest son said.
"No! A mother just remembers these things. So, when I tell you pick up the Legos, please pick up the Legos so I don't find any more in Munson's poop."
"Okay, I'm sorry.......Um, mom?" said middle son.
"Yes," I replied.
"Did you put those Legos that Munson pooped back in the Lego bin because I really don't want those pieces anymore." he said quietly.
"I'll never tell," I replied, feeling triumphant.
"Oh crap!" I heard, as I left the room.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
...and I'll Never Go Hungry Again
My grandmother, Lord have mercy on her soul, as she would say, the one who had "ears like an elephant" never had a problem speaking her mind. I'm sure by the time she sailed from her home in Ireland to America, she had told more than one person her opinion. She was a woman of great faith, unafraid to tell any pastor if he was wrong, devoted to her family and her church. Any unsuspecting visitor was sure to be doused in holy water right in the eye by Grammy, if they weren't fast enough. "Bless yourself, bless yourself. Don't forget to bless yourself," she'd always say. Everyone blessed themselves; even friends who weren't Catholic quickly learned to bless themselves.
Grammy loved to bake and she was excellent at it. She came to America with a job cooking for a wealthy family. I have fond memories of visiting my grandparents and having baking lessons with her. And it truly was a lesson. She'd have the kitchen in their tiny apartment all set up with a list of what we were baking that day. She was the teacher, instructing me that time was critical in baking so the baker must get all her supplies in one trip and not forget a single ingredient. She told me that back at her cooking school in Ireland, students who forgot anything in their one trip had to stand the entire class with their fingertips resting on the table and were not allowed to participate. She said she forgot once and never did again. I used to stand sometimes and see what it would be like to endure that punishment.
Her other piece of advice, which I still call upon today is "You have to know your oven." Of course you do. Even as I grew up, moving from apartment to apartment with friends, she'd always remind me that the oven was my friend, if I took the time. Just the other day my husband burned a pizza and I just replied, "You didn't know your oven."
Many years ago she told me about her nephew back in Ireland. She was so proud of him. A chef, he was classically trained in France and had not one, but two restaurants back in Ireland. As a surprise, I located this distant cousin and called him at his restaurant. I knew he had published a couple of cookbooks and that my grandmother would love them. He was kind, but short to me on the phone; not the reception I was expecting from a long-lost relative from the Old Sod. But, he sent me the books for her and I presented them on Christmas. She was thrilled to have them and I shared that this cousin didn't seem all that enthusiastic about us when I had spoken to him.
"Oh, of course not," she replied in her lilting brogue, "my brother sent him to an orphanage after his wife died but kept his older brother."
"What???!!" I exclaimed, "you never told me that!"
"That's how it was done back then, dear child. It was so hard."
"So, he hates us and I called and asked him to ship three books for free to America. I also told my boss to eat at his restaurant and mention us. It's like taunting him."
"Oh, I'm sure he's over it by now."
And the room erupted in laughter because this was our Grammy, telling it like it was even if the timing was a bit off.
When Grammy met my now-husband for the first time, she loved him. I was surprised because she was always a tough judge. Perhaps though she had softened since her daughter, my mother, had died and she was always worried about me. And I was still single, at 30 years old. Coach and Grammy hit it off.
When we were leaving, she looked at Coach sincerely and said, "You are a good man; you have honest eyes."
It was just about the sweetest thing I had ever heard. I was so touched that she approved. Coach thanked her.
But she wasn't done......
"And I can tell that you have a deep appreciation for food. And that's wonderful because Alison is so thin, I worry about her. But now that she's with you, I know she will never go hungry."
And we all smiled, and chuckled, and hugged and kissed and Coach and I left....and when we got in the car, Coach said, "Your grandmother just called me fat."
"No, no," I replied, "She never said that. She said you have excellent taste, both in food and women. You should embrace that. It's the Irish....you gotta love the Irish," I said with wink and a smile. "We're a lucky people. You are blessed. Bless yourself."
Grammy loved to bake and she was excellent at it. She came to America with a job cooking for a wealthy family. I have fond memories of visiting my grandparents and having baking lessons with her. And it truly was a lesson. She'd have the kitchen in their tiny apartment all set up with a list of what we were baking that day. She was the teacher, instructing me that time was critical in baking so the baker must get all her supplies in one trip and not forget a single ingredient. She told me that back at her cooking school in Ireland, students who forgot anything in their one trip had to stand the entire class with their fingertips resting on the table and were not allowed to participate. She said she forgot once and never did again. I used to stand sometimes and see what it would be like to endure that punishment.
Her other piece of advice, which I still call upon today is "You have to know your oven." Of course you do. Even as I grew up, moving from apartment to apartment with friends, she'd always remind me that the oven was my friend, if I took the time. Just the other day my husband burned a pizza and I just replied, "You didn't know your oven."
Many years ago she told me about her nephew back in Ireland. She was so proud of him. A chef, he was classically trained in France and had not one, but two restaurants back in Ireland. As a surprise, I located this distant cousin and called him at his restaurant. I knew he had published a couple of cookbooks and that my grandmother would love them. He was kind, but short to me on the phone; not the reception I was expecting from a long-lost relative from the Old Sod. But, he sent me the books for her and I presented them on Christmas. She was thrilled to have them and I shared that this cousin didn't seem all that enthusiastic about us when I had spoken to him.
"Oh, of course not," she replied in her lilting brogue, "my brother sent him to an orphanage after his wife died but kept his older brother."
"What???!!" I exclaimed, "you never told me that!"
"That's how it was done back then, dear child. It was so hard."
"So, he hates us and I called and asked him to ship three books for free to America. I also told my boss to eat at his restaurant and mention us. It's like taunting him."
"Oh, I'm sure he's over it by now."
And the room erupted in laughter because this was our Grammy, telling it like it was even if the timing was a bit off.
When Grammy met my now-husband for the first time, she loved him. I was surprised because she was always a tough judge. Perhaps though she had softened since her daughter, my mother, had died and she was always worried about me. And I was still single, at 30 years old. Coach and Grammy hit it off.
When we were leaving, she looked at Coach sincerely and said, "You are a good man; you have honest eyes."
It was just about the sweetest thing I had ever heard. I was so touched that she approved. Coach thanked her.
But she wasn't done......
"And I can tell that you have a deep appreciation for food. And that's wonderful because Alison is so thin, I worry about her. But now that she's with you, I know she will never go hungry."
And we all smiled, and chuckled, and hugged and kissed and Coach and I left....and when we got in the car, Coach said, "Your grandmother just called me fat."
"No, no," I replied, "She never said that. She said you have excellent taste, both in food and women. You should embrace that. It's the Irish....you gotta love the Irish," I said with wink and a smile. "We're a lucky people. You are blessed. Bless yourself."
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
Cook-a-doodle Doo Doo
We have lovely neighbors. All of them.
However, the other day one called to complain about our dogs.
"They are barking alot," neighbor said.
"Yes, I know, I'm very sorry," I replied.
"They are disturbing the peace," she went on.
"Well, there are actually 10 deer in the backyard and that is what has set them off. The dogs are on the deck, I'll bring them in now and it will quiet down," I promised.
"They are loud, she continued.
"Again, I'm sorry, it's just there are so many deer walking through right now. What am I supposed to do about the deer?" I pleaded.
"The deer belong here, they are a part of the neighborhood; the dogs do not," she said sternly.
"Really? That's your argument? What about your rooster?" I inquired.
"Excuse me?" she said, startled that I realized she actually had a rooster and chickens.
"Yes, your lovely rooster, who I hear all day long and even into the night and early morning. Is that a normal neighborhood sound? I haven't had the chance to call and thank you for that sound. And your beautiful honey bees with the gorgeous bee hives you have. I love watching the bees fly from our yard to yours on their nectar path. I'm so glad we don't have any allergies but I'd sure love to try some of that honey you make sometime," I said.
"Well, I don't hear the dogs anymore. Thank you. I appreciate it."
......and she hung up.....
and the deer cut through the yard and the dogs sometimes bark and the bees buzz and rooster ALWAYS crows....and those are the sweet sounds of the wild...
However, the other day one called to complain about our dogs.
"They are barking alot," neighbor said.
"Yes, I know, I'm very sorry," I replied.
"They are disturbing the peace," she went on.
"Well, there are actually 10 deer in the backyard and that is what has set them off. The dogs are on the deck, I'll bring them in now and it will quiet down," I promised.
"They are loud, she continued.
"Again, I'm sorry, it's just there are so many deer walking through right now. What am I supposed to do about the deer?" I pleaded.
"The deer belong here, they are a part of the neighborhood; the dogs do not," she said sternly.
"Really? That's your argument? What about your rooster?" I inquired.
"Excuse me?" she said, startled that I realized she actually had a rooster and chickens.
"Yes, your lovely rooster, who I hear all day long and even into the night and early morning. Is that a normal neighborhood sound? I haven't had the chance to call and thank you for that sound. And your beautiful honey bees with the gorgeous bee hives you have. I love watching the bees fly from our yard to yours on their nectar path. I'm so glad we don't have any allergies but I'd sure love to try some of that honey you make sometime," I said.
"Well, I don't hear the dogs anymore. Thank you. I appreciate it."
......and she hung up.....
and the deer cut through the yard and the dogs sometimes bark and the bees buzz and rooster ALWAYS crows....and those are the sweet sounds of the wild...
Monday, July 21, 2014
Amazing Grace
I have a list of people I take care of. Most are human and most are related to me although a couple are canines but I suppose they qualify since they do, indeed belong to me. Every so often though, life brings another person into your life and you just can't walk away.
A few years ago, I helped take care of my husband's great aunt. A former nun, she was my late mother-in-law's aunt. Grace's neighbor called one day to say that she felt Grace could no longer live alone. We started the process of trying to find somewhere for her to live; some type of nursing home that would immediately take someone on Medicaid - there weren't any, or at least any that had a bed. I thought we had a fair amount of time but dear Grace called one night and said she was scared and that was it. My father-in-law, Jimmy, and a nephew made the 3 hour drive and moved her and all her belongings here - four generations, spanning 90 years. It could have been a mini-series or a comedy.
I told Dan that I resented the fact that I had already buried both my parents and now, here I was, helping a woman I wasn't actually even related to. But, it got me thinking. There were alot of Aunt Grace's in the world. Who is looking out for them? And here's this one woman who needs help and she was put in front of us and she needs us.
Aunt Grace was ecstatic. She loved being in the house, loved her great-great nephews, loved the myriad of family who lived nearby, and especially loved Mickey the dog. Every morning she had a cup of black coffee, a piece of toast with butter and jam, some scrambled eggs, and a piece of bacon that I often suspected was deposited straight into Mickey's mouth, but I couldn't prove it. She said it was delicious. It didn't take long for us to realize that while living alone, despite what she told us, she hadn't been eating. She also revealed to me that she had some money woes. We quickly discovered that she had been using her credit card for daily living and despite the fact that she was 94, retired and on a fixed income, the credit card company kept increasing her credit limit and making threatening phone calls. That set "my Irish" over the top. One of our immediate steps was to get power of attorney and quickly put an end to her credit card saga. It gave me such delight to tell them they would never see another dime. They never bothered her again. We retrofit a den into a bedroom on the first floor since she couldn't do stairs.
I did notice that Grace cried out during the night in fear and on a number of mornings, she told me that someone was breaking in and stealing food out of the refrigerator. Despite how many times I assured that wasn't happening, she insisted, so I decided that I would call upon her days in religious life and we'd pray. My oldest son sat and prayed with her, pulling out a rosary and saying a decade with her. I bought her a monthly prayer book, we had a friend come give her communion. It seemed to calm her.
And then one afternoon, I came home from picking my boys up from school and found Aunt Grace trying to walk our 50 pound, rather excited dog. All I could envision was "broken hip." That same day we got the call. The nursing home, run by 8 blessed Polish nuns, had a room for Grace. A private room, nonetheless. It also had a chapel and Mass every morning. It was perfect, beyond perfect. And then the guilt started to set in, as I sat with Aunt Grace and explained that I found her very own place where she would be well cared for and near family.
Grace settled in fairly nicely in her new home. Of course, she told me it was too expensive, the food was too much, her neighbor was weird, etc. I told her it was just like when I went to college. Jimmy was always visiting her and helping her out but for some reason, she bonded more easily with me. It became the joke that when he walked into her room, her first words were, "How is Alison?" She somehow just trusted me. I decorated her room with pictures of family and captions so she didn't have to worry about forgetting names. Family came regularly to visit her. She spent most days in the chapel to the point that every one there assumed she was a nun.
Aunt Grace spent almost two years there before she simply couldn't go on. She was in and out of the hospital a few times before we had to make the difficult decision not to have her transferred any further. I explained to her that her heart was beginning to fail and we thought it best to let her stay at the nursing home. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Grace?"
"Yes, I've had a good life and I just want to stay here. It's alright, Alison. I like when you are with me. You make me happy and I thank you for your kindnesses."
I remember crying after I left her that day, thinking I was responsible for the next chapter.
Her health rapidly declined in subsequent weeks. The boys and I visited her regularly; the nuns rewarded the boys by letting them pick out candy from their secret stash. They loved it there - if young boys can love a nursing home.
Grace passed away on New Year's Day, just four days shy of her 96th birthday. My oldest came with me when we got the call. I l left him for a period of time alone with her, to take care of few things, while we waited for the funeral home to arrive. I will never forget walking into the room and there was my son, bouncing a super ball against the wall, directly over Aunt Grace's head.
"What are you doing?!" I exclaimed, "You'll hit her."
"Umm, mom, I don't think it's going to hurt her and she wasn't answering me when I trying to make conversation, you know."
Point taken.
We donated all her things, taking just her rosary and a few other mementos. I remember leaving there with the small bag of items and that's it. 96 years and a few things. A good friend once told me that whenever she saw a hearse, her dad would say, "See? No U-Haul. You can't take it with you."
Aunt Grace was cremated and we kept her urn in our dining room for the weeks prior to her memorial Mass.
It sat quite uneventfully until one afternoon my oldest son said, "Mom? Can you move Aunt Grace?"
"What?" I said, forgetting what on earth he was referring to.
"I'm trying to do my homework in here and I feel like she's staring at me!" he called out.
"Oh," so I went in and moved Aunt Grace to face out the window and watch Mickey play.
She stayed a few more days until we moved her to her final home.
Not unexpectedly, the nuns began the service with "Amazing Grace."
A few years ago, I helped take care of my husband's great aunt. A former nun, she was my late mother-in-law's aunt. Grace's neighbor called one day to say that she felt Grace could no longer live alone. We started the process of trying to find somewhere for her to live; some type of nursing home that would immediately take someone on Medicaid - there weren't any, or at least any that had a bed. I thought we had a fair amount of time but dear Grace called one night and said she was scared and that was it. My father-in-law, Jimmy, and a nephew made the 3 hour drive and moved her and all her belongings here - four generations, spanning 90 years. It could have been a mini-series or a comedy.
I told Dan that I resented the fact that I had already buried both my parents and now, here I was, helping a woman I wasn't actually even related to. But, it got me thinking. There were alot of Aunt Grace's in the world. Who is looking out for them? And here's this one woman who needs help and she was put in front of us and she needs us.
Aunt Grace was ecstatic. She loved being in the house, loved her great-great nephews, loved the myriad of family who lived nearby, and especially loved Mickey the dog. Every morning she had a cup of black coffee, a piece of toast with butter and jam, some scrambled eggs, and a piece of bacon that I often suspected was deposited straight into Mickey's mouth, but I couldn't prove it. She said it was delicious. It didn't take long for us to realize that while living alone, despite what she told us, she hadn't been eating. She also revealed to me that she had some money woes. We quickly discovered that she had been using her credit card for daily living and despite the fact that she was 94, retired and on a fixed income, the credit card company kept increasing her credit limit and making threatening phone calls. That set "my Irish" over the top. One of our immediate steps was to get power of attorney and quickly put an end to her credit card saga. It gave me such delight to tell them they would never see another dime. They never bothered her again. We retrofit a den into a bedroom on the first floor since she couldn't do stairs.
I did notice that Grace cried out during the night in fear and on a number of mornings, she told me that someone was breaking in and stealing food out of the refrigerator. Despite how many times I assured that wasn't happening, she insisted, so I decided that I would call upon her days in religious life and we'd pray. My oldest son sat and prayed with her, pulling out a rosary and saying a decade with her. I bought her a monthly prayer book, we had a friend come give her communion. It seemed to calm her.
And then one afternoon, I came home from picking my boys up from school and found Aunt Grace trying to walk our 50 pound, rather excited dog. All I could envision was "broken hip." That same day we got the call. The nursing home, run by 8 blessed Polish nuns, had a room for Grace. A private room, nonetheless. It also had a chapel and Mass every morning. It was perfect, beyond perfect. And then the guilt started to set in, as I sat with Aunt Grace and explained that I found her very own place where she would be well cared for and near family.
Grace settled in fairly nicely in her new home. Of course, she told me it was too expensive, the food was too much, her neighbor was weird, etc. I told her it was just like when I went to college. Jimmy was always visiting her and helping her out but for some reason, she bonded more easily with me. It became the joke that when he walked into her room, her first words were, "How is Alison?" She somehow just trusted me. I decorated her room with pictures of family and captions so she didn't have to worry about forgetting names. Family came regularly to visit her. She spent most days in the chapel to the point that every one there assumed she was a nun.
Aunt Grace spent almost two years there before she simply couldn't go on. She was in and out of the hospital a few times before we had to make the difficult decision not to have her transferred any further. I explained to her that her heart was beginning to fail and we thought it best to let her stay at the nursing home. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Grace?"
"Yes, I've had a good life and I just want to stay here. It's alright, Alison. I like when you are with me. You make me happy and I thank you for your kindnesses."
I remember crying after I left her that day, thinking I was responsible for the next chapter.
Her health rapidly declined in subsequent weeks. The boys and I visited her regularly; the nuns rewarded the boys by letting them pick out candy from their secret stash. They loved it there - if young boys can love a nursing home.
Grace passed away on New Year's Day, just four days shy of her 96th birthday. My oldest came with me when we got the call. I l left him for a period of time alone with her, to take care of few things, while we waited for the funeral home to arrive. I will never forget walking into the room and there was my son, bouncing a super ball against the wall, directly over Aunt Grace's head.
"What are you doing?!" I exclaimed, "You'll hit her."
"Umm, mom, I don't think it's going to hurt her and she wasn't answering me when I trying to make conversation, you know."
Point taken.
We donated all her things, taking just her rosary and a few other mementos. I remember leaving there with the small bag of items and that's it. 96 years and a few things. A good friend once told me that whenever she saw a hearse, her dad would say, "See? No U-Haul. You can't take it with you."
Aunt Grace was cremated and we kept her urn in our dining room for the weeks prior to her memorial Mass.
It sat quite uneventfully until one afternoon my oldest son said, "Mom? Can you move Aunt Grace?"
"What?" I said, forgetting what on earth he was referring to.
"I'm trying to do my homework in here and I feel like she's staring at me!" he called out.
"Oh," so I went in and moved Aunt Grace to face out the window and watch Mickey play.
She stayed a few more days until we moved her to her final home.
Not unexpectedly, the nuns began the service with "Amazing Grace."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)